Malcolm MacPhail's Great War Page 5

  ‘You know, I didn’t put you on the intelligence staff for your pretty face alone,’ he said, finally. ‘Let me show you something. In strict confidence.’ After rummaging in his drawer he passed over a single sheet of paper.

  It was marked PERSONAL & SECRET, and dated today. It was from Corps HQ addressed to General Lipsett personally, “in accordance with instructions received from the Corps Commander”. Personal and secret, that was unusual.

  At the top of the page was a short excerpt from an order entitled: SECOND ARMY O.A.D. 654. My eyes raced down the page… “The Canadian Corps will be utilized for one of the following purposes:” …here it came…

  The first option was to support Gough’s Fifth Army. That couldn’t be it, not given what Lipsett just told me.

  Then I saw option B: “To secure the Right Flank of the Second Army by the capture of the ZANDEWOORDE-GHEULUVELT and BECELAERE Spurs.” That made more sense. Yet I was puzzled.

  The critical ridgeline that was the initial objective of the offensive began near Messines to the south of Ypres. It then curved to the right and upwards like a reverse “C” – to the north – in a rough 120 degree arc. The arc ended near the village of Passchendaele. However, four months into the offensive, and after numerous major battles, Passchendaele and the remaining ridgeline still weren’t taken. Securing a ridge currently in German hands seemed a bit premature.

  ‘Sir, either there’s something I’m missing, or this makes about as much sense as making reservations where we should dine once we get to Berlin,’ I said.

  ‘Be that as it may, Captain, that’s what I have to go on,’ he replied. ‘So, my question stands. Once you get your ass up to Ypres, what exactly do you propose to do? Particularly now that any semblance of fine dining in the area is a thing of the past,’ he added, with a wry grin. Just like the general to knock me down a peg or two.

  ‘Well, sir,’ I began, ‘I suspect you’ll want to know where we’re apt to end up, what we’ll be tasked with doing, and as much information about that task as possible in order to begin preparations. And should I happen upon it, you’d love to receive the entire German order of battle with their exact current locations.’

  ‘Finally, a good idea.’ He paused for a moment, during which time he gave me a bemused look, and then added, ‘And based on your vast experience of these matters, Captain, what is your assessment of where we’ll end up?’

  I ignored his subtle gibe. He asked my opinion, so now I planned to give it to him. He might not be too pleased at my conclusions.

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, General, but it’s starting to look frightfully obvious. For four months, the brunt of the attack has been against the Messines-Passchendaele ridge. Right now, the two ANZAC Corps are spearheading the advance. Either, they succeed in the very near future, or they’ll be replaced by fresh divisions. Frankly, I’m afraid we’re Haig’s first choice as replacements – sorry, I meant to say Field-Marshal Haig’s first choice. I think our orders will soon involve a major attack. And if I read the map correctly, there’s only one place that can be, and it begins with a P.’

  He sat, digesting my comments. ‘You’re probably not aware of this, but today at dawn a fresh attack was launched. We’ll know by the evening how it turned out.’

  ‘We can only hope for the best, sir. We may not be needed. However, you asked what I should do in Ypres. Well, I think liaising with the Australians, and getting as much information on their sector as possible, would be a good start.’

  ‘And presumably you have an idea where you’d like to begin?’ Lipsett asked.

  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I had a sneaking suspicion I’d just been led by the nose to a conclusion, and course of action, General Lipsett had long since determined.

  ‘Coincidently, sir, I met someone from II ANZAC Corps, actually, it was the 3rd Australian Division, at a conference a few weeks ago. I should be able to arrange a billet with them, I reckon.’

  ‘The way you phrase it, MacPhail, makes it sound like a jaunt to a house of ill repute. It’s fortunate I needn’t worry about that, given the absence of any women with our Australian friends.’

  ‘If you knew Aussie women, sir, you wouldn’t worry in the least.’

