BREAKING THE DEADLOCK.

TRENCH WARFARE.

" There are five families of rats in the roof of my dug-out,' Captain Bill Murray reported back to his family on 14 May 1915, 'which is two feet above my head in bed, and the little rats practise back somersaults continuously through the night, for they have discovered that my face is a soft landing when they fall.'1 Rats did more than disturb sleep; they carried disease and they spoilt food. Trench warfare provided ideal conditions for their multiplication. They thrived on its detritus, including the bodies of the unburied dead. For those who yet lived, even more irksome was the blood-sucking louse. Ninety-five per cent of British soldiers coming out of the line were infested. Lice spread from man to man, living in the seams of his clothing and irritating his skin. They were known to cause typhus, but by 1918 it was established that they were also responsible for trench fever, one of a host of new conditions which the positional warfare of the western front generated. The intensely cultivated soil of Belgium and northern France, well tilled and manured, meant that wounds were rapidly infected with gas gangrene: 21 per cent of French soldiers wounded in the legs or thighs died as a result. And standing in the cold, wet mud of the trenches promoted trench foot and frostbite. But these were the first armies to benefit from the use of antiseptics, from ma.s.s inoculation programmes, and from an understanding of bacteriology. In wars before that of 1914-18 disease, not battle, was the major killer. On the western front it was not - a product of major advances in preventive military medicine as well as of the fact that it was wounds which introduced many of the more life-threatening infections. Disease was still a princ.i.p.al cause of death in every other theatre of war. Rats did more than disturb sleep; they carried disease and they spoilt food. Trench warfare provided ideal conditions for their multiplication. They thrived on its detritus, including the bodies of the unburied dead. For those who yet lived, even more irksome was the blood-sucking louse. Ninety-five per cent of British soldiers coming out of the line were infested. Lice spread from man to man, living in the seams of his clothing and irritating his skin. They were known to cause typhus, but by 1918 it was established that they were also responsible for trench fever, one of a host of new conditions which the positional warfare of the western front generated. The intensely cultivated soil of Belgium and northern France, well tilled and manured, meant that wounds were rapidly infected with gas gangrene: 21 per cent of French soldiers wounded in the legs or thighs died as a result. And standing in the cold, wet mud of the trenches promoted trench foot and frostbite. But these were the first armies to benefit from the use of antiseptics, from ma.s.s inoculation programmes, and from an understanding of bacteriology. In wars before that of 1914-18 disease, not battle, was the major killer. On the western front it was not - a product of major advances in preventive military medicine as well as of the fact that it was wounds which introduced many of the more life-threatening infections. Disease was still a princ.i.p.al cause of death in every other theatre of war.

Trenches created health problems but they saved lives. To speak of the horror of the trenches is to subst.i.tute hyperbole for common sense: the war would have been far more horrific if there had been no trenches. They protected flesh and blood from the worst effects of the firepower revolution of the late nineteenth century. 'They bent their heads and went on,' Jean Bernier wrote of his and his comrades' experience of entering the trenches, 'curiously calmed and strengthened by this regained contact with the earth, their habitation and their element.'2 The dangers rose when men left the embrace of the trenches to go over the top, and when war was fluid and mobile. German deaths per month were highest in 1914 on the western front, in 1915 on the eastern front, and in 1918 again in the west - in other words when and where they were on the attack. French monthly losses peaked at 238,000 in September 1914, the month of the Marne. Their next worst month was October 1915, when an offensive in Champagne (which formed the centrepiece of Bernier's autobiographical novel) pushed the tally up to 180,000. Thereafter they rose above 100,000 on only three occasions in the war, never in 1916 - despite the battle of Verdun - and twice in 1918, when the war became mobile again. The big 'pushes' of positional war caused death rates to rise, but, provided those offensives were carefully prepared and well supported with artillery, the attackers' casualties were frequently comparable with the defenders'. Broadly speaking this was true for both the major battles of 1916, Verdun and the Somme, and the Germans lost more men defending on the Somme than they had attacking at Verdun earlier in the year. In August 1917, at the height of the third battle of Ypres, the epitome of trench warfare's waste and futility for many commentators, British casualties on the western front totalled 81,080. Exactly a year later, when the British army inflicted a major defeat on the Germans at Amiens and began its advance to victory, they soared to 122,272. The dangers rose when men left the embrace of the trenches to go over the top, and when war was fluid and mobile. German deaths per month were highest in 1914 on the western front, in 1915 on the eastern front, and in 1918 again in the west - in other words when and where they were on the attack. French monthly losses peaked at 238,000 in September 1914, the month of the Marne. Their next worst month was October 1915, when an offensive in Champagne (which formed the centrepiece of Bernier's autobiographical novel) pushed the tally up to 180,000. Thereafter they rose above 100,000 on only three occasions in the war, never in 1916 - despite the battle of Verdun - and twice in 1918, when the war became mobile again. The big 'pushes' of positional war caused death rates to rise, but, provided those offensives were carefully prepared and well supported with artillery, the attackers' casualties were frequently comparable with the defenders'. Broadly speaking this was true for both the major battles of 1916, Verdun and the Somme, and the Germans lost more men defending on the Somme than they had attacking at Verdun earlier in the year. In August 1917, at the height of the third battle of Ypres, the epitome of trench warfare's waste and futility for many commentators, British casualties on the western front totalled 81,080. Exactly a year later, when the British army inflicted a major defeat on the Germans at Amiens and began its advance to victory, they soared to 122,272.

Germans delousing their clothing The solidity and depth of the trench, as well as the apparently good weather, reinforce the impression that the sector is a quiet one

