But the Germans’ coded communications were broken by the British, who learned about the trap. The entire British Grand Fleet was sent south-east from Scapa Flow in support of the Rosyth battlecruisers, to face the enemy.
The two navies met in a pitched battle, during which 250 combat ships blasted each other for hours with missiles and torpedoes. When the fighting was finally over, the British had lost around 6,000 men and 14 warships – more than double the German losses.
Jutland was seen at first as a German victory, but this view changed over time. The German fleet was forced to return to its base having failed to wrestle control of the North Sea from the British. So the battle was arguably a strategic British victory.
Jutland is a landmass in north-western Europe that reaches out, like a hand, to guard the entrance to the Baltic Sea to the east. Most of Jutland is in Denmark, but its southern section is part of Germany.
The battle was actually fought west of Jutland, in a sector of the North Sea known as ‘Fisher’. The area is still mentioned every day on the British maritime weather report, or Shipping Forecast. In recent decades marine archaeologists have discovered the wrecks of ships lost during the Battle of Jutland in an area which is now a protected military grave site.
Inventory: The HMS Agincourt was a state-of-the-art Dreadnought-class battleship, built in Newcastle-upon-Tyne and launched in 1913. She was named after the historic battle of Agincourt in which the English defeated the French in 1415.
At over 200 metres long, she weighed more than 30,000 tonnes when fully loaded. She was driven through the water at 22 knots – 25 miles per hour – by four Parsons steam turbines producing around 34,000 horsepower.
The Agincourt was defended by fourteen heavy guns mounted in pairs in seven gun turrets. Cunninghame-Graham was commander of No. 4 turret. The barrels of the guns, made by the Elswick Ordnance Company, were each almost 14 metres long and fired explosive missiles weighing almost 400kg each.
The vessel also had six-inch guns – no fewer than 20 – as well as ten three-inch guns. Below the waterline were three 21-inch torpedo tubes, two fore and one aft. In places the ship’s armour was up to 12 inches thick, but in other parts of the deck it was only one inch thick, making her vulnerable to a well-placed hit.
Hell’s Orchestra
The bombardment had been going on for days. Thousands upon thousands of shells, fired from the barrels of enormous field guns, sailed over the heads of the Scottish soldiers and across the flat French fields.
The shells’ explosive impact unleashed hailstorms of earth, rocks and pieces of shrapnel that smashed, tore and burst everything they touched. Bright flashes lit up the sky, followed by tall plumes of grey, brown and blue smoke.
This almighty punishment was being hurled at the Germans by the Allied field guns, preparing the way for the planned ground battle that lay ahead. The aim was to demoralise the enemy, to wreck their trenches, rip open their barbed-wire defences, shatter their guns, flatten their billets and sever their lines of communication. Those soldiers not cut to pieces by shellfire and shrapnel would be left terrified, dazed and confused, their fighting spirit destroyed.
Then, at a time specified by the generals, the guns would cease. The Allied soldiers would rise up from their trenches, sweep like an avalanche across the German lines and fall on the enemy with bullet, bomb and bayonet.
‘May God have mercy on their souls,’ said Private William Wilcock under his breath as he crouched waiting for the command. He ran his finger along the blade of his bayonet. It shone dully in the candlelight in spite of the caked-on trench mud. He practised attaching and detaching the bayonet, repeatedly checking that his Lee Enfield rifle and ammunition were in order.
It was Saturday, 25 September 1915 – very early in the morning. Unable to see much in the darkness, Wilcock concentrated on listening. The air was filled with the whoosh and roar of shells flying overhead, and the heavy CRRRUMP, CRRRUMP sound of them landing on the German positions. Their trenches lay in front of the French mining town of Loos.
‘It sounds like an orchestra,’ said Wilcock, turning to a Tommy next to him. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the rumbling din.
‘Aye, an orchestra in Hell!’ said the other man, curdling a gob of saliva and spitting at the ground.
If Hell is anything like this, thought Wilcock, then it must be a very unpleasant place indeed. He and the rest of his company were huddled on the front line, having spent the previous weeks preparing for the big push while the artillery got on with their work.
