THE FOUR DAYS
(September 21-24, 1915)
Although many descriptions and maps of the country round about Loos have been issued, it may not be out of place to attempt one more brief outline, from which the general trend of the operations from September 25, 1915, onward can be followed. Descriptions of a country that one does not know being invariably flat and unconvincing, it may suffice to lay down the main features in a very few words. From the La BassÉe Canal southward to Souchez is a purely coal-mining district, one of the most important in France, an undulating country devoid of natural features, but abounding in artificial ones, such as chimney-stacks, mine-shafts and dump-heaps. The miners' villages, locally termed corons, group themselves about the pit-heads, and form two long lines of almost continuous brick and mortar, separated by a shallow valley, normally under cultivation, but now lying fallow and deserted, varying in width from a few hundred yards to a couple of miles or so. In the centre of this valley lies Loos, a village of some two thousand inhabitants, conspicuous for miles round from the huge double shaft, the famous Pylons, that rise nearly three hundred feet above the surface of the plain.
Of the two lines of villages, that surrounding the mines owned by the Compagnie des Mines de BÉthune, and consisting of Cambrin, Vermelles, Philosophe, Mazingarbe, Les Brebis, Grenay, Maroc, and Aix Noulette, was, about the middle of September, held by the Allies. The eastern line, consisting of Auchy, Haisnes, CitÉ St. Elie, Hulluch, Benifontaine, Vendin, CitÉ St. Auguste, Lens and its countless suburbs, and LiÉvin, was, at the same period, held by the enemy. Along the course of the valley, but well up the western slope of it, so that the village of Loos lay a mile within them on the German side, ran the two opposing lines, with their maze of support and reserve trenches, their sinuous lines of communication trenches leading up the slopes of the valley to the villages in rear. From our observation posts in Maroc the whole of the southern sector of these parallel works could be plainly seen, the line of each trench through the green overgrowth of weeds being conspicuously marked by the white chalk thrown up in excavating them. Behind these again, two long black arms stretched out towards us, with a sinister look as though inviting us to leave the comparative security of our trenches and rush to the attack of the body from which they grew, the city of Lens. In reality nothing but embankments formed by the continual deposition of refuse from the mines, these two arms, the northern known as the Double Crassier, the southern as the Puits XVI embankment, had been transformed by the enemy into exceedingly strong positions, mined, entrenched, fortified by every known means, the westernmost ramifications of the fortress into which Lens had been converted. Opposite the extremity of the Puits XVI embankment the Allied armies met, the right of the British line resting upon the Tenth French Army, the first of that great chain of armies that spreads, with one short gap, to the faraway Swiss mountains.
All through August and September the roads behind the Allied front had been covered by infantry and artillery, and even towards the end by cavalry, all moving eastwards through the all-pervading chalk dust. Rumour, as ever, was busy with conjecture. This was merely a feint, maintained the pessimists, the real advance is to lie with the French in Champagne. Nonsense, replied the optimists, this is at last the long-looked-for general advance, the death-blow of trench warfare, the dawning of the millennium when the Battle of Position shall give way to the Battle of Movement, the beginning of the final struggle that will end only with the death-throes of the enemy on the Rhine! Whatever were one's individual opinions, the scent of battle, the glorious prospect of a "scrap," was in the air, and spirits rose accordingly.
Slowly, from the august sources wherein the strategy of armies has its birth, the true intentions of the Allies percolated. Looking back now, it seems that too much was allowed to be known from the first. Documents containing detailed programmes of the proposed operations were circulated in some cases as much as a fortnight before the selected day, and in the field it is impossible to prevent the contents of such documents becoming common knowledge within an incredibly short time, which is practically equivalent to sending the originals across to the enemy with one's compliments. It was subsequently established by the examination of prisoners that the German General Staff had full knowledge of our plans many days before the attack took place, and had, indeed, made dispositions to meet it. It is undoubtedly essential to circulate beforehand exact instructions as to the part that each unit is to perform in contemplated operations, but it is extremely doubtful if it is expedient to do so until the last possible moment. Apart from the danger of leakage to the enemy, it is always found, as indeed in this case, that the interval that elapses between the receipt of instructions and their execution is filled with a storm of amplifications, contradictions and amendments, poured out by intermediate commanders, until the unfortunate commander of a unit is faced, when called upon to act, by an accumulation of mutually incompatible orders. If a strong man, he throws them all indiscriminately into the fire, and, acting by the light of his own commonsense and initiative, stands a fair chance of succeeding; if a weak man, he endeavours to act upon them all, and, with deadly certainty, fails.
The ultimate intention of the General Staff will not be revealed until long after the end of the war, if even then, nor need we concern ourselves with anything but the general instructions issued to the Fourth Corps, the southernmost portion of the First British Army, the army that held the line from the canal southward to the junction with the French. Briefly, these were to seize Loos, Hill 70, which is merely the eastern slope of the valley behind Loos, and to establish themselves on this slope in such a position as to command Lens from the north. It was understood that the French were to make a simultaneous attack from the direction of Souchez, occupy the Vimy ridge, and similarly threaten Lens from the south.