Trench warfare redefined what a battle was. 'Of course I've been in all the usual shows,' wrote Alexandre Arnoux, who served at the front from May 1915 until the war's end, 'night a.s.saults, reconnoitrings, raiding parties, and all that. I copped a machine-gun bullet in the thigh and a splinter of sh.e.l.l in the head and I've had mustard gas, but I've never been in what I call a real battle. A pukka show with the whole line moving forward and the reserves coming up all the time, I've never been in that.'3 In the past battles had been affairs of single days, and losses of perhaps 30 per cent had rendered armies unable to fight again until the following campaigning season. Few, if any, individual days of the First World War were as b.l.o.o.d.y, relatively speaking, as the battles of Frederick the Great or Napoleon. In 1914-18 casualties mounted because the fighting was continuous. What were called battles sometimes lasted months, and previous generations would have described them as campaigns. Longer hours of daylight in the summer gave more opportunity to kill, although even these major offensives had to close down by November. But the soldiers of the First World War did not then go into winter quarters. War was stopped neither by the seasons nor by the divisions of night and day. The advent of the aircraft meant that, weather permitting, all activity outside the hours of darkness could be observed from the air. Reliefs and resupply became nocturnal activities. So, too, was the endless business of trench repair, making good the depredations of sh.e.l.lfire or the erosion of continuous rain. 'When dusk fell,' Charles Carrington recalled, '... troglodytes emerged from their burrows in the sunken road to relieve platoons in the posts, to bring up rations from the village, to dig and wire in pitchy darkness. Heavy labour at a score of trades in awkward places must be relentlessly performed without showing a light or making a sound.' In the past battles had been affairs of single days, and losses of perhaps 30 per cent had rendered armies unable to fight again until the following campaigning season. Few, if any, individual days of the First World War were as b.l.o.o.d.y, relatively speaking, as the battles of Frederick the Great or Napoleon. In 1914-18 casualties mounted because the fighting was continuous. What were called battles sometimes lasted months, and previous generations would have described them as campaigns. Longer hours of daylight in the summer gave more opportunity to kill, although even these major offensives had to close down by November. But the soldiers of the First World War did not then go into winter quarters. War was stopped neither by the seasons nor by the divisions of night and day. The advent of the aircraft meant that, weather permitting, all activity outside the hours of darkness could be observed from the air. Reliefs and resupply became nocturnal activities. So, too, was the endless business of trench repair, making good the depredations of sh.e.l.lfire or the erosion of continuous rain. 'When dusk fell,' Charles Carrington recalled, '... troglodytes emerged from their burrows in the sunken road to relieve platoons in the posts, to bring up rations from the village, to dig and wire in pitchy darkness. Heavy labour at a score of trades in awkward places must be relentlessly performed without showing a light or making a sound.'4 Men were continuously exhausted: they dozed by day, and, paradoxically, as the nights became shorter the opportunities for sleep became greater. Men were continuously exhausted: they dozed by day, and, paradoxically, as the nights became shorter the opportunities for sleep became greater.

A British fatigue party carrying duckboards over a support trench Ime at night, Cambrai, 12 January 1917 A million helmets, made of hardened manganese steel, were issued to the British army in the first half of 1916, with the result that head wounds fell by over 75 per cent The French were experimenting with helmets when the war broke out, and issued the Adrian helmet in mid- 1915. It was also adopted by Belgium, Italy, Serbia and Romania. But the best protection against sh.e.l.lfire for these soldiers was the dug-out itself

When Falkenhayn ordered the adoption of defensive positions on the western front at the end of November 1914 he saw them as a means to an end: tactically to confer on his troops the benefits of the defensive, and strategically to enable him to manoeuvre elsewhere. For the German supreme command, with its possibilities in the east, that relationship was always explicit. But for those who served only on the western front trench warfare became inst.i.tutionalised, a self-fulfilling routine, and ultimately an end in itself. British and French troops were taken out of the line less to be deployed to other theatres, and more to go into reserve. Charles Carrington reckoned that he spent 101 days of 1916 under fire, in the front-line or support trenches. He pa.s.sed more than two-thirds of the year in the hinterland of reserve positions, training areas, billets and munition dumps. The longer positions were held, the stronger the labour of their occupants made them. In the chalk-lands of Picardy deep dug-outs almost domesticated the line. Further north the land was lower lying and boggy, but the result was that the front came to consist of breastworks and pillboxes, structures which not only took the defenders clear of the water-table but also conferred an air of permanence. At its most extreme, this pattern prompted the phenomenon of 'live and let live'. 'The military situation at le Touquet was curious,' George Coppard remembered of his service in 1915, 'for it seemed almost as if both sides, the Germans and ourselves, had tacitly agreed that this part of the line should be labelled "Quiet", it being understood that if one side started up any b.l.o.o.d.y nonsense, then the other would follow suit.'5 Raids, another night-time activity, were designed to disrupt these patterns. They prevented the loss of the skills of mobile warfare; they a.s.serted the dominance of one side over no man's land; and they might bring back valuable intelligence. This was a form of fighting which relied on stealth and surprise, which bypa.s.sed long-range fire, and instead required the weapons of an older generation, not only grenades and bombs but also picks and shovels. However, as raids, too, became inst.i.tutionalised, so they grew in scale and elaboration, 'a battle in miniature with all the preliminaries and accompaniments magnified'. Watching a raid from the fire-step of a trench held by the Royal Welch Fusiliers on 25 April 1916 was 'a hair-raising affair at the start, for our field-guns had so little clearance that the draught of their sh.e.l.ls could be felt on the back of one's neck. What was to be seen was like nothing else. Against the night there was a wild dance of red fan-shaped spurts of fire seen through a thickening haze.'6 Artillery was the key weapon of trench warfare. Envelopment, the leading operational idea of staffs before the war, still found its proponents in the east, but in the west there were no exposed flanks. The task that confronted the French and British armies, committed to the recovery of the lost territory of northern France and to the liberation of Belgium, was that of breaking into and through the German positions. Only then could they break out and manoeuvre. In the winter of 1914-15 this seemed to be a matter of guns and high-explosive sh.e.l.l. 'Breaking through the enemy's lines', the British commander-in-chief, Sir John French, minuted in January 1915, 'is largely a question of expenditure of high explosive ammunition. If sufficient ammunition is forthcoming, a way can be blasted through the line. If the attempt fails, it shows, provided that the work of the infantry and artillery has been properly coordinated, that insufficient ammunition has been expended, i.e. either more guns must be brought up, or the allowance of ammunition per gun increased.'7 In mobile war the constraint on the use of artillery was the supply problems of batteries in the field - not only in terms of sh.e.l.ls for the guns but also of fodder for the horses. The quick-firing 75mm field gun, the agent of the French victory on the Marne, could loose fifteen - and some claimed twenty - rounds a minute, and a battery of four guns could fire off its total stock in a couple of hours. Static war minimised the logistical constraints, especially as light railways replaced horse-drawn transport, but increased the numbers of targets. The first consequence of the generals' responses to trench war was pressure not on their supply services but on home production.

MUNITIONS PRODUCTION.