With spades, sandbags and spars of wood they had dug and fortified new trenches. These were required to house all the reserves of men who were now swarming towards the front. Everybody knew that numbers were being increased to compensate for the inevitable casualties when the time came for the ground attack.
But for now they had to concentrate on becoming the best soldiers they could possibly be. Through careful training and preparation, each man had learned a specialism that would be vital in making the attack a success.
There were wire-cutters whose role was to snip open the enemy’s jagged, tangled defences swiftly and effectively. There were bomb-throwers, or grenadiers, trained to hurl grenades accurately at clusters of enemy soldiers while under fire. The trench-mortar men, operators of small mobile cannons, needed to be swift, precise and cool under pressure. Then there were the Red Cross men, ready to attend to the sick and wounded, and take them to safety.
Wilcock continued checking his equipment. Every so often he lifted his head and ran his eyes up the four-foot-long wooden ladders resting against the wall of the trench. These ladders, which had been knocked into shape in the preceding weeks, then distributed along the trenches, would eventually take him and his comrades over the top.
Wilcock pictured himself clambering up the nearest ladder, over the parapet into No Man’s Land and – what then? Would he stride gallantly into the peaceful dim light of early morning or stagger into the murderous glare of enemy artillery? Would he find a lucky opening in the German defences or be caught in a hail of machine-gun fire? Would his advance lead him on to victory or oblivion?
It seemed only a short while since his arrival in France. The people on the streets had shouted ‘Vive L’Ecossais!’ – ‘Long live the Scots!’ – as he and his kilted colleagues marched past. They’d felt, if not quite invincible, then at least confident and optimistic. But now, sitting here in the cold wet trench, he couldn’t help wondering exactly how long he had left to live.
He wiped a smear of mud from the face of his watch. It was 4.30am. From what they’d been told, the order would be given to spring into action around 6am. All he could do was wait. He closed his eyes.
‘Stand to arms!’
The sudden command roused Wilcock and the rest of the waiting soldiers. His eyes itched with tiredness, but he jumped to his feet, fixing his bayonet onto the end of his rifle in a swift, well-drilled action.
‘Prepare to advance!’
Wilcock checked that his tin hat and all the rest of his equipment was in place, and pounced on the trench ladder.
His knees trembled as he climbed the steps. He slithered off the top rung and lay on his belly just beyond the parapet. Like a swarm of ants, dozens more men on either side crawled out too.
This was it.
Wilcock awaited further orders. His packed ammunition pouches bulged uncomfortably against his torso. His heart thumped in his chest. Thick mud oozed against his bare, kilted knees. The whizz, ping, spit and patter of enemy bullets striking hard objects, soft sandbags and damp earth rang in his ears. The enemy wasn’t giving up without a fight.
There were screams and whimpers, and bloody gurgling sounds as bullets pierced the flesh and bone of those unlucky enough to be hit before they had a chance to get going. Wilcock kept his head down and prayed he would not be next.
‘Company, Advance!’
This was what they’d been trained for. At the command, Wilcock haul
ed himself up and rushed forward. His senses took in flashing lights, thick clouds of smoke, the rat-tat-tat-tat of machine guns, horrifying cries from men struck down and killed or wounded, and barked curses and swearing from those who kept striding forward alongside him.
German shells slammed into the ground all around and the whole battlefield shook. Jagged chunks of shrapnel went whizzing everywhere, but the line of advancing men pushed steadily on, without breaking or buckling.
Suddenly, Wilcock heard a cry. To his left he saw a face contorted in agony. It was a soldier he knew well; a strong man and great fighter who now lay bleeding and shattered in the mud. Wilcock knew the drill. He couldn’t pause, couldn’t stop, couldn’t do anything to help – he could only advance and hope the Red Cross men would help his friend before it was too late.
