two hours more daylight it would have been—a complete destruction of Germany's sea power, it was a complete demonstration of Britain's crushing superiority. Sir David Beatty faced great odds and great difficulties in the spirit of Hawke and Nelson.—" He once more showed," wrote the Commander-in-Chief, " his fine qualities of gallant leadership, firm determination, and correct strategical insight. He appreciated the situation at once on sighting his enemy's lighter forces, then his battle cruisers, and finally his battle fleet. I can fully sympathise with his feelings when the evening mist and failing light robbed the fleet of that complete victory for which he had manoeuvred, and for which the vessels in company with him had striven so hard." It is a tradition of the British Admiralty that it praises sparingly and only praises when the merit of an achievement is beyond question. The well-chosen words in which it approved Sir John Jellicoe's leadership are more impressive than the rhetoric of the chiefs of parvenu navies. " The results of the action prove that the officers and men of the Grand Fleet have known both how to study the new problems with which they are confronted and how to turn their knowledge to account. The expectations of the country were high, they have been well fulfilled. My Lords desire to convey to you their full approval of your proceedings in this action."
Not less conspicuous than the leadership was the amazing fighting quality of the British sailors. It was more than a century since Britain had had the opportunity of a first-class naval action, and it may confidently be said that not even at Trafalgar did the spirit of her seamen shine more brightly. The story of the fighting of a battleship like Marlborough, a cruiser like Southampton, and destroyers like Tipperary, Onslow and Defender will become part of our national epic. It is no case for the flowers of rhetoric. Such a spirit is best praised not in the literary epithets of the historian but in the simple and heartfelt tribute of the man who guided it. " The conduct of officers and men," wrote Sir John Jellicoe, " throughout the day and night actions was entirely beyond praise. No words of mine can do them justice. On all sides it is reported to me that the glorious traditions of the past were most worthily upheld, whether in heavy ships, cruisers, light cruisers, or destroyers—the same admirable spirit prevailed.
Officers and men were cool and determined, with a cheeriness that would have carried them through anything. The heroism of the wounded was the admiration of all. I cannot adequately express the pride with which the spirit of the fleet filled me."
THE BATTLE OF THE SOMME
FIRST PHASE
CHAPTER III. THE SECOND STAGE.
CHAPTER I.
PRELIMINARIES.
From Arras southward the Western battle-front leaves the coalpits and sour fields of the Artois and enters the pleasant region of Picardy. The great crook of the upper Somme and the tributary vale of the Ancre intersect a rolling tableland, dotted with little towns and furrowed by a hundred shallow chalk streams. Nowhere docs the land rise higher than 500 feet, but a trivial swell—such is the nature of the landscape— may carry the eye for thirty miles. There are few detached farms, for it is a country of peasant cultivators who cluster in villages. Not a hedge breaks the long roll of cornlands, and till the higher ground is reached the lines of tall poplars flanking the great Roman highroads are the chief landmarks. At the lift of country between Somme and Ancre copses patch the slopes, and sometimes a church spire is seen above the trees from some woodland hamlet. The Somme winds in a broad valley between chalk bluffs, faithfully dogged by a canal—a curious river which strains, like the Oxus, “through matted rushy isles,” and is sometimes a lake and sometimes an expanse of swamp. The Ancre is such a stream as may be found in Wiltshire, with good trout in its pools. On a hot midsummer day the slopes are ablaze with yellow mustard, red poppies and blue cornflowers; and to one coming from the lush flats of Flanders, or the “black country” of the Pas de Calais, or the dreary levels of Champagne, or the strange melancholy Verdun hills, this land wears a habitable and cheerful air, as if remote from the oppression of war.
The district is known as the Santerre. Some derive the name from sana terra—the healthy land; others from sarta terra—the cleared land. Some say it is sancta terra, for Peter the Hermit was a Picard, and the piety of the Crusaders enriched the place with a thousand relics and a hundred noble churches. But there are those— and they have much to say for themselves— who read the name sang terre—the bloody land, for the Picard was the Gascon of the north, and the countryside is an old cockpit of war. It was the seat of the government of Clovis and Charlemagne. It was ravaged by the Normans, and time and again by the English. There Louis XI. and Charles the Bold fought their battles; it suffered terribly in the Hundred Years’ War; German and Spaniard, the pan-dours of Eugene and the Cossacks of Alexander marched across its fields; from the walls of Peronne the last shot was fired in the war of 1814. And in the greatest war of all it was destined to be the theatre of a struggle compared with which its ancient conflicts were like the brawls of a village fair.
Till Midsummer in 1916 the Picardy front had shown little activity. Since that feverish September when de Castelnau had extended on the Allies’ left, and Maud’huy beyond de Castelnau, in the great race for the North Sea, there had been no serious action. Just before the Battle of Verdun began the Germans made a feint south of the Somme and gained some ground at Frise and Dompierre. There had been local raids and local bombardments, but the trenches on both sides were good, and a partial advance offered few attractions to either. Amiens was miles behind one front, vital points like St. Quentin and Courtrai and La Fere were far behind the other. In that region only a very great and continuous offensive would offer any strategic results. In September, 1915, the British took over most of the line from Arras to the Somme, and on the whole they had a quiet winter in their new trenches. This long stagnation led to one result: it enabled the industrious Germans to excavate the chalk hills on which they lay into a fortress which they believed to be impregnable. Their position was naturally strong, and they strengthened it by every device which science could provide. Their High Command might look uneasily at the Aubcrs ridge and Lens and Vimy, but they had no doubts about the Albert heights.
THE GERMAN POSITION.
The German plan in the West, after the first offensive had been cheeked at the Marne and Ypres, was to hold their front with abundant guns but the bare minimum of men, and use their surplus forces to win a decision in the East. This scheme was foiled by the heroic steadfastness of Russia’s retreat, which surrendered territory freely but kept her armies in being. During the winter of 1915-16 the German High Command were growing anxious. They saw that their march to the Dvina and their adventure in the Balkans had wholly failed to shake the resolution of their opponents. They were aware that the Allies had learned with some exactness the lesson of eighteen months of war, and that even now they were superior in men, and would presently be on an equality
