In a despatch by Sir John French, dated October 15, 1915, and issued
by the War Office on November 1st of that year, the Commander-in-Chief
stated that: “In view of the great length of line along which the
British troops were operating it was necessary to keep a strong reserve
in my own hand. The 11th Corps, consisting of the Guards, the 21st and
the 24th Divisions, were detailed for this purpose. This reserve was
the more necessary owing to the fact that the Tenth French Army had to
postpone its attack until one o'clock in the day; and further, that the
corps operating on the French left had to be directed in a more or
less southeasterly direction, involving, in case of our success,
a considerable gap in our line. To insure, however, the speedy and
effective support of the 1st and 4th Corps in the case of their success,
the 21st and 24th Divisions passed the night of the 24th and 25th on
the line Beuvry (to the east of Bethune)-Noeux-les-Mines. The Guards
Division was in the neighborhood of Lillers on the same night.”
By that statement, and by the facts that happened in accordance with it,
the whole scheme of attack in the battle of Loos will stand challenged
in history. Lord French admits in that despatch that he held his
reserves “in his own hand,” and later he states that it was not until
nine-thirty on the morning of battle that “I placed the 21st and 24th
Divisions at the disposal of the General Officer commanding First Army.”
He still held the Guards. He makes, as a defense of the decision to hold
back the reserves, the extraordinary statement that there “would be a
considerable gap in our line in case of our success.” That is to say,
he was actually envisaging a gap in the line if the attack succeeded
according to his expectations, and risking the most frightful
catastrophe that may befall any army in an assault upon a powerful
enemy, provided with enormous reserves, as the Germans were at that
time, and as our Commander-in-Chief ought to have known.
But apart from that the whole time-table of the battle was, as it now
appears, fatally wrong. To move divisions along narrow roads requires
an immense amount of time, even if the roads are clear, and those roads
toward Loos were crowded with the transport and gun-limbers of the
assaulting troops. To move them in daylight to the trenches meant
inevitable loss of life and almost certain demoralization under the
enemy's gun-fire.
“Between 11 A.M. and 12 noon the central brigade of these divisions
filed past me at Bethune and Noeux-les-Mines, respectively,” wrote Sir
John French. It was not possible for them to reach our old trenches
until 4 P.M. It was Gen. Sir Frederick Maurice, the Chief of Staff, who
revealed that fact to me afterward in an official explanation, and it
was confirmed by battalion officers of the 24th Division whom I met.
That time-table led to disaster. By eight o'clock in the morning there
were Scots on Hill 70. They had been told to go “all out,” with the
promise that the ground they gained would be consolidated by following
troops. Yet no supports were due to arrive until 4 P.M. at our original
line of attack--still away back from Hill 70--by which time the enemy
had recovered from his first surprise, had reorganized his guns, and was
moving up his own supports. Tragedy befell the Scots on Hill 70 and in
the Cite St.-Auguste, as I have told. Worse tragedy happened to the 21st
and 24th Divisions. They became hopelessly checked and tangled in the
traffic of the roads, and in their heavy kit were exhausted long before
they reached the battlefield. They drank the water out of their bottles,
and then were parched. They ate their iron rations, and then were
hungry. Some of their transport moved too far forward in daylight, was
seen by German observers, ranged on by German guns, and blown to bits on
the road. The cookers were destroyed, and with them that night's food.
None of the officers had been told that they were expected to attack on
that day. All they anticipated was the duty of holding the old support
trenches. In actual fact they arrived when the enemy was preparing
a heavy counter-attack and flinging over storms of shell-fire. The
officers had no maps and no orders. They were utterly bewildered with
the situation, and had no knowledge as to the where-abouts of the enemy
or their own objectives. Their men met heavy fire for the first time
when their physical and moral condition was weakened by the long march,
the lack of food and water, and the unexpected terror ahead of them.
They crowded into broken trenches, where shells burst over them and into
them. Young officers acting on their own initiative tried to lead their
men forward, and isolated parties went forward, but uncertainly,
not knowing the ground nor their purpose. Shrapnel lashed them, and
high-explosive shells plowed up the earth about them and with them.
Dusk came, and then darkness. Some officers were cursing, and some
wept, fearing dishonor. The men were huddled together like sheep without
shepherds when wolves are about, and saw by the bewilderment of the
officers that they were without leadership. It is that which makes for
demoralization, and these men, who afterward in the battle of the Somme
in the following year fought with magnificent valor, were on that day
at Loos demoralized in a tragic and complete way. Those who had gone
forward came back to the crowded trenches and added to the panic and
the rage and the anguish. Men smashed their rifles in a kind of madness.
Boys were cursing and weeping at the same time. They were too hopelessly
disordered and dismayed by the lack of guidance and by the shock to
their sense of discipline to be of much use in that battle. Some bodies
of them in both these unhappy divisions arrived in front of Hill 70 at
the very time when the enemy launched his first counter-attack, and
were driven back in disorder... Some days later I saw the 21st Division
marching back behind the lines. Rain slashed them. They walked with bent
heads. The young officers were blanched and had a beaten look. The sight
of those dejected men was tragic and pitiful.