Bean, along with most journalists, lacked the language to adequately convey the true horrors of the war. In News from the Front, Martin Farrar noted that ‘high’ diction terms such as ‘to perish’, ‘the fallen’, and ‘the red wine of youth’ appeared throughout despatches, making them read more like romance novels than news.74 Jaunty headlines in Australian newspapers in July 1916 — ‘Thrilling Episodes Described’, ‘Dazzling Courage of the Australians’, and ‘Coo-ee Frightens the Germans’ — misrepresented to readers the nature of the fierce fighting at Pozières.75 Even the Anzacs resented these simplistic reports. ‘You can’t imagine how fed up we all are with some of the English newspapers,’ wrote one. ‘Padded up with such rot as “the giant athletes leaping their trenches” makes one sick.’76 Despite the soldiers’ disgust, many, including Albert Coates, were reluctant to describe the horrors of the Somme in letters home ‘for fear of The Censors’.77 Bean would later reflect in the Official History that readers yearned so much for success, were so expectant of victory, that they sometimes wrongly interpreted intermittent advances on the Somme for much more than their worth.78 Perhaps their unquenchable thirst for victory clouded their interpretation of Bean’s despatches.
Politicians naturally feared that unrestricted and graphic reporting of battles like that on the Somme could erode the public’s resolve to wage war. ‘If the people really knew,’ reflected Lloyd George in 1917, ‘the war would be stopped tomorrow. But of course they don’t and can’t know. The correspondents don’t write and the censorship would not pass the truth.’79
In 1916, the Australian public and its soldiers were fiercely committed to the war. Often this commitment was expressed in opinions tinged with almost religious zeal. For example, the Melbourne Herald preached to its readers in early August that they fought the Germans ‘so that the whole course of life may move upward, instead of downward’.80 Private William Clayton’s papers contained these fortifying words: ‘Man has had to wade through a sea of blood to reach a higher plane in its slow ascent towards the goal of noblest aspirations.’81
Captain Stanley Cocking expressed his commitment to the war with similar fervour: ‘I am here to kill a vile principle that, in the nature of things, necessitates the taking of human life.’82 The reporting of the unadulterated truth risked draining away this incredible reservoir of support; politicians like Lloyd George no doubt wouldn’t risk it. In addition, it would give the Germans an unfair advantage. Their propaganda machine would soon claim that the British high command had fed three inexperienced and untrained Australians divisions into Pozières, while the British divisions sat idle.83 Perhaps fire had to be fought with fire.
The problem was that the gap between ‘what was fought and what was talked’ was so glaringly wide due to inaccurate reporting and censorship that it prevented Australians from fully understanding the war or having an informed debate about its merits.84 Censorship, according to Eric Andrews in The Anzac Illusion, lessened the political awareness of Australians.85 In 1917, Mr Justice Ferguson openly expressed his concerns about inadequate reporting: ‘We do not know what brigade, what division or what battalion was at Pozières,’ he told guests of the Institute of Journalists of New South Wales. ‘The indifference to the war among so many people in Australia is largely due to the ignorance of what takes place.’86
In early August 1916, in the midst of the Somme battle, there was still the opportunity for Bean to rethink the tenor of his despatches. In the coming days, the battle would touch him in the most personal way. Would this trigger him to tell the truth about Pozières without fear or favour?
chapter thirteen
Kicking in the Back Door
‘See that little stream. We could walk to it in two minutes. It took the British a whole month to walk to it — a whole empire walking very slowly, dying in front and pushing forward behind.’