On went Wilcock through the blinding, deafening maelstrom, amid the swirling smoke. He pushed his way between gaps in the German barbed wire, somehow dodging the relentless enemy fire. He stepped over bodies – some freshly slain; some charred and putrefying after lying in the open for weeks – and splashed round the edges of waterlogged shell craters.
Soon the parapets of the German trenches loomed in front of him. He felt his heart pounding, and he was suddenly giddy with excitement at surviving so far. Roaring like an unstoppable conqueror, he threw himself over a wall of sandbags and into a front-line German trench, finger on his trigger and bayonet at the ready, eyes glaring, looking for someone to kill. Other Tommies poured in alongside him, berserk with war fury.
‘Surrender!’ yelled Wilcock.
‘Give up, Bosche!’ barked another Tommy, using a nickname for the Germans.
‘Kapitulieren Sie!’ shouted one of the others, using what little German he knew.
Out of the corner of his eye Wilcock spotted what he assumed was the opening of a large, heavily fortified dugout further along the trench. It probably contained ammunition crates and rations … but what else? He signalled to his comrades.
One of the Tommies bellowed a warning and threw a grenade inside. In an instant, four Germans leapt out with their hands up. A second or two later the dugout was blown out in a massive explosion that showered everyone with soil, splinters and smoke. The Germans were wide-eyed with terror, their mouths gaping. They surrendered immediately.
Forward went Wilcock and the others – shooting, bayoneting and hurling grenades – until finally they made it safely behind the trenches and ran on into the village of Loos.
The first thing to command Wilcock’s attention was the very tall twin-towered steel building which housed the machinery to draw coal up from underground. Next to it was a spoil heap, a gigantic mound of industrial waste created by the coal mine.
Everything else had been smashed to ruins in the shelling. Now, the Tommies had to clear the village of Germans as quickly as they could, take prisoners and try not to harm any surviving local civilians who had not already fled the area.
As Wilcock made his way through the streets, he and a few men from his platoon came upon a house with a badly damaged wall. There was a gash through which they squeezed themselves in order to search the place.
The door to the cellar was locked from the inside, and Wilcock began bashing it with the butt of his rifle. A panel of wood cracked, splintered and then broke apart.
Wilcock squinted through the jagged hole, careful not to make himself a target for anyone with a gun on the other side. But there was only darkness.
Leaning in closer, he took a deep breath of the cellar’s damp air and shouted, ‘Come out!’
His voice echoed in the gloom. There was no reply.
He looked over his shoulder at his comrades and gestured at the locked bolt on the door. ‘There’s definitely somebody down there,’ he whispered.
They nodded.
He began thinking that a grenade might be necessary, but just then …
‘Nous sommes réfugiés!’ A shrill, female voice echoed in the darkness. ‘Nous sommes réfugiés!’
The soldiers exchanged glances. Wilcox recognised the French phrase: ‘We are refugees!’ They must be locals hiding from the Germans, he thought. He put his head through the opening. ‘Okay – come up!’ he ordered. He reached his arm through the crack and slid open the bolt to unlock the door.
As he did so, the glow of a lantern appeared in the shadows at the bottom of the stone cellar stairs. Footsteps began shuffling towards them. Wilcock stepped back, the barrel of his Lee Enfield trained on the door. The other men did the same. They couldn’t be too careful.
Eventually, the door slowly creaked open. The men found themselves staring into the eyes of a terrified and bewildered-looking elderly woman.
‘Nous sommes réfugiés!’ she repeated quietly and tried to smile, tears streaming down her cheeks. Wilcock gestured for her to move forward and as she shuffled out two other women followed.
‘Are you alone?’ asked Wilcock.
The ladies looked confused.
He asked again, trying to remember his French lessons. ‘C’est tout? … erm, Vous êtes seuls?’
‘Ahh, oui – nous sommes seuls!’ the nearest one replied.
One of Wilcock’s colleagues looked at him, eyebrow raised. ‘What did she …?’ the soldier began.
‘They say they are alone,’ Wilcock replied, ‘and they’re refugees.’
He lowered his firearm and gestured for the others to do the same.
