Malcolm MacPhail's Great War Read online

  Around two it began to pour – again. As it looked presently, or unless the water ran out up above, my swimming lessons of old might soon prove invaluable. That was the thing about the Salient, water was never in any shortage, unless you wanted some to drink.

  In the next few hours there was meagre progress. The Patricias and the 49th Battalion soon began to dig in for the inevitable counter-attacks. When the actual order to consolidate came, I knew it was time to leave. The attack had run its course for today.

  The light, such as it was, through the mottled sea of dense grey clouds sailing above, was fading fast as I began to pick my way through the shell-holes on the journey back to Waterloo Farm. Already I could hear the cries of the wounded all around.

  They moaned softly, in desperate isolation, as a dark curtain fell on the fields. I was cold, on edge, battered by the day’s experiences, and the sounds unnerved me. I hated to imagine their despair as the last rays of light dimmed, and any hopes of help faded with them; the prospect of a cold, lonely and horrifying night still ahead. Many would be fighting their final battle, against the mud that sucked them deeper into their holes until, when their last ounce of strength ebbed away, they would slip helplessly into the shallow pool of water at their feet. There the water would fill their lungs until life left them and Flanders became their home forever.

  Occasionally a shell would fall with a whistle, followed by a long moment of silence, and then a deep concussion. They seemed to accentuate the eerie silence against which a dark symphony of moans and sobbing played on, pierced at intervals by the shrill notes of a scream, as pain and desperation overcame one of them.

  Descending the gentle slope of the Spur, I pulled a respirator over my face. I’d scavenged a replacement before leaving. In the dark and alone, I was afraid I would miss the signs of gas before it was too late, or simply stumble into a hole where it lay swirling at the bottom in deadly wait. The German gunners had pounded this slope all day. They’d largely abstained from using gas on the ridge where their own troops were dug in, but they had no such compassion when it came to our lines. Under the rubber mask my own methodic breathing lent a bizarre ghostliness to the setting, as my eyes darted to and fro beneath the scratched goggles, searching for a bathmat walkway that might hasten my travel.

  After an eternity, I arrived at Waterloo Farm more tattered than when I left. Promptly, I joined the others there to carry on the business of war. Doing what had to be done: my duty.

  CHAPTER 11

  6th of November, 1917

  Watou, Belgium

  ‘Aren’t you a sight?!’ Lieutenant-Colonel Hore-Ruthven cried when he spotted me the next day, on October 31st, as I wearily stumbled into the grounds of the Canal Bank bunker. Soon after, Tibbett also appeared out of nowhere, sporting his very best impersonation of an undertaker. On seeing me he brightened visibly. He was genuinely glad to see me, and vigorously shook my hand for what seemed an unconscionably long time, talking non-stop the entire while. After I wriggled free – my circulation not being what it was two weeks ago – and the pleasantries wound down, I broached the question I was dying to ask.

  ‘So, tell me, how are we doing?’

  He glanced at me with a look of puzzlement: ‘You were there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, getting shot at, shelled by half the German army, and my life generally made miserable,’ I replied. ‘That’s one of the things about having your head in the mud, you tend to miss the big picture.’ Naturally, I picked up a few things at battalion headquarters prior to coming back, but I wasn’t about to undermine my dramatic story.

  His eyes widened perceptibly when he examined me closer. Presumably, he noticed the prominent hole in the side of my trench coat for the first time. ‘You actually were shot,’ he said in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe I’d been telling the truth. It was either that, or he thought I led a remarkably charmed life.

  ‘Luckily, the Fritz mislaid his eyeglasses, or it might have been my last visit to this charming pile of concrete,’ I said. ‘It’s a shame about the coat, though; it was a perfectly good one, too. Cost me a fortune.’

  Still shaking his head, Tibbett began to recount the details of the advance. ‘You likely know we made decent progress on Bellevue Spur, although a tad short of the blue line. On the far left, it looked dicey for a while. A group of the Mounted Rifles under a Major Pearkes took Vapour and Source Farms, but they were left hanging for the longest time – essentially isolated, and without reinforcements. Currie ordered them to hold the line. And incredibly they did,’ he said, again shaking his head. ‘Unfortunately, the Royal Navy and 58th Divisions didn’t end up offering them much support.’

