The preliminary bombardment started on schedule at 11 am and continued with growing intensity through the afternoon. Vast geysers of earth spewed high into the sky as the projectiles bit into the German front. To the Australians, inexperienced in such displays, it seemed the promised damage was being done to the enemy’s defences. The German artillery opened up in response, homing in on the front and reserve trenches where its observers had reported that the Allied troops were packed in ready to attack.
Things started to go pear-shaped for the Australians almost from the start. The German observers had clearly seen the massive troop movement in the Allied lines. In the days leading up to the attack, they observed carrying parties ferrying materials and ammunition to the front lines. They had alerted their reserve troops and called for and received additional supplies of ammunition from the rear. Shortly after 7 am on the morning of 19 July, the German reserves were moved forward so they could be deployed as needed to plug any holes that appeared in their defences. By 1 pm all the enemy troops in the front line had been ordered to stand to (the maximum stage of alertness) awaiting the attack.
Diggers from the 2nd Australian Division in their trenches near Bois-Grenier near Fromelles. The soldier in the foreground is looking through a periscope and the man to his left is holding one of the newly acquired Lewis machine guns. (AWM PHOTO EZ0007)
Around 3.15 pm the German observers saw the Australian engineers working to use a ‘pipe pusher’ – a long cylindrical bomb, which was driven underground by a hydraulic jack out into no-man’s land to explode and create a rough trench to provide cover for the advancing troops. The Germans called in their artillery on the engineers and, in doing so, further shelled the Australian front trenches, causing significant casualties. The inaccuracy of the Australian barrage also subjected their own troops to friendly fire as misdirected shots (or ‘drop-shorts’ as they were called) regularly hit them. When they realised they were being shelled by their own guns, the Diggers reacted sharply, as Hugh Knyvett recalled:
Our first message … was very polite ‘we preferred to be killed by the Germans, thank you’ … two of our officers being killed, our next message was worded very differently, and we told them that ‘if he fired again we would turn our machine guns on them’. I was sent back to make sure that he got the message … this battery did not belong to our division.
Nerves tingled as the troops in the front trenches waited while the hours dragged on and shells from both sides continued to pepper them. The Australians were confronted with their first taste of perhaps the most horrifying aspect of trench warfare – the almost inexplicable terrors of a massive artillery bombardment. Some of their Gallipoli veterans had experienced it in small doses but on the Western Front they would face it on a scale never before witnessed. One Digger’s experience a few days later at Pozières on the Somme summed it up:
All day long the ground rocked and swayed backwards and forwards from the concussion … men were driven stark staring mad and more than one of them rushed out of the trench over towards the Germans. [A]ny amount of them could be seen crying and sobbing like children their nerves completely gone … we were nearly all in a state of silliness and half dazed.
Lieutenant John Raws was a journalist from Malvern in South Australia before joining up. He was 32 years old when he was killed in action near Pozières on 23 August. He left a wonderfully evocative series of letters which his family collected and published in a booklet Records of an Australian Lieutenant – a Story of Bravery, Devotion and Self-Sacrifice, 1915/1916. He wrote of the pressures:
I have had much luck and kept my nerve so far. The awful difficulty is to keep it. The bravest of all often lose it – one becomes a gibbering maniac … Only the men you have trusted and believed in proved equal to it. One or two of my friends stood splendidly, like granite rocks round which the seas raged in vain. They were all junior officers; but many other fine men broke to pieces. Everyone called it shell-shock but shell-shock (ie shell concussion) is very rare. What 90% get is justifiable funk due to the collapse of the helm of self-control.
Another of Corporal Charles Lorking’s photos taken from the Australian lines at Fromelles showing the start of the bombardment of the German position just prior to the attack. (AWM PHOTO H02105)
Corporal Charles Lorking’s photo across no-man’s land immediately before the Fromelles attack on 19 July 1916. It shows the lack of cover ahead of the attackers as they charged across the scrubby killing ground to the German trenches. (AWM PHOTO H02106)
At 3.20 pm in the Australians’ front lines, around halfway through the preliminary bombardment, Major Roy Harrison of the 54th Battalion signalled back to his CO, Colonel Cass, a veteran of both the Boer War and Gallipoli, that the six signallers he was to take with him had not yet arrived.
By 5 pm it was evident to Harrison and the others in the front line that the bombardment was not creating anywhere near the promised damage to the enemy front-line defences. Harrison reported back to Cass that the ‘enemy parapet opposite … is not being smashed’. He also added that he couldn’t establish telephone contact with Cass yet and that one of his officers ‘has just had an arm blown off’. And this was even before the infantry attack had started.
Others had reported back that the German defences around the Sugar Loaf, which was the key to the success of the attack because of the capacity of its machine-gunners to fire down no-man’s land on either side, were largely intact. The artillery was directed to concentrate its heavy guns on the stronghold but it was too little and too late.
