Zero Hour (15 page)

POLYGON WOOD

Over the next six days, soldiers worked through shellfire and mustard gas—a new German gas that burned and blistered the skin—to build new roads so the artillery could be moved forward to support the next advance. At dusk, 80 motor lorries dumped road planks near the deadly Hellfire Corner for horse-drawn carts to transport to the next section of road being built. Menin Road, and particularly the railway crossing at Hellfire Corner, were shelled regularly, so transports raced through to avoid random shells. At Hellfire Corner, screens of cloth shielded moving troops and wagons from observation. With shells exploding around them, cart drivers steadied their horses, while soldiers dragged dead horses and smashed wagons from the road.

On 26 September, with the artillery in position, the 4th and 5th Divisions lay at the jumping-off line, facing the thin, shattered stumps of Polygon Wood as German flares lit up the night. In the centre of seven divisions on a nine-kilometre front, the Diggers were again to advance 1300 metres in three steps, their objective to capture the wood. At 5.50 a.m., the British artillery barrage intensified, spewing up walls of dust and smoke as it rolled forward ‘like a Gippsland bushfire'. While many Germans fought as determinedly as in the past, others were stunned and disorientated by the heavy bombardment. When the barrage passed over, many surrendered to the advancing Australians. Some even held out souvenirs for their captors. ‘Old Fritz's morale vanishes when he knows we are coming,' said Sergeant Eric Evans.

As British biplanes flew overhead to locate the new frontline, the Australians sheltered in shell holes and lit fires to brew tea. Reinforcements helped dig the new front-line under fire, only stopping to take souvenirs from passing German prisoners. Evans used several prisoners as stretcher-bearers: ‘It's great sport, driving them on at revolver point.'

The Germans were demoralised; they'd either held the front-line under crushing bombardments or counterattacked through withering shellfire. The Australians and British were feeling more positive; the short attacks on wide fronts after proper preparation were succeeding. In front of them lay Broodseinde Ridge, abandoned by the British in 1915 and now crowded with German headquarters and observation posts.

Since 7 June, the Allies had captured three-quarters of the sickle-shaped ridge. The next advance was to see Brood-seinde Ridge captured, then, after that, Passchendaele.

Hellfire Corner on the Menin Road
in the Ypres sector.
AWM E01889

New Zealand soldiers passing the ruins of the Cloth Hall in Ypres.
Alexander Turnbull Library, G- 13129-1/2

SHOCK TROOPS

On 28 September, after a period of resting and training 70 kilometres away, the New Zealand and 3rd Australian Divisions—II Anzac Corps—marched through Ypres, passing the ruins of the ancient Cloth Hall. Hooves and iron wheels clattered and clanged over the cobbled roads as they moved out through Menin Gate towards the front-line. The move had been rushed and the marches to Ypres long and hard—the next advance had been brought forward as the commanders feared that the good weather might end.

The air carried the smell of death. Duckboard tracks wove around a cratered, devastated land dotted with captured pillboxes, ruined tanks, and dead, bloated horses and mules. Villages were mounds of rubble and streams were bogs. Cemeteries were the only thing growing. Some graves had crosses inscribed ‘Rest in Peace' or ‘
Hier ruht in
Gott
'—here rests in God. Others were simply marked by an upturned rifle with a helmet on top. To Lieutenant Colonel Claud Weston, ‘every square yard of it seemed foul with slaughter.'

The Australians and New Zealanders joined the frontline at night. Both the British command and the Germans now considered them shock troops or storm troops: soldiers who could be given the role of taking the hardest and most vital areas. Evans felt it was deserved: ‘We are given a damn lot of work in every hopover and we have earnt the name of “shock troops” from our enemies.' The II Anzac Corps hadn't suffered a defeat at the Western Front yet, and their morale was high after Messines. Private Stan Stanfield came to believe that this self-confidence was misguided:

Of course don't forget the propaganda—we were brainwashed that we were so good that you had to be good. We were taught not to lay down, therefore we didn't lay down.

The battle for Broodseinde Ridge was to be launched on 4 October, on a 12-kilometre front with 12 divisions. The Australians and New Zealanders were on the right flank of the advance. From left to right, the New Zealanders and the 3rd Division were to seize Gravenstafel Spur, while the 1st and 2nd Divisions were to capture Broodseinde village. This would leave only the northern part of the ridge, including Passchendaele, for the next advances. For the first time, three Australian divisions and the New Zealand Division would fight beside each other, and each was keen to prove itself better than the others. According to Australian Sergeant Henry Kahan, ‘We always believed we were the best and the New Zealanders second best and there were times when I privately reversed that order but I didn't say so publicly.'

Striking differences had developed between the New Zealanders and the Australians. The New Zealanders were more disciplined, neater, and they were quieter, less likely to sing or be raucous when marching or on leave. Once, while a group of New Zealanders were resting in a canteen, several Australians walked in and immediately sat down at the piano and broke into song. After they left, one of the New Zealanders complained about how ‘doleful' his own countrymen were. Why couldn't they ‘pipe up like the Aussies'? he wondered. But when asked why he didn't join the singalong himself, he answered, ‘The trouble is I'm a New Zealander.' The New Zealanders were seen as ‘stern, dour and grim' and became known as the Silent Division.

