by Peter Hart
The German barrage followed the usual pattern, beginning at 04.15 on 9 April 1918 before the infantry went forward at 08.45. Given the lowlying nature of the ground it is no surprise that the battlefield was swathed in a thick fog which concealed the movements of the German troops. The main thrust fell on to a weak Portuguese corps which was holding the Lys Valley sector. Portugal was a long-standing ally of Britain which had initially remained neutral, until tensions with Germany over U-boat warfare and a series of clashes with German forces around the Portuguese colonies in Africa had dragged her into the war in March 1916. Portuguese troops had begun to arrive on the Western Front where they were incorporated into the BEF. It would be fair to say, however, that the majority of the Portuguese troops were unenthusiastic participants in a global war for which they held little regard. After a long cold hard winter, they were overdue relief but, given the situation, it had not yet been achieved.
Dazed by the power of the German bombardment, many of the Portuguese units disintegrated and by 10.00 the Germans had burst through the Forward Zone. It is worth noticing, though, that the British 40th Division, next in line to the north, did little better as it too crumbled under the onslaught. Yet to the south the 55th Division not only repulsed the German attack but also managed to bend back to provide a defensive flank where the Portuguese had given way.
The German attack had achieved a considerable advance, advancing some five and a half miles and capturing around 100 guns. Yet they had still not broken through; the British reserves had managed to maintain a continuous line. Haig urgently demanded that the French take over more of the British line and send reserves, but Foch played a waiting game while he established whether this was just a diversion before another assault on the Somme.
On 10 April, the German Fourth Army made its attack stretching from Armentières all along the Messines Ridge manned by Plumer’s Second Army. After a sustained barrage Corporal Frederick Meisel and the 371st Infantry Regiment pushed into the town, towards the railway station.
From the station we were greeted with rifle and machine gun fire. Here and there some of the men were hit and fell. Cries and groans were heard, orders shouted, the war was on again, taking its toll of victims. Before we had time to form ourselves again and return the fire, the whining sound of heavy German shells passed over our heads. A second later they crashed into the station, caving it in with loud bursts of fire and steel, ripping up the platform and twisting the rails out of position. A few more shells hit around the station, uprooting telegraph poles and sending steel splinters and shrapnel flying through the air. The shell fire ceased and we attacked. But in the debris life still existed; desperate men defending a ruin. Bullets whistled from it and more familiar faces vanished. With fixed bayonets the station was stormed to be met by a handful of Scottish infantry. Our Lieutenant made gestures for them to surrender, but his good intentions were repulsed by a loud yell, ‘Go to hell!’ to be followed by several shots. Karl threw several hand grenades into their barricades which exploded filling the ruins with smoke and dust, making the few shattered walls crack and fall, burying the defenders. Then we reached the station. Among piles of bricks and splintered planks lay bleeding and groaning men. Some lay stiff and cold, their bodies and faces covered with earth and blood. The place was littered with torn equipment, broken and twisted rifles and splintered furniture. On one of the cracked walls still hung the placard of the French railroad company, which ironically enough showed a beautiful seashore scene in the south of France.17
Corporal Frederick Meisel, 371st Infantry Regiment
The Second Army was forced to cede ground, falling back from the Messines Ridge, the prize gained in June 1917. Yet the Germans had still not broken through and the retreat all along the line was to a greater or lesser degree controlled in character. But the British had little room for manoeuvre, as the Germans were getting far too close to the Hazebrouck rail junction for comfort, behind which lay the Channel ports and the spectre of total defeat. On 11 April Haig tried to stiffen the morale of his men with a special order of the day.
