by Lloyd, Nick
38. Second-Lieutenant James Kirk, aged twenty-one, served in Owen’s battalion (2/Manchesters) and was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross for his actions on 4 November. His citation commended his ‘supreme contempt for danger and magnificent self-sacrifice’.
39. German infantry dug in along the canal at Valenciennes, November 1918. According to one regimental history, the positions ‘consisted of rifle-pits connected up irregularly. There were no dug outs. There was no field of view owing to hedges, houses, walls and gardens. The battle headquarters were in small cellars, hardly splinter proof.’
40. The Place de la Concorde, Paris, 9 November 1918, showing some of the captured German guns on display. One witness remembered seeing ‘mountains of Kraut helmets’ on Armistice Day.
41. French girls decorate every possible corner of their windows with Allied flags, Rue Royale, Paris, 11 November 1918. According to Elise Bidet, who was in Paris that day, ‘All the windows are decked out with flags. I have never seen so many flags and they are all in the colours of the Allies, the view is magnificent.’
As with everything else in First Army, its medical staff worked wonders of improvisation to cope with the unprecedented demands of the front. One of those who witnessed this was Miss C. W. Clarke, a nurse with the US Evacuation Hospital at Toul. It received 200 men on the opening day of the offensive, but gradually more and more wounded arrived, particularly on 30 September, when it was ‘simply deluged’ with patients.
For four weeks from 1,000 to 1,500 passed through our hospital each day. The Red Cross trains came in two or three times a day, each one taking away 500 wounded . . . In the operating room, twelve tables were in constant use day and night. There was a complete staff of doctors and nurses for day work and another for night . . . For four weeks an unbroken line of ambulances rolled up our main street, emptied its human load onto our receiving ward and rolled back to the lines to get another. We never refused to take a patient . . . The beds would all be full. We put stretchers on the floor. Sometimes the floors and corridors were so full it was hard to get around. Then a train would come. It would be loaded quickly. There would be a little respite. We would start to make up the empty beds but before we got far new patients would come and the beds would be full again and the floor and the corridors.
Upon arrival, the wounded were given anti-tetanus injections to prevent lockjaw and crosses were marked on their foreheads with iodine. They were then put into the receiving ward, where their injuries were assessed (A to D in decreasing order of severity). If they could be saved, they were cut out of their uniforms, bathed and given Red Cross pyjamas, before being sent to the X-ray section or operating theatre as required. Although Miss Clarke did not serve at the front, soon she knew everything about the battle because patients swapped stories every day. ‘They, the boys, would talk about “the woods”,’ she remembered.
One day the Germans didn’t budge, the next day they’d be retreating, the next ‘the woods’ were ours. We who cared for the boys lived through each battle as it was retold for us, either by a conscious patient right from the scene or by one under ether, whose descriptions were often more vivid. We lived through the war from Château-Thierry to the Argonne only a few hours behind the actual events, only a few miles behind the lines and we learned the spirit of our American men, kind, home-loving and unconquerable.18
One of those wounded in the Argonne was Colonel George S. Patton, the 32-year-old commander of 1 Provisional Tank Brigade. On the morning of 26 September, before they had reached the village of Cheppy, Patton and his men came under heavy fire from entrenched German machine-guns dug in on nearby high ground. Working with a small number of tanks – small, light Renaults – Patton tried to take his men with him and rush the crest of the hill, but was shot in the leg before he could make it, with most of his men being killed or wounded around him. He limped on for about forty feet, all the time under intense fire, before collapsing into a shell hole. For Patton, the Argonne was the proving ground for armoured warfare and for the American Tank Corps. From his wheelchair, he wrote to his wife two weeks later. ‘I had seven captains, two majors and myself in the fight. Of these all are hit but one captain and two majors . . . Two lieutenants were killed and 15 wounded. But the Tank Corps established its reputation for not giving ground. They only went forward. And they are the only troops in the attack of whom that can be said.’19
