Malcolm MacPhail's Great War Page 7

  I simply nodded.

  By the time the conference officially began, at ten-thirty sharp, we all had a good idea what would follow. Fortunately, Currie had blown off some steam. Anybody that hadn’t heard him minutes earlier would have dismissed out of hand any talk of a foul temper, although his introduction surprised me.

  He began very evenly, noting that the recent march discipline was lax. ‘Columns should not halt in towns,’ he said, with a stern look. He immediately followed this up by remarking, ‘mounted men should dismount when halted.’ I waited… listening for the punchline that must surely be coming. But it didn’t arrive.

  Currie was always a stickler for discipline. That was one of the reasons why the senior British commanders had gradually warmed to us after our high-spirited entry into the BEF; the other was we won battles. The discipline didn’t make him especially well-loved amongst the men, although Currie was far too shy, aloof, and ungainly to be a soldier’s soldier: not like our previous commander, the dashing General Byng. Byng overcame his noble English roots and won the troops over with a cheerful informality. Currie was a fine general, but I sure hoped he’d drop this nit-picking when the Corps got to Ypres, or the mud would truly be flying.

  Quickly, he shifted gear to the topic everybody was waiting for – perhaps it was his way of breaking the ice. ‘Gentlemen, we are to take Passchendaele. So that is exactly what we are going to do.’

  My stomach hung there in mid-air. Passchendaele. So that was that. Alea iacta est. The die is cast. There was to be no miraculous reprieve, or last-minute change of plan. For him, and for us, there was nothing to be done. Get on with it. Like we always did.

  The general’s tone was matter-of-fact, but underneath it you knew there was a backbone of steel. He may not have liked the orders, but he was going to clear the ridge of the Germans and what they, or anybody else thought, had absolutely nothing to do with it. If Crown Prince Rupprecht had been listening, I’m sure it would have sent shivers down his spine; it certainly did mine, although for altogether different reasons.

  I looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling. At the time it seemed like some kind of lousy metaphor for what was unravelling in the Salient. Banting was right. Haig was hell-bent on taking Passchendaele. The grand strategic plan of breaking through to the coast was long since in shatters. Even his chief of staff Sir Launcelot, who’d never seen a battlefield in his life, aside from the well-manicured rugby pitch at Sandhurst, must see that – although, on second thought, he struck me more as a croquet man.

  Rising to the occasion, some obsequious soul at GHQ came up with a stirring new rationale for capturing the ridge – it was essential to gain higher positions in advance of winter. Which was preposterous. The transparent stupidity of it was almost laughable, but then I thought of the Aussies. No, it was simply Haig being bull-headed. He’d stubbornly continued the offensive at the Somme against better judgement, and it sure looked like he was doing the same thing again. So much for learning from your mistakes.

  Ironically, the field-marshal had made changes for the better in this war, but throw a bit of red in his eyes and he wasn’t a jot different than your average Spanish bull in a ring. Curiously, I’d been accused of a little obstinacy myself. Just last week some red-tabbed army bureaucrat had called me a pig-headed sod, but then I wasn’t a field-marshal. Besides, I’d been right. I sure hoped Haig was.

  Something in Currie’s tone jolted me back to the present. It might only have been the sudden realization that what he was saying was shortly going to be of vital concern.

  ‘I would like General Lipsett and General Watson to consider a plan of attack as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘In all probability the attack will be carried out in three phases. The first two phases will be carried out by the 3rd and 4th Divisions, and the last, namely the actual assault on Passchendaele, will be the responsibility of the 1st and 2nd Divisions.’

  Lipsett and Watson looked on impassively, not altogether dissimilar to DuBois after he’d consumed his second bottle of the evening. Benoît, it must be said, usually seemed more at peace with himself than they did now – being half comatose can have that effect. Gamely, I attempted to follow their example, even though I was already strategically planted in an inconspicuous corner, and my Ypres bouquet along with me.

  Then I heard Currie explain that we were to take the left of the II ANZAC positions. The 4th Division was to be on the right.

