Surely We Have Perished The Great War

Ypres, a market town in Flanders.

A beleaguered fortress, guarding the last corner of Belgium's soil.

"Iprey", to the British army or "Ips". "Wipers" to the newspapers and the upper classes.

The British first came to Ypres in October 1914.

We pass over the moat through Vauban's 17th century ramparts by the Lille gate.

The large cobbled square is full of British and Belgian troops.

We pay a too brief visit to the wonderful Flemish cloth hall and Saint Martin's church.

It's a gem of a town with its lovely old-world gabled houses,

red-tiled roofs, and no factories visible to spoil the charm.

The first battle of Ypres in 1914 began to demolish the charm.

Fire!

In 1915, still heavier bombardments beat upon the ancient town.

This was the second battle.

Ypres crumbled steadily, but held out.

Through it lay all communication to the Salient.

The Salient was a vast British slaughter house.

Everywhere the Germans looked down on the British positions

from the so-called ridges.

It was in the Salient in April 1915 that the Germans first used the new weapon of gas.

I didn't think much of the urinating on a handkerchief.

I didn't think it was sufficient protection.

So I went into one of the trench latrines - you know, just a bucket stuck in a hole -

and I stuck my head in the bucket, and I made sure of it.

In the Salient at Hooge, two months later, the British encountered the horror of flame throwers.

The first idea, that sort of flitted through my mind, was that the end of the world had come

and this was the day of judgment,

because suddenly the whole dawn had turned ghastly crimson.

All through 1916, the outline of the Salient barely altered.

100 yards here, a quarter of a mile there. Fruits of what was called the crater fighting.

Scraps of ground were captured, lost, recaptured, at a cost never measured against real gain.

In the Salient the guns were never silent.

Labour was unending.

Death and pain were always present.

By 1917, the whole area had become an immense, disgusting sty.

A ravaged vista of splintered trees, wrecked farms, and craters which quickly filled with water.

In this low country, drainage was all-important.

But years of shelling had burst the drains and the banks of the streams which flowed through the Salient.

Rough plank roads and duckboard tracks zigzagged through the mires.

All supplies had to be carried along them, mostly by night. Day and night, they were death traps.

To the British army, Ypres became what Verdun became to the French -

a symbol of absolute determination, of fatal endurance.

By the summer of 1917, General Robert Nivelle's offensive on the Aisne had collapsed,

and the French army had collapsed with it.

Russia, swept by revolution in March, was now an unknown quantity.

As Britain's Prime Minister, Mr Lloyd George, said,

"The British army was the one allied army which could be absolutely relied on for any enterprise."

Upon this army now fell the burden of the war.

In June the first stroke was ready, under General Plumer, commander of the British second army.

And now one of the war's most deadly methods reached its climax.

The underground war.

The war of mines and tunnels, groping beneath no-man's-land towards the enemy lines,

in which men dug and crouched and blew each other to pieces.

The essence of mining in the clay area was silence and secrecy.

We wore felt slippers, rubber-wheeled trolleys, wooden rails, and we spoke in whispers.

And when the German blew us, we never answered back - we suffered casualties and said nothing,

so we didn't show where we were.

Under the Messine Ridge, which shut in the south side of the Salient,

the British had driven 19 deep mine tunnels containing nearly a million pounds of high explosive.

Some of these mines had been begun as far back as 1915.

By 1916, some 20,000 British, Australian, and Canadian soldiers,

and about as many Germans, were tunnelling towards each other.

The date was June 7th. The time was 3.10am.

Nightingales were singing in the woods.

Then suddenly the whole earth heaved and up from the ground came what looked like two huge cypress trees,

the silhouettes of great, dark, cone-shaped lifts of earth up to three, four, five thousand feet.

We watched this and a moment later we struck the blast's repercussion wave and it flung us backwards.

The whole hillside, everything rocked like a ship at sea.

The noise from the artillery was deafening.

The thunder from the earth charges was enormous.

The infantry dashed forward under a barrage and went forward

and kept sending back thousands and thousands of prisoners.

Over 7,000 German prisoners were taken at Messine.

Men shaken and unnerved by the huge explosions which had swallowed up many of their comrades.

In one concrete shelter, four German officers were found sitting round a table, killed by shock.

For miles around, it seemed like an earthquake.

It was distinctly felt in London.

General Plumer's second army had won a clear-cut victory.