BROODSEINDE

On 4 October, the divisions of the Anzac corps waited in small coffin-like holes or fortified shell holes, hoping the weather would hold. Flares crackled yellow through the hazy drizzle. It was a freezing night, and, as zero hour approached, the men sheltered under waterproof sheets, occasionally stretching their numb, cramped legs. At 5.40 a.m., 40 minutes before zero hour, they heard the familiar ‘crump, crump' of German artillery. The shells hit the Australians hard. By dawn, their dead littered the churned-up land—one in seven men had been killed or wounded. Australian Major Philip Howell-Price had been removed from his battalion to spare his life after his two brothers were killed, one at Flers, the other at Bullecourt, but he'd chosen to return when he heard they were attacking. He was never seen again. Officers were uncertain if their men could still attack at zero hour, but when the British barrage began, the Australians shook themselves out of their shell holes, some lighting cigarettes as they crossed the wet ground behind a deafening barrage that hissed up steam and mud rather than a blanket of dust.

The enemy shelling had been part of a planned counterattack to win back ground, and as the Australians advanced, they met a line of advancing Germans. The Australian riflemen and Lewis gunners shot as they walked, breaking the German attack.

Beside the Australians, the New Zealanders found hundreds of German dead scattered among craters, caught out in the open by a barrage so loud that soldiers struggled to hear the man next to them even if he was shouting. After recent battles, the Germans were holding their front-line heavily in order to stop attacks immediately, rather than sending reinforcements from their support lines. Now their frontline troops were trapped between the Diggers and the barrage that had passed behind them.

Machine-gunners fired desperately from the pillboxes. One German officer, revolver in hand, led his men out to charge the New Zealanders. All the Germans were shot down. New officers replaced the fallen as each pillbox was outflanked and bombed. By 9.30 a.m., the Anzac corps were digging in at their final objectives, 1700 metres from where they had started. Broodseinde Ridge, the village and Gravenstafel Spur had been captured.

The Diggers lit red flares to indicate their positions, then covered their new shell-hole posts in camouflage netting. One and a half kilometres along the tip of the sickle-shaped ridge was the red-roofed village of Passchendaele. The New Zealanders, who were on the forward slope of Gravenstafel Spur, looked across a bogged valley at Bellevue Spur, which joined Passchendaele Ridge. Pillboxes lay stark on the spur and gunners fired freely from them, their bullets sweeping no-man's-land.

With over 5000 Germans surrendering, their few remaining soldiers had only just managed to plug the gaps. Waves of German troops tried to counterattack but were shot down. Officers on horseback tried to round up and rally their scattering troops for another charge, but every time a shell landed among them, the troops fled.

The Germans were disorganised and their commanders seemed powerless to stop the Allied advances. In 15 days, the Allies had struck successfully three times. Many of the officers and troops had wanted to keep advancing and most now believed that if the weather held, the Germans could be forced off the heights. The Germans were exhausted. Many of those surrendering were young—17- or 18-year-olds—and quick to thank their captors. The German commander of the area, Crown Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria, was considering withdrawing from the ridge.

With victory in sight, Field Marshal Haig rushed General Plumer's step-by-step tactics and ordered the next advance for 9 October, in five day's time, leaving little time for the artillery to do its job effectively. At noon, rain fell. The Diggers helped their wounded, placing oil sheets over them to keep the rain off, lighting their cigarettes, giving them water or carrying them to crowded pillboxes converted into aid posts.

All Black legend Sergeant Dave Gallaher had been shot in the throat and, like other wounded, he lay outdoors while rain lashed and shells exploded around him. He died later that day. New Zealander Private Robin Hamley had been shot in the neck and stomach. While waiting, he wrote in his diary,

Dear M, D and G
Think I'm dying
Best love
don't fret
Tell Dorothy
Rob.

He died two days later.

In the trenches the surviving soldiers leaned against the wall because there was no dry place to sit. They were soaked and smeared in stinking Flanders mud. New Zealander Private Neil Ingram spoke for many when he said he would prefer ‘a pig's life, humans were not made for this.' The following day, rations arrived. The biscuits were flecked with the blood of horses and men killed while bringing them up. When the men were relieved later that night, Ingram and those left in his company ate a feast of hot stew. The cooks had prepared food for 120 but only 30 men were still standing. When mail arrived for the dead, Ingram and the other survivors opened it and shared out the knitted clothing and food.

DRY AS A BONE , POELCAPPELLE

On the night of 5 October, the 49th and 66th British Divisions followed signposts through the featureless landscape to the front-line. They had been loaned to Lieutenant General Godley's II Anzac Corps for the next attack. Their advance was one of two steps. They were to advance the line to the outskirts of Passchendaele, supported by the 2nd Australian Division. Then on 12 October, the 3rd Australian and the New Zealand Divisions were to go on to capture the long-sought-after village. The attack should have been postponed— the weather hampered the preparations essential for the step-by-step tactics, and the bogged land and roads had prevented most of the artillery getting into position. Haig, convinced that the German Army was close to collapse, believed too much had been gained to stop now. But rain was still falling.

On 7 October, Haig held a conference with the local commanders to determine whether the attack could still be carried out, stressing ‘that there should be no postponement unless absolutely necessary'. In a conference with war correspondents, one general said the attack should proceed even if the weather was bad—the valleys might be muddy but the ridge itself was ‘as dry as a bone'. After the conference, one correspondent commented: