As if everyone has not suffered enough already – soldiers and civilians alike – winter’s true viciousness has arrived. Temperatures have dropped significantly and those in the open are not only wet, hungry and miserable but are now also shivering from cold. The last thing anyone wants, especially the beleaguered Allies who have steadfastly held their ground against repeated German attacks, is another battle. But that is exactly what Erich von Falkenhayn has planned; one last throw of the dice before the depths of winter change the game.
He has been carefully husbanding men and materiel: shells, rifle and machine-gun ammunition, winter boots, gloves and greatcoats. He has also been looking at the skies. He thinks that, although cold weather is a nightmare for any soldier, it is less arduous for his elite Bavarians and Prussians, who are more used to the icy temperatures of the heart of Europe, than for his French and British enemies, who come from more maritime climes. So, for him, the first snow of winter provides the ideal moment to attack.
Von Falkenhayn has created yet another army group to add to Army Group Fabeck, which he created at the end of October. He chooses a 64-year-old Prussian warhorse, General Alexander von Linsingen, to lead the attack and gives him the cream of the German Army. Pomeranians, West Prussians, the pick of the Kaiser’s beloved Guards: the 1st and 3rd Foot Guards, and the 2nd and 3rd Guards Grenadiers. Each is formidable, but together they represent a fearsome challenge.
On the other hand, facing them are three all-but-spent Allies.
The remnants of the Belgian Army in the north are fighting valiantly for the last western fringes of their homeland. Thankfully for them, German attention is now focused further south.
The French, proud and brave, are exhausted. They still go to war as Napoleon did, with pomp and bravado, but there is a limit to how many men in splendid uniforms they can sacrifice to protect their Republic. The generals still have the resolve, and their men the stomach, but for how much longer without stockpiles of shells and ammunition?
The British are in an even worse position. The British Expeditionary Force, which was the major part of the British Army, is almost destroyed. Inexperienced reservists, few with serious combat experience, are just about keeping it alive, but its death knell may sound within days.
There have been a few days of relative calm, only interrupted by two unpleasant instances. Two days ago, a Belgian farmer was discovered illicitly supplying the Germans with meat, even though he had a contract with the British Army. He was tried and found guilty by a military court. When he was executed by firing squad, Brigade HQ insisted that every resident of the man’s village over the age of fifteen stand in the village square to witness the event, ensuring that he died in front of all his relatives and friends. The incident did little for Anglo-Belgian relations.
The following evening, during a night-time skirmish with what was probably a German reconnaissance patrol, three members of the 4th Battalion Fusiliers’ Number 3 Platoon heard voices behind their trench. Suspecting that the Germans might have outflanked them, they called, ‘Halt! Identify yourselves!’
No response was forthcoming, so the fusiliers opened fire. Then came an impassioned cry.
‘Fuck! You’ve shot my officer.’
‘Why didn’t you answer?’
‘I’m the platoon serjeant. We were three yards apart in the dark. I couldn’t see him. He thought I was going to respond, and I thought he was. Then you opened fire.’
‘Serves you right, then, don’t it?’
The two men were Royal Engineers, running a telephone line to the 4th Fusiliers’ trench. The officer had been shot through the jaw and his side. The stretcher-bearers took him back to Battalion HQ, but his prospects did not look good. No one mentioned the incident again and no disciplinary action was taken, nor was it even considered, the consensus being that the two sappers had been bloody fools.
With the snow turning to rain in the middle of the night, and the temperature rising slightly, dawn beckons with a dank, cold mist to add to the misery of the scene.
The German assault is presaged by the most intense artillery bombardment since the beginning of the war. It begins at 6.30 a.m on Wednesday 11 November. It does not stop for two and a half hours and is targeted at a small area between Zonnebeke in the north and St Eloi in the south, an area just seven miles wide, barely four miles east of Ypres. The ground shakes beneath every building in the town, an indication of how awesome the impact is on the front line.