Many amongst us now are tired. To those I would say that victory will belong to the side which holds out the longest. The French Army is moving rapidly and in great force to our support. There is no other course open to us but to fight it out. Every position must be held to the last man: there must be no retirement. With our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause each one of us must fight on to the end. The safety of our homes and the freedom of mankind alike depend upon the conduct of each one of us at this critical moment.18
Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig, General Headquarters, BEF
As British reserves began to reach the front the German advance was gradually stemmed: Merville, Nieppe and Bailleul fell in the days that followed, but fresh British divisions and the few French formations released by Foch managed to stop the German advance just short of Hazebrouck. The German plans to cut off the Ypres Salient garrison were also thwarted by a timely retreat right back to the Pilckem Ridge. The sacrificial ground for which they had suffered so much in the 1917 offensive had to be surrendered but the situation was stabilised. After a short pause to allow for some re-organisation, the Germans relaunched their offensive on 17 April 1918 all along the front, but suffered severe casualties for no gains. A further lull ended when, on 25 April, the Germans launched a mass attack on the French forces defending the heights of Mont Kemmel.
Suddenly our artillery fire stopped. An awful silence followed the terrific noise. A whistle shrilled, bayonets were fixed. Another whistle signalled the descent into the valley. Not a sound, not a rifle shot could be heard from the opposite side. Crossing the valley we stopped to readjust ourselves and began to climb the hill before us. Now we discovered why it had been so quiet, for over this territory lay the silence of death. The shell holes were filled with ghastly and bloody messes; freshly built trenches had caved in burying the occupants. Stumbling over mutilated bodies we reached the summit.19
Corporal Frederick Meisel, 371st Infantry Regiment
Although the French had been over-run, their artillery could still hit back hard.
French shells began to hit to the right and left of us, leaving human forms writhing in agony. Our advance came to a stop and after hesitating a few minutes we drew back while the artillery fire followed us, ripping large gashes in our formation – soon the French drumfire engulfed us, the air was filled with gas and flying pieces of steel. We automatically mounted the machine gun for action. Then like animals we burrowed into the earth as if trying to find protection deep in its bosom. Something struck my back where I carried my gas mask, but I did not pay attention to it. A steel splinter broke the handle of my spade and another knocked the remains out of my hand. I kept digging with my bare hands, ducking my head every time a shell exploded nearby. A boy to my side was hit in the arm and cried out for help. I crawled over to him, ripped the sleeves of his coat and shirt open and started to bind the bleeding part. The gas was so thick now I could hardly discern what I was doing. My eyes began to water and I felt as if I would choke. I reached for my gas mask, pulled it out of its container – then noticed to my horror that a splinter had gone through it leaving a large hole. I had seen death thousands of times, stared it in the face, but never experienced the fear I felt then. Immediately I reverted to the primitive. I felt like an animal cornered by hunters. With the instinct of self-preservation uppermost, my eyes fell on the boy whose arm I had bandaged. Somehow he had managed to put the gas mask on his face with his one good arm. I leapt at him and in the next moment had ripped the gas mask from his face. With a feeble gesture he tried to wrench it from my grasp; then fell back exhausted. The last thing I saw before putting on the mask were his pleading eyes.20
Corporal Frederick Meisel, 371st Infantry Regiment
The Germans and the French were locked in a death grip, neither seemingly able to let go. New units arrived and were fed into the maw of battle. There was little enthusiasm,
that much is plain.
We shall only be relieved after a 60 per cent loss of troops; the men are beginning to wish for, not death, but just to be wounded so that they can get out as soon as possible. This leads to endless suppositions; one man gives up his hand, another his arm, provided it’s the left one; yet another goes as far as a leg, declaring that where he comes from men like this manage quite well. But what frightens them most, is being wounded in the stomach or some other vital organ. Then the conversation turns to the ambulance, the hospital, plans for convalescence, rest at home, and what to do so as not to return to the front. In every sort of sector like this, the conversation revolves around the same topic. There is no longer even any mention of the civilians and their cosy life. No, you are stuck there waiting, simply trying to snatch some part of yourself from death, you don’t even ask to escape unharmed, it seems too impossible, your only wish is to leave as little as possible of yourself behind on the battlefield.21
Captain Henri Desagneux, 359th Infantry Regiment
Yet into battle went the French, soon inflicting their fears on their German counterparts. Now the Germans had to adapt to the horror of being counter-attacked in makeshift positions, deluged with shells while already exhausted by the accumulated traumas of trench fighting.