In order to attain these objects, a four days' bombardment of the enemy's position was to be undertaken, to be immediately followed by an assault upon the fifth day. Of the actual details of the targets to be engaged by each battery it is unnecessary to speak in a sketch of this nature. Our own battery, in common with the rest, was allotted targets to be engaged at different periods of each of the four days, these days being not specified, but described as days V, W, X, and Y. Throughout a breathless week we elaborated our plans, each day bringing as a rule some modification of our original instructions. We spent our daylight hours peering out of our observation slits, and our evenings measuring ever new angles and ranges on our maps, until each one of us knew every stone in the country that lay in front of us by some pet name, and our maps developed strange diagrams in every possible combination of coloured chalks, for all the world like the diagram of the London Tubes. Thus we possessed our souls in a greater or less degree of impatience, till at last the message came: "To-morrow is day V," and on the night of September 20 I at least sought the genial warmth of my valise feeling that the curtain was about to rise upon the finest spectacle that the world had ever seen.
That night was the lull before the storm. All along our line the restless field guns woke but fitfully, as a watch-dog to bark at the moon, and then fell off to sleep again. Even the incomparable French soixante-quinzes on our right, whose voices are hushed neither by day nor night, seemed restless, impatient, restrained, keeping long silences, until in sheer desperation they burst into uncontrollable passion, ceasing again as suddenly as they began, as though appalled by their own act. Only the vivid lights soared brilliantly as ever above the trenches, failing, however, to evoke the usual salutation from their unsleeping wardens. So the morning dawned, unheralded by the noisy "morning hate" with which the opposing armies invariably greeted one another, the still air seeming to cower silently, awaiting the shocks that were to come.
The spirit of expectancy had penetrated into the battery itself. The gun detachments stood to their guns, polishing and oiling for the twentieth time each smallest detail. The men off duty stood about in groups, talking in hushed voices, broken suddenly now and then by a loud laugh quickly checked, as men will when something is expected to happen. In the telephone dug-out sat the officers, silent save for spasmodic efforts at general conversation, starting nervously at each note of the buzzer. At last a sudden stiffening of the telephonist on duty, "Yes, I'm battery, yes—battery action, sir!" and the tension ceased. Instantly the battery leapt into life. "Right section, lyddite, full charge, load! Switch angle four degrees right——" Strings of order pour from the section commanders, echoed by the "numbers one" in the gun-pits, dying away to silence again. Then the voice of the senior subaltern, "Report battery ready to fire!" a breathless minute, seemingly interminable; at last a faint buzz from the telephone, the sharp cry "Fire No. 1 gun!" and before the last sound of the order dies away the flash and roar of the howitzer proclaim that for us, at least, the Battle of Loos has begun.
So as the day passes on we fall into our usual routine. The battery is seemingly uninhabited but for the strident section commanders standing between their hidden guns, except when reliefs descend into the pits as into Avernus, out of which presently appear a knot of men dusty, grimy and incredibly thirsty. Sometimes an officer comes up to the section commander, stands reading his notebook over his shoulder for a few seconds, nods as he receives a terse word or so as to rate of fire, takes over the notebook, pencil and megaphone and carries on the ceaseless clamour. All the time, at regular intervals, the guns fire and the orders pass. Sometimes a keener note is heard, "Left section, cease loading! Fresh target——" and a new string of orders, soon followed by a resumption of the periodic roaring, as of a thunderstorm controlled by an angel with a stop-watch. Or perhaps "Fire No. 3 gun!" and no instant report. "What's the matter, No. 3?" "Missfire, sir!" "All right, look sharp!" "All ready, sir!" "Fire No. 3, then!" and the rhythm commences again. After a time it all has a strangely soothing effect on the senses. First one loses the din of the surrounding batteries, then fails to notice the report of one's own guns a few feet away, giving orders mechanically notwithstanding. Perhaps a stifled yawn and a glance at the watch—is that infernal fellow never coming to relieve me? Then the warning voice of the telephonist, "Fresh target coming through, sir!" and the wandering attention leaps into watchfulness again.
Up at the observation post things are very different. There the observing officer sits, watching the black and yellow smoke clouds of the bursting high explosive, or the cotton-wool-like puffs of the shrapnel. "No. 1 fired, sir!" The words of the telephonists seem to come as from some other world. Here she comes, far away behind, the whistle of the shell shrieking louder as she passes right overhead—splendid! in the very trench itself; see the black smoke spread out and rise slowly from a long section of trench, whilst the green vegetation grows white with the falling chalk. No correction can be made to that, "No. 1, repeat!" "No. 2 fired, sir!" Here she comes, ah, a little to the right—"No. 2, ten minutes more left, fire!" So it goes on, until this particular section of trench has practically disappeared, leaving only a white scar. Then a change of target and a repetition of the destruction. A fascinating business this on so fine an autumn day, so fascinating that all sense of time is lost, all conjecture as to whether the enemy will take it into his head to select our observation post as a target is forgotten. The only thing in the world is the measured fall of the shell and the swift framing of the consequent order, the only pleasure the deep satisfaction of a well-placed round, the only despair the haunting memory of a shot wasted that might have been saved by a different procedure.