The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers is dug in at Hooge, at the epicentre of the bombardment. For newly decorated and promoted Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff and the men of their Number 2 Platoon around them, it is an assault that even the most seasoned veterans of the British Army find hard to bear. At times, the ground beneath them rises like a wave crashing on to a beach, before it drops them back down with a shudder. Sometimes, they are covered in showers of earth from an impact nearby. Inevitably, many men are injured, shredded or totally obliterated. That is horror enough, especially if the remains of friends and comrades fall on you like gory rain. But then there is the even greater horror of contemplating death by an unseen missile which is going to do to you what has just happened to your neighbour.
The deafening noise is relentless. A few minutes are just about bearable; but for two and a half hours, it is a hell on earth.
In order to say anything, even to the man next to you, you have to shout in his ear. Beyond that distance, hand signals are the only option. Maurice and Harry are curled up together in a foetal position on a dry platform at the bottom of the trench, hoping and praying that they are not about to receive a direct hit. Like others who have experienced heavy shelling before, they are using cotton-wool earplugs to deaden some of the unrelenting din.
Harry signals to Maurice to pull out one of his plugs for a moment.
‘Fuck me, Mo, this is beyond a joke!’
‘I know, this is the worst one ever. You all right?’
‘Not really, Mo. I’m gettin’ the willies. I’d rather have a fourpenny one than put up wiv this much longer.’
Maurice looks at Harry and points to tell him to put his earplug back in. Harry is sweating profusely and his hands are trembling. He has never liked being under a barrage of shells and this one is far worse than anything they have experienced before. As Harry closes his eyes to try to obscure what is happening to him, Maurice puts his arms around his friend and holds him tightly.
Some of the young reservists nearby notice what is happening. Maurice smiles and nods at them to reassure them. They smile back. Strangely, they do not seem to sense weakness in their colour serjeant by witnessing Harry’s predicament. Every man there, young or old, novice or veteran, is feeling the same thing – utter terror. Each is fighting his overwhelming instinct to flee and is praying for his deliverance from the ordeal.
A direct hit into a trench kills most men in the vicinity; it is a quick death. Two things are worse: to be some distance away and be hit by shrapnel, which takes off a limb or disembowels you; or to be cowering in a trench when a shell explodes just in front or behind it, so you are then buried alive. With more shells falling and the ever-present sniper fire, it takes a huge amount of courage for your comrades to dig you out before you choke to death. Most do not try.
The 4th Fusiliers’ Number 2 Platoon has taken one direct hit, obliterating the trench and replacing it with a deep crater. It leaves no trace of the three men who stood there. It also suffers one near miss, about twenty yards from Harry and Maurice. Three men have shrapnel wounds, one serious, and are withdrawn.
Respite from the bombardment arrives at 9 a.m. when the trajectory of the shells rises towards the rear, where it is intended to soften up the reserves. Everyone knows that the infantry assault is imminent. Maurice looks at Harry. His face is contorted, as if in great pain. He is holding his rifle close to him, his knuckles white with tension. Maurice taps him on the shoulder and helps him take out his earplugs.
‘It’s all right, Harry
; it’s over. Fritz will be here soon. Come on, eyes front.’
Harry opens his eyes. As he does so, he notices that many of the men are looking at him.
‘What the fuckin’ Ada, what are you lot starin’ at? I just don’t like loud noises. Any of you tossers got a problem wiv that? Look to your fronts, you bunch of arseholes!’
The men of Number 2 Platoon are relieved. Good old ’Arry, the ‘Leyton Lash’ – which they call him when he is not listening – is back to his old self, the toughest NCO in the regiment. They regard Maurice differently. Calmer than Harry, he listens more; you can go to him with your problems. But do not get on the wrong side of him; he can be just as hard as Harry, if he needs to be.
Number 2 Platoon is in the centre of the 4th Battalion Fusiliers’ position. Its new officer, Captain Reginald Harold Routley, has recently arrived from India, all his fighting having been done on the North-West Frontier. It is hard to imagine what he makes of the shelling and the rain and mud of Flanders.
Now that the worst is over for Harry, Maurice goes to the far left of his platoon’s trench to stiffen the boys. Captain Routley is at the other end, with Harry in the middle.