Through the damp glasses of my mask I saw dim outlines of men appear and when they approached more closely I could distinguish French uniforms and dull blinking bayonets. Gruen threw himself behind the machine gun and I instinctively pointed the barrel of the machine gun into the mist towards the advancing enemy. His hands tightened themselves round the handles while his thumbs pressed on the triggers. Flames spurted from the barrel of the guns and I saw the Frenchmen plunge headlong into the grass.22
Corporal Frederick Meisel, 371st Infantry Regiment
In the end, despite their best efforts, the Germans failed to capture any significant objectives. They had gained ground, but they had not defeated their British and French opponents.
Meanwhile, Ludendorff had ordered another lunge at the tempting vista of Amiens in late April 1918. During the build-up to the attack one of the great German heroes of the war fought his last battles. Captain Manfred von Richthofen – the young ingénu of 1916, the merciless killer of 1917, the inspirational leader of 1918 – had recovered from the wounds he had received in the summer of 1917 and seemed to be back on top form. On 20 April, during a vicious dogfight with a group of Sopwith Camels, Richthofen had already shot down Major Richard Raymond-Barker in flames, but was soon on the tail of Second Lieutenant David Lewis.
I had to turn round to save myself from bullets which I could see were ripping the fabric off my machine. I saw at once that my attacker was Richthofen himself, who had probably been waiting for some indiscreet pilot to get well below him. Then started a merry waltz; round and round, up and down to the staccato of the machine guns of the other fighters. Only once did I get my sights on his machine, but in a trice the positions were reversed, and I felt he was so much my master that he would get me sooner or later. Try as I would I simply could not shake him off my tail, and all the time the bullets from his hungry Spandau plastered my machine. His first burst shattered the compass in front of my face, the liquid there-from fogging my goggles, of which, however, I was relieved when a bullet severed the elastic from the frame, and they went over the side. My position was not improved, however, for my eyes filled with water caused by the rush of wind. Flying and landing wires struck by the bullets folded up before my eyes, and struts splintered before that withering fire. I do not think Richthofen was more than 50 feet from me all this time, for I could plainly see his begoggled and helmeted face, and his machine guns. Next I heard the sound of flames and the stream of bullets ceased. I turned round to find that my machine was on fire. My petrol tank was alight.23
Second Lieutenant David Lewis, 3rd Squadron, RAF
But Lewis was incredibly lucky.
I put my machine into a vertical nosedive and raced earthwards in an endeavour to drive the flames upwards and away from me, but every now and then the flames overtook the speed of the machine and were blown back into my face. When about 500 feet from the ground the flames seemed to have subsided, so I pulled the control back to gain a horizontal position and was horrified to find the machine would not answer the elevators. I held the stick back instinctively, I suppose, and then noticed that the aircraft was slowly attaining the desired position, and I thought I should be able to land on an even keel. This was not to be, however. I hit the ground at terrific speed, but was hurled from the machine unhurt except for minor burns and bruises. I later saw that not a stitch of fabric was left between my seat and the tail, but noticed that a few strips of the material left on my elevators had saved me. The back of my Sidcot was in charred strips and my helmet crumpled when I took it off. I also had one bullet through my trouser leg and one through my sleeve.24
Second Lieutenant David Lewis, 3rd Squadron, RAF
It seemed that nothing could stop Richthofen. A combination of accurate intuitive pilot, brilliant tactician and patient teacher, he was the complete ace, an unbeatable force of nature. But the very next day, on 21 April, this potent symbol of German manhood would be shot down. His last moments were spent chasing a young Canadian pilot, Lieutenant Wilfred May.