During those four days of ceaseless bombardment, the enemy made very little reply except at certain points; we subsequently discovered why. He made no attempt to distribute his fire along our front line, nor did he make a systematic search for our observation posts, the vital organ of every battery and its most vulnerable one. Certain spots he selected, and with magnificent gunnery rendered them utterly untenable. Shell after shell fell with mathematical accuracy into Vermelles, Le Rutoire, Quality Street, but when once we had learnt these favoured spots, our casualties were very few, being avoided by the simple expedient of removing to places that appeared to be more suitable in the capacity of health-resorts, or, where that was impossible, taking to the cellars and remaining there.
Through four long days, from early in the morning until it became too dark to observe the fall of the rounds, the pitiless shelling continued, nor was the enemy allowed any respite at night. In the batteries we were then busy replenishing ammunition and overhauling every detail of the equipment, but still one gun per battery at least fired steadily throughout the hours of darkness, not now on the enemy's positions, but on his billets and on certain places through which his reinforcements must pass on their way to the firing line. A few rounds per hour only, sufficient to keep men crouching huddled in cellars wherein was no possibility of sleep, or to shake the morale of working parties faced with the necessity of running the gauntlet of that steady rain. The moral effect upon troops already shaken by bombardment is enormous, as we ourselves have had bitter cause to know in the earlier months of the war. The effect of these days and nights upon the enemy is vividly shown in the diary of a private in the Second Reserve Infantry Regiment (Prussian) which fell into our hands later. A few extracts will suffice. On the 21st he writes: "Towards mid-day the trenches had already fallen in in many places. Dug-outs were completely overwhelmed ... most of them fled, leaving rifles and ammunition behind ... the air was becoming heated from so many explosions." On the 22nd: "Shells and shrapnel (granatschuss) are bursting all round ... in places where the trench had disappeared I crawled on my hands and knees amid a hail of bullets." On the 23rd: "Our look-out post was completely destroyed, and my comrades killed in it ... even the strongest man may lose his brain and nerves in a time like this." On the 24th: "The fourth day of this terrible bombardment.... I am sorry to say that there is no reply from our artillery."
Other prisoners, on being interrogated, testified to the awful effects of our fire. Upon one in particular, an artillery officer, was found an order that revealed the secret of the ineffectiveness of the enemy's reply. After briefly setting out the measures to be taken in case of a British offensive, it goes on as follows: "Owing to the fact that the preponderance of hostile artillery in this sector is probably more than two to one, and owing to the vital necessity of economy in ammunition, battery commanders will confine their fire to targets whose importance is known to them, and upon which they can count on producing a good effect. They will under no circumstances allow themselves to be drawn into anything approaching to an artillery duel." It was also stated by many captured officers that during the night September 23-24 a deserter from our line had conveyed to the German Staff the time and date of the coming assault, and that to this fact they owed much of the effectiveness of the measures taken to resist it. Yet another captured document was of somewhat disconcerting interest to us gunners, namely, a map upon which was very accurately shown the position of every allied battery, with only two exceptions, in the whole of our sector. It seems fairly certain that this was due to the most efficient espionage, and not to aerial observation.
The material effect of such a bombardment is harder to judge, for it must be remembered that, despite the high science of modern gunnery, the percentage of direct hits upon a given objective is still comparatively small. When, however, a heavy shell detonates under favourable conditions, its destructive power is enormous. For instance, on the third day I saw a direct hit by one of our largest howitzers upon the boiler-house of Puits XVI. The shell penetrated the roof and burst inside the building, sending up an enormous cloud of black smoke tinged with the pink of pulverized brick, that hung for several minutes. When it cleared, nothing but a gaunt and twisted framework of steel girders remained, a heap of rubbish alone showing where the walls had stood. A smaller howitzer was ordered to fell a brick wall, some thirty feet high and many courses thick. The shell burst in regular sequence at its foot, at roughly ten yards interval, each round bringing down an equivalent section of the wall, until nothing remained but a long pile of smoking rubble. And, more impressive, perhaps, than all is the sight of a medium lyddite shell bursting in a narrow trench. Out of the centre of a vivid flash fly heavy timbers, sandbags, revetments, all that once formed the trench, sometimes the mangled fragments of its occupants, whilst to right and left rolls the choking smoke, driving its way into the deepest dug-outs, overcoming men many yards away from the point of impact, spreading death in every form. Is it to be wondered at that when our infantry reached these trenches they found a few survivors, living indeed still, but struggling and raving as the inmates of some ghastly Bedlam?