Patton’s feelings of pride in the accomplishments of his men contrasted sharply with his belief that other units had not shown the same determination. Pershing agreed. The failure to secure a clean breakthrough on the first day was highly disconcerting. It brought up all the old arguments again about the wisdom of an independent American army, as well as providing seeming proof that many of his divisions had received training that was too focused on limited advances and the old habits of trench warfare. Pershing dealt with the crisis in the only way he knew: by pushing, cajoling and threatening. On the morning of 27 September, the four corps of the US First Army received an urgent telegram from his Chief of Staff, Hugh Drum, ordering divisional and brigade commanders to ‘place themselves as far up toward the front of the advance . . . as may be necessary to direct their movements with energy and rapidity in the attack’. The enemy was in retreat and there should be no hesitation or delay. ‘All officers will push their units forward with all possible energy. Corps and division commanders will not hesitate to relieve on the spot any officer of whatever rank who fails to show in this emergency those qualities of leadership required to accomplish the task that confronts us.’20 It did not take long for Pershing to deliver on this threat. The first commander, Brigadier-General Evan Johnson, was relieved on the morning of the second day. Sadly, he would not be the only officer whose reputation would be ruined in the hills west of the Meuse.21
American commanders may have felt uncomfortable under Pershing’s cold, unyielding gaze, but the pressure on their German counterparts, at all levels, was even more intense. The first day of the assault had been one of great difficulty. Facing nearly fifty battalions of US soldiers were just eighteen German battalions. Heavy artillery fire on the roads behind the lines interfered with communications and the movement of reserves. As was the usual German practice, Gallwitz ordered a number of counter-attacks to go in, to regain ground and unsettle the attackers, but they never went ahead as planned. He had originally wanted 5th Bavarian Reserve Division to push forward, but it was ‘terribly handicapped by the barrage fire of the enemy’, which delayed its arrival on the field. 37th Division was also unable to counter-attack at Varennes. Only one of their regiments made it to the front, the other two being unable to get forward because of extensive traffic delays behind the lines.22 Nevertheless, by the end of the day the German position along this sector had held, giving Gallwitz precious time to concentrate his forces and urge his men to dig in.
The experience of defending from the seemingly endless Franco-American attacks was a nightmare of heavy bombardments and strong infantry assaults, forcing German Soldaten to rely heavily upon the traditional weapons of defence, machine-guns, stick grenades and rifles, as well as their deepest reserves of courage and determination. One soldier who fought here was Paul Ludwig of 2nd Landwehr Division. His unit may have been only rated ‘fourth-class’ by American intelligence, but it fought hard. On 13 October, Ludwig wrote to his father:
Since the 26th we have been in close contact with the Americans, with increasing success and in conditions that require the last bit of resistance and toughness from our men. My boys are doing amazing things – I’m grateful for the stability and lack of weariness of my unit. Our situation, however, by now has a somewhat desperate air – we have honourably fought our way out of the stranglehold of a brave enemy. Since our retreat behind the Aire the regiment has again won some elbow room. We’ve had a bit of a breather in terms of action, but the quietness is misleading. Our losses, especially the absence of the sick, are especially grave for military reserve formations. Many a good fri
end of mine has bled. Good fortune has so far prevailed over myself and my company. May it remain that way. The leader of the 3rd Machine Gun Company fell beside me (Second-Lieutenant Fulda), the leader of the 1st was heavily injured. Developments on the inside are promising – however, we get too little information on this. I do not want to comment on the possibilities, especially of a military nature that the next few weeks will bring. We are ready for everything and know that they are prepared to make use of the formations down to the last man. If only the end leads to our salvation.23
Ludwig’s regiment retreated behind the Aire River on 9 October before finally being relieved eight days later. They entered the battle with twenty-two officers and over 720 NCOs and men, but by the time they were relieved the regiment contained only ten officers and 175 men, a casualty rate of over 70 per cent.