  ‘Well, I guess that answers the question why Wellington didn’t feel the need to ring up the Navy before Waterloo.’

  He laughed. ‘Up the ridge to Passchendaele we managed to take all the objectives, including Crest Farm, early in the day. It was a little tense whether you lot were going to come through in the middle, otherwise they might have made it even further.’

  ‘And the positions have held through this morning?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, and now we’re only a few hundred yards from Passchendaele.’

  That was almost a week ago. In the meantime, we’d consolidated the front, moved headquarters to Watou, the complete 3rd and 4th Divisions were replaced in the line by the 1st and the 2nd, and only now did my feet look like they belonged to a human being.

  Sorting out my feet was the most trying experience of the week. I rubbed them regularly with whale oil, and combined with keeping them dry for several consecutive days, it eventually worked wonders. My boots were pretty much a write-off, not that I had replacements at hand.

  I was up early this morning. Which is about as much of an understatement as saying that autumns in Ypres can be moist. Inexplicably, it wasn’t raining.

  The third phase of the attack was to begin at 6.00 a.m., and yesterday Hore-Ruthven had come to me with an unusual request. A “young” staff officer from the British IX Corps wished to observe the attack. He was scheduled to arrive here at 3.00 a.m. and I was to accompany him. So instead of a decent night’s sleep with the not uncomfortable prospect of following the battle from the warm, dry and shell-free divisional HQ, I was to play tour guide in the muck. It was a mystery how this little chore ended up on my doorstep. No doubt my vast experience of the battlefield played a role, I reckoned, in a smug moment. Later, after I reflected on it, I realized one of my superiors simply thought I had nothing better to do.

  The young staff officer turned out, in fact, to be my age. Looking at him, he might even have been a year or two older. His name was Bernard Montgomery and he was a captain. That was a stroke of luck, as it would spare me the cramped formality accompanying a more senior English staff officer. He looked dashing, an effect greatly accentuated by my own lack of dash.

  While my welcoming smile wouldn’t exactly melt hearts, it was the best show I could muster at this hour. Promptly I addressed him as ‘Bernie’, testing the waters. A little premature familiarity was always an excellent litmus test for officers. There were really only two basic types: the first, even if they didn’t particularly appreciate being acquainted on a first-name basis, would smile and get on with the business at hand. The second, mortally wounded by some sense of improper etiquette, retreated into a shell and might as well be directing traffic at Hell Fire Corner. From the tenseness in his face muscles I knew I’d made Montgomery uncomfortable, but he responded graciously.

  We took a car from Watou, passing through Ypres, and went a mile or two up the road towards Gravenstafel, where we were obliged to dismount, and walk the remaining three miles or so to Boethoek pill-box. It gave us some time to talk.

  ‘…the whole art of war is to gain your objective with as little loss as possible,’ Montgomery was saying. I glanced over at him in the midst of his discourse. He had a solid but serious air, and a whopper of a nose that bore an uncanny resemblance to the triangle I’d used in geometry. Clean-shaven, his fierce dark eyebrows furrowed deeply as he made his points. In the course of a three-mile walk they proved to be rather numerous. He was what you might call opinionated. But then again, so was I. It made for an animated conversation.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I interjected, as he paused for breath during a particularly long monologue. ‘The battalions you’ll see today have practiced their attacks several times already on a taped course. Naturally…’

  Breath regained, Montgomery nodded energetically, as if agreeing. Or it could have just have been impatience. Either way, he waved me quiet in a manner that left few doubts that my two pennies’ worth were disturbing his train of thought. Evidently, he had more to say on the subject.

  ‘As chance would have it, I’ve actually written a manual on this very topic. It’s called, “Instructions for the Training of Divisions for Offensive Action”,’ he explained.

  ‘It’s a snappy title,’ I blurted out.