Behind Harrison and his men, Cass was waiting with the third and fourth waves in the reserve trenches. He could see the damage being done to his men as they hunkered down in the trenches. Just five minutes before the first wave was due to go over, Cass signalled back to his 14th Brigade HQ:
Enemy are enfilading Brompton Road with shrapnel and trench mortars and h[eavy] art[illery]. Communication blocked for the time. More arty support req’d to check enemy arty as most of their guns are playing on parapet and communications.
The casualties in the trenches were so great that, even before the attack, some of the Australian battalions had to combine their third and fourth waves into one. The 32nd Battalion had not even spent a full day in the line, yet before the attack it had already lost three of its four company commanders and all their seconds-in-command.
Nevertheless, many of the Australians believed that judging by the noise, the dust and the smoke, their artillery was causing even more damage to the enemy, softening them up for the attack. Pompey Elliott was one of them. In the front trench with his men, he reassured them: ‘Boys, you won’t find a German in the trenches when you get there’.
In the front line with bayonets fixed, men of the 53rd Battalion, 5th Division, minutes before the attack at Fromelles. (AWM PHOTO H16396)
Because of the uneven width of no-man’s land faced by the various units, the starting times for the attack were staggered so they would all reach the German lines at the same time. Of course, this was based on the assumption that the Allied artillery would do its job of breaking down the German defences, causing heavy casualties and throwing the enemy troops into confusion.
The infantry attack of the Battle of Fromelles began when the first of the British attackers went over at 5.30 pm, at which time, as Bean noted, ‘the sun of a bright sunny day was still fairly high’. So the German defenders would have had perfect visibility as, unbelievably, the assault started in broad daylight, with around three more hours before last light. Worse, because of the season, the attackers were effectively charging into the sun while the enemy had perfect vision. Bean continued:
the enemy, observing the movements which were obviously the commencement of the attack, opened heavily upon the front and reserve lines with all available guns.
Those on the extreme right of the Allied attacking line, the British 2/7th Royal Warwickshire Regiment, initially took the German front trenches with relative ease but were the
n caught by enfilade fire and driven back by a German counter-attack. Other British troops from the 183rd Brigade were heavily shelled and machine-gunned as they tried to attack through sally ports (gaps cut in their parapets) and suffered many casualties. The few who gallantly made it through the firestorm to the German wire were killed there. Elsewhere in the British line, closer to the Sugar Loaf, a combination of accurate artillery bombardment and incessant machine-gun and rifle fire destroyed the attack. The greatest casualties occurred around the Sugar Loaf itself, where accurate enfilade machine-gun fire sweeping down no-man’s land cut down the attackers before they could reach the German lines.
Lieutenant Percy Wellesley ‘Bob’ Chapman, of the 55th Battalion, kept a diary from the time he embarked for Gallipoli in July 1915 until he fell in action on 12 March 1917. H is first-hand, contemporaneous description of the battle at Fromelles gives a fascinating insight into the mind and the emotions of the Digger. (JUDITH FITZHENRY PHOTO)
At his headquarters, Haking was receiving garbled reports of the progress of the British assault. Some reports gave rise to misplaced optimism, suggesting that in some areas good progress was being made.
Bean summed up the situation of the Australians waiting for the final minutes until their turn came to go over the top:
For the first time in the war an Australian attacking force was actually meeting the contingency most dreaded by commanders: its intentions had been discovered, and the enemy barrage was crashing upon its assembly position with the object of destroying the attack.
The first wave of the Australians ‘hopped the bags’ at 5.43 pm. On the Australian right flank, Pompey Elliott’s 15th Brigade went over from 5.45 pm in four waves, leaving about five minutes apart. They set off fifteen minutes before their supporting artillery barrage was due to lift and push back into the German support lines. (Just getting over the top of their parapets was a difficult exercise. Because their parapets were up to three metres high, the men built rough timber ladders to allow them to clamber out of their trenches and over the top.)
Lieutenant Percy Wellesley ‘Bob’ Chapman, of the 55th Battalion, a veteran of Gallipoli, kept a diary from the day he embarked in July 1915 until he fell in France in March 1917. His battalion’s initial role was to support the two assaulting battalions in his brigade, the 54th and the 56th. He and his men were assigned the dangerous task of digging the communications trench between the captured German front line and the Australian trenches.
Chapman and his men were under the command of the muchadmired Captain Norman Gibbins. Writing in his diary the week after the battle, Bob Chapman noted:
We marched along the road in single file keeping to the right under cover of the hedge as much as possible – and about five minute intervals between platoons, till we got to the Communication Gaps leading to the main trench: in these we were slightly congested owing to supplies going forward and wounded coming back.
The first wounded man I saw was one lying on the road with a bullet wound through the stomach. The sight seemed to bring to me the first indication that we were actually going into battle – a slight feeling of sickness crept over me and I felt annoyed with myself, but it soon passed.
In the gap a shell landed among our front party – but we could not stop, one poor chap was blown to a pulp, bits of legs and arms were scattered about. I trod on his head by mistake as I hurried by and it gave under my foot like a sponge – others were lying about moaning and groaning – but all feeling had left me now. I passed dead men without feeling pity or remorse.