German commanders were particularly concerned about their men’s morale, and as the battle wore on there were increasing fears that something was going to give. Between 21 and 30 September, Fifth Army suffered losses of 264 officers and 8,043 other ranks; not as bad as had been feared, but worrying none the less.24 The commander of 3rd Guard Division, his men fighting desperately at Blanc Mont, complained that ‘The heavy losses, the superhuman demands placed on the physical capacities of the men during the past few days, have reduced the combat value of the division, not entirely satisfactory even before employment in lines, to a most dangerous degree. Physically and morally, the troops have now arrived at the extreme limit of their endurance.’ The division now had a trench strength of barely 350 men, holding a front of two kilometres.25 On 28 September, Gallwitz’s fellow Army Group commander, Crown Prince Wilhelm, visited his younger brother, Fritz, who was serving with 1st Guards Division:
I know my brother to be a very brave, intrepid and cool-headed man, and one whose care for his troops was exemplary. He was accustomed to affliction and distress; the First Guards had all the time been posted where things had been about as hot as they could be, at Ypres, in Champagne, at the Somme, the Chemin des Dames, Gorlice, the Argonne. This time I found him changed; he was filled with unutterable bitterness; he saw the end approaching, and, together with his men, fought with the courage of despair.
Fritz’s division consisted of only 500 rifles. So bad was the situation that staff officers and their despatch carriers were fighting in the front line with their men. The artillery was worn out, their gunners exhausted, and no reinforcements were likely. The Crown Prince was dismissive of US military abilities (‘they showed ignorance of warfare’), but recognized the Americans’ great superiority in guns and tanks. Indeed, he even believed that the bombardments which shook the forests of the Argonne ‘greatly exceeded in intensity and heaviness anything we had known at Verdun or on the Somme’.26
On 29 September, the Commander of Fifth Army, General von der Marwitz, drove to the front to meet some of his divisions. On the way back to his headquarters he took a wounded NCO with him. The man had been shot by the machine-gun of a tank, probably one of the Renaults the Americans were using. Marwitz recalled in his diary:
The men supposedly retreated in part once the tank appeared (stupid, because that’s when they’ll really get hit), so he stayed alone and while ‘catching up’ he was hit by the bullet. Of course he also ran away, perhaps a bit later than the others. ‘So, were there any big losses in the company?’ ‘No, not at all, I was the first one wounded’, so it’s just the fear of those things and not their actual effect. Time and again you have to tell the men that, and where they are defending themselves it’s possible. The American infantry that followed came to a halt (or retreated) immediately in the face of the machine-gun fire. That’s what our people and officers now always say, but still the enemy comes slowly creeping closer. I would prefer it if they overestimated the enemy and then beat him anyway. Well, the main thing is that it held.27
Marwitz’s concern that his men were running away from the enemy tanks may not have always been true – something Colonel Patton would have testified to – but it revealed the fears that haunted senior German officers as the Franco-American attack continued to drive north. As Crown Prince Wilhelm was heard to remark upon visiting the Argonne front, ‘How long yet?’
After three days of fighting, the Americans had pushed forward in places up to seven miles, but found themselves in contact with more German forces than they had envisaged; up to six extra divisions were thrown into the line by 28 September.28 Clair Groover’s battalion was still trying to advance northwards and, although Montfaucon had fallen, it encountered familiar problems. The troops ‘moved down into the valley and started up the hill on the north side’ before being held up ‘by a withering fire from machine guns and German artillery’.
Aided by French Whippet Tanks, and a few large tanks, the regiment advanced up the hill toward Montillois. There were direct hits on several of the tanks and put them out of action. On Saturday afternoon I met Captain Edward Howard, Commander of Headquarters Company, on the battlefield. The Germans laid down a barrage with artillery. We took refuge [at the] back of a large tank. There were several direct hits. Captain Howard said, ‘Clair isn’t this a hell of a place for the father of two boys, to be.’ My reply was: ‘Right now it is a pretty good place.’ We stayed there until the shelling ended. The 313th had advanced to about one mile and a half north of Montfaucon.29
Groover’s men – ‘exhausted from continuous fighting, lack of food and shortage of water’ – were finally relieved on the night of 30 September. This was how it went, on and on, back and forth, through shattered woods and pock-marked slopes across the southern edge of the Western Front. Official communiqués to Washington claimed that everything had gone well, and all objectives had been secured, but they could not mask the disappointment that washed over AEF headquarters. Far from resulting in Pershing’s beloved ‘open warfare’, the Battle of Meuse–Argonne was reproducing some of the ghastliest episodes from earlier battles: the Somme, Verdun and Passchendaele. Whether he liked it or not, Pershing was now involved in a brutal attritional slog.
