On the morning of June 7, 1917, the British Prime Minister got up very
early, as early as three o’clock. He wished to hear an explosion on the
Western Front; and although he was at his home near London he heard it
too! For our men had made an earthquake and had blown up a hill which
had been held by the Germans since the earlier days of the war.
The high ground which gave the Germans such an advantage in this part
of the line was known as Messines Ridge; and the men who held it were
fiercely determined not to lose their position. Their officers had
given very definite orders on this matter. “The enemy must not get
the Messines Ridge _at any price_.” So ran the stern command, and
the defenders were assured that strong forces were ready immediately
behind them to deal with any parties of their foes who might succeed in
“breaking through.”
The British were equally determined to take Messines Ridge and had
planned to _blow it up_ in order to clear the way for the advance of
their guns, to straighten out a part of the line near Ypres and to gain
command of the plain of Lille. The preparation for the “earthquake”
took no less than a year!
Mines were driven deep down under the German front-line trenches by
men from the coal districts of Britain as well as parties of stalwart
Australians and New Zealanders. Their plan could not have been quite
unknown to the Germans; for they too dug mines towards the British
lines, and sometimes the parties of rival diggers came quite close to
each other.
But the extent to which the British were prepared to go in “blasting”
operations was not realised by their foes.
When the long task of digging and tunnelling was finished electric
wires were placed in position; and it was arranged that the tons of
explosive packed away in the earth were to be fired by the touch of a
spring on a metal plate. In a dug-out some distance behind the mines a
little group of men gathered together on the night of the 7th waiting
for the moment at which the spring was to be touched.
A few minutes before three o’clock on the following morning the spring
_was_ touched, and for a moment the watchers held their breath. Then
there was a deafening quivering sound unlike any other that had been
heard in the long-drawn-out din of the fighting in this greatest of all
great wars. The earth opened, sending out great tongues of flame and
dense clouds of smoke; then came huge fragments of rock and earth mixed
with the bodies of Germans and the wreckage of their first-line system
of trenches.
British infantry were posted ready for the advance. The shock of the
explosion threw many of them to the ground; but in a very short time
they went forward with a mighty rush and quickly captured Hill 60.
There was now a general advance along the line and in many places the
Germans were found to be too dazed to make any real resistance. Large
numbers of prisoners fell into our hands. “This is more than human
nature itself can suffer,” said a German officer to those who had
captured him.
Among the prisoners were two German boys of about seventeen, who had
already been in the firing line for about twelve months. A British
officer said to them, “You ought to be spanked and sent home to your
mothers.” The boys laughed merrily and one of them replied for both,
“That is what we should like, sir, if you please.”
The man-made earthquake was of course a preparation for the advance,
not only of infantry, but also of the artillery. The latter had been
specially anxious to move forward after the long period of fighting in
one quarter. The artillery advance is thus described by one who saw it
and who speaks of it as an “historic incident,” which indeed it was:
“An order passed along to all the batteries. The gun horses were
standing by. They were harnessed to the guns. The limbers of the field
batteries lined up. Then, half-way through the battle, the old gun
positions were left behind after two and a half years of warfare in one
spot.
“The drivers urged on their horses. They moved at a gallop and dashed
up the slopes. The infantry stood by to let them pass, and from
thousands of men, these dusty, hot, parched soldiers of ours, there
rose a great following cheer, which swept along the track of the
gunners and went with them up the ridge where they unlimbered and got
into action again for the second phase of the fight.”[8]
[8] Philip Gibbs in the _Daily Telegraph_, with acknowledgments.
The Battle of Messines was a victory for patience. It showed also what
men could do by means of organising and planning with great care. You
will probably remember the little plasticine model of Vimy Ridge. There
was another model made to help in the preparation for the Battle of
Messines. It was much bigger than that made for Vimy, but it was built
up with the same care and it was closely studied by all who were to
take any part in guiding the men in this tremendous battle. Of course,
the airmen were very useful in the work of making the model: and a
great deal of the credit for the success of the operations at Messines
is due to them.
Among those who fell in the attack delivered after the great explosion
was a well-known Irish Member of Parliament, Major William Redmond. He
was a Nationalist or Home Ruler, and a passionate lover of his native
country, which he ardently wished to see happy and contented. In order
to understand the full meaning of his death we must recall what had
been happening in Ireland in recent years.
The British Parliament wished to give Home Rule to Ireland and had,
indeed, passed a Bill to do so. The men of Ulster, however, did not
wish to have an Irish Parliament at Dublin; and there was a great deal
of unhappy ill-feeling between the two Irish parties on this matter.
It was Major Redmond’s great desire that this quarrel between Irishmen
should be settled. He felt and said that if he should die in battle
it might help to heal the breach between the men of the two political
parties and bring peace and contentment to Ireland.
During the three nights before the battle, he slept in a cellar under
the chapel of a religious house known as the Hospice not far from the
front line. He was very anxious to be allowed to lead “the boys” of his
regiment “over the top” and had begged his superiors to allow him to do
so. After a good deal of hesitation, he was given leave to charge at
the head of his old battalion of the Royal Irish Regiment.