  I perked up. So, we were to relieve the New Zealanders. I’d never met many Kiwis, but I reckoned they couldn’t be half bad if they managed to co-exist in the same neighbourhood as their rowdy antipodean cousins to the south. Right when I was on the cusp of recalling the capital of New Zealand – I felt it bouncing around on the tip of my tongue – I heard my name.

  ‘Captain MacPhail returned this morning from the 3rd Australian Division, where he bivouacked for several days. He had an opportunity to see the Australian positions, and their preparations, as well as to follow the battle at General Monash’s headquarters. Before the conference, he mentioned a number of interesting things. I think they might be worthwhile hearing, especially with regards to the last item.’ Lipsett glanced inquiringly over at Currie and Watson, who both nodded their assent, and then turned his eyes to me: ‘Captain?’

  Stuck somewhere between Wellington, Christchurch, and Auckland, I’d been a couple of continents away from hearing the last item. I inhaled deeply, and assumed a look of profound concentration. That should buy me some time, I hoped, and lend some weight to my forced spontaneity. Now, if only I could determine what the hell the subject was. I was right back in 12th grade science class again.

  Luckily, in the depths of my reverie, I’d caught something about how critical it was that ammunition be delivered to the guns. I decided to wing it from there. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, more-or-less in the direction of General Lipsett, as I stood to address them. ‘I think that was an excellent point.’ No harm in going with the flow, I figured. A compliment sometimes went a long way in making friends.

  ‘From what I observed with the Australians, there were not only too few guns, but they had very little ammunition prior to the barrage. Clearly there was insufficient time to prepare. The roads and tracks were woefully inadequate to transport the guns and the sheer volume of ammunition and material required. The ground is very, very poor. It’s really impossible to describe without actually seeing it. My uniform may give you some indication.’ There was some rustling around the table. ‘Partly as a result of the ground, and the rushed preparations, many gun positions were only makeshift constructions. Most of the guns half-submerged themselves in the mud after repeated firing. Following the attack, a number of Australians complained they hardly noticed the barrage.’

  ‘Captain MacPhail…’ It was General Currie. ‘It was lieutenant, I believe, when I spoke with you last?’ God, the man had the memory of an elephant. Of course I remembered him. It was almost a year ago, sometime in the winter of 1916, if I recalled correctly. How could I ever forget?

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m surprised you remember,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re not easy to forget, MacPhail,’ he said, and then to Lipsett, ‘You’ve got yourself a good man there.’

  Lipsett smiled politely. He had a look that said he was holding something back. A little voice whispered in my ear that it would be better if it remained that way. Unfortunately, it was in my ear and not in the general’s.

  ‘Stubbornly impertinent at times, sir, but not unamusing, no, I wouldn’t say that,’ I heard him remark. There were muted chuckles from the others.

  Before I had time to contemplate exactly what that was supposed to mean, Currie continued, ‘That sounds vaguely familiar. Getting back to the question of the guns, however, Captain. Do you have any observations about the pace of the barrage?’

  ‘Well, the artillery was on an eight-minute per hundred-yard pace as you know, sir, with a 100 yard lift,’ I said, lapsing effortlessly into army jargon. ‘But the infantry had
a great deal of trouble keeping up. The conditions are truly atrocious. Keeping that in mind, I think it would be more effective to use a fifty-yard lift.’

  That was one of the invaluable things I’d picked up being a lawyer, how to make saying very little sound like a lot. In plain English what I said was fairly simple: the guns would normally begin firing at a point not far from the taped starting positions where the attack would begin. Then, every eight minutes, they would lift their fire to a new line 100 yards further than the last. The creeping barrage was a technique we’d used to great effect at Vimy Ridge and elsewhere. I’d simply proposed that they halve the distance. At least then our infantry, struggling through the mud, wouldn’t be miles away from the falling shells. With any luck, that would prevent the enemy from being cocked, and ready, and machine-gunning them as they approached.

  ‘That’s very helpful, Captain, thank-you for your contribution,’ said Currie.

  After my surprise performance the meeting passed remarkably quickly. I think I’d resigned myself to the inevitable. In the army it was better just to get on with it, not that there were many other options. At least we wouldn’t be making the same errors twice… not if Currie had anything to say about it. And for the first time in three days my stomach was settled, the air was fresh, and lunch was imminent.