American casualties mounted rapidly. By 30 September, after only four days of combat, US First Army had sustained over 45,000 casualties, seriously imperilling Pershing’s grand ambitions for the offensive.30 The logistical situation, which had been precarious at the beginning of operations, now began to break down; Hunter Liggett gloomily recording that the ‘miserable roads began to have their effect on the second day’.31 The urgent need to relieve the front-line divisions, evacuate the scores of wounded, and restock ammunition and equipment for a renewed push strained First Army almost to breaking point. The few roads in the area and the huge number of troops jammed into the American sector meant much disorganization and chaos occurred – something that George Marshall had foreseen all too clearly. One soldier, Sergeant Hakon Anderson of 107th Ammunition Train, remembered the long days and nights trying to keep the front-line troops supplied, driving up to the front, ‘in pouring rain and pitch darkness’:
In the dark we tried to find roads that were no longer there, over grades, around shell holes and booby traps. Never knowing when an enemy shell would make a direct hit, and when it sometimes did it was goodbye for everyone. Ours was the heavy ammunition, 155s. 6 inch, weighing 80 lbs each. You can imagine what an explosion a truck load would make when hit. Once one of the drivers in my convoy got off to take a short walk to answer the call of nature, and his truck was hit in his absence.32
On the fourth day of the offensive the French Premier, Clemenceau, had, rather unwisely, decided to take a look for himself and ordered his chauffeur to drive up to Montfaucon. Needless to say, he did not reach his destination, but got stuck in massive logjams on the muddy roads leading up to it. Clemenceau was horrified at the scenes he had witnessed, complaining bitterly to Foch and muttering darkly about petitioning the President to replace Pershing.
On 29 September – the day the British would cross the Saint-Quentin canal – Pershing was forced to suspend active op
erations in the Meuse–Argonne. It was a bitter humiliation for a man who had long been convinced that only his army could unlock the stalemate on the Western Front. Indeed, it was rapidly becoming clear that a new approach, new tactics and new objectives would be needed if Pershing was to prevent his army from getting sucked into the kind of inconclusive and agonizing attritional struggle that he had long feared. A report by the Inspector-General of First Army revealed numerous problems, including a communication breakdown between units, and a shortage of rifles, gas masks and helmets. A lack of tank support compounded matters. The offensive had only been allocated 189 light French tanks; within ten days only eighteen were still functioning.33 Lacking the amount of firepower that the Allies were able to throw at enemy defences, and the sophisticated logistical system that supported it, the Americans were forced to rely on their manpower. Yet, as had been proved time and again, throwing men at barbed wire under fire would not do. This was tough; it made the Wilderness look like a walk in the park.
10. ‘Just one panorama of hell’
It seemed impossible that anyone could come alive through that cyclone of destruction.
Guardsman Frederick Noakes1
27–29 September 1918
The battle in the west increased in intensity in the last days of September. It was, in the words of Crown Prince Wilhelm, ‘like a vast conflagration that had long smouldered in secret, and that, suddenly getting air, now burst into flame in innumerable places’.2 The unending rumble of artillery fire could be heard across the front from Flanders to the Meuse. The Allied armies were now face to face with the main German defensive line in the west and on 27 September the second of Foch’s sequence of offensives began: a crunching series of attacks that punched towards the key German logistical centre of Cambrai. This would be followed up on 28 September with an attack from Ypres – a place of bitter memory – before Foch’s fourth blow landed on the Saint-Quentin canal. If all went well the Germans’ hopes of making an indefinite stand on the Western Front would be ended. Their main defensive position would be smashed, their armies in retreat. Finally the road would be open all the way to Berlin.