  The outlines of a smile appeared, and he lifted the lid on his tin box. Turning it, he pushed it slowly towards me. Greedily, I reached out, but then hesitated. An image of my curly-eared black Labrador came to mind, straining eagerly for a biscuit I was holding up as a reward. I didn’t hesitate long; General Lipsett’s treats were always very tasty, I was starving and, besides, my black Lab never turned down a treat I offered. In war-time, self-respect was an over-rated attribute. Not like self-preservation. If I valued that, this was the moment to put my tail between my legs and run.

  CHAPTER 5

  11th of October, 1917

  Train station, Arras, France

  The whistle blew shrilly and the train began to inch forwards. It laboured furiously to pull itself into motion, as if at every turn of a wheel it might not make it to the next, rather a lot like I’d felt this morning getting out of bed.

  Seated across from me in animated discussion, even at this hour when talking was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do, were two officers from the division. By army standards it wasn’t particularly early, but I’d never been one for army standards, and especially not after a send-off from DuBois and a couple of others that had lasted well into the night. It didn’t help that I was heading to Ypres and action. And the officers opposite me seemed determined to not let me forget why that was.

  ‘The Australians got clobbered again on the ninth, eh?’ said an earnest looking lieutenant from the artillery. I figured he was on his way to make preparations for their imminent move.

  ‘Oh?’ said the other, also an artillery lieutenant. ‘It was a debacle I gathered, but I didn’t hear the details. What happened then?’

  ‘The captain told me there were almost 7,000 casualties. Imagine that, 7,000 in a single day. And they ended up no further than their starting lines,’ said the first. ‘The barrage was a bleeding disaster. I guess the weather hampered putting enough guns in position. And what they did shoot was wildly inaccurate.’

  ‘It’s nice to know what we’re getting ourselves into,’ said the other, smiling bravely.

  The bulk of the casualties were British – from the 43rd and 66th Divisions – but other than that, the lieutenant’s brief account was sadly accurate. The Ypres offensive was bogged down.

  At the Corps conference yesterday afternoon, General Currie formally relayed the news we were being ordered to Ypres. DuBois said the response was distinctly underwhelming; not that anybody, least of all Currie, would be surprised by that.

  As the train moved northwards towards Belgium, the terrain levelled off and the small hills and ridges that enlivened the countryside around Arras gave way to a stark flatness. The trees, now predominantly brown and yellow in their autumn colours, thinned out and I began to see a monotonous succession of blackish brown fields, punctuated by the odd farmhouse or a lone tree. There were mainly sugar beets and potatoes grown here, I was told. The war hadn’t come to this corner of Northern France, but staring out the window, it took little fantasy to picture these desolate sodden fields as a muddy shell-torn battlefield.

  We were approaching Hazebrouck, the last major town before Belgium, and the skies outside assumed a uniform greyness. The wind was blowing and a light drizzle streaked the carriage window. The sun that I glimpsed as we departed this morning had long since retreated. All in all, it was a thoroughly depressing sight. Even the weather was warning me off. The good news was that the thumping in my head was almost gone, and I was starting to feel hungry.

  The train largely emptied at Hazebrouck, including the two young lieutenants, who departed in a rush of friendly good-byes. ‘Best of luck, gentlemen,’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound too grumpy – I hadn’t exactly been a model of affability during our journey.

  As t
he whistle blew and we started out on the last leg to Ypres, I began to consider what lay ahead, now that my brain was shaking off its rum-induced state of cataleptic stupor.

  I knew what General Lipsett wanted – anything and everything to make it easier to hit the ground running, once our commanders gave the orders we both knew were coming. There were really only two possibilities: either we were to shore up the line, or we were going on the attack. But, what had Haig said? “I’m visiting General Currie to discuss the offensive”. So, that really left one possibility. We were going to have to slog our way through the ridgeline that was stymying everybody else, and Lipsett would want to hear from me how best to do it. Given that no one had yet figured it out, I was going to be busy. The general wasn’t one for excuses, regardless how well-intentioned the efforts.