— Description of a preserved trench close to Thiepval,
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
By dawn on Thursday 10 August, Cox’s troops had captured Park Lane Trench, the first of three German trenches protecting the farm. The divisions’ next objective would be to advance down the gully, sweep up the opposite hill, and then capture the farm. The Germans’ objective remained unchanged: thwart the advance at all costs. Predictably, they responded to the loss of the Park Lane Trench by shelling the Australians throughout 10 August. ‘Fritz started a very heavy bombardment,’ explained one soldier sheltering in a broken trench. ‘All the time we were crouched in the bottom expecting every moment to be the last.’1
Between 10 and 15 August, Cox’s troops steadily battered their way forward over the cratered landscape, while the Germans repeatedly counterattacked. The Australians’ first minor attack was launched just after midnight on 11 August, when patrols pushed into the valley and established forward posts. The 13th Battalion history, The Fighting Thirteenth, recorded that the troops advanced about 200 yards without meeting the enemy: ‘When our barrage became stationary, all dug in.’ The Germans counterattacked twice, at 2.45 a.m. on 11 August and at dawn on 12 August, but failed to dislodge the Australians. Their counterattacks withered under heavy Lewis gunfire, with their losses, the battalion history notes, ‘estimated at over 1000’.2 According to British correspondent Philip Gibbs, Germans stood on their parapet calling their comrades back, ‘trying to save something out of this senseless slaughter that had been ordered’.3
On 12 August, the 4th Division and the 12th British Division launched a second formal attack toward Skyline Trench at 10.30 p.m. ‘With a sounding of whistles we charged like blue hell across those few yards,’ recalled trainee schoolteacher Captain Harold Armitage, who, along with the other troops, ‘shoved’ forward and secured a position about 350 yards short of the farm.4
On 13 August, Gough, pleased with the previous night’s success, ordered Cox’s division to completely surround and capture Mouquet Farm. The Official History speculated that, at the present rate of progress, the Australians would be well past the rear of Thiepval before Gough launched his grand attack on it.5
The course of the battle for the farm changed just before midnight on 13 August, when the Germans recaptured Skyline Trench from II British Corps. The Germans had preceded their attack with overwhelming artillery fire that, at about 10.50 a.m., forced the British to retire from the trench. Germans massing near the trench throughout the day were repeatedly shelled by the British and Australian artillery, resulting in severe casualties. Finally, at 10.30 p.m., the Germans launched their attack and captured Skyline Trench, which was full of British dead killed by the earlier German artillery fire.
The Germans’ subsequent heavy shelling compromised the Australians’ preparations for their 14 August attack. Lieutenant-Colonel Arthur Ross believed that his 51st Battalion could not possibly attack due to severe casualties: ‘Both 13th CO thinks, and it is my genuine (not depressed) opinion that it would be a mistake to press the offensive further locally in this salient,’ read his note to brigade commander Bill Glasgow.6
Ross’s soldiers also dreaded the prospect of another attack. ‘By this time we had lost two-thirds of our men, we’d had no sleep since late on the 11th and the men were dead tired with three nights of hard, heavy digging,’ recorded an exhausted Harold Armitage.7 The 13th Battalion history explained that, after two advances and several defensive battles, all its troops were ‘weary and nauseated in all their senses’.8 Despite heavy casualties and the troops’ exhaustion, Glasgow sent a note to his company commanders ordering them to attack. As planned, the 4th Division advanced on 14 August and successfully broke into a small section of Fabeck Graben — the last trench protecting the farm. However, after desperate fighting, the Australians forfeited the trench. The Official History observed that Gough’s northward advance had met with its first check.9
Confusion about the location of the Australians’ trenches, the onset of bad weather, and the
further stretching of the Australians’ supply lines marked the five days of desperate fighting between 10 and 15 August.