When the elite German Guards attack, it is as if they have forgotten the lessons of Mons. Perhaps the elan of these old regiments demands that they attack as they always have done. They come on in tight formations, their officers with swords drawn. They could be Napoleon’s legendary Old Guard making its final, futile attack in the fading light at Waterloo a hundred years earlier. They too were cut down in droves by lethal British musketry.
The Germans emerge out of the heavy mist at 9.45 a.m. precisely; there are 17,500 of them along a line just seven miles wide. That is equivalent to a man and a half for every yard. Facing them in their trenches are just 7,800 defenders.
Advancing directly in front of the Fusiliers’ centre is the 4th Battalion, Queen Augusta’s Guards Grenadiers, men from Berlin, one of the elite regiments of the old Prussian Army. Even over the din of gunfire, the Fusiliers can hear the Guards Grenadiers singing their regimental song ‘Die Wacht am Rhein’ as they approach. They look very impressive, tall men, immaculately turned out, their field-grey uniforms looking distinctive, even at a distance and even in the gull-grey murk of a November morning.
Although Royal Field Artillery is rationing shells, the fusiliers have good stocks of small-arms ammunition. With clear orders to keep the men supplied, Maurice and Harry have put the two youngest reservists in charge of boxes of ammunition. The company’s quartermaster serjeant has also been able to find a supply of rifle oil and cleaning rags, so their rifles are in pristine condition – about the only things they possess that are.
When the Germans come within range, Captain Routley issues the order to fire, a command repeated by Maurice and Harry. It is target practice again, just like Mons, and the Guards Grenadiers fall like tin soldiers in a fairground shooting stall. But they keep coming on; there seems to be an endless supply of them. By now, there is firing all along the seven-mile front, and the great battle is fully engaged; the noise is almost as deafening as the early morning artillery bombardment.
Return fire begins to wreak havoc among the Fusiliers. The Germans have brought snipers with them across the open ground and they are picking targets from concealed positions.
To the defenders’ amazement, and despite appalling losses, some of the Germans make it all the way to within twenty yards of the trench. Harry looks to his right. Routley should have given the order to fix bayonets by now, but he has not. Harry sees why; he has been wounded in the head and one of the medics is dressing it. He seems to be conscious, but blood is pouring down his face. Harry gives the order as loudly as he can.
‘Fix bayonets!’
Within moments there are Germans jumping into the trench. Harry swings round to see that there is a Guards Grenadier on either side of him. As they both lunge at the same time, one screams something incomprehensible in German; the other shouts, ‘Take this, Tommy!’ in perfect English. But Harry is too good for even these elite Berliners. He deflects one bayonet with the butt of his rifle and the other with his own blade. He then grabs one of the Mauser’s barrels and pulls the man holding it towards him. As the man tumbles forward, Harry crashes his elbow into his face, smashing his nose and making him reel backwards into the bottom of the trench.
The second man tries to fire his Mauser, but Harry flicks its muzzle upwards, directing the bullet harmlessly into the air. Harry pulls his trigger in the same moment, the impact of the bullet at close range throwing the man backwards like a rag doll.
Harry then turns to the other grenadier, who, despite being almost submerged in the muddy water at the bottom of the trench, is trying to get a shot away.
Harry is soon on top of him with his boot on his chest. He raises his bayonet to strike.
‘Take this, Fritz!’
Harry plunges his bayonet deep into the man’s chest and uses his boot to lever it out again. As he does so, a fountain of blood rises a foot into the air.
There are hand-to-hand battles all along the trench. Worryingly, there seem to be more men in field grey than khaki. Fighting with an extraordinary ferocity, Harry decides to move towards Captain Routley. All the tension created by the morning’s bombardment is leaving him like steam from a pressure valve. He kills several of the enemy in quick succession, encourages his men as he passes them and picks some up from the bottom of the trench and gets them fighting again.
Using bayonet thrusts and bullets, fierce kicks with his boots and bludgeons from his rifle butt, he finally reaches Routley, who has managed to get to his feet. His medic is dead, slumped against the side of the trench, with a bullet through his heart.
Harry looks around. There is now more khaki alive in the trench than field grey, and there do not seem to be any more Germans closing in from the open ground. He can see to the far end of the trench, where the survivors from Maurice’s section seem to be more numerous than in his own section. Maurice is unharmed and appears to be in control of the situation.