  Haig’s grand Ypres offensive was designed to force the decisive breakthrough. Not for him the “bite and hold” operations like the victories at Vimy Ridge, Hill 70 and Messines. The field-marshal was dead-set on something far more ambitious. His plan was to cut through the semi-circle formed by the German Fourth Army who, entrenched on the high ground of the ridge, were punishing Ypres with their heavy guns. Once through them, there would be a push for the coast. This would isolate the German forces caught between Ypres and the Channel coast to the left, and gravely threaten their position to the right.

  On paper the offensive didn’t seem outlandish. Back in June I don’t think it was. On the ground, in mid-October, things looked a lot different, especially as the ground had turned to mud. After a half dozen major battles, and months of fighting, it didn’t take a great strategist to conclude that the element of surprise was long gone. Casualties were piling up fast, and the plan needed an urgent overhaul. Any possibility of still breaking for the coast was pure fantasy. But then we were dealing with GHQ. And I didn’t see the likes of General Charteris, Haig’s intelligence chief, or Sir Launcelot Kiggell, his chief of staff, mustering up the courage to inform the field-marshal even if his pants were on fire. It was infuriating. No, it reminded me of two bulls going at it until one, or both, succumbed; with the only difference being one bull was up to his waist in mud. And soon, I feared, that bull would be us.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d make it,’ I cried out upon detraining at Ypres station, where Captain Dan Banting of the 3rd Australian Division, stood waiting for me. He was leaning against a black Ford so covered in mud that determining its colour was more a matter of judgement than eyesight.

  ‘Bloody near didn’t,’ he replied, and waved me over to the car. ‘Get in, we’ll talk on the way.’ I threw my helmet and my small canvas duffel bag with socks, some underwear, a shirt and a few toiletries into the back and got in. My trunk remained behind in France, but the corporal responsible had solemnly assured me that it would be sent along later, together with the divisional luggage. It was an assurance I might have been more concerned about had the contents of my trunk warranted it.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize the car had finally made its entry Down Under. Of course, you needn’t have gone to so much trouble washing it all up for me.’

  Banting snorted and stomped on the gas pedal. I hoped I hadn’t irritated him too much. He was an affable looking man – much like his personality – with a broad mouth, wide friendly eyes and rugged features, all capped by a set of fiercely wild eyebrows that somehow didn’t look out of place and accentuated his natural expressiveness. I glanced over at him. He looked haggard, scruffier than when I saw him last, and obviously frazzled – exactly what a few weeks in Wipers will do to you.

  ‘What ran into you?’ he asked, with a toss of his head in my general direction.

  My bandage was gone but an ugly looking bruise remained. With my cap removed it was all too visible.

  ‘A bulwark,’ I replied.

  ‘Looks painful,’ he said. ‘How’s the bulwark faring?’

  I grunted. Banting was concentrating on avoiding a column of soldiers.

  ‘So, tell me… you’re on the verge of a major breakthrough?’ I said, more out of hope than good sense.

  ‘Ask me after tomorrow. We’re attacking again. That’s why I’m a little rushed.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I said. I had, of course, but I didn’t think rubbing it in would help.

  ‘One thing’s for sure. It’s all too haphazard for my liking. Haig is breathing down our necks to take Passchendaele and he’s not taking no for an answer. The Brits got nowhere on the ninth. Well, you’ll see for yourself, shortly.’

  ‘So there’s no hope the whole thing will be called off?’ I asked.

  ‘Called off,’ he exclaimed. ‘No, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I overheard Monash talking, and apparently Plumer and Gough argued to close the campaign several days ago. Haig would have none of it. No, we’re to take Passchendaele, come hell or high water.’

  ‘From what I hear, it sounds as if both are applicable.’

  We roared down the Rue de Lille and bumped across the cobblestone causeway at high speed, barely avoiding another column of soldiers marching into the city, not to mention a couple of massive potholes, or German shell-holes; it was hard to know for certain. Either way, running into one of them would have ended our little ride very abruptly. I was thankful I hadn’t taken the lieutenants up on their early morning offer of bread and sausage.

