BREAKING THE HINDENBURG LINE
Lloyd George--My Second Excursion--The Farthest German Point--Sir
Joseph Cook--Night before the Day of Judgment--The Final Battle--On a
Tank--Horrible Sight--Speech to Australians--The Magic Carpet.
I find in my diary that the Prime Minister, Mr. Lloyd George, invited
me to breakfast in April, 1917. Some third person was, I understand, to
have been present, but he did not arrive, so that I found myself alone
in the classic dining room of No. 10, Downing Street, while my host
was finishing his toilet. Presently he appeared, clad in a grey suit,
smart and smiling, with no sign at all that he bore the weight of the
great European War upon his shoulders. Nothing could have been more
affable or democratic, for there was no servant present, and he poured
out the tea, while I, from a side table, brought the bacon and eggs
for both. He had certainly the Celtic power of making one absolutely
at one’s ease, for there was no trace at all of pomp or ceremony--just
a pleasant, smiling, grey-haired but very virile gentleman, with
twinkling eyes and a roguish smile. No doubt there are other aspects,
but that is how he presented himself that morning.
He began by talking about the great loss which the country had
sustained in Lord Kitchener’s death, speaking of him in a very kindly
and human way. At the same time he was of opinion that long tropical
service and the habit of always talking down to subordinates had had
some effect upon his mind and character. He was a strange mixture of
rather morose inactivity and sudden flashes of prevision which amounted
to genius. He was the only man who had clearly foreseen the length
of the war, and but for Turkey, Bulgaria, and other complications he
probably overstated it at three years. There were times when he became
so dictatorial as to be almost unbearable, and he had to be reminded
at a Cabinet Council by Lloyd George himself that he was in the
presence of twenty men who were his peers, and that he could not refuse
them information or act above their heads. I confess that it struck
me as very natural that a big man with vital knowledge in his brain
should hesitate in a world crisis to confide it to twenty men, and
probably twenty wives, each of whom was a possible leak. In spite of
his genius Kitchener was not accessible to new ideas. He could not see
clearly why such enormous munitions were necessary. He opposed tanks.
He was against the Irish and Welsh separate divisions. He refused
the special flags which the ladies had worked for these divisions.
He was as remote from sentiment as a steam hammer, and yet he was
dealing with humans who can be influenced by sentiment. He obstructed
in many things, particularly in the Dardanelles. On the other hand,
his steps in organizing the new armies were splendid, though he had
attempted--vainly--to do away with the Territorials, another example
of his blindness to the practical force of sentiment. Miss Asquith
had said of him, “If he is not a great man he is a great poster,” and
certainly no one else could have moved the nation to such a degree,
though the long series of provocations from the Germans had made us
very receptive and combative.
Lloyd George was justly proud of the splendid work of the Welsh
Division at the front. He had been to Mametz Wood, the taking of which
had been such a bloody, and also such a glorious, business. He listened
with interest to an account which I was able to give him of some
incidents in that fight, and said that it was a beautiful story. He had
arranged for a Welsh painter to do the scene of the battle.
He was interested to hear how I had worked upon my history, and
remarked that it was probably better done from direct human documents
than from filed papers. He asked me whether I had met many of the
divisional Generals, and on my saying that I had, he asked me if any
had struck me as outstanding among their fellows. I said I thought they
were a fine level lot, but that in soldiering it was impossible to say
by mere talk or appearance who was the big man at a pinch. He agreed.
He seemed to have a particular feeling towards General Tom Bridges, of
the 19th Division, and shortly afterwards I noticed that he was chosen
for the American mission.
I talked to him about my views as to the use of armour, and found him
very keen upon it. He is an excellent listener, and seems honestly
interested in what you say. He said he had no doubt that in the problem
of armour lay the future of warfare, but how to carry it was the crux.
He said that the soldiers always obstructed the idea--which was my
experience also--with a few notable exceptions. I mentioned General
Watts of the 7th Division as being interested in armour, and he agreed
and seemed to know all about Watts who, though a “dug-out,” was one of
the finds of the war.