The conversion of factories to the output of munitions proved as contentious for the industrialised economies of Western Europe as it was problematic for Russia. When Douglas Haig's attack at Aubers Ridge failed on 9 May 1915, Sir John French deflected blame from the army to the government by attributing the defeat to the lack of high-explosive sh.e.l.l for the British 18-pounder field gun, a misleading refrain which The Times The Times picked up and which was in flat contradiction to statements which the prime minister, Asquith, had given in a speech to munitions workers in Newcastle. When the sh.e.l.ls crisis broke, Britain's last Liberal government was already under challenge. It coincided with the resignation of the First Sea Lord, Jackie Fisher, who opposed 'further depletion of our Home resources for the Dardanelles' and now regarded his political superior, Winston Churchill, as 'a bigger danger than the Germans'. picked up and which was in flat contradiction to statements which the prime minister, Asquith, had given in a speech to munitions workers in Newcastle. When the sh.e.l.ls crisis broke, Britain's last Liberal government was already under challenge. It coincided with the resignation of the First Sea Lord, Jackie Fisher, who opposed 'further depletion of our Home resources for the Dardanelles' and now regarded his political superior, Winston Churchill, as 'a bigger danger than the Germans'.8 The upshot was the formation of a coalition government, albeit still headed by Asquith, and of a Ministry of Munitions under Lloyd George. The upshot was the formation of a coalition government, albeit still headed by Asquith, and of a Ministry of Munitions under Lloyd George.

Britain was not the only country where sh.e.l.l shortage generated civil-military conflict. In France the invasion and the evacuation of the government to Bordeaux in September 1914 vastly increased the powers of Joffre and his headquarters. However, here, too, the failures of spring 1915 prompted the generals to seek scapegoats outside the army. Abel Ferry, a reserve officer and junior minister, attended the Council of Ministers on 4 July 1915: 'One feels that the military, becoming less optimistic, are preparing themselves to point the finger at the civilians and say: "It is your fault."'9 Albert Thomas, 'a killing, fat little man, all round with s.h.a.ggy hair, spectacles an impossible tan-colored beard ending in two impossible curls', Albert Thomas, 'a killing, fat little man, all round with s.h.a.ggy hair, spectacles an impossible tan-colored beard ending in two impossible curls',10 had been appointed under-secretary of state for war with particular responsibility for artillery and munitions on 18 May 1915. Just as Lloyd George did in Britain, the government responded to the generals' accusations by pinning the failures in munitions procurement on the army itself. These debates were predicated on national circ.u.mstances, and their resolutions were administrative and ministerial. IIowever, the fact that sh.e.l.l production rose in 1915, and did so for all the belligerents regardless of political complexion, confirms that the phenomenon of sh.e.l.l shortage had some common characteristics. had been appointed under-secretary of state for war with particular responsibility for artillery and munitions on 18 May 1915. Just as Lloyd George did in Britain, the government responded to the generals' accusations by pinning the failures in munitions procurement on the army itself. These debates were predicated on national circ.u.mstances, and their resolutions were administrative and ministerial. IIowever, the fact that sh.e.l.l production rose in 1915, and did so for all the belligerents regardless of political complexion, confirms that the phenomenon of sh.e.l.l shortage had some common characteristics.

First was the issue of raw materials. It was particularly acute for Germany, whose imports from overseas were cut off by the allied blockade. On 9 August 1914 Walther Rathenau, who as a Jew could not be sure of his reception by the army, persuaded Falkenhayn, in his capacity as minister of war, to establish a raw materials agency. Its initial task was to take stock of the raw materials within not only the Reich but also the occupied territories, particularly Belgium, so as to allocate them centrally to the firms that could make best use of them. Each commodity was the subject of its own raw materials company, with a board drawn princ.i.p.ally from the very firms that used the materials in question. Rathenau himself ran the electronics giant AEG, which was anxious about copper supplies. The accusation that the free market had been enlisted to serve the state, but on its own terms and with guaranteed profits, was repeated elsewhere. In France Thomas, a socialist, was criticised for being too close to the industrialists of the Comite des Forges, and in Britain Lloyd George turned his new ministry over to those he called 'men of push and go', in other words businessmen and entrepreneurs.

More pressing for the French and British than the issue of raw materials was that of labour. Conscription had mobilised skilled workers in the munitions industries but also enabled their return. The state which ordered men into uniform could also, if it suited the national interest, order them out of it. By June 1916 the French army had released 287,000 men back to the arms industries. They remained liable to military law and so were not free to strike. With industry an arm of the war effort, the need to get a sensible division of labour between the armed forces and domestic production was as important a pressure as the manpower demands of the army. When Britain at last introduced conscription in January 1916, this was the essence of the debate within the cabinet, not any principled objections to compulsion. In 1914 employees of the major arms firms had responded with disproportionate enthusiasm to the call for volunteers for the army. By June 1915 even those firms already engaged in arms production before the war were short of 14,000 skilled workers, and plant was lying idle for lack of hands to use it.

One solution to the manpower needs of the munitions factories was to 'dilute' labour, to replace skilled workers with unskilled. The greater use of automated processes and the division of production into a large number of distinct, but repet.i.tive, operations permitted such a switch. The princ.i.p.al job of the skilled worker was to maintain the plant that made the arms, not to produce the arms themselves. In Britain the trade unions feared that working methods brought in under the umbrella of wartime necessity would be perpetuated in peacetime and so undermine both their status and their restrictive practices. On 5 March 1915 Lloyd George persuaded both employers and trade unions to accept dilution, but only for the duration of the war and only in the production of munitions.

Salvage and recycling, especially of metals, were essential features of industrialised war. French women unioad spent sh.e.l.l-casese at Toulion