  We passed through Ypres’ medieval southern gate into the city proper, and then made such a sharp right, I had visions of entering the city in an overturned car, my face plastered to the passenger-side window, as we slid across the road. Fortunately, Banting tooted loudly before turning; a group of soldiers in file was hugging the ramparts. I caught a fleeting glimpse of one as we thundered past; he appeared strangely unruffled. That revealed either a great deal about Australian bravery or, more likely, he was simply accustomed to Australian driving.

  In a screech of brakes, Banting announced, ‘We’re here.’ It was none too soon.

  A dilapidated two-story grey brick building was built into the ancient ramparts that encircled most of the city. Almost all the windows were missing and even the doorways stood open. What had once been the garden, between the wall adjoining the street and the building itself, was now roofed over with a makeshift assortment of wooden planks and tarpaulin, from which numerous stove pipes of varying lengths and sizes protruded. At the front, running along the top of the old garden wall, was a jumble of telephone cables. Outside, on the muddy dirt road, a gaggle of uniforms stood slouched, smoking and drinking, and watching us with undisguised curiosity.

  ‘It’s quite the château you have here,’ I said, thinking forlornly of Château Villers-Châtel and Madame Jeanne. I heard Banting sigh, in an exasperated sort of way.

  It was only a short ride. There’d been no need to make a race of it, I thought grumpily. Now, as the adrenaline subsided and I started to think of food, my stomach began doing cartwheels. I pointed to the field ambulance parked outside. ‘Is that for me?’ I asked, as I shakily dragged myself from the car.

  ‘You’re looking a trifle pale, Malcolm. Come in. I’ll introduce you and show you your lodgings.’

  Inside, the divisional HQ was no more hospitable than its outer shell – squalid came to mind. We walked along a cold dark corridor on the main floor, before descending a few steps. From the maps on the wall, and the activity within, it appeared to be an operations room.

  Banting cleared his throat, in precisely the sort of way you do to get someone’s attention, and announced: ‘Gentlemen, let me present Captain Malcolm MacPhail. You’ll be interested to know he hails from the King’s coldest colony. And more recently from Arras.’

  ‘Welcome, mate!’ I heard shouted a few times, accompanied by animated waves. The Aussies weren’t the sort to get caught up on decorum, which suited me just fine. And they were friendly. I smiled back.

  ‘That’s Lieutenant-Colonel Jackson over there,’ Banting said. He pointed to a corner table where a lanky, younger looking m
an with an impressively bushy beard sat. ‘He’s our GSO1.’

  The GSO1 was the senior staff officer just as Hore-Ruthven was ours, and like him, Jackson was also English – due to their experience most senior staff officers in the Dominion forces were. That wasn’t always unequivocally welcomed, especially not by the independently-minded Aussies.

  ‘Come on. I’ll introduce you.’

  As we approached, Jackson turned, and after the niceties were completed, said: ’So, I expect you’re here to see what you’re getting yourselves into, Captain?’

  ‘Well, we were rather hoping that you’d capture Passchendaele before that became necessary, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, I can imagine,’ he said. ‘We’ll do our best, won’t we, Banting? A pleasure to meet you, Captain. But if you’ll excuse me, I have a great many things waiting.’ And with that he went back to more urgent matters.

  ‘I’d have thought both he and the General would be up at the front, reconnoitering?’ I said with a frown, after we stepped away.

  Banting grimaced. ‘You might think that. Neither of them have actually been to the front, as it happens.’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Come on, let’s get your things away. You’ll have plenty of time for more introductions later.’

  I followed him up the steps and down a corridor, where we soon descended a deeper flight of stairs into what felt, and smelled, like a cellar. It was damp, dark, and musty, and smelled an awful lot like my grandparents’ cellar, where as a kid I always liked to poke around. Of course, the advantage of my grandparents’ cellar was that I didn’t have to spend the night. Nor did they keep several large unwashed Australian louts and countless rats in it. It was something I hadn’t adequately appreciated at the time.

  ‘Your quarters are right over there, in the corner, Malcolm,’ Banting said. He waved to a dark recess in the room where I could make out the bare outlines of a wood-framed bed. It might have been the light, but I could have sworn it was crooked. Sourly, I considered whether it would hold me.