  He smiled thinly, and I hastened to make amends. ‘I’d be interested in reading it, if you wouldn’t mind sending me a copy?’

  He seemed pleased at that. Thankfully, we arrived not long afterwards at the Boethoek pill-box. Pill-boxes, this autumn, were very much in vogue as a location for a headquarters, and Boethoek was no exception.

  The 6th Brigade from the 2nd Canadian Division was preparing for three of its battalions to go into action. There was not a great deal to see and, in the confined space, we were plainly getting in the way. So, I motioned for Montgomery to follow and I led him up to Abraham Heights. From there we had a much better view in the direction of the jumping-off lines. I neglected to mention it was also a lot more hazardous.

  A group of soldiers from the 31st Battalion passed by in file. They were from my
home province of Alberta. Seeing us, they made an attempt of sorts to salute, which from my angle appeared suspiciously similar to waves.

  I turned to observe Montgomery. True to form he was returning the salute with a crispness that was utterly superfluous. I decided not to bother mentioning the shared roots.

  ‘Fancy that, a Tommy staff officer, up here,’ we heard one say, after they’d passed. ‘Probably looking to see how it’s done,’ said another, and they all laughed softly.

  ‘Spirited bunch,’ said Montgomery.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ I said. I couldn’t help but adding, ‘With good reason, don’t you think?’

  He stared at me blankly.

  ‘You know, having taken Vimy Ridge and Hill 70 since April…,’ I mumbled in explanation. Montgomery looked as befuddled as if I were recounting the exploits of the army of the Duchy of Liechtenstein – which, as far as I knew, didn’t even have an army.

  It was exactly the sort of rankling obstinacy that tends to really perk me up. ‘And now we have the battle for Passchendaele,’ I exclaimed with a flourish in the direction of the village. ‘The troops may not like it, but they’re still proud the Corps gets selected for all the choice assignments no one else in the BEF seems capable of doing.’ It was a touch undiplomatic, in all honesty. But a light bombardment was wasted on Montgomery. To get through to him required a full-blown von Schlieffen plan. Besides, there was a difference between writing manuals and winning battles.

  At 6.00 a.m. under a dark, but astonishingly clear sky, the guns went off with a roar that could have woken the dead. I was anticipating it, but even so the deafening intensity surprised me afresh. Through my field glasses I could see that the troops were already racing forward, virtually sprinting towards the pulverising rain of shells falling only 150 yards in front. They must have had quite a breakfast.

  For Montgomery’s sake I pointed forward. ‘Off to the right that’s the main ridgeline. The 28th, 31st and 27th Battalions are to take the village, and advance just beyond it. In the middle, the 1st and 2nd Battalions will take the remaining strong-points along Bellevue Spur, and then advance onto the main ridgeline left of Passchendaele. They’ve got the longest distance to cover,’ I bellowed into Montgomery’s ear. ‘The Bellevue Spur is that high ground, there,’ I added, motioning in the direction of our now infamous spur.

  Montgomery nodded, clearly mesmerized by the spectacle that was unfolding.

  ‘On the far left. You can’t see it from here. There’s a strong-point called Vine Cottages. A company of the 3rd Battalion will attack it.’

  The words were barely out of my mouth when green flares shot up to our left and our right. They were prearranged SOS signals to the enemy artillery to commence their bombardment. In my experience the Fritz gunners seldom needed much encouragement, and so it was again. In less time than it would take the captain to reiterate the title of his manual, I saw explosions on the Spur. A minute or two later our starting lines on the ridge were also under bombardment. But Fritz was too late I noted, smiling. The waves of attackers were already gone, the first of them even now running up against the shell-torn German front lines.

  We watched in fascination as the rows of soldiers disappeared from our sight, obscured in dense swirling wreathes of mist, and the smoke from our artillery, and theirs.

  ‘Shall we get back to the bunker?’ I asked Montgomery. ‘It won’t be long before Fritz begins shelling the approaches and the support areas.’

  Well before 8.00 a.m., came the momentous news that the village of Passchendaele was taken.