The result was that in Britain, as in France, women were engaged in the manufacture of armaments in disproportionate numbers. Before the war French peasant women, like their equivalents in Germany, worked on the land: the war did not alter that. In 1916 the French censors reported that 'moving letters written from the countryside show us women killing themselves with work without being able to replace the men who fight or who are dead'.11 Across Europe, large numbers of women were already in employment before the war, and the numbers entering work for the first time during the war should not be exaggerated. In 1914 7.7 million French women already had jobs, and they made up 32 per cent of the total workforce; by the war's end they accounted for 40 per cent of the workforce. In Britain women workers rose from just under 6 million, or 26 per cent of the workforce, to just over 7.3 million, or 36 per cent, in the same period. In Germany the number of females in insured employment expanded so quickly in the two decades before the war that the increase during the war, from about 3.5 million to just over 4 million, represented a decline in the rate of growth. Germany makes very evident the pattern that prevailed elsewhere, too: that those who entered munitions production did so from other occupations; the war caused working-cla.s.s women to change jobs more than it brought women into the workplace. In Bavaria, by December 1916 three times as many women were involved in gunpowder production as before the war, but half of them had previously worked in factories and only a quarter had not had a job. Across Europe, large numbers of women were already in employment before the war, and the numbers entering work for the first time during the war should not be exaggerated. In 1914 7.7 million French women already had jobs, and they made up 32 per cent of the total workforce; by the war's end they accounted for 40 per cent of the workforce. In Britain women workers rose from just under 6 million, or 26 per cent of the workforce, to just over 7.3 million, or 36 per cent, in the same period. In Germany the number of females in insured employment expanded so quickly in the two decades before the war that the increase during the war, from about 3.5 million to just over 4 million, represented a decline in the rate of growth. Germany makes very evident the pattern that prevailed elsewhere, too: that those who entered munitions production did so from other occupations; the war caused working-cla.s.s women to change jobs more than it brought women into the workplace. In Bavaria, by December 1916 three times as many women were involved in gunpowder production as before the war, but half of them had previously worked in factories and only a quarter had not had a job. 12 12 British women in 1914 were employed overwhelmingly in domestic service or in the textile industry. Munitions production, freed from the constraints of trade-union dominance and expanding under the demands for sh.e.l.l from the front, provided newly created and better-paid jobs. Much of the work involved the use of toxic chemicals, and TNT caused bilious attacks, blurred vision, depression and, in particular, jaundice: Lilian Miles saw her black hair turn green, and remembered that 'you'd wash and wash and it didn't make no difference ... Your whole body was yellow'. British women in 1914 were employed overwhelmingly in domestic service or in the textile industry. Munitions production, freed from the constraints of trade-union dominance and expanding under the demands for sh.e.l.l from the front, provided newly created and better-paid jobs. Much of the work involved the use of toxic chemicals, and TNT caused bilious attacks, blurred vision, depression and, in particular, jaundice: Lilian Miles saw her black hair turn green, and remembered that 'you'd wash and wash and it didn't make no difference ... Your whole body was yellow'.13 The British metal and chemical industries and the government factories employed a total of 212,000 women in July 1914, and 923,000 by July 1918. Before the war 17,731 French women worked in the metal industries, but 425,000 at its end. The British metal and chemical industries and the government factories employed a total of 212,000 women in July 1914, and 923,000 by July 1918. Before the war 17,731 French women worked in the metal industries, but 425,000 at its end.

The rapid expansion of munitions output and the equally dramatic shift in how that production was carried out had long-term benefits for battlefield performance, but could only be achieved quickly by the lowering of standards over the short term. In August 1914 Louis Renault said that his car factories could manufacture sh.e.l.ls using turning lathes rather than hydraulic presses. The resulting sh.e.l.l had to be made in two parts because the lathes could not shape the sh.e.l.l's nose cone. The so-called 'bi-blocs' helped overcome France's sh.e.l.l shortage, but their weaknesses generated shortages in other areas: over 600 French guns were destroyed - and their crews killed or injured - by premature explosions in 1915. Germany likewise used turning lathes to produce what it called 'auxiliary ammunition' from cast iron: in 1915 it lost 2,300 field guns and 900 light howitzers to premature explosions, as many as were disabled by enemy action. The difficulties were not just those of materials and plant. Expansion had overtaken the procedures for quality control. In January 1915 one German observer reckoned that half the sh.e.l.ls fired by the French were duds. Some failures were the result of incompetence and haste, but others were the fruit of profiteering and fraud. At the battle of the Somme in July 1916 25 per cent of British guns were put out of action as a result of design faults and inferior materials, and 30 per cent of sh.e.l.ls failed to explode.

Much of the manufacturing effort in the first half of the war therefore failed to reap any reward on the battlefield until the second half. French and German holdings of field guns were essentially static, as new guns replaced those that had been lost, and plant was devoted to the repair of those that were damaged. Germany had 5,096 field guns on mobilisation and 5,300 at the end of 1915. Increased output only met increased wear and tear. Factories which had not been in the arms business before the war could not acquire either the expertise or the machine-tools for weapons production in a matter of months. One short-term solution to the problems of conversion was the production of weapons with less demanding specifications and lower performances. Here the reintroduction of the mortar stands as the supreme example. A portable tube which fired bombs and mines at high angles over short ranges, it was ideally suited to the tactical conditions of trench warfare. But, just as importantly, it and its projectiles were sufficiently simple to enable firms without weapons expertise to make them. In August 1914 the German army possessed 180 Minen-werfern Minen-werfern of all calibres; by January 1918 it had taken receipt of 16,127. The British adopted the Stokes mortar in 1915, and 11,421 were manufactured in the war. of all calibres; by January 1918 it had taken receipt of 16,127. The British adopted the Stokes mortar in 1915, and 11,421 were manufactured in the war.

The links between the conversion to war production at home and tactical application on the battlefield were not completed until 1917. Douglas Haig, reflecting on the lessons of Aubers Ridge two days after, on 11 May 1915, made clear why: 1. The defences in our front are so carefully and so strongly made, and mutual support with machine-guns is so complete, that in order to demolish them a 1. The defences in our front are so carefully and so strongly made, and mutual support with machine-guns is so complete, that in order to demolish them a long methodical bombardment long methodical bombardment will be necessary by heavy artillery (guns and howitzers) before Infantry are sent forward to attack. will be necessary by heavy artillery (guns and howitzers) before Infantry are sent forward to attack.2. To destroy the enemy's 'material' 60 p[ounde]r. guns guns will be tried, as well as the 15-in[ch], 9.2 and 6-in[ch] siege how[itzer]s. Accurate observations of will be tried, as well as the 15-in[ch], 9.2 and 6-in[ch] siege how[itzer]s. Accurate observations of each shot each shot will be arranged so as to make sure of flattening out the enemy's 'strong points' of support, before the Infantry is launched. will be arranged so as to make sure of flattening out the enemy's 'strong points' of support, before the Infantry is launched.14 In 1915 the British did not have enough heavy artillery to do what he wanted. During the course of the entire year they took delivery of just 134 60-pounders. In August they adopted a programme which aimed to produce 2,825 heavy guns by December 1916. Only the existing arms manufacturers, like Vickers and Armstrong, had the capability to undertake this work. Consequently the pressure on them to produce other armaments was reduced. While Germany and France grappled with maintaining their existing numbers of field guns, the British Ministry of Munitions cut back on the output of lighter guns by 28 per cent, while increasing that of medium calibres by 380 per cent and of heavy artillery by 1,200 per cent. From the very outset, British generals, even cavalrymen like Haig and French, were dedicated to using weight of material and sophisticated technology in the pursuit of breakthrough. It was an approach to war which suited Britain for two reasons. It was the first industrialised nation in the world, and before 1914 it alone of the major powers had spurned the ma.s.s army. Its ability to hold a sprawling empire had relied not on manpower but on the use of technology as a force multiplier.