He received the news with the joy of a schoolboy who has been promised
an extra holiday. “Won’t it be glorious,” he said, “to breast the
sand-bags?” Then he went up to the trenches in the company of his
servant, and when his men saw him they set up a cheer. “Sir,” said his
servant, “this cheering is not good for you.” “I’m afraid,” said the
major, with a twinkle in his eye, “you’re getting shell-shock already.”
The great explosion took place, and before the burning earth had time
to descend, Major Redmond was “over the top” and the first man in the
regiment to face the awful scene. Before long he fell, wounded in the
leg and wrist, and he was found lying on the battlefield by stretcher
bearers of the Ulster division. It was an Ulster ambulance which
carried him, wounded to the death, from that awful field of battle;
and it was men from Ulster who tended him in his dying moments. So he
did, indeed, give his life, not only in an attempt to drive back the
Germans, but also to bring peace to Ireland.
“WHEN CAN THEIR GLORY FADE?”
We have read a great deal in this little book about the courage shown
by men in the heat of the fight. But it did not take the excitement of
attack or defence to rouse and sustain the courage of our men. Nor were
they less brave and cheerful in weakness and in pain than they were on
the field of battle. Read the words of a doctor[9] at the front:--
[9] Quoted from a private letter published in the _Times_, with
acknowledgments.
“We speak of brave men. Yes, these men are brave! If the people at
home could see the conditions under which our fellows fight, and how
they die, I swear that every head would uncover to the colours of any
regiment bearing the name of a battle, because that name had been won
through the blood of real heroes.
“For example, some colours will have ‘Marne’ upon them. I know what
deeds were done, what lives were given, what wounds were received to
have that one name so inscribed. Believe me, the Victoria Cross is won
over and over again in a single day.
“They are brave. What if you were to see how the wounded act after the
excitement of a battle? They suffer their wounds, great and small,
without a murmur; they get their wounds dressed and give consent to
have their limbs amputated just as if they were going to have their
hair cut.
“They are gloriously brave. Men who have been in the thick of the fight
all day, seen their chums wounded and killed, their own lives not worth
a second’s insurance, still cook their food and go off to sleep, and,
most wonderful of all, go back to the thick of it next day.
“It is Sunday. In the evening we had a service in a barn. A great crowd
of the officers and men collected. The scene was very impressive, with
the place only lit with camp candles, the soldiers rough and dirty
with the work of war, some of them just returned from the trenches and
others going there the same night--some who in all probability would
be dead before another night came. The men sang heartily, but when the
prayer for dear ones at home was being offered there were few dry eyes
among those brave men who faced death daily.”
The war made even little children careless of death. Here is a pretty
little story from Italy. An Alpino came to a ruined house where three
little girls were plucking roses while shells moaned and fizzed over
their heads. They offered him some of their flowers, and he suggested
they should go and stay with his little daughter in Italy out of harm’s
way. “Oh, no,” they said, “thank you very much, but papa is fighting
near here--and besides, the roses would all die.”
“THE HEART OF A LION”
The morning of Saturday, July 7th, 1917, was beautifully bright, a
perfect English summer morning with a cloudless sky. The people of
London made haste to finish the morning’s work, looking forward to as
pleasant a week-end as war-work and thoughts on war would permit.
But before they left their places of business they had an experience
which few quiet Londoners had ever expected to pass through. Something
happened which for a time seemed to blot out the light of the sun and
which brought death and destruction into the very heart of the ancient
city.
Suddenly the word was passed along, “An air raid!” and in many places
there was a rush for cover. The city had been raided before and many
lives had been lost among people in the streets.
In a very short time the boom of the traffic was hushed; but now the
boom of the guns was heard and the terrifying crash of falling bombs.
For about twenty minutes the strange fight went on. Then silence fell
and people looked out to see the enemy squadron of aeroplanes.
It consisted of about twenty machines which kept in more or less close
formation and could be distinctly seen as if poised over the Thames. At
the height at which the squadron was flying it looked like a covey of
wild duck or geese flying over a moor.
Londoners learnt later in the day how the enemy was headed off and
driven to the coast after having caused a number of deaths and done
a great deal of damage. And a few days later the story was told of
Lieutenant Young of the Royal Flying Corps who had, as his officer
said, “the heart of a lion.”
He was one of the British air squadron which went up to chase off the
enemy from what they called “the fortress of London.” He flew almost by
himself right into the middle of the German squadron, and both he and
his observer at once opened fire upon the enemy. The Germans replied
and Young’s machine was literally pelted with bullets on all sides.
But there was no retreat for the young British airman. “He flew
straight on,” wrote the officer in command, “until he must have been
riddled with bullets. The machine then put its nose right up into the
air and fell over and went spinning down into the sea from 14,000 feet.”
The brave boy was entangled in the wires of his machine and though
a patrol boat dashed out to the rescue he could not be saved. The
observer shared the same fate and the same glory.
For it was a glorious death to die for the mother city of the Empire
and to fall upon the sea which knits that Empire together, but which no
longer serves England
--“in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands.”