by Will Davies
Woodward measured the Hill 60 crater and found it to be 65 metres across and about ten metres deep. The radius of the destruction – which he called the ‘rupture to obliteration’ – was more than 40 metres, meaning that everything within a circle 80 metres in diameter was destroyed. The Caterpillar crater had a diameter of nearly 90 metres, a depth of nearly 16 metres and a radius of destruction of 58 metres.
Wandering further, he found the ground littered with shredded timber, lengths of metal and corrugated iron so torn and twisted that it was now almost flat. Trench walls had been squeezed together by the blast. The German dead were still standing upright, the trench sides having compressed so fast that they did not even get the chance to move. Beside them stood their rifles, some still upright. Along what had been their parapet were shattered sandbags; the contents had been atomised and the bags shredded and blown flat.
The history of the German 204th Division, which was occupying Hill 60, states that it lost ten officers and 679 men in the explosion. It seemed that two German companies had been in the process of rotation, with one going out of the frontline and one coming in, so that two companies were taken out. Those who somehow lived were nervous wrecks, crying with fear and throwing up their hands in surrender.
From the firing of the 19 great mines at 3.10 am on 7 June, the offensive along nine kilometres of the front around Messines was seen as a great tactical victory. By nightfall, the British objectives had in most cases been won, a most unusual outcome. The Battle of Messines was the most successful offensive up until this time in the war.
Great sections of the German frontline were destroyed, especially strategic strongpoints and the small forward salients that had bulged into the Allies’ front. The German defenders were at first paralysed. At German garrisons all along the ridge line, those who were not dead were stupefied, dazed, nervous wrecks. The attacking Allied infantry found the Germans totally demoralised, some crawling about, others staggering, many crying and offering no resistance, their hands held high in surrender as they mumbled ‘Kamerad’.
The Australian 3rd and 4th Divisions attacked at the very southern end of the line. Some drove through the village of Messines, while others attacked through the mined area just north of Factory Farm and Trench 122 near Ploegsteert Wood. ‘Everywhere after firing a few shots the Germans surrendered as the troops approached,’ wrote Charles Bean. ‘Men went along the trenches bombing the shelters, whose occupants then came out, some of them cringing like beaten animals.’1 William Garrard, a lieutenant of the 40th Battalion, Australian Imperial Force, noted, ‘They made many fruitless attempts to embrace us. I have never seen men so demoralised.’2 Although the figures vary, it is believed that as many as 10,000 Germans were killed in the exploding of the mines, and thousands were captured and wounded.
When the British troops had secured the Messines Ridge line, officers from the tunnelling companies were quick to move in and inspect the German workings to determine the extent of their mining operations. In many cases there was little to inspect, for the entrances had caved-in or vanished.
In the German press the following day, the focus was not on the collapse of the German line and the extent of the defeat, but on the British losses and the fact that the German second line, known as the Oosttaverne Line, had stopped the advance and remained in German hands. And, in truth, Allied casualties were slightly higher than those of the Germans. Some men, including the Australians, were delayed by the slowness of the British advance and left in exposed positions on the Messines ridge. Later they were caught by Allied artillery and forced to retreat, again with many losses.
Nevertheless, the Allies had made a great strategic gain: the high ground was no longer in German hands, and this was to prove very significant to the future of the war, particularly along the Belgian front. The German Official History states that the Messines offensive fully succeeded and that the salient ‘had been lost with dreadful casualties’. The battle ‘was one of the most dreadful and depressing experiences of the regiment in the war,’ according to the historian of the 18th Bavarian Infantry Regiment, and General von Kuhl was to write of the battle that it was ‘one of the worst tragedies in the world war’.3
Among the Allies there were sceptics and detractors of the mining operation, both before and after the offensive. In the days before the battle, some British commanders requested that their men go in without the assistance of the mines because the effects of the mine explosions could not be foreseen and they mistrusted the assurances they were given about the safety of their men. And then after the attack, a British division claimed that the mines were ‘a definite hindrance in the attack’.4 One of their brigades had not been warned of the mines, and the unexpected massive explosion had caused a great deal of alarm among the men.5
Another criticism was that more strategically important positions should have been mined and attacked. Many of the mines were started in late 1915, and over the course of 18 months there had been some changes to the frontline, but it was almost impossible to change the direction of a tunnel, even over a relatively short distance. Others felt that the mines did not inflict enough casualties on the enemy and that the benefits were outweighed by the amount of effort, money and Allied deaths spent in mining.
Some of the attacking troops reported that German mines went up behind them as they advanced, due to the German line projecting into the Allies’ in certain places. This was especially the case near Ontario Farm, where troops advancing from the southwest saw a massive explosion to their left rear. Other troops complained that the craters left by the mines meant they had to split up and go around either side of the crater and that as they did, they bunched up and were easily shot down. There were very few instances of craters being defended by the Germans in the early hours of the attack, though, so the advancing troops were mostly spared being fired down upon from the crater rims.