TACTICAL ADAPTATION.

The year 1915 was a formative experience, one in which the lines of development which would be followed through into the battles of 1918 were put in place. Although the front was static, the thinking of the armies was not. The western front was an intensely compet.i.tive environment, where the innovation of one side was emulated, improved upon or negated by the other. Ironically, it was this very cycle of action and reaction, designed to break the deadlock, which confirmed it. But at its conclusion the armies of both sides were equipped, organised and fought in very different ways from those of 1914.

Immediately Haig's prescription created fresh problems more than it resolved old ones. 'In this siege war in the open field, it is not enough to open a breach', General Marie-Emile Fayolle confided to his diary on 1 June 1915, 'it is necessary that it is about 20 km wide, at the least, or one cannot fan out to right and left. To do that needs a whole army and there has to be another one ready to carry on.'15 But in 1915 neither the British nor the French had enough guns or sh.e.l.ls, let alone heavy artillery, to be able to attack on a broad front. By concentrating on a narrow front, the available guns might reach into the depth of the enemy positions, but the attackers were then liable to enfilade from the flanks. Furthermore, the concentration of artillery and its preliminary, and increasingly extended, bombardment forfeited the element of surprise. Most attacks succeeded in breaking into the enemy's position. The problem was that of reinforcing and exploiting success, and that in turn depended on immediate support from troops to the rear. But in 1915 neither the British nor the French had enough guns or sh.e.l.ls, let alone heavy artillery, to be able to attack on a broad front. By concentrating on a narrow front, the available guns might reach into the depth of the enemy positions, but the attackers were then liable to enfilade from the flanks. Furthermore, the concentration of artillery and its preliminary, and increasingly extended, bombardment forfeited the element of surprise. Most attacks succeeded in breaking into the enemy's position. The problem was that of reinforcing and exploiting success, and that in turn depended on immediate support from troops to the rear.

The static nature of the front line enabled the armies to lay down light railways to transport sh.e.l.ls and other supplies to the front lines. But horses were still basic to their transport systems Britain sent more oats and hay (by weight) to France than ammunition.

Haig's belief that offensives should be fought on broad, not narrow, fronts, and be preceded by long, not short, bombardments was born at the battle of Neuve Chapelle, the first of the British spring offensives in 1915. But Neuve Chapelle also highlighted the intractabilities of communication, and the consequent difficulty of knowing when and where to commit reserves. On 10 March 1915, at 8.05 a.m., after a short (thirty-five-minute) bombardment, the infantry launched a surprise attack. In the centre the German front line was taken in ten minutes and the village of Neuve Chapelle itself was in British hands before 9 a.m. Reports of these initial gains reached Lieutenant-General Sir Henry Rawlinson, the corps commander, within an hour. Douglas Haig, by now commanding one of the two armies into which the expanding British Expeditionary Force had been divided, ordered a cavalry brigade to ready itself and harboured hopes of his whole army beginning a general advance. But the artillery had been less effective on the left, and there the attack came under fire from its flank. The British did not take the German front line until 11.20, and therefore the lead units on the right. were in danger of being isolated, and were told to wait for further instructions. Communications went up the command chain from battalion to brigade, from brigade to division, and at last reached corps headquarters five miles back. At 1.30 p.m. Rawlinson issued instructions for a fresh advance at 2.30 p.m., but the supporting units were not ready, and at 3 p.m. he set the attack for 3.30. Orders had to be transmitted back down the line of command, acquiring more detail as they went. Those pa.s.sing between division and battalion had taken between one and two hours throughout the day. At 3.30 the artillery opened fire; and hit its own infantry. By 4 p.m. both the forward brigades were attacking but without artillery support or effective lateral communications between themselves. The light was failing, surprise had been lost and enemy defence was hardening.

Neuve Chapelle confirmed that the biggest constraint on the conduct of land war was the lack of real-time communications. Infantry in fixed positions could bury telephone wire from the front line back to their supporting artillery and higher commands. However, as they went forward to attack they lost contact. They could unroll wire as they advanced but it was frequently cut by sh.e.l.lfire. Wirelesses were still too heavy to be man-portable; they were the preserve of higher commands and navies. Pigeons could do the job if the wind and weather conditions were right, but they were reluctant to fly on the damp, still days which tended to prevail on the western front. Drizzle or mist prevented other forms of observation - the firing of rockets or flares, or the waving of flags in order to indicate progress. The Germans used dogs to carry messages, but the usual method of communicating progress or of calling for support was human. Runners had to renegotiate the open ground they had just crossed in the attack. Even if they survived, their information was old by the time it was in the hands of those for whom it was destined.