The Official History explained that, throughout the recent advances, British aeroplanes had swept low over the battlefield, trying to confirm the furthest point of the Australians’ advance; however, those on the ground often refused to light flares, fearing it would reveal their position to the Germans.10 This meant that Cox and White often had to plan their follow-up attacks unsure of the front line’s position, and that some troops, such as those of Ross’s 51st Battalion, were shelled by their own guns. ‘Our artillery are bombarding our own front trenches (heavies!!!)’ read Ross’s note to brigade headquarters on 14 August.11
On 10 August, rain fell steadily across the Somme battlefield. Mist and heavy cloud replaced the clear skies of summer. The shapeless landscape, now shrouded with mist, swallowed men up. In the early hours of 11 August, Captain Francis ‘Toby’ Barton, a law student from Sydney, left his trench with Sergeant John Riordan to meet up with another officer. Barton, with his characteristic ‘pigeon-toed walk’, courtesy of a bullet wound to the thigh on Gallipoli, disappeared into the fog.12 Barton’s men scoured no-man’s-land, but found no trace of him or Riordan. ‘Neither were seen again,’ recounted one soldier. ‘Had he met the enemy, “Toby” would have certainly sold his life dearly.’13
Back in Australia, Annie Riordan and Cecilia Barton pondered the fate of their lost sons. ‘I only wish, Dear Mrs Barton, that I could send you some comfort in your trouble,’ read Annie Riordan’s letter. ‘God, grant they are safe somewhere.’14 Seven years elapsed before Cecilia received Toby’s perished identity disc in the mail, after his remains were discovered in a shallow, unmarked grave.15 Annie Riordan’s son’s remains were never recovered.
As the Australians pushed deeper into the German lines, they extended their supply routes further, making it even more difficult to carry up rations and remove the wounded. Glasgow’s troops went without water for two days, and when it did arrive there were only a paltry seven tins to share around. As for the scant food, the men had no appetite. ‘Men cannot eat,’ explained Corporal John McPherson. ‘Their stomachs get upset through seeing their pals get cut to bits.’16 Men sat by helplessly as their wounded comrades died. Harold Armitage cared for his wounded batman, struck in the back by bits of shell, as best he could. He waited for stretcher-bearers, but none came. A relieving battalion promised to look after him. On the way out, the battalion was badly shelled and Armitage lost contact with his batman.17
Captain Pat Auld of the 50th Battalion explained to a wounded soldier that it was pointless waiting for stretcher-bearers, as most of them had been hit: ‘Your only chance of getting out of here alive is to run down the trench and turn left at the end of it.’ The badly wounded man staggered to his feet and stumbled down the trench. Auld saw him several years later in Adelaide, not much worse for the experience.18
The ramifications of the Australians’ savage battle on the Somme were felt beyond the thin sliver of French farmland they fought and died upon. Charles Bean sensed the offensive’s radiating consequences whenever he read letters from grieved parents: ‘they show the way in which a scrap piece of iron flung at random on the hillside in front of Mouquet drives its course right through to the furthest end of the world.’19 Bean was right; the consequences of the Somme offensive were spreading like the ripples across a pond. They were felt by the shattered troops of the 1st and 2nd Divisions and the headquarters staff who grappled with the battle’s complexities. They radiated across the Channel, and were felt in the British military hospitals that were flooded with thousands of broken soldiers and by politicians unable to comprehend how the waste could continue unabated. The consequences crossed the oceans to Australia, exacting a toll on the families of the dead, missing, and wounded. Generations would not be spared: children would grow up without fathers, and wives would grow old without husbands. The tragic results of the battle would linger for decades.
The consequences of the battle were felt at divisional headquarters. After pressing forward between 8 and 13 August, the 4th Division’s advance had ground to a halt. Cox would have realised that the Australians’ first attempt upon Fabeck Graben Trench on 14 August had failed. Unbeknown to him, the Germans had captured vital documents beforehand, showing that the attackers were intent upon capturing Mouquet Farm that evening, no matter the cost. With their senses heightened, the Germans interpreted every movement, real or imagined, as an attack, and met it with shelling and machine-gun fire. The Germans believed they were attacked at 1.20 p.m., 5.45 p.m., 7.00 p.m., 7.45 p.m., and 9.40 p.m. Ironically, and as testimony to the confusion of the battle, they didn’t mention the actual attack time of 10.00 p.m.20
At corps headquarters, two issues would likely have occupied White’s mind. First, to meet Gough’s timetable for capturing the farm, a follow-up attack would have to be organised immediately. But what tactics could he employ? The British shelling seemed unable to root the deeply burrowed Germans out of their shelters. The Australians, by contrast, had little cover; every time they dug a trench, it caved in. Second, the Australians’ momentum was slowly winding down. The corps had been in the line for 24 days straight. They now attacked with ‘penny packets’ of two or three battalions, as compared to six or seven at Pozières. Weary soldiers now welcomed ‘blighty’ wounds, such as a shattered arm or leg, which would have them evacuated from the front to Britain.21
While White considered his options, Charteris considered intelligence reports, which in recent weeks had lost their optimistic tone. His latest report stated that the Germans were still fighting well, and the British would need all the months available to them before winter to grind them down. Charteris correctly sensed the changing mood in London: there seemed to be less enthusiasm for the offensive, and growing doubts about whether the Germans would break.22 Historian Simon Robbins suggested that Charteris was torn between his perceived duty to support Haig and maintain his spirits, and the obligation to furnish him with objective intelligence reports.23 Perhaps Charteris’s competing priorities coloured his reports, resulting in reversals being downplayed and partial successes exaggerated.