General Ludendorff, the joint supreme commander of the German forces along with Paul von Hindenburg, had no doubts about the success and significance of the mining operation. He later wrote: ‘We should have succeeded in retaining the position but for the exceptionally powerful mines used by the British. The result was … that the enemy broke through on the 7th June. The moral effect of the explosions was simply staggering; at several points our troops fell back before the onslaught of the enemy infantry.’6
The failure of German mining commanders and geological experts to anticipate and eliminate the Allied mines triggered an enquiry and a search for scapegoats. Many times over the previous year, the German High Command had sought reassurance from Oberstleutnant Otto Füsslein that the British mining system was being monitored and that he had the situation in hand. Füsslein did not realise the depth and extent of the British mining effort. Since the beginning, the Germans had been confident in their work and felt they held the initiative. At a tactical conference in early 1917, Oberstleutnant Füsslein had boastfully declared that ‘the mining situation was thoroughly cleared up and the tunnelling arrangements were superior to those of the enemy’. He proclaimed that he was ‘satisfied that the British had been outwitted and outworked’.7
Captured Allied miners had let slip that deep mining was under way, but Füsslein had been fooled by the fact that aerial reconnaissance had failed to find the blue-grey spoil from deep mining because it had been so well hidden by the Allies. By this time, too, the British blockade of Germany was preventing crucial supplies from arriving, leaving the German tunnellers without necessary mining apparatus such as electric pumps and ventilation equipment, which set their countermining back.
The German tunnellers had struggled with underground water and running sand, and had thought the Allies would, like them, be able to dig only at a shallow level. Their geologists had believed this to be true, and their hydraulic engineering experts had reported that without proper drilling rigs, electricity, powerful pumps and decent ventilation, it was impossible to mine deeply along the Ypres–Messines salient.8 In actual fact, t
hough, although their position at the foot of the ridge made the Allies vulnerable to the Germans actively draining their mines down the hill and into their tunnels and trenches, the Allies had less distance to dig to arrive at the blue clay, which was less difficult to tunnel through.
The morning after the attack, the geologists were assembled for a thorough dressing down by a German general who cursed them for their complacency and ignorance, and blamed them for the massive casualties his army had sustained. As a result, those over 40 years of age were sent back to Berlin in disgrace and those under 40 were sent to an active regiment in the frontline.
It had been a long night and a long day for Oliver Woodward, his officers and men. They felt exhausted; the stress had drained their last reserves of strength. At 6 pm they were relieved, and with their few possessions – their weapons and, for the officers, the important exploders and synchronising watch – they set off for their base camp at Ypres. Woodward would never set foot on Hill 60 again. Back along the well-trodden track to Larch Wood they went, past the Casualty Clearing Station where many of the Australian tunnellers had sought medical attention over the last eight months, past the lines of graves at Transport Farm and on up the broken duckboard track to Shrapnel Corner. The men seemed light-headed and relaxed, as though the end of the week heralded a long weekend. They tramped along the railway line to Lille Gate and, upon entering the Railway Dugouts, received a tongue-lashing from the major there, who told them it was forbidden to enter Ypres this way for fear of drawing German artillery fire. Woodward wondered if the Germans did not have more to worry about than a party of three grubby officers and 40 filthy, muddy men returning to Ypres, way behind the lines.
That night, Oliver Woodward made a simple and poignant note in his diary:
Thus, on 7th June, 1917, the dreaded Ypres Salient ceased to exist, and due to the combined effort of Infantry, Artillery, and Tunnellers, the Messines Ridge was brilliantly captured.9
The Messines Ridge may indeed have been brilliantly captured, but there was more drama to come for him and his men.
A little over a week after the detonation of the mines, Oliver Woodward, his officers and 200 men took a wonderful break from the war, travelling in bright sunshine in ten London double-decker buses with the top deck open to the warm summer air. Although they knew danger still lay ahead for them when they returned to the front, for now they were on their way to the British 2nd Army’s rest camp for tunnellers, well behind the lines in the village of Malhove on the outskirts of the French city of St Omer.
The camp was in an open field between a railway embankment and a wood. In the middle was a lagoon about 500 metres long and 200 metres wide where the men could swim and row in a couple of old punts they found. At night, they slept well, resting in the knowledge they were now well beyond the range of the enemy’s longest guns. Here there was no military training and their time was taken up with long walks, letter writing, gambling, eating, drinking and trying some good local wines. Woodward laughed when he saw Australian officers going through the time-honoured process of elegantly sniffing the wine to better enjoy the fragrance, then taking a sip before grabbing the glass and pouring it down their throat as if it were a cold beer at a bar back in Australia.
Far from the war, the rest camp gave Woodward and his mates a chance to explore rural France. He especially enjoyed late-afternoon walks through the countryside, past rows of whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs; a wisp of grey smoke slowly rising from their brick chimneys. Then along the canals, and on past the occasional fisherman sitting in the dappled light of the towpath, while far off church bells rang out vespers somewhere in St Omer. On other occasions he visited the cathedral and was shown around by the ageing priest, or wandered through the lanes that criss-crossed the Clairmarais Wood. He missed Australia, observing in his diary that these woods were ‘too dark and sombre to be really beautiful … and in this respect the open sunlit glades of our homeland are more appealing’.1
Far to the north, other Australian tunnellers were fighting a desperate and very different war: this time at the beach. The frontlines stretched from Switzerland at one end to the North Sea at the other, a total of 640 kilometres. At the North Sea, the trenches went virtually to the water’s edge, certainly through the sandhills and down onto the beach. The Allied line was 600 metres on the northern side of the Yser River in an area where the beach and sandhills extended nearly two kilometres inland before they struck marshlands and low flooded areas to the east.