He was much excited about the revolution in Russia, news of which had
only just come through. The Guards had turned, and that meant that
all had turned. The Tsar was good but weak. The general character
and probable fate of the Tsarina were not unlike those of Marie
Antoinette--in fact, the whole course of events was very analogous
to the French Revolution. “Then it will last some years and end in a
Napoleon,” said I. He agreed. The revolt, he said, was in no sense
pro-German. The whole affair had been Byzantine, and reminded one of
the old histories.
As I left he came back to armour, and said that he was about to see
some one on that very subject. When I was in the hall it struck me that
a few definite facts which I had in my head would be useful in such an
interview, so, to the surprise of the butler, I sat down on the hall
chair and wrote out on a scrap of paper a few headings which I asked
him to give the Prime Minister. I don’t know if they were of any use. I
came away reassured, and feeling that a vigorous virile hand was at the
helm.
I had not expected to see any more actual operations of the war, but
early in September, 1918, I had an intimation from the Australian
Government that I might visit their section of the line. Little did I
think that this would lead to my seeing the crowning battle of the war.
It was on September 26 that we actually started, the party consisting
of Sir Joseph Cook, Naval Minister of the Australian Commonwealth,
Commander Latham, his aide-de-camp, who in civil life is a rising
barrister of Melbourne, and Mr. Berry, soon to be Sir William Berry,
proprietor of the “Sunday Times.” We crossed in a gale of wind, with
a destroyer sheeted in foam on either side of the leave boat, each of
us being obliged to wear life-belts. Several American newspaper men
were on board, one of them an old friend, Bok, of the “Ladies’ Home
Journal.” It was too late to continue our journey when we got across,
so we stayed at an inn that night, and were off to the Australian line
at an early hour in the morning, our way lying through Abbeville and
Amiens. The latter place was nearly deserted and very badly knocked
about, far more so than I had expected.
The enemy had, as we knew, been within seven miles of Amiens--it was
the Australian line which held the town safe, and the allied cause from
desperate peril if not ruin. It did not surprise us, therefore, that we
soon came upon signs of fighting. A little grove was shown us as the
absolute farthest ripple of the advanced German wave. A little farther
on was the sheltered town of Villers Brettoneux, with piles of empty
cartridge cases at every corner to show where snipers or machine guns
had lurked. A little farther on a truly monstrous gun--the largest I
have ever seen--lay near the road, broken into three pieces. It was
bigger to my eyes than the largest on our battleships, and had been
brought up and mounted by the Germans just before the tide had turned,
which was on July 5. In their retreat they had been compelled to blow
it up. A party of British Guardsmen were standing round it examining
it, and I exchanged a few words with them. Then we ran on through
ground which was intensely interesting to me, as it was the scene of
Gough’s retreat, and I had just been carefully studying it at home.
There was the Somme on our left, a very placid, slow-moving stream, and
across it the higher ground where our III Corps had been held up on
the historical August 8, the day which made Ludendorff realize, as he
himself states, that the war was lost. On the plain over which we were
moving the Australian and Canadian Divisions had swept, with the tanks
leading the British line, as Boadicea’s chariots did of old. Though I
had not been over the ground before, I had visualized it so clearly in
making notes about the battle that I could name every hamlet and locate
every shattered church tower. Presently a hill rose on the left, which
I knew to be Mount St. Quentin, the taking of which by the Australians
was one of the feats of the war. It had been defended by picked troops,
including some of the Prussian Guards, but they were mostly taken or
killed, though a flanking attack by the British Yeomanry Division had
something to do with the result.
The old walled town of Peronne, sacred for ever to Sir Walter, Quentin
Durward, and the archers of the Scots Guards, lay before us, almost
if not quite surrounded by the river, the canal, and broad moats. It
seemed an impossible place to take, which is of course the greatest
possible trap in modern warfare, since something occurring fifty miles
away may place troops behind you and cut you off. Here our long drive
finished, and we were handed over to the care of Colonel Bennett
commanding the camp, a tall, bluff warrior who, if he had doffed his
khaki and got into a velvet tunic, would have been the exact image of
the veteran warrior in Scott’s novel. He was indeed a veteran, having
fought, if I remember right, not only in South Africa, but even in the
Australian Suakim contingent.
