Beneath Hill 60 Read online

  Below the southern end of the Messines Ridge, just north of Ploegsteert Wood, the British 171st Company started a deep shaft and tunnel from their frontline at Trench 127 in December 1915. They dropped a shaft to a depth of 25 metres and pushed towards the German frontline at what was known to the British as Ultimo Switch. But at the 215-metre mark, without the slightest warning, quicksand burst through the face. The tunnellers fled back down the gallery as the liquid sand swirled around their feet, and quickly built a dam. Major Edgeworth David believed the tunnellers had accidentally encountered part of the ancient pre-glacial bed of the Douve River.10 To avoid the bad ground they sank a new shaft to a depth of 27 metres, dug a side gallery off to the left and charged it with 16 tonnes of ammonal. The main drive went forward another 415 metres and was charged with 23 tonnes of ammonal. And so by mid-May 1916, another two mines lay silent and ready for the big day.

  The last and most southerly site was a twin mine at Factory Farm, 300 metres south of Trench 127. Starting in February 1916, the tunnellers dug a shaft down to a depth of 25 metres then pushed a tunnel out, forking at the end to form a Y. They laid a charge of nine tonnes of ammonal in the northern branch and a further 18 tonnes in the southern branch, along the German frontline.

  Four other mines were excavated and charged at a site to the east of Ploegsteert Wood known to the British as the ‘Birdcage’ and to the Germans as the ‘Duckbill’. South of the extent of the June 1917 attack, they were not blown but kept in reserve for a later time.

  By early 1917, a necklace of enormous mines was being created along nine kilometres of German frontline. And the Germans were all but unaware of what lay beneath their feet.

  When the Australian Mining Battalion arrived at Hazebrouck, they were informed by the controller of mines of the 2nd Army that their present formation as a battalion did not fit the current British operational formation, and so the three tunnelling companies became separate entities. This break-up of the battalion pleased the spirited men, as they preferred to be part of a smaller unit that operated independently. They sewed their own distinctive colour patches onto their uniforms: a purple ‘T’ with the numbers, 1, 2 or 3 designating their company.1 Three senior officers formed a separate new company known as the Australian Electrical and Mechanical Mining and Boring Company, which, because of its long and silly title, became known to the men simply as ‘The Alphabetical Company’. It established a large workshop in the town of Hazebrouck, and provided support for all the Allied tunnelling companies for the remainder of the war.

  The three independent Australian tunnelling companies were now dispatched to various frontline areas of operation around Armentières. The 1st Australian Tunnelling Company was to operate north of Armentières and have their headquarters in the town. The 2nd was to operate south of Armentières, with their headquarters in the village of Sailly-sur-la-Lys, and the 3rd would operate near Lens, with its headquarters at Nœux-les-Mines.2

  To give the men practical skills and familiarise them with frontline conditions, each company’s four sections were attached to experienced active units such as the Royal Engineers or the Canadians. There were two distinct types of ground in the vicinity of the British frontline – hard chalk around Lens, which was in the middle of the British front, and blue clay along the Messines Ridge. As each required different mining skills and equipment, once a company was located in an area and had come to know the ground, the mine layout and the enemy workings, it was rare that these units were moved. If it was imperative they transfer, it was done over a period of up to two months to give the relieving tunnelling unit time to become well acquainted with the new position. This was particularly the case with offensive mining operations, as this work was very delicate and highly secretive.

  Six days after their arrival at Hazebrouck, the company commanders, adjutants and officers in charge of sections, including Woodward, were taken on an inspection of the areas of the frontline where they were to begin work. Here they were shown mines, underground workings and maps of tunnels. Next the men were lined up in front of the quartermaster and each was issued with a rifle, ammunition and basic webbing.