When the British took over from the French in June–July 1917 they decided to mount an attack against German strongpoints in the sandhills. The 2nd Australian Tunnelling Company, specialising in soft soil, was brought in and ordered by General Harvey to dig a tunnel under the German frontline to a machine-gun position. Their work attracted heavy German shelling and an infantry assault, which drove the British and Australians back to the River Yser. German artillery smashed the three temporary bridges that provided access to the British troops north of the river and quickly pushed the British line back.
Meanwhile the tunnellers were fighting their own little war. A dozen were caught underground. They held out for 24 hours but surrendered when their tunnels were polluted by German smoke bombs and the air became unbreathable. Others who weren’t caught took to the river and swam to the southern bank. Many of the British troops could not swim and were trapped on the northern bank, so two Australian sappers, Burke and Coade, grabbed a long rope and raced to help. Coade held one end, and Burke swam back across the river, secured the rope on the northern bank and helped the non-swimmers across before swimming back himself.
Another Australian tunneller, sapper James O’Connell, had been burnt by a flamethrower during the fighting, and as he lay among the badly wounded he realised he had to get back across the river or be captured. He climbed across part of the broken bridge and swam the rest of the way, but when he climbed out on the other side, he heard an English soldier in the river calling for help. He immediately dived back in and brought the man to shore, before fainting through loss of blood. For his action he was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal.
As soon as the Allied front had been stabilised, GHQ reappraised the work of the tunnelling companies and their future part in the battle ahead. Tunnelling had been viable near Messines because the frontline had been stagnant for such a long period. Now, as the offensive moved against Passchendaele, there was no time for tunnels and mines, so the expertise of these fine men must be put to another use.
On 2 July 1917, Woodward and the tunnellers left their restful surroundings at Malhove, ‘fully refreshed in both body and mind’, and returned to the desolation of the frontline.2 They tumbled from their London buses at their new camp in a field outside Dranoutre, eight kilometres to the west of Messines. Little if any mining work would be carried out along the front of the 2nd Army, to which they were attached. Instead, they were put to work building and maintaining roads. Across the shattered landscape they built corduroy roads of timber planks that stretched in long, straight lines. These were easily seen by German observation balloons and continually targeted by German artillery, making the men ‘shell shy’ as they traded one fearful occupation for another.
Woodward’s unit was then sent south to construct dugouts in the craters at Hollandscheschuur formed from mines blown in the 7 June attack. Advanced Brigade Headquarters and a dressing station were being built into their sides. Next, they were posted to the Hooge crater, just north of the Menin Road, in preparation for the Allies’ advance towards the village of Passchendaele.
Camped and building a road alongside the Menin Road, they were in for a lively and dangerous time. Close by was Birr Crossroads and a few hundred metres back towards Ypres was the infamous Hellfire Corner. Both were shelled at all hours of the day or night by the Germans. The roadside was littered with upturned wagons, dead horses, mules, and the remains of men and equipment. According to Woodward his section suffered ‘fairly heavy’ casualties.
One night, eight of his men on their way back to billets after finishing a shift were killed and four were wounded when a shell hit their stationary truck between Birr Crossroads and Hellfire Corner. Here the men had comfortable billets, but the presence of a large Allied naval gun nearby meant they drew fire nightly as the Germans sent over bombers to destroy it.
The battle for the Messines Ridge had been a resounding success, but the real prize was the high ground that arced around Ypres and was dominated by the Passchendaele ridge to the east. To take this, General Plumer planned a series of small, limited offensives, known as ‘bite and hold’ operations that would result in four battles, all of which would involve the Australians. It began on 20 September 1917 at 5.40 am when a massive artillery bombardment started the offensive that was planned to take the Gheluvelt ridge and maybe, just maybe, allow for the long-awaited breakthrough.
With shells landing to the east of Westhoek Ridge, the Australians of the 1st and 2nd Divisions attacked through Glencorse Wood, closely following their barrage and pushing the Germans back. Attached to the Australian infantry were three sections of the 1st Australian Tunnelling Company. Their job was to rebuild German pillboxes captured in the advance, cutting an opening in the front, sealing up the German rear entry, cleaning away debris and preparing it for Allied use. Woodward and his section were held back, much to their annoyance, to enlarge the Cambridge Road dugouts, quite close to Birr Crossroads.
The Menin Road offensive was a great tactical success. By the end of the first day, the Australians had taken their objectives and were at the western edge of Polygon Wood. Some Australians had even entered Polygon Wood, past their final objective and a place that would itself become infamous in the following week with the attack of the 5th Division AIF. As Charles Bean was later to record, ‘The advancing barrage won the ground: the infantry merely occupied it, pouncing on any points at which resistance survived.’3