  ‘Why don’t you stay here tonight?’ said Lipsett, as he prepared to leave. ‘Take a bath, and you can travel on the bus tomorrow morning with the other officers from the division up to II Anzac HQ, to view their model of the front. I hear it’s quite impressive.’ My smell must have been a few shades worse than I feared if a bath was the first thing that sprang to his mind. Not that I minded. I would have killed for a hot bath. There was even the prospect of a warm meal, and if Lady Luck was really in my corner, a bottle of rye or one of those decent French reds.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied, hoping not to sound too pleased. I was grateful all the same. ‘And I expect I should then carry on to the Kiwis?’

  ‘Full marks, Captain. I’ll have Major McAvity arrange something for you with their headquarters staff. Assuming you’re not in with some Kiwi, already?’ he said, his voice full of innuendo. I shook my head. ‘Fine. You know the task, so get on with it. And do try to think about your personal hygiene, MacPhail.’

  On an afterthought he turned to me again, and looked me in the eye. ‘None of us wanted this, Captain. But we will get it done. I’m depending on you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And we will get it done, sir,’ I replied. I knew, from Currie on down, we would do what we had to do. And the first thing I had to do, was figure out how to storm a muddy rise saturated with barbed wire and machine-gun blockhouses.

  CHAPTER 7

  17th of October, 1917

  Shell-hole, approximately 300 yards northeast of Berlin Wood, Belgium

  I peered out of my hole ever so cautiously. I kept my head well down, my chin resting in the soft clay. Even at this range a sniper had been known to put a bullet through a man’s head. I looked across the flat and torn landscape and saw perched, like an ominous but very thin grey cloud lying low, almost north-to-south across the horizon, the infamous Passchendaele Ridge.

  Somewhere in the middle of this vista, must have lain the namesake village I’d seen marked so prominently on my map, a mere mile and a half away. Of it there was nothing to observe, not even with the powerful Lemaire field glasses I had the good sense to borrow when I was in Hazebrouck. Flowing down from Passchendaele in my direction was a once insignificant stream, the Ravebeek. It was flanked on either side by spurs of the now infamous ridge jutting out like malignant tumours towards us, as if nature itself was lending the enemy its own potent defences.

  Rising, five hundred yards ahead and off to my left, was one such outgrowth of the main ridge. It was the Bellevue Spur. Atop it lay the forest of wire and the chessboard of concrete pill-boxes that had shattered the New Zealanders. To my right was the backbone of the main ridge bulging outwards in my direction. There the 3rd Australians had shared a similar fate to the New Zealanders. It too was cleverly peppered with concrete blockhouses, machine-gun nests and barbed wire. And not far away, directly in front of me, ran the Ravebeek. Swollen by the rains and mutilated by the incessant shelling, it had flooded its banks and a 600-yard swath of land smack in the middle of our advance had become a watery swamp, an impassable morass even by the undeniably brutal standards of the Salient.

  This presented at least two main difficulties that I could see. First, it meant that our attack on Passchendaele would need to be broken into two forks, one on either side of the Ravebeek. Not only would that dilute their combined hitting power, it would put each arm well within the range and sight of machine guns on the opposite ridge. Secondly, the Germans knew this. They would concentrate all their formidable firepower on the two approaches to the left and the right of this once-innocuous little creek.

  To make matters worse, beyond the ridge line and further into German-occupied Belgium, well sheltered from my sight but whose deadly presence was never far from mind, were the formidable Boche batteries of field guns, howitzers, and mortars. As if attuned to my thoughts, I heard a Jack Johnson from a 5.9 inch howitzer roar overhead. I saw it detonate in the distance in a huge greasy plume of black smoke. That was part of the problem; as things stood now, the Boche could see us and our artillery a lot easier than we could see them. Of course, it didn’t help if you bunched all your guns together like the Aussies had; that was asking for trouble.

  I turned to the Kiwi lieutenant, from the Otago regiment, whom a helpful Major Wilson at the New Zealand HQ had insisted accompany me on my daily visits to their lines. “Lines” was a fanciful word for the front-line in the Salient, I’d discovered. It wasn’t so much a line, as a series of roughly adjacent, and very water-logged shell-holes, manned by grim-looking types who in civilian life you’d have given a wide berth. It was enough to make me miss the trenches. There were a lot of things missing in this putrid mire, but shell-holes certainly weren’t one of them.

  The lieutenant’s name was Stewart. He seemed like a decent enough fellow although he kept to himself. I liked that. He was touchingly apologetic after he learned who I was, and what I was doing here, when I landed without warning two days ago on his doorstep. ‘We feel terrible about it, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve never lost a major battle until now, you know… We did our best, but it rained like the dickens and the barrage was...’

  ‘…as helpful as an umbrella in a hurricane. Yes, I heard,’ I said, quietly finishing his sentence.

  He shook his head. ‘Actually, it was worse than that. After the artillery shelled our own assembly area, it seemed like they ran out of shells… at least we didn’t notice them much anymore. The lads joked that the only time they were on form was when they were shelling us.’ He was right, it was a whole lot worse. I sighed sympathetically.

  Fielding only a single division, the Kiwis had sensibly omitted any numbers from their nomenclature. The 1st New Zealand division was therefore simply the New Zealand Division. It had a certain ring to it, I thought. There was no danger confusing them with anybody else. Not like us, with a three in front of our name. Before you knew it, you were having to explain: ‘No, very sorry, we don’t have a clue where South Lancashire is,’ or even worse; that it was really, truly our good pals, the 3rd Australians, who ransacked the bar.

  But now I wanted to know something. ‘That sergeant who mapped out the wire right before the attack. Travis, I believe his name was, that’s him behind us, or not?’ I asked Stewart, and pointed at the little group of soldiers who were accompanying us. ‘Can I talk to him?’

  Stewart waved at him and Travis climbed quickly out of his hole. With his back bent well forward and rifle in hand, he slogged his way over through the mud, before jumping in with an audible sigh of relief.

  In another life, I could have pictured Sergeant Travis as an earnest shopkeeper, wearing a white apron and greeting his customers by name, with a smile and a twinkle
in his eye. He wasn’t much more than twenty-four, twenty-five, but his wide forehead and receding hair made him appear older. Either this war marked the end for you, or it was a jump-start into old age.

  After a few introductory words from Stewart, I took over. ‘Sergeant, I understand you led a patrol out onto the Bellevue Spur a night or two before your attack. If I heard correctly, you warned that the wire was a lot worse than any of you were expecting.’ He nodded resolutely, so I kept going. ‘I’d be very interested if you could tell me about that, and perhaps show me as well?’

  ‘Well, sir, it was exactly as you say. After the patrol I reported back that the wire, especially around the pill-boxes and strong points, had been reinforced a great deal. There must have been a good ten to twenty feet of wire entanglements in front of all the bunkers on the Spur. And it was all new. The artillery bombardments hadn’t touched it. At the time everybody seemed interested to hear, but at the end of the day, nothing much came of it. I can tell you, sir, getting through twenty feet of wire with a machine gun or two spraying at you is simply mad.’ Then he paused. ‘If I may?’ he enquired politely, pointing at my field glasses. I offered them and he quickly trained them on a spot ahead and slightly off to our left. ’Here, have a look, sir, those pill-boxes, there. You can see for yourself.’

  Sure enough, just barely visible in front of a cluster of four or five concrete bunkers 500 or 600 yards out, marked Laamkeek on the map, were two rows of fence posts and great sugar spins of wire. If the other pill-boxes looked anything like these, I knew they were going to present one huge headache when it was our turn to tackle the Bellevue. From the lack of lead around our ears, it appeared that the unit manning this particular strong-point didn’t have a sniper active. Otherwise, I might have been less worried about the future, and more about the present.

  ‘And what did you do about it, during the attack, I mean?’ I asked. At that moment Fritz lobbed off another Jack Johnson. This time it screamed very low over our position and exploded only a couple of hundred yards to the rear, forcing me to repeat the question.