Suddenly the first of the three women rushed at Wilcock and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on both cheeks and thanking him profusely for not harming them and for driving the Germans out. Wilcock blushed, the other men laughed. They checked out the cellar and the rest of the house just to make sure there were no Germans lurking about.
Unfortunately, there was no time to provide further assistance to the women. The orders were to continue the advance. Wilcock bade them Adieu and stepped back outside.
Allied troops were now surging through Loos, waging gun battles on street corners. These usually ended with weary, bloodied and battle-hardened Germans – those who had not fought to the death – being led away as prisoners with their hands on their heads.
Craters pocked the ground where Allied shells had rained down during the previous days. The streets were littered with dead bodies lying in pools of blood and mud.
House after house lay in ruins. Every so often bits of damaged walls would crumble to the ground, sending grey-white clouds whooshing up in ghostly wisps.
Wilcock passed a broken cart lying in a heap, its wheels smashed and axles snapped. It had obviously been laden with the treasured belongings of a local family as they tried to flee from the conflict.
But the attempt had been in vain, and now the contents was strewn about. Wilcock picked his way through furniture, paintings, framed family photographs, clothes, children’s toys, broken gramophone records, all sorts of personal items.
The stink was terrible. Bloated bodies of wide-eyed horses and mules lay in heaps, some still tethered to carts and unable to get away fast enough when they bolted in panic. Their limbs were shattered and their bellies burst open. Wilcock tried not to look too closely. Here and there lay other failed means of escape – abandoned bicycles with mangled wheels, broken chains and bent handlebars.
But there was no time to mourn. Wilcock and the rest had to keep going. They marched beyond Loos towards a rise in the ground known as Hill 70, where their objective was to take up a position and dig in.
But the Germans had not given up. As they climbed up the slope, the advancing men came under heavy fire. The shells fell with a scream, a whoosh and a bone-jarring blast. One of them landed right next to Wilcock, the force of the explosion knocking him to the ground. When he picked himself up, he found a lump of hot shrapnel embedded in his rifle.
He didn’t have the time to think too hard about it, but his Lee Enfield had probably saved his life. Now it was ruined, the mechanism smashed.
But one of his comrades hadn’t been
so fortunate. He lay dead, blood pouring from his wounds. The shell had killed him outright, but by a cruel piece of luck his rifle was now Wilcock’s for the taking. In seconds the swap was complete.
Exhausted and hungry, the men reached their position and began digging for their lives. The deeper the trench, the safer they were.
But the shells and gunfire kept coming.
A bullet hit Wilcock’s spade. Had it struck a few inches further up the shaft it would have taken off his hand.
He looked around, desperate to find something else to help him finish digging the trench. But suddenly his head began pounding in agony. He closed his eyes, wincing at the pain. A few seconds later his stomach was burning.
Unable to control himself, he started vomiting.
‘Gas!’ somebody shouted. ‘Keep your respirators on!’
Retching, Wilcock looked around and saw that the air had turned yellowish-green. Poisonous chlorine. He scrabbled to pull on his primitive cloth gas mask.
He knew he should have been wearing it all along – they had been warned to expect gas attacks – but like many of his comrades, he had found the mask uncomfortable and difficult to breathe through during the advance, and so had taken it off. He regretted that decision now.
As he pulled on the mask, another shell hit the ground nearby and a chunk of flying metal struck him on the shoulder like a hammer. It was a piece of shell casing. Wilcock was very lucky to get away with nothing worse than a nasty, bloody bruise.
As soon as the trench was deep enough, the men stopped digging and hunkered down. This was to be their new front line, well in advance of their old front line back behind Loos. But would they be able to hold it?
‘The Huns are coming!’ a voice suddenly cried out.
‘Stand to arms!’ an officer commanded.
Somehow, the Germans had rallied and were now mounting a counter-attack to try to force the Allies to give up the ground they had taken. Fuelled by a burning desire for revenge, they opened fire with sniper rifles, grenade launchers and machine guns. Wilcock and his comrades worked hard to keep them at bay.
World War I Page 6