In April - Vimy. In June - Messine.

The two strongest bastions of the German front had been stormed by the British army.

ALL the omens seemed favourable for the great offensive.

Breaking out of the Salient seemed to be only a matter of time.

The army trained and laboured at the massive build-up required for a set piece battle in 1917.

They were in good heart. They did not know that ugly clouds were gathering about their enterprise.

On June 19th, Haig was summoned to London to discuss the campaign with the Cabinet.

The meetings were charged with ill feeling

from distrust between the nation's political leaders and its generals.

"When Sir Douglas Haig explained his projects to the civilians,

"he spread on the table a large map and made dramatic use of both his hands,

"to demonstrate how he proposed to sweep up the enemy.

"First the right hand brushed along the surface irresistibly, then came the left.

"The outer finger ultimately touching the German frontier with a nail across.

"It is not surprising that some of our number were so captivated by the splendour of the landscape,

"that their critical faculties were overwhelmed.

"Lloyd George remained sceptical but there was a shock in store for him."

"A most serious and startling situation was disclosed today.

"Admiral Jellicoe stated that owing to the shortage of shipping due to the German submarines,

"it is impossible for Great Britain to continue the war in 1918.

"This was a bombshell for the Cabinet and all present."

Jellicoe insisted that Zeebrugge must be cleared of U-boats.

Lloyd George was in a dilemma.

"It was decided that I should sum up the misgivings that most of us felt,

"and that the responsibility for decisions should go to Sir William Robertson and Sir Douglas Haig."

Reluctantly the government gave its authority to the Flanders offensive

on naval and army leaders' advice.

Now the time for talking was drawing to an end.

On June 21st, one of Haig's staff officers wrote,

"The longest day of the year and we have not yet begun the big effort.

"We fight alone here. The only army active.

"We shall do well. On that there is no reasonable doubt.

"Have we the time to accomplish?"

Time was inexorably passing.

Time while the staffs worked out their detailed plans.

Time while roads were laid, mended, re-laid and re-mended.

Time while new divisions, including the French, came to the Salient.

Time while training received its finishing touches.

As each day passed, the signs of coming battle multiplied. Veterans knew now how to interpret them.

"Until yesterday, most of those addressing us with pointer and map,

"have declared that by zero hour all the German trenches will be obliterated by our shells.

"A tale we've heard before.

"The last lecturer, however, ominously omitted to provide this comforting assurance."

The men of 1917 were less easily deluded. Less trustful than earlier generations of the war.

Too many things had gone wrong.

"Good morning, good morning!" the General said

When we met him last week on our way to the line.

Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,

And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.

"He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack

As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

The last days of July were running out.

A certain uneasiness made itself felt, in the line and behind it.

A staff officer wrote,

"My one fear is the weather.

"I do not think that we can hope for over a fortnight, or at best three weeks, of really fine weather."

Through the smoking ruins of Ypres and the ruined villages around it,

the troops marched to their positions.

Because soldiers like to sing and because they were not at the end of hope, they marched in singing.

But the songs were changing. The sardonic note was emphasised now.

# We're here because we're here

# We're here because We're here because

# We're here because we're here... #

The entire Ypres Salient, to a depth of eight miles from the front line,

is alive with infantry, artillery, repair workshops, hospitals and ambulances of Gough's fifth army

in billet, bivouac, mottle-painted tent or hut.

The sheds and yards of buildings, copses, and all other cover,

hide tanks, long-range guns, heavy howitzers and ammunition.

Tonight we must bivouac, and there seems to be hardly a bit of vacant ground the size of a football pitch

clear of troops, gear and stores.

"Halted against the shade of a last hill they fed,

"and lying easy were at ease,

"and finding comfortable chests and knees carelessly slept.

"But many there stood still to face the stark blank sky beyond the ridge,

"knowing their feet had come to the end of the world."

Final decisions, final preparations.

"I've ordered the provost sergeant with the battalion police to go to the trenches as the assault starts.

"They are to arrest any men who return improperly.

"Although I command a battalion whose courage and loyalty have never given me a trace of anxiety,

"one must guard against those inexplicable panics which may seize men and which are so infectious."

This by now was an army of veterans.

The men of 1917 were warier, more skilful,

but they were less hasty to sacrifice themselves.

The war itself was an older and uglier beast.