In the support trench while grenades were distributed to each of Chapman’s men. Then, at Gibbins’ order, they went over the top. Each man carried fifteen sandbags and most had a pick or shovel. As soon as they made it into no-man’s land they started digging.
It did not take us long to settle down to work. But an order came through from the front that they wanted reinforcements so off we went again. Our road was strewn with dead men lying as they had fallen – mostly face downwards and heads towards the enemy – their yellow-white complexions, blue finger nails, and clear staring eyes gazing into vacancy telling that Death had for some time taken his toll.
By the time Chapman and his men had reached the German trench they found that men from the 54th were occupying a small muddy trench in front about a metre deep. They immediately started digging in and built a parapet from sandbags. Chapman ordered fatigue parties to carry sandbags, ammunition and grenades from there and to help dig an emplacement for the machine gunners. He went on to give a wonderful description of what it was like to take part in the battle:
Little incidents fix themselves in one’s mind – but the whole seems more or less a blur. During the night reinforcements were called for from the right. Mr Wyllie was sent – but as he got up to go, ‘thud’ comes something against his side and over he rolled, grasping his side. ‘They’ve got me Chappie – they’ve got me’ he said as I held his head. They carried him to the main German trench and from there to our own trenches. He is in Hospital and doing well now.
Capt Gibbins was the marvel – he kept walking up and down the lines never showing any sign of fear, encouraging people and helping them. Towards dawn our flanks were being attacked by enemy bombers so Capt Gibbins led an attack against them over ‘No Man’s Land’ and drove them back, but back they came and still again. Bombs and bombers were called for and still more bombs but our officers were becoming less. Mendellson was blown up on the right. Jock Mathews was shot. Toliard was wounded. Denoon had been shot through the shoulder.
Elsewhere, the leading men of the 59th Battalion made it halfway across no-man’s land without problems, but then they were suddenly caught in an irresistible hail of lead. The Germans had placed observers in the front trenches who had gallantly stayed there even through the worst of the artillery bombardment to warn their comrades of the moment of the anticipated attack. When some of them were killed or wounded, others immediately took their place. As soon as these observers alerted them, the defenders rushed back to their positions to repel the attack. The vast majority of them emerged unharmed from their dugouts to find their positions in the Sugar Loaf surprisingly free from major damage. They quickly manned their machine guns and started sweeping their deadly fire at the advancing Australians.
A typical German heavy machine-gun crew. Teams like this caused devastating casualties as the Australians tried to cross no-man’s land at Fromelles.
Because the German machine guns at the Sugar Loaf were able to fire across a clear killing field with no dead ground for cover for the attackers, the gunners were able to shoot using a method known as ‘grazing fire’ – sweeping their fusillades at a low angle, not higher than a standing man. This gave them the added effect of cutting men down by, first, hitting them in the legs and then often hitting them again as they fell. They also benefited from ricochets off the ground that caused further injury to those following in the background. Capable of firing 600 rounds a minute – or ten 7.92 mm bullets every second – the heavy machine-guns were fixed on sleds or tripods and set into concreted bunkers which gave their operators maximum protection. Belts fed the ammunition into the weapon and the mechanism was water cooled.
Private Jimmy Downing of the 57th Battalion later recalled what he saw as he waited as part of the 15th Brigade’s reserve battalion:
Stammering scores of German machine-guns spluttered violently, drowning the noise of the cannonade. The air was thick with bullets, swishing in a flat, criss-crossed lattice of death … Hundreds were mown down in the flicker of an eyelid, like great rows of teeth knocked from a comb … Men were cut in two by streams of bullets [that] swept like whirling knives … It was the Charge of the Light Brigade once more, but more terrible, more hopeless – magnificent, but not war – a valley of death filled by somebody’s blunder.
The blunderer, General Richard Haking, the man they would forever after call ‘The Butcher’, maintained his mad optimism throughout. Nestled back at his headquart
ers in a chateau at Sailly-sur-la-Lys, about 8 kilometres north-west of the front lines, Haking and McCay continued to rely on the confused and often inaccurate signals coming back from the battlefield.
Haking’s absurd plan for an artillery feint – the lengthening of the range of the bombardment accompanied by the appearance of an attack, followed by a swift renewal of the original bombardment after the defenders had been lured from their cover – was a spectacular failure. Far from drawing the German defenders out into the open, to be caught as the barrage continued, it was ignored by the Germans who easily saw through the ruse, as Hugh Knyvett wrote:
They [the defenders] failed to appear, however, until we actually went over the top, then the machine-guns and rifles swept a hail of bullets in our faces, like a veritable blizzard.
Knyvett was amazed by the courage of his comrades, as they surged from their trenches into the firestorm:
Nothing could exceed the bravery of those boys. The first wave went down like ‘wheat before the reaper’. When the time came for the second wave to go over there was not a man standing of the first wave, yet not a lad faltered. Each glanced at his watch and on the arranged tick of the clock leaped over. In many cases they did not get any farther than the first wave. The last wave, though they knew each had to do the work of three, were in their places and started on their forlorn hope at the appointed moment.
Our Darkest Day Page 11