Accordingly, generals could do little to intervene in the immediate decision-making of a battle. The creation of ma.s.s armies and the necessity of dispersion in the face of modern firepower meant that the battlefield had extended, while at the same time apparently emptying. The supreme commander could not take in the situation with a sweep of his field gla.s.ses from some vantage point. Now his tasks were more managerial than inspirational. He found 'himself further back in a house with a s.p.a.cious office, where telegraphs, telephones and signals apparatus are to hand', Schlieffen had written before the war. 'There, in a comfortable chair before a wide table, the modern Alexander has before him the entire battlefield on a map.'16 Linear, positional warfare exacerbated this trend, forcing the commander to place himself behind his troops. The German response to the problem was to delegate command forward, confining instructions to general directives and avoiding detailed orders. British officers were used to smaller forces and more hands-on command in colonial campaigns. Moreover, mobile warfare in 1914 had briefly kept alive the notions of a more heroic age. In the course of the entire war seventy-one German and fifty-five French generals lost their lives, and it is reasonable to a.s.sume that most of those who did so in battle were killed in the opening months. British generals proved almost foolhardy by comparison: between 1914 and 1918 seventy-eight were killed in action, an enormous total given that the army did not really expand until the front had stabilised and startling confirmation of the a.s.sertion of Cyril Falls, himself a staff officer, that British generals were in fact 'too eager to get away from their desks'. Linear, positional warfare exacerbated this trend, forcing the commander to place himself behind his troops. The German response to the problem was to delegate command forward, confining instructions to general directives and avoiding detailed orders. British officers were used to smaller forces and more hands-on command in colonial campaigns. Moreover, mobile warfare in 1914 had briefly kept alive the notions of a more heroic age. In the course of the entire war seventy-one German and fifty-five French generals lost their lives, and it is reasonable to a.s.sume that most of those who did so in battle were killed in the opening months. British generals proved almost foolhardy by comparison: between 1914 and 1918 seventy-eight were killed in action, an enormous total given that the army did not really expand until the front had stabilised and startling confirmation of the a.s.sertion of Cyril Falls, himself a staff officer, that British generals were in fact 'too eager to get away from their desks'.17 What they found hard to accept was that vital decisions were being taken at lower levels of authority. At the beginning of the war the corps of, say, 30,000 men was the key operational command. But the corps was squeezed from the top by the creation of army and army group commands, and from the bottom by the division of about 12,000 men. The latter took the corps' place as the lowest all-arms operational formation, and acquired an ident.i.ty which was more lasting and cohesive than that of the corps. The task of heroic and inspiring leadership pa.s.sed even lower down the command chain to junior officers, the commanders of companies, platoons and even sections. What they found hard to accept was that vital decisions were being taken at lower levels of authority. At the beginning of the war the corps of, say, 30,000 men was the key operational command. But the corps was squeezed from the top by the creation of army and army group commands, and from the bottom by the division of about 12,000 men. The latter took the corps' place as the lowest all-arms operational formation, and acquired an ident.i.ty which was more lasting and cohesive than that of the corps. The task of heroic and inspiring leadership pa.s.sed even lower down the command chain to junior officers, the commanders of companies, platoons and even sections.

One reason why activity on the ground became nocturnal. German soldiers mount a camera on to an observation balloon Although the balloon would float behind German lines, it was still vulnerable to attack by enemy aircraft

In 1915 Entente strategy had an ad hoc quality. The western front represented an irreducible minimum. That was particularly the case for France, although it did not prevent the French from pursuing other options in the eastern Mediterranean, at Gallipoli and Salonika. The British seemed still to have a measure of choice. Some Liberals, particularly Reginald McKenna, Lloyd George's successor as chancellor of the exchequer, cleaved to the notion that Britain's primary contribution should be naval and economic: it should be the a.r.s.enal and financier of the Entente. McKenna argued that British manpower would be best used if it sustained home production and thus ensured the flow of exports that would fund Britain's international credit and its ability to buy arms overseas and supply them to its allies. But McKenna's hopes were ill founded. When Kitchener was appointed secretary of state for war in August 1914, he set about the creation of a ma.s.s army for deployment on the continent of Europe. By July 1915 the War Office was talking of seventy divisions, a tenfold increase on the army's size a year before. Although originally raised through voluntary enlistment, such an army could be kept up to strength only by conscription. Many of the men McKenna wanted on the factory floor were needed by the army, and the produce of those that remained went to equip that army, not to support Britain's overseas balance of trade.

Kitchener himself suggested Britain should delay its major effort until 1917, by which time the Continental armies would have fought each other to a standstill and the British could take the credit for ending the war. The New Armies' training and equipment was a lengthy process, but they could not realistically be held back for that long. In the short term the obvious reserves of manpower lay in Russia, but if the Russians were to do the hard fighting in 1915-16 they - not Kitchener's New Armies - should get the fruits of Britain's war industries. The retreat of the Russian armies in the summer of 1915 and the defeat at Gallipoli confirmed that Kitchener's notion of choice was as illusory as McKenna's. The Russians had now even greater need of British munitions, but they were also desperate for direct military support from the west to draw off the Germans. Furthermore, in France Joffre faced hardening political opposition. By sacking the most republican of his army commanders, General Maurice Sarrail, for perfectly proper military reasons, he provided a focus for the left's criticisms of the army's independence of political control. The government of Rene Viviani came under threat, and with it the national cohesion embodied in the union sacree. union sacree. Britain feared the upshot of a domestic political crisis in France. Their worst nightmares embraced a government under Joseph Caillaux and the possibility that he might seek an accommodation with Germany. Kitchener reversed his views of Britain's role on the western front: on 19 August 1915 he told Haig that 'we must act with all our energy, and do our utmost to help the French, even though by so doing, we suffer very heavy losses indeed'. Britain feared the upshot of a domestic political crisis in France. Their worst nightmares embraced a government under Joseph Caillaux and the possibility that he might seek an accommodation with Germany. Kitchener reversed his views of Britain's role on the western front: on 19 August 1915 he told Haig that 'we must act with all our energy, and do our utmost to help the French, even though by so doing, we suffer very heavy losses indeed'.18 British strategy was tied to that of its allies, and of France especially. British strategy was tied to that of its allies, and of France especially.

A senior French officer, said to be Joffre, wearing a helmet borrowed from an artilleryman, concludes a tour of inspection as he comes out of a communication trench