Those few Germans who are not dead begin to run back from whence they came. Most of them make it, largely because the Fusiliers are too exhausted to raise their rifles. Harry turns his attention to Captain Routley.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you, Colour Serjeant, a bit dazed. I think the bullet has taken off quite a big bit from the corner of my eyebrow, so I won’t be winning any beauty contests in the future.’
‘No, sir, but I think you should sit down. You’re losin’ a lot o’ blood.’
‘Thank you, most thoughtful of you.’
‘What are your orders, sir? I think Fritz is scarpering.’
‘Is he? Very good. I’m afraid I can’t see very well out of my left eye and my right is pretty hazy. Before he died, this poor medic told me that I’ve got some bone splinters in my eye. So I won’t be chasing the Hun for a while. You and the men have done enough for one day. Let’s get some rest. We’ll hold our ground until we hear from Colonel McMahon.’
‘Very good, sir. With your permission, I should go and check on Colour Serjeant Tait’s section.’
‘Carry on, man. By the way, the colonel tells me that a DCM is on its way to you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I think you’ve earned a bar to your medal today. Bloody good show. I will be recommending you.’
‘Thanks very much, sir.’
Before Harry can reach Maurice, Colonel McMahon appears from behind the trench. He is leading about fifty fusiliers he has gathered from various platoons along the line.
‘Number 2 Platoon to me, please! Colour Serjeant Woodruff, get your platoon organized. Where’s Captain Routley?’
‘Wounded, sir; he’s over there.’
McMahon sends over a medic to see to Routley.
‘Where’s CSM Tait?’
‘Over the other side, sir.’
‘Bring his men in as well. We’re going after the enem
y.’
‘Is that wise, sir?’
The colonel does not answer but stares at Harry in a way that makes it very clear that his question is not appropriate.
‘Very sorry, sir.’
‘Carry on, Colour Serjeant.’
Harry’s heart sinks. McMahon’s got itchy feet, he obviously fancies a whiff of glory before he goes off to Brigade, but it is the last thing Harry wants to do. Moments later, over eighty men have gathered behind the colonel, who leads them out beyond the trench. He and his adjutant, Captain George O’Donel, who is back at Battalion HQ, are the only officers from the entire battalion still able to fight.
McMahon jumps up on to an ammunition box.
‘Fusiliers, there is a farm a hundred yards to the north-west. That is our objective. Follow me, and let’s show Fritz what Royal Fusiliers are made of!’
Despite sniper fire, and the attentions of a distant machine gun, most of the eighty men make it to the farm. The colonel was possibly right to try to claim it. It is on higher ground and is a much better defensive position, but his worthy ambition has cost him his life. Halfway across open ground, a young corporal next to him fell to the ground mortally wounded. McMahon knelt down to help him; as he did so, the leather of his cavalry boot seemed to explode as he was shot through his lower right leg.
Maurice, who had resumed his position at Harry’s side, shouted, ‘Sniper!’
Harry was indignant.
‘Bloody madness! Out here with a colonel’s crown an’ pips on his shoulder. He’s a sittin’ duck!’
Harry was right, Colonel McMahon was too obvious a target for a hawk-eyed sniper. While he tried to get to his feet to pull his boot off his stricken leg, two more bullets hit him almost at the same time. One ripped into his right shoulder, momentarily spinning him to the left, before the other hit him in the left side of his abdomen, twisting him the other way. He fell to the ground slowly, trying to hold on to consciousness, but his resistance lasted only a few seconds before he collapsed in a heap.
Colonel Norman Reginald McMahon DSO from Farnborough in Hampshire, forty-eight years old and a veteran of the Burma Expedition and the Boer War, never received the extra pip to signify his new promotion to brigadier. Much loved by his fusiliers, he led from the front and embraced the realities of modern warfare much more readily than most of his contemporaries. He tried to insist that every battalion in the army had six machine-gun crews, but he was ignored. Now, along with tens of thousands of others, he is dead in the mud of a Flanders field.
The Shadow of War Page 37