A little wooden hut was put at our disposal, and there we slept, Sir
Joseph Cook and I, with a small partition between us. I was bitterly
cold, and so I can tell was he, for I could hear him tossing about just
as I did for warmth. We had neither of us made the discovery that you
may pile all the clothes you like on the top of you, but so long as
there is only one layer of canvas beneath you, you are likely to be
cold. We don’t usually realize that the mattress is also part of the
bed-clothes. We both got little sleep that night.
Next morning, September 28, we were off betimes, for we had much to
see, the old town for one thing, which I vowed I would visit again in
time of peace. We descended Mount St. Quentin and saw ample evidence
of the grim struggle that had occurred there. There were many rude
graves, some of them with strange inscriptions. One of them, I was
told, read: “Here lies a German who met two diggers.” The Australian
Tommy was of course universally known as a digger. They make a rough,
valiant, sporting but rude-handed crew. They went through the prisoners
for loot, and even the officers were ransacked. Colonel Bennett told
me that a Colonel of the Germans was impudent when he came into his
presence, so Bennett said: “Mend your manners, or I will hand you over
to the diggers!” They were waiting outside the tent for just such a
chance. One German had an iron cross which was snatched from him by
an Australian. The German shaped up to the man in excellent form and
knocked him down. The other Australians were delighted, gave him back
his cross, and made him quite a hero. I expect the looter had been an
unpopular man.
The younger Australian officers were all promoted from the ranks, and
many of them had their own ideas about English grammar. Bennett told
me that he tried to get the reports better written. One subaltern had
reported: “As I came round the traverse I met a Bosch and we both
reached for our guns, but he lost his block and I got him.” Bennett
returned this for emendation. It came back: “As I came round the
traverse I met a German, and we both drew our automatic pistols, but
he lost his presence of mind and I shot him.” I think I like the first
style best.
I lunched that day at the Head-quarters of Sir John Monash, an
excellent soldier who had done really splendid work, especially since
the advance began. Indeed, it was his own action on July 5 which
turned the tide of retreat. He showed that the long line of fighting
Jews which began with Joshua still carries on. One of the Australian
Divisional Generals, Rosenthal, was also a Jew, and the Head-quarters
Staff was full of eagle-nosed, black-haired warriors. It spoke well
for them and well also for the perfect equality of the Australian
system, which would have the best man at the top, be he who he might.
My brother was acting as Assistant Adjutant-General to General Butler
with the III British Corps on the left of the Australians, and they had
kindly wired for him, so that I had the joy of having him next me at
lunch, and he invited me to join the Head-quarters mess of his corps
for dinner.
It was a wonderful experience that dinner. The great advance was to be
next morning, when it was hoped that the Hindenburg Line, which was
practically the frontier of Germany, would be carried. There were only
six who dined in that little farm-house messroom: Butler himself with
hard composed face, his head of sappers, head of gunners, my brother,
the first and second Staff officers, a little group of harassed and
weary men. Yet there was no word of the huge drama upon the edge of
which we were standing. Every now and then a telephone tinkled in
the next room, a Staff officer rose, there were a few short words, a
nod, and the incident was closed. It was a wonderful example of quiet
self-control. I said to my brother, when we were alone: “Don’t you
think I am out of the picture at such a moment talking about such
frivolous things?” “For God’s sake keep on at it,” he said. “It is just
what they need. Give their brains something new.” So I tried to do so
and we had a memorable evening.
I shall never forget the drive back of ten miles in a pitch-dark
night, with not a gleam anywhere save that far aloft two little gold
points glimmered now and again, like the far-off headlights of a motor
transferred suddenly to the heavens. These were British aeroplanes, so
lit to distinguish them from the German marauders. The whole eastern
horizon was yellow-red with gun-fire, and the distant roar of the
artillery preparation was like the Atlantic surge upon a rock-bound
coast. Along the road no lights were permitted, and several times out
of the black a still blacker gloom framed itself into some motor-lorry
with which only our cries saved a collision. It was wonderful and
awesome, the eve of the day of judgment when Germany’s last solid
defence was to be smashed, and she was to be left open to that
vengeance which she had so long provoked.
We were awakened early, part of our party getting away to some point
which they imagined would be more adventurous than that to which we
seniors should be invited, though in the sequel it hardly proved so.