Thus, as the Central Powers began to pull apart, those of the Entente converged. On 29 June 1915 Joffre warned of the dangers of allowing the Germans to pick off one power at a time: 'An energetic combined offensive, involving all the allied armies other than the Russian, is the only means of warding off this danger and of beating the enemy'.19 Attacking on the western front was vital not just for strategic reasons: if on the defensive, he argued, 'our troops will little by little lose their physical and moral qualities'. Attacking on the western front was vital not just for strategic reasons: if on the defensive, he argued, 'our troops will little by little lose their physical and moral qualities'.20 He had been planning an attack in Champagne since late June. The president of the republic, Poincare, was among those opposed to further offensives, but British support gave Joffre the leverage over his political masters that he needed in order to go ahead. Operations in Artois in May had convinced the French, like the British, that if they had enough artillery and attacked on a sufficiently broad front they could break through; the key was to have supporting formations ready to carry the attack beyond the first line and so to enable the breakthrough to be achieved in one bound. On a front of 35 km, the French had 900 heavy guns, over 1,000 field guns, and thirty-seven divisions: at the point of attack the Germans could match nineteen divisions with five. On 24 September, after five days of French artillery preparation, Karl von Einem, commanding the German 3rd Army, got Falkenhayn to come to the telephone: 'I spoke to him for a moment, and so was able to tell him that personally everything was going very well. One must always show these people a serene countenance and a confident spirit, otherwise one would be deemed nervous - whether with good reason or not would not matter.' At 11 a.m. on the following morning, von Einem spoke to Falkenhayn again. Von Einem had just been told that the French had broken in at Souain, and asked for at least four divisions as reinforcements. 'He answers me that the British are attacking in the north, and that His Majesty therefore relies on every man to do his duty.' He had been planning an attack in Champagne since late June. The president of the republic, Poincare, was among those opposed to further offensives, but British support gave Joffre the leverage over his political masters that he needed in order to go ahead. Operations in Artois in May had convinced the French, like the British, that if they had enough artillery and attacked on a sufficiently broad front they could break through; the key was to have supporting formations ready to carry the attack beyond the first line and so to enable the breakthrough to be achieved in one bound. On a front of 35 km, the French had 900 heavy guns, over 1,000 field guns, and thirty-seven divisions: at the point of attack the Germans could match nineteen divisions with five. On 24 September, after five days of French artillery preparation, Karl von Einem, commanding the German 3rd Army, got Falkenhayn to come to the telephone: 'I spoke to him for a moment, and so was able to tell him that personally everything was going very well. One must always show these people a serene countenance and a confident spirit, otherwise one would be deemed nervous - whether with good reason or not would not matter.' At 11 a.m. on the following morning, von Einem spoke to Falkenhayn again. Von Einem had just been told that the French had broken in at Souain, and asked for at least four divisions as reinforcements. 'He answers me that the British are attacking in the north, and that His Majesty therefore relies on every man to do his duty.'21 The British attack was part of a second and simultaneous allied offensive, in Artois, and running from the slag-heaps of Loos in the north to the dominating ground of Vimy Ridge in the south. Joffre later calculated that fifty-four French divisions and thirteen British were engaged on a total front of 90 km. But Falkenhayn's and von Einem's sang froid sang froid was justified: the Germans had constructed a second position, five to six miles behind the front line, beyond the range of the French artillery, and on a reverse slope so that it was out of direct observation. Total Entente losses reached a quarter of a million for minimal gain. Foiled in his attempt at breakthrough, Joffre fell back on another rationale for his attack: 'We shall kill more of the enemy than he can kill of us'. was justified: the Germans had constructed a second position, five to six miles behind the front line, beyond the range of the French artillery, and on a reverse slope so that it was out of direct observation. Total Entente losses reached a quarter of a million for minimal gain. Foiled in his attempt at breakthrough, Joffre fell back on another rationale for his attack: 'We shall kill more of the enemy than he can kill of us'.22 It was to become a familiar justification for the failure to break through. But in this case German losses were only 60,000. It was to become a familiar justification for the failure to break through. But in this case German losses were only 60,000.

Joffre did not fall; Viviani did, albeit over developments in the Balkans rather than on the western front. A new government under Aristide Briand fended off the threat from the left, which was appeased by Sarrail's appointment to the Salonika command. In the event Loos affected the British running of the war more profoundly than did the failures in Champagne that of the French.

Both British and French generals were agreed that the breakthrough would be achieved not by the first wave of troops, who would break into the enemy front line, but by the second, who would pa.s.s through the first wave once it was on its objectives and carry the attack forward. Traditional notions of generalship dictated that the reserve should be in the hands of the supreme commander, who would decide when to commit it in the light of the overall situation. But the delays in communication and in getting forward over a sh.e.l.led and fractured battlefield in muddy weather argued that control of the reserves - and therefore command authority - should be delegated. Charles Mangin, commanding a French division at Vimy on 25 September, waited thirty-five hours for two battalions to get forward: 'For fifteen days I have said that it is necessary', he fulminated three days later, 'not only to place the reserves near the front, but to put them in the hands of those who have to employ them, the divisional commanders.'23 In the British case, Douglas Haig, commanding the 1st Army at Loos, had asked his commander-in-chief, Sir John French, to release two reserve divisions before the battle. French had refused, perhaps in part because unlike Haig he could not persuade himself that the attack was going to succeed. He did commit the two divisions by 9.30 a.m. on the 25th, within forty-five minutes of Haig requesting them, but the disorganisation and the distance of their march meant that they did not enter the battle until the following day. Haig used the episode and his influence with King George V to have French recalled and himself installed as commander-in-chief. In the British case, Douglas Haig, commanding the 1st Army at Loos, had asked his commander-in-chief, Sir John French, to release two reserve divisions before the battle. French had refused, perhaps in part because unlike Haig he could not persuade himself that the attack was going to succeed. He did commit the two divisions by 9.30 a.m. on the 25th, within forty-five minutes of Haig requesting them, but the disorganisation and the distance of their march meant that they did not enter the battle until the following day. Haig used the episode and his influence with King George V to have French recalled and himself installed as commander-in-chief.

Haig brought to the responsibility he now exercised more than royal favour and a capacity for intrigue. He possessed an inner certainty, b.u.t.tressed by his Presbyterian faith, which gave him resolve and direction. His biggest difficulty was that which confronted all his colleagues in an army which had expanded so quickly: used to exercising personal command in small formations, he did not know how best to lead a ma.s.s army or how to get the best from his staff. He none the less created a team at General Headquarters in France to whom he proved exceptionally - and even excessively - loyal. He also used his position to lobby in London for a change in the strategic direction of the war. The army in France, like the cabinet at home, had lost faith in Kitchener. His insights were not matched by organisational ability, and his enthusiasms could be at variance with the consistent support that French had needed but had not necessarily received. Under Kitchener, the army's general staff, newly formed just before the war, had been allowed to wither. Haig wanted Sir William Robertson, whose career had blossomed thanks to the opportunities staff-work afforded, appointed as its chief. Robertson had served in France as quartermaster-general and then chief of staff, and 'contained in his cylindrical person a quite unusual proportion of character and common sense to the cubic inch'. The King not only backed Robertson's appointment but also agreed that he should be responsible not to the secretary of state for war but to the War Council, the committee of the cabinet responsible for the formulation of strategy. Thus in early December 1915, six months before he was drowned when en route to visit Russia on board HMS Hampshire, Hampshire, Kitchener was being bypa.s.sed in the formulation of policy. Kitchener was being bypa.s.sed in the formulation of policy.