Edmund Blunden wrote,

"There were opportunities enough for death or glory,

"but the experienced sense saw that people did not espouse them with the almost bright eye of a year before.

"1917 was distasteful."

Zero hour was 3.50am on July 31st.

Nine divisions of the fifth army, five divisions of the second, and two French, went over the top.

This was the British army's largest single effort since the Somme.

But this was no Somme catastrophe, yet this was no victory either.

This was not a Vimy or a Messine - it was that most delusive of war's products, a half-success...

or half-failure.

Straight away two persistent features of this battle were seen.

Early in the afternoon, rain began to fall.

Soon it turned into a drenching torrent and the German counter-attack began to come in.

Up to their knees in mud, with rifles and guns choked by it,

inch by inch, the German infantry began to re-take the British gains.

To that extent, this WAS another Somme. With this difference - the rain did not cease.

The British were bogged. The August weather washed their hopes away.

The battlefield turned into a swamp.

The miseries of war multiplied and heaped upon the soldiers.

It rained continuously. One was as afraid of getting drowned as one was of getting hit by shells.

You would either get through or die,

cos if you were wounded and you slipped off the duckboards, you just sank into the mud.

The mud was so deep that with drag ropes on the wheels

and something like 100 men on the drag ropes,

it was impossible to pull the guns out of the mud.

You see fellows coming down there from the trenches, badly wounded,

covered from head to foot in blood - perhaps an arm missing.

You see some of the fellows drop off the duckboard and literally die from exhaustion, from loss of blood.

Horrible it was.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep, many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod.

All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

"Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!" An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed

With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,

Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.

Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,

They leave their trenches going over the top,

While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,

And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,

Flounders in mud. Oh, Jesus, make it stop!

The weather cleared. The ground began to dry.

MUSIC: Waltzing Matilda

Our artillery barrage was magnificent. Quite the best that the Australians had ever seen.

Creeping forward exactly according to plan, the barrage won the ground while the infantry followed behind,

and occupied the important points with a minimum of resistance.

This seemed to be a turning point at last.

The German army group commander wrote,

"It is hoped that another attack won't follow quickly, as we have not enough reserves behind the front."

An officer on Haig's staff wrote,

"It is a race with time and a fight with the weather."

Would the weather hold?

Plumer's next attack was scheduled for October 4th.

The barometer began to fall on October 1st.

Zero hour on the fourth was 6am.

The objective - the line of German concrete pill box defences on the ridge.

"As we advanced, we saw Germans caught in our barrage.

"They had been attacking at the same moment as us.

"We pressed on and reached our objective.

"We were on sloping ground and ahead lay the crest of the ridge."

AUSTRALIAN ACCENT: It was surprising to look across and see the green fields of Belgium.

Actual trees. Grass of course churned up a good deal - fields churned up with barrage shells,

but it was, as far as we were concerned, open country.

But then to look back from where we came, back to Ypres, there was devastation.

And it was just dawn time,

and you could then see why our own gunners had had such a gruesome time.

You could see the flashes of all the guns right right back to the very Menin gate.

The Australians were standing on the very edge of the Salient.

General Monash, commanding their third division, wrote,

"Great happenings are possible in the very near future, as the enemy is terribly disorganised.

"Our success was complete and unqualified. We got absolutely astride of the main ridge."

The Germans called October 4th, "A black day." Ludendorf wrote,

"The infantry battle commenced on the morning of the 4th. It was extraordinarily severe.

"And again we only came through with enormous losses."

Now the great question presented itself in simple terms.

In view of three blows, all a success, what will be the result of three more in the next fortnight?

The question was never answered. Prince Rupprecht, commanding the Germans in Flanders, wrote,

"Sudden change of weather. Most gratifying. Rain - our most effective ally."

Haig's staff officer noted,

"It was the saddest day of this year. We did fairly well.

"It wasn't the enemy, but mud, that prevented us from doing better.

"But there is now no chance of complete success this year. We must still fight on for a few more weeks,

"but there is no purpose in it now, so far as Flanders is concerned."

Now the ridges were needed to lift the army, if only a little, out of the sea of mud.

This was the Slough of Despond.

In this wasteland, shell craters touched each other, lip to lip, filled with disgusting ooze.

Forward, inch by inch along the slimy tracks between these stinking ponds,

British, Australian and New Zealand soldiers crept towards Passchendaele.

"I don't know how far the duckboards extended because it was such slow going up to the front.