They saw much, however, and one of them described to me how one of the
first and saddest sights was that of eighteen splendid young Americans
lying dead and lonely by the roadside, caught in some unlucky shell
burst. Mr. Cook, Commander Latham, and I had been placed under the
charge of Captain Plunket, a twice-wounded Australian officer, who
helped us much during the varied adventures of our exciting day.
The general programme of attack was already in our minds. Two American
divisions, the 27th and 30th, one from New York, the other from the
South, were to rush the front line. The Australian divisions were
then to pass over or through them and carry the battle-front forward.
Already, as we arrived on the battle-field, the glad news came back
that the Americans had done their part, and that the Australians had
just been unleashed. Also that the Germans were standing to it like men.
As our car threaded the crowded street between the ruins of Templeux
we met the wounded coming back, covered cars with nothing visible save
protruding boots, and a constant stream of pedestrians, some limping,
some with bandaged arms and faces, some supported by Red Cross men,
a few in pain, most of them smiling grimly behind their cigarettes.
Amid them came the first clump of prisoners, fifty or more, pitiable
enough, and yet I could not pity them, the weary, shuffling, hang-dog
creatures, with no touch of nobility in their features or their bearing.
The village was full of Americans and Australians, extraordinarily
like each other in type. One could well have lingered, for it was all
of great interest, but there were even greater interests ahead, so
we turned up a hill, left our car, which had reached its limit, and
proceeded on foot. The road took us through a farm, where a British
anti-aircraft battery stood ready for action. Then we found open plain,
and went forward, amid old trenches and rusty wire, in the direction of
the battle.
We had now passed the heavy gun positions, and were among the field
guns, so that the noise was deafening. A British howitzer battery
was hard at work, and we stopped to chat with the Major. His crews
had been at it for six hours, but were in great good humour, and
chuckled mightily when the blast of one of their guns nearly drove in
our ear-drums, we having got rather too far forward. The effect was
that of a ringing box on the exposed ear--with which valediction we
left our grinning British gunners and pushed on to the east, under a
screaming canopy of our own shells. The wild, empty waste of moor was
broken by a single shallow quarry or gravel-pit, in which we could
see some movement. In it we found an advanced dressing station, with
about a hundred American and Australian gunners and orderlies. There
were dug-outs in the sides of this flat excavation, and it had been an
American battalion Head-quarters up to a few hours before. We were now
about 1,000 yards from the Hindenburg Line, and I learned with emotion
that this spot was the Egg Redoubt, one of those advanced outposts of
General Gough’s army which suffered so tragic and glorious a fate in
that great military epic of March 21--one of the grandest in the whole
war. The fact that we were now actually standing in the Egg Redoubt
showed me, as nothing else could have done, how completely the ground
had been recovered, and how the day of retribution was at hand.
We were standing near the eastward lip of the excavation, and looking
over it, when it was first brought to our attention that it took two
to make a battle. Up to now we had seen only one. Now two shells burst
in quick succession forty yards in front of us, and a spray of earth
went into the air. “Whizz-bangs,” remarked our soldier-guide casually.
Personally, I felt less keenly interested in their name than in the
fact that they were there at all.
We thought we had done pretty well to get within 1,000 yards of the
famous line, but now came a crowning bit of good fortune, for an
Australian gunner captain, a mere lad, but a soldier from his hawk’s
eyes to his active feet, volunteered to rush us forward to some coign
of vantage known to himself. So it was Eastward Ho! once more, still
over a dull, barren plain sloping gently upwards, with little sign of
life. Here and there was the quick fluff of a bursting shell, but at a
comfortable distance. Suddenly ahead of us a definite object broke the
skyline. It was a Tank, upon which the crew were working with spanners
and levers, for its comrades were now far ahead, and it would fain
follow. This, it seems, was the grandstand which our young gunner had
selected. On to the top of it we clambered--and there, at our very
feet, and less than 500 yards away, was the rift which had been torn a
few hours before in the Hindenburg Line. On the dun slope beyond it,
under our very eyes, was even now being fought a part of that great
fight where at last the children of light were beating down into the
earth the forces of darkness. It was there. We could see it. And yet
how little there was to see!