Robertson is too often remembered simply as the doughty defender of Haig and the supporter of the western front. He was both those things, in that he saw it as his job to enable the commander-in-chief of the princ.i.p.al British army in the field to get on with the conduct of operations in Britain's major theatre of land war. But he was far from being simply Haig's puppet. Robertson had joined the army as a private soldier and lacked the obvious social graces of those with whom he now had to deal: 'Arrogant, aitchless when excited, and flat-footed (figuratively and physically), he lurched down Whitehall, an ambu- lating refrigerator'.24 His difficulties were compounded by the fact that he said not what the politicians wanted to hear but what his professional judgement indicated was right. He could not promise a quick victory. His message on 8 November 1915 was one of realism: the defeat of the Central Powers 'can only be attained by the defeat or exhaustion of the predominant partner in the Central Alliance - Germany'. His difficulties were compounded by the fact that he said not what the politicians wanted to hear but what his professional judgement indicated was right. He could not promise a quick victory. His message on 8 November 1915 was one of realism: the defeat of the Central Powers 'can only be attained by the defeat or exhaustion of the predominant partner in the Central Alliance - Germany'.25 By 1917 the key word here was to be exhaustion, but in December 1915 Robertson, like other Entente commanders, was less sure. Writing to Kitchener on the 27th of that month, he said that 'we can only end the war in our favour by attrition or by breaking through the German line'.26 In having it both ways Robertson reflected Joffre's response to the Champagne battle: designed to achieve breakthrough, it was explained as In having it both ways Robertson reflected Joffre's response to the Champagne battle: designed to achieve breakthrough, it was explained as 'grignotage', 'grignotage', or nibbling, when it failed. But ambiguity vitiated clear planning. At Neuve Chapelle, Haig had scented the opportunity for breakthrough and had readied his cavalry accordingly, but General Rawlinson had set more limited objectives from the outset. Rawlinson argued that, as a well-prepared and well-supported attack could break into an enemy position but not could not break clean through, this reality should be reflected in planning. Attacks should aim to take a 'bite' out of the enemy line, and then hold it; that would force the enemy to counterattack and so confer the tactical advantages of the defender on the attacker. or nibbling, when it failed. But ambiguity vitiated clear planning. At Neuve Chapelle, Haig had scented the opportunity for breakthrough and had readied his cavalry accordingly, but General Rawlinson had set more limited objectives from the outset. Rawlinson argued that, as a well-prepared and well-supported attack could break into an enemy position but not could not break clean through, this reality should be reflected in planning. Attacks should aim to take a 'bite' out of the enemy line, and then hold it; that would force the enemy to counterattack and so confer the tactical advantages of the defender on the attacker.

Rawlinson's method promised to exhaust the enemy, but it faced two significant imponderables. First, it pa.s.sed the initiative to the enemy: he might decide he did not need to regain the lost ground, and so call the attacker's bluff. Rawlinson could guarantee only that this would not occur where it was important for the enemy to regain the ground he had lost. Vimy Ridge, with its commanding height, was an example, as was the ring of hills to the east of Ypres: the town screened the Channel ports and the pivot of the British Expeditionary Force's supply system, and the high ground guarded the Roulers railway junction and the hub of Germany's transport network behind the western front. A breakthrough at either Vimy or Ypres might have major operational consequences. As a result attritional battles tended to occur at locations where breakthrough battles also were likely to occur. And that was the second imponderable implicit in 'bite and hold'. It was only a method, a means to exhaust the enemy; the point would come when that had been accomplished and an allied attack would be able to break through. Haig, both at Neuve Chapelle and at Loos, had persuaded himself that the exhaustion of the enemy and the breakthrough could be part of the same battle. Neither Rawlinson nor Robertson shared that a.s.sumption.

Central to Robertson's thinking about the exhaustion of the German army was the nature of the intelligence that the War Office in London received. Most of it concerned train movements across Europe, showing the deployment of German divisions between east and west, and enabling him to build up a clear order of battle for the German army and its reserves. For Robertson, as a cla.s.sically trained staff officer, the Germans were operating on 'interior lines', able to shift their troops across short chords to meet different threats with rapidity. The allies, by contrast, were ranged round the Central Powers and had to move greater distances and on 'exterior lines', often by sea and certainly slowly. His belief that Britain's princ.i.p.al contribution should be on the western front did not prevent him realising that each of the allied fronts had the potential to support the others if only their efforts could be concentrated in time. If the Central Powers were attacked simultaneously in the west and in the east, and also in Italy, the Germans would not be able to shuttle their reserves along the chords to the circ.u.mference.

VERDUN AND THE SOMME.

That was exactly the point Joffre had made in the summer, and it formed the broad outlines of an allied strategy agreed at a conference at Chantilly on 6-8 December 1915. The British representatives were the commander-in-chief, then still Sir John French, and Robertson's predecessor, Sir Archibald Murray. They and their allied colleagues agreed that 'Decisive results will only be obtained if the offensives of the allied armies are delivered simultaneously or at least on dates that are close enough to prevent the enemy from transporting his reserves from one front to another'.27 That, they reckoned, meant attacks within one month of each other. Combined attacks should be launched as soon as possible, and in the interval local attacks should continue in order to wear out the enemy. The Chantilly conference specified neither a time nor a place for the Anglo-French offensive on the western front in 1916. From the British perspective the Ypres salient was the more obvious sector from which to attack, not least because it was closest to the Channel ports and the British Expeditionary Force's supply lines. But militarily Britain was the junior partner of the coalition. French's replacement by Haig promised an improvement in Anglo-French relations, and when Haig met Joffre on 14 February 1916 he readily agreed that the attack should be in Picardy, astride the River Somme, where the two armies met. The sector lacked the roads and railways of Flanders but its chalky, undulating terrain was less likely to become waterlogged, particularly given the preferred start date of around 1 July. Rawlinson, now commanding the 4th Army, which was to take the brunt of the British effort, declared it was 'capital country in which to undertake an offensive'. That, they reckoned, meant attacks within one month of each other. Combined attacks should be launched as soon as possible, and in the interval local attacks should continue in order to wear out the enemy. The Chantilly conference specified neither a time nor a place for the Anglo-French offensive on the western front in 1916. From the British perspective the Ypres salient was the more obvious sector from which to attack, not least because it was closest to the Channel ports and the British Expeditionary Force's supply lines. But militarily Britain was the junior partner of the coalition. French's replacement by Haig promised an improvement in Anglo-French relations, and when Haig met Joffre on 14 February 1916 he readily agreed that the attack should be in Picardy, astride the River Somme, where the two armies met. The sector lacked the roads and railways of Flanders but its chalky, undulating terrain was less likely to become waterlogged, particularly given the preferred start date of around 1 July. Rawlinson, now commanding the 4th Army, which was to take the brunt of the British effort, declared it was 'capital country in which to undertake an offensive'.28 The crucial point, however, was that the British role would be a supporting