It must have been hundreds of yards as they zigzagged about.

But each side was a sea of mud,

and you stumbled and slud along - if you slipped, you went up to the waist, possibly.

Not only that, but in every pool

was decomposed bodies of humans and mules.

Or mules... Sometimes both.

And if you were wounded and slipped off, well, that was the end of you.

"...I died in Hell

"(they called it Passchendaele) my wound was slight

"and I was hobbling back; and then a shell

"burst slick upon the duckboards; so I fell

"into the bottomless mud, and lost the light."

How many men wounded, overburdened or overtired vanished in the swamp no-one will know.

The October days were nightmares for the British army.

The icy fingers of nightmare clutched men's hearts on both sides of the line.

I thought that the Germans were in as bad a position as we were.

In fact, one party of men was trying to make a hole more comfortable - scooping it out,

and some hundreds of yards away the Germans were doing the same, but neither took notice of the other.

A German officer wrote,

"I am scared. For the first time in this war I have doubts whether we shall be able to hold out.

"There must be 8 to 10,000 guns employed on this bit of front."

"That is the picture which scares me.

"Verdun, the Somme and Arras are mere purgatories compared with this concentrated hell,

"which one of these days will be stoked up to white heat.

"It makes you grind your teeth with rage and gives you a dry throat.

"I have a sense of coming disaster."

The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs

High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps

And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud,

Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled;

And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair,

Bulged, clotted heads slapped in the plastering slime.

And then the rain began - the jolly old rain!

Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?

Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,

Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,

Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?

Stroke on stroke of pain... but what slow panic,

Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?

Ever from their hair and through their hand's palms misery swelters.

Surely we have perished Sleeping, and walk hell...

..but who these hellish?

These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.

Canadians came in to relieve the Anzacs.

More British divisions moved up.

Yard by yard, they crept towards Passchendaele.

On October 28th Haig wrote,

"The seventh division were engulfed in mud in places when they attacked.

"Rifles could not be used."

It happened every day.

Ludendorf wrote,

"It was not longer life at all. It was just unspeakable suffering.

"And through this world of mud the attackers dragged themselves, slowly but steadily and in dense masses.

"Man fought against man, but only too often the mass was successful."

O German mother dreaming by the fire,

While you are knitting socks to send your son

His face is trodden deeper in the mud.

Passchendaele, a brick-coloured stain on the watery wilderness,

fell to the Canadians on November 6th.

Six days later the battle ended.

It had cost the British army nearly a quarter of a million casualties.

They had not even completely reached their first objective.

Ostend and Zeebrugge remained in German hands.

But a German staff officer called this battle, "The greatest martyrdom of the war."

Another German wrote in his last letter home,

"You do not know what Flanders means. Flanders means endless human endurance.

"Flanders means blood and scraps of human bodies.

"Flanders means heroic courage and fatefulness, even until death."

In the Ypres Salient the ultimate battle was fought, not amid the swamps, but in the hearts of men.

And now they were beginning to recognise their other enemy.

A war correspondent caught a hint of it.

"For the first time the British army lost its spirit of optimism,

"and there was a sense of deadly depression among many officers and men with whom I came in touch.

"They saw no ending of the war and nothing except continuous slaughter, such as that in Flanders."

The soldiers' opinion of this battle - they were very bitter.

The point at issue was no-one, no infantryman at all, minded one bit being shot about,

or doing his job on a terra firma - where he could stand to fight.

But here we were so hopelessly placed that there was no thought of getting to any final objective

because you couldn't even swim or stagger there.

There was this bitter feeling that prevailed amongst the infantrymen

when they saw their lads and they knew not wounded, not killed, but drowned in this filthy mud.

I can see them all asleep, three men deep,

and it's bitter cold at night, since the fight

and they're nowhere near a fire - but our wire

Has 'em fast as can be. Can't you see

When the flare goes up?

Ssh! Boys; what's that noise?

Do you know what these rats eat? Body-meat!

Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;

Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.

For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;

Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,

For love of God seems dying.

Good-bye old lad! Remember me to God,

And tell him that our Politicians swear

They won't give in till Prussian Rule's been trod

Under the Heal of England... Are you there?

Yes...and the War won't end for at least two years;

But we've got stacks of men... I'm blind with tears,

Staring into the dark. Cheero!

I wish they'd killed you in a decent show.

Subtitles by Kate Spence BBC Broadcast 2003

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