The ridge was passed, and the ground sloped down, as dark and heathy
as Hindhead. In front of us lay a village. It was Bellicourt. The
Hindenburg position ran through it. It lay quiet enough, and with the
unaided eye one could see rusty red fields of wire in front of it. But
the wire had availed nothing, nor had the trench that lurked behind it,
for beyond it, beside the village of Nauroy, there was a long white
line, clouds of pale steam-like vapour spouting up against a dark,
rain-sodden sky. “The Boche smoke barrage,” said our guide. “They are
going to counter-attack.” Only this, the long, white, swirling cloud
upon the dark plain told of the strife in front of us. With my glasses
I saw what looked like Tanks, but whether wrecked or in action I could
not say. There was the battle--the greatest of battles--but nowhere
could I see a moving figure. It is true that all the noises of the pit
seemed to rise from that lonely landscape, but noise was always with
us, go where we would.
The Australians were ahead where that line of smoke marked their
progress. In the sloping fields, which at that point emerged out of
the moor, the victorious Americans, who had done their part, were
crouching. It was an assured victory upon which we gazed, achieved so
rapidly that we were ourselves standing far forward in ground which
had been won that day. The wounded had been brought in, and I saw no
corpses. On the left the fight was very severe, and the Germans, who
had been hidden in their huge dug-outs, were doing their usual trick of
emerging and cutting off the attack. So much we gathered afterwards,
but for the moment it was the panorama before us which was engrossing
all our thoughts.
Suddenly the German guns woke up. I can but pray that it was not our
group which drew their fire upon the half-mended tank. Shell after
shell fell in its direction, all of them short, but creeping forward
with each salvo. It was time for us to go. If any man says that without
a call of duty he likes being under aimed shell-fire, he is not a man
whose word I would trust. Some of the shells burst with a rusty-red
outflame, and we were told that they were gas shells. I may say that
before we were admitted on to the battle-field at all, we were ushered
one by one into a room where some devil’s pipkin was bubbling in the
corner, and were taught to use our gas-masks by the simple expedient of
telling us that if we failed to acquire the art then and there a very
painful alternative was awaiting us.
We made our way back, with no indecent haste, but certainly without
loitering, across the plain, the shells always getting rather nearer,
until we came to the excavation. Here we had a welcome rest, for our
good gunner took us into his cubby-hole of a dug-out, which would at
least stop shrapnel, and we shared his tea and dried beef, a true
Australian soldier’s meal.
The German fire was now rather heavy, and our expert host explained
that this meant that he had recovered from the shock of the attack,
had reorganized his guns, and was generally his merry self once more.
From where we sat we could see heavy shells bursting far to our rear,
and there was an atmosphere of explosion all round us, which might have
seemed alarming had it not been for the general chatty afternoon-tea
appearance of all these veteran soldiers with whom it was our privilege
to find ourselves. A group of sulky-looking German prisoners sat in a
corner, while a lank and freckled Australian soldier, with his knee
sticking out of a rent in his trousers, was walking about with four
watches dangling from his hand, endeavouring vainly to sell them. Far
be it from me to assert that he did not bring the watches from Sydney
and choose this moment for doing a deal in them, but they were heavy
old Teutonic time-pieces, and the prisoners seemed to take a rather
personal interest in them.
As we started on our homeward track we came, first, upon the British
battery which seemed to be limbering up with some idea of advancing,
and so lost its chance of administering a box on our other ear. Farther
still we met our friends of the air guns, and stopped again to exchange
a few impressions. They had nothing to fire at, and seemed bored to
tears, for the red, white and blue machines were in full command of
the sky. Soon we found our motor waiting in the lee of a ruined house,
and began to thread our way back through the wonderfully picturesque
streams of men--American, Australian, British, and German--who were
strung along the road.
And then occurred a very horrible incident. One knew, of course, that
one could not wander about a battle-field and not find oneself sooner
or later involved in some tragedy, but we were now out of range of any
but heavy guns, and their shots were spasmodic. We had halted the car
for an instant to gather up two German helmets which Commander Latham
had seen on the roadside, when there was a very heavy burst close ahead
round a curve in the village street. A geyser of red brick-dust flew up
into the air. An instant later our car rounded the corner. None of us
will forget what we saw. There was a tangle of mutilated horses, their
necks rising and sinking. Beside them a man with his hand blown off was
staggering away, the blood gushing from his upturned sleeve. He was
moving round and holding the arm raised and hanging, as a dog holds an
injured foot. Beside the horses lay a shattered man, drenched crimson
from head to foot, with two great glazed eyes looking upwards through a
mask of blood. Two comrades were at hand to help, and we could only go
upon our way with the ghastly picture stamped for ever upon our memory.