The enemy aircraft were coming at me from all sides, I seemed to be missing some of them by inches, there seemed to be so many of them the best thing I thought to do was to go into a tight vertical turn, hold my guns open and spray as many as I could. The fight was at very close quarters; there seemed to be dozens of machines around me. Through lack of experience I held my guns open too long, one jammed and then the other. I could not clear them, so I spun out of the mess and headed west into the sun for home. After I levelled off I looked around but nobody was following me. I was patting myself on the back, feeling pretty good getting out of that scrape. This wasn’t to last long, and the first thing I knew I was being fired on from the rear. I could not fight back unfortunately, so all I could do was to try to dodge my attacker. I noticed it was a red triplane, but if I had realised it was Richthofen I would have probably passed out on the spot. We came over the German lines, troops fired at us as we went over; this was also the case coming over the British lines. I got on the Somme River and started up the valley at a very low altitude. I kept on dodging and spinning, I imagine from about 12,000 feet until I ran out of sky and had to hedge-hop over the ground. Richthofen was firing at me continually, the only thing that saved me was my poor flying. I didn’t know what I was doing myself and I do not suppose that Richthofen could figure out what I was going to do. Richthofen was very close on my tail. I went around a curve in the river just near Corbie. Richthofen beat me to it and came over the hill. At that point I was a sitting duck. I was too low down between the banks to make a turn away from him. I felt that he had me cold, and I was in such a state of mind at this time that I had to restrain myself from pushing my stick forward into the river as I knew that I had had it.25
Lieutenant Wilfred May, 209th Squadron, RAF
But Richthofen, the master of the skies, had made a series of dreadful mistakes. Perhaps tired, stressed, fixated by his latest target, or simply carried away by over-confidence, he was flying alone, well behind British lines. Failing to watch his tail, he came under a burst of fire from a Canadian ace, Captain Roy Brown; flying far too low, he was also vulnerable to several Vickers and Lewis machine guns firing from the ground; and of course he was a target for every strolling infantryman that fancied his chances. Who actually fired the fatal bullet matters little: the only important fact is that Richthofen’s Fokker Triplane came down behind British lines with the great man dead in the cockpit. Richthofen had been one of the men who had defined aerial warfare, building on the pioneer work of Max Immelmann and Oswald Boelcke. Now he too was gone, but by this time the lessons had been disseminated throughout the whole German Air Service. His work was done.
The German attack commenced on the Somme Fr
ont on 24 April. It was noteworthy for featuring the first clash between opposing tanks as three lumbering German A7Vs encountered three British Mark IVs. The Germans had not considered tanks a particular priority, concentrating their efforts on artillery. They did, however, begin experimenting and eventually developed the A7V tank, which was a large high-sided tracked vehicle containing a crew of up to eighteen, armed with one 57 mm gun and six machine guns, and a claimed speed in active service conditions of about 3 miles per hour. The Germans had started too late and this, their first design was not entirely practical, being unable to cross trenches and prone to mechanical failure. There were also very few of them – a mere twenty in all – and the Germans supplemented them with about fifty captured British tanks. Lieutenant Frank Mitchell recalled his first view of the German tanks.
Suddenly, out of the ground 10 yards away, an infantryman rose, waving his rifle furiously. We stopped. He ran forward and shouted through the flap, ‘Look out! Jerry tanks about!’ Swiftly he disappeared into the trench again. I informed the crew and a great thrill ran through us all. Opening a loophole, I looked out. There, some 300 yards away, a round, squat-looking monster was advancing. Behind it came waves of infantry, and further away to left and right crawled two more of these armed tortoises. The 6-pounder gunners crouching on the floor, their backs against the engine cover, loaded their guns expectantly. We still kept on a zig-zag course, threading the gaps between the lines of hastily dug trenches, and coming near the small protecting belt of wire, we turned left, and the right gunner, peering through his narrow slit, made a sighting shot. The shell burst some distance beyond the leading enemy tank. No reply came. A second shot boomed out, landing just to the right, but again there was no reply. More shots followed. Suddenly, a hurricane of hail pattered against our steel wall, filling the interior with myriads of sparks and flying splinters. Something rattled against the steel helmet of the driver sitting next to me and my face was stung with minute fragments of steel. The crew flung themselves flat on the floor. The driver ducked his head and drove straight on. Above the roar of our engine sounded the staccato rat-tat-tat-tat of machine guns and another furious jet of bullets sprayed our steel side, the splinters clanging viciously against the engine cover. The Jerry tank had treated us to a broadside of armour-piercing bullets!26