At I Anzac Corps headquarters, John Treloar reviewed intelligence summaries, some likely collated by Charteris’s team, which often featured captured letters showing the enemy’s desire for peace. Treloar wondered whether the letters reflected the true state of affairs: ‘I always have the feeling that they are picked out of a number of letters of a different tone and published because they will cheer us up.’24 He and his team of clerks were exhausted after many weeks of manning the Central Registry around the clock. Treloar, who worked from 7.00 a.m. to midnight most days in an uncomfortable canvas tent, wondered how long his clerks could maintain their punishing routine. One day merged with the next; it seemed hard to distinguish weekdays from weekends. ‘There is nothing but the name to distinguish them from Thursdays and Fridays,’ he wrote in his diary.
The work particularly taxed his clerks. ‘I didn’t come away to be a blooming owl,’ complained one after working a string of late evenings. His orderlies seemed to come and go. They felt strangely removed from the battle, stamping and filing papers while marching columns passed by. ‘They become possessed to return and share the perils of warfare with their comrades, so off they go and often within a few days are reported “killed in action” ’, wrote Treloar in his diary. While Mouquet Farm remained in German hands, there would be no respite for Treloar and his clerks.
At small staging villages behind the front line, relieved soldiers of the 1st Division were slowly recovering from their first stunt. The mid-summer days of late July and early August on the Somme were beautiful and warm. The country was at its best: the flowering flax created vast fields of deep and intense blues. The aroma of fresh grass, the sound of sweetly singing birds, and the tranquillity of the leafy lanes provided a wonderful tonic for the shattered men.25 T
he soldiers slowly wound down and began to feel normal again. On warm summer nights, they often took off their puttees, rolled them up, and used them as pillows; they lay in the open fields among the long grass and fresh flowers, staring at the stars before finally falling into a deep sleep. ‘It is beautiful among the trees,’ recorded Albert Coates, ‘after being like rats living in shell holes with dead and wounded men everywhere.’26
These soldiers tried to forget the war. Some immersed themselves in helping peasants to harvest their ripening crops. ‘I remember seeing an Australian out in a field milking a cow,’ observed John Treloar in his diary. ‘Perhaps he enjoyed the work because of the home memories it brought.’27 Others gathered in a shaded spot to toss the ‘browns’ in a game of two-up, or shed their clothes for a quick dip in a nearby stream — to the apparent shock of the local peasants labouring in the fields.28
As early as 27 July, rumours had begun to circulate that they would be returning to the line. Each man reacted differently. Some spent their money and enjoyed themselves one last time, getting drunk at an estaminet or purchasing a hearty meal. Vic Graham’s mate urged him to clear out — perhaps go ‘away without leave’ to Paris — as he believed there was little hope of returning from such a place a second time.29 Albert Coates had had enough of the senseless fighting; he didn’t want to go back to Pozières. Only 50 men remained of his 1200-strong battalion that had landed on Gallipoli. He requested a transfer from the medical to the sanitation section, which was approved. On 3 August he began a job only cherished in wartime. ‘Walking around the town inspecting latrines and water testing today,’ he wrote of his new role with the Sanitary Hygiene Section, which supervised hygiene arrangements in the field to prevent disease.30 Coates survived the war and became one of Australia’s most eminent surgeons.
Pozieres Page 23