The image of that dead driver might well haunt one in one’s dreams.
Once through Templeux and on the main road for Peronne things became
less exciting, and we drew up to see a column of 900 prisoners pass
us. Each side of the causeway was lined by Australians, with their
keen, clear-cut, falcon faces, and between lurched these heavy-jawed,
beetle-browed, uncouth louts, new caught and staring round with
bewildered eyes at their debonnaire captors. I saw none of that relief
at getting out of it which I have read of; nor did I see any signs
of fear, but the prevailing impression was an ox-like stolidity and
dullness. It was a herd of beasts, not a procession of men. It was
indeed farcical to think that these uniformed bumpkins represented
the great military nation, while the gallant figures who lined the
road belonged to the race which they had despised as being unwarlike.
Time and Fate between them have a pretty sense of humour. One of them
caught my eye as he passed and roared out in guttural English, “The old
Jairman is out!” They were the only words I heard them speak. French
cavalry troopers, stern, dignified, and martial, rode at either end of
the bedraggled procession.
They were great soldiers, these Australians. I think they would admit
it themselves, but a spectator is bound to confirm it. There was a
reckless dare-devilry, combined with a spice of cunning, which gave
them a place of their own in the Imperial ranks. They had a great
advantage too, in having a permanent organization, the same five
divisions always in the same corps, under the same chief. It doubled
their military value--and the same applied equally, of course, to
the Canadians. None the less, they should not undervalue their
British comrades or lose their sense of proportion. I had a chance of
addressing some 1,200 of them on our return that evening, and while
telling them all that I thought of their splendid deeds, I ventured to
remind them that 72 per cent of the men engaged and 76 per cent of the
casualties were Englishmen of England.
I think that now, in these after-war days, the whole world needs to
be reminded of this fact as well as the Australians did. There has
been, it seems to me, a systematic depreciation of what the glorious
English, apart from the British, soldiers did. England is too big to be
provincial, and smaller minds sometimes take advantage of it. At the
time some of the Australian papers slanged me for having given this
speech to their soldiers, but I felt that it needed saying, and several
of their officers thanked me warmly, saying that as they never saw
anything save their own front, they were all of them losing their sense
of proportion. I shall not easily forget that speech, I standing on a
mound in the rain, the Australian soldiers with cloaks swathed round
them like brigands, and half a dozen aeroplanes, returning from the
battle, circling overhead, evidently curious as to what was going on.
It seems to me now like some extraordinary dream.
Such was my scamper to the Australian front. It was as if some huge
hand had lifted me from my study table, placed me where I could see
what I was writing about, and then within four days laid me down once
more before the familiar table, with one more wonderful experience
added to my record.
And then at last came the blessed day of Armistice. I was in a staid
London hotel at eleven o’clock in the morning, most prim of all the
hours of the day, when a lady, well-dressed and conventional, came
through the turning doors, waltzed slowly round the hall with a flag
in either hand, and departed without saying a word. It was the first
sign that things were happening. I rushed out into the streets, and of
course the news was everywhere at once. I walked down to Buckingham
Palace and saw the crowds assembling there, singing and cheering. A
slim, young girl had got elevated on to some high vehicle, and was
leading and conducting the singing as if she was some angel in tweeds
just dropped from a cloud. In the dense crowd I saw an open motor
stop with four middle-aged men, one of them a hard-faced civilian,
the others officers. I saw this civilian hack at the neck of a whisky
bottle and drink it raw. I wish the crowd had lynched him. It was the
moment for prayer, and this beast was a blot on the landscape. On the
whole the people were very good and orderly. Later more exuberant
elements got loose. They say that it was when the Australian wounded
met the War Office flappers that the foundations of solid old London
got loosened. But we have little to be ashamed of, and if ever folk
rejoiced we surely had the right to do so. We did not see the new
troubles ahead of us, but at least these old ones were behind. And we
had gained an immense reassurance. Britain had not weakened. She was
still the Britain of old.