  By 9.00 a.m. all the objectives were secured. ‘Congratulations,’ said Montgomery, who’d been uncharacteristically silent since we returned. He’d missed nothing as the morning progressed. But his silence might have had something to do with an offhand remark I made. I’d said; ‘The problem with theory was that when theory and reality met, inevitably it was reality that was left standing’. Certainly, from what he described, we’d done everything in his little manual and more, and the casualties were still piling up. The instructions might have been fresh from the presses, but an urgent rewrite seemed unavoidable, although I didn’t say that. Montgomery was a decent man, I decided, irksomely self-assured perhaps, but nothing a spell with the Corps wouldn’t resolve.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘We’re not done yet, I’m afraid, but we’re a step closer. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join us at this late hour? Spruce up your life with a little excitement?’

  Right when I was thinking nothing could budge the granite impassiveness of his jaw, he smiled broadly, his first of the morning.

  The apprehension on the faces of the brigade general and his staff had softened, and cautious smiles shone through like rays of sun on an overcast day. The all-important objectives were taken. The price would be all too clear tomorrow morning when the casualty lists were complete. Like me, they were acutely aware the next phase – the fourth – wouldn’t be long in coming.

  That was one of the problems with this whole damn Ypres offensive, it just kept going. And so it seemed with Passchendaele. Once past the red and blue lines, and before today’s objective of the green line was even tackled, a stippled green line had emerged on the maps. What would happen if we made some real ground? We’d only advanced a mile and a half, and already they were running out of different-coloured pens.

  CHAPTER 12

  11th of November, 1917

  Crest Farm, Passchendaele, Belgium

  There was no reason for me to be here – it was rash, and possibly a bit stupid if I was honest, even if I had assured the colonel otherwise to get his permission. Like bees from a hive that had been violently whacked from its tree, the Germans were in a buzzing frenzy to exact their retribution. Their stings, when they came, were fierce and rang out day and night. Behind the ridge to the north, and beyond the range of our own mud-encased guns, were countless batteries of the deadly 77mm and 105mm field guns. Further back were the heavy howitzers, like the 5.9s and the 203mm cannons, capable of lobbing a high explosive shell almost six miles. However, I felt the need to see this spot with my own eyes. This Flemish village had occupied most of my thoughts, and all of my exertions for a month, and it had demanded far more from others.

  The attack on the 10th for the remainder of the high ground north of Passchendaele – the infamous stippled green bulge on the maps – had succeeded, barring the wearily predictable failure of the 1st Imperial Division on our left. With it the last piece of ridge-line facing Ypres that remained in German hands was captured. It fell astonishingly quickly. A rag-bag of disorganized and demoralised German units ceded the ground with surprisingly little resistance and surrendered in their hundreds.

  Their generals, ensconced in comfortable quarters to the rear, took it less lightly. It was an unwritten rule of war; the further you were from the front, the more fervent you became. In the streaming rain the muzzles of five entire German corps pulverised the ridge for most of the day. They inflicted heavy casualties. In one of those instances you might be tempted to call poetic justice, but was really just plain sad, they obliterated untold numbers of their own men as they stumbled back to the prisoner cages. Whole wings of enemy aeroplanes swooped low with their machine guns blazing. But their counter-attacks, when they came, failed. The price for this ground was far too high. We were digging in to stay.

  DuBois had cheerfully volunteered to accompany me when I told him of my sightseeing plans. I’d been careful not to ask outright, not wanting him to feel obliged to join me, but I’m sure he sensed I wanted the company.

  We walked all the way from Ypres. It took us close to four hours. The Londoner who bemoans the congestion of Piccadilly Circus has never experienced the Ypres to Mosselmarkt road. DuBois, judging from his frequent muttered curses, appeared to wish he’d never experienced it either.

  It was a fortunate thing the Germans were no longer on the ridge, for the corduroy plank road and the duckboards were packed solid. Soldiers and supplies plodded forward, and stretcher-bearer after stretcher-bearer – often German prisoners conscripted for the task – passed them as they went, bearing their sorry load for the field hospitals in the rear.