  On the Sunday before the men of Woodward’s tunnelling company moved out to their operational area north of Armentières, they attended a church parade in the local town hall. The men of the AIF were not especially religious and would generally avoid church whenever possible, but given they were about to go into the line for the first time, perhaps thoughts of a Higher Being crossed their minds. It was something of a serious and sombre occasion, but partway into the service, loud yells and screams came from the hall immediately above. Later it was discovered that the locals were conducting a cockfight to determine the district champion. Even given their brief piety, had the men known, said Woodward, ‘they would have been sorely tempted to depart en masse from the service and try their luck in picking a winner’.3

  On 15 May 1916, the men of the 1st Australian Tunnelling Company boarded old London buses, the classic red finish replaced by drab grey and the windows covered to cut reflections. They headed east along the tree-lined road that ran from Hazebrouck through villages, past dairy cows, hop fields and the ubiquitous red poppies, and on to Bailleul. Though there was little evidence of the war as they rattled eastward, the men were now only five kilometres from the front, and their ‘excitement was intense’.4

  Past Bailleul, half the company split off, some heading to St Eloi to work with the Royal Engineers Tunnelling Company, at that time struggling for control of the Mound, while another group headed north, to near Poperinghe, where they could learn from the Canadian 3rd Tunnelling Company working underground at the notoriously dangerous Hill 60.

  Towards the front, they saw their first shattered building as they lumbered through Nieppe. Then the artillery positions became visible, the British gunners busily stacking shells ready for their next call to action, and in the distance, Armentières. Short of this large town, the grunting, smoky bus pulled to a stop. The men put on their packs, clicked together the brass buckles of their web belts and shouldered their rifles. Spreading out so as not to make themselves an attractive target to the ever-vigilant German gunners, the tunnellers marched into the main square of Armentières. Here, to their amazement, among the damaged buildings and rubble, was a crowd of inquisitive children who were unconcerned about the battle raging nearby and eyed off the dusty Australians ‘with an interest generally shown to a Circus’.5 It went against all the officers’ preconceived ideas of the frontline. ‘Do you wonder we asked ourselves the question, when are we going to get to this blooming War?’ Woodward wrote.6

  That night, Woodward and the officers enjoyed dinner with the Canadian tunnellers and soon ‘found all conditions topsy-turvy to those we had imagined’.7 They were surprised by the number of civilians who had remained in the city and the many businesses that were open and carrying on as if the war was far away. They strolled around town like tourists enjoying the warm night air.

  Walking through the town square, known to the troops as Half Past Eleven Square because the shell-damaged town clock had stopped at that time, Oliver Woodward was led down a side street to the starting point of the communication trench that ran out to Houplines and on to the frontline. Here, in the still evening air, he could hear the sharp crack of rifle fire and the occasional rattle of a machine gun. An old Flemish couple passed by, arm in arm, quite unperturbed, out for a walk before returning to the relative safety of their cellar. On the way back, he stopped at a dimly lit café – its windows were boarded up, but the strong, sweet smell of brewed coffee and freshly baked cakes led him to it – then it was early to bed in the officers’ billets at the rear of the company’s headquarters. ‘As I lay on my comfortable bunk I attempted to sort out reality from unreality but found it almost an impossible task,’ he wrote. ‘Tuesday 15th May 1916 can I rightly think be classed as one of the most confusing days ever experienced by me.’8

  At 8.30 the next morning, he set out with the co
mmanding officer of the Canadian tunnellers, Captain MacMillen, for an inspection of the underground workings at the section of the frontline the Australians were to take over. They drove to Motor Car Corner, a point about two kilometres behind the line beyond which motorised transport was not permitted in daylight hours. From there, the two officers set out on foot along the road that led to the head of the communications trench named Nicholson Avenue.

  Suddenly, shells crashed to right and left of the road, throwing up fountains of dirt and sending whirring shards of metal through the air. Oliver Woodward had received his baptism of fire. He wrote:

  Outwardly Captain MacMillen gave the impression of absolute indifference, but I have a suspicion that this mask was assumed solely for my benefit and actually he had the ‘wind up’ as much as I. The whole performance was so unnatural. Imagine the scene, two officers walking along a road on either side of which huge areas of earth suddenly leapt skyward, preceded by a screech and followed by a roar, and both officers appearing to ignore the whole performance.9

  Reporting to the headquarters for the tunnellers – a dugout in a trench at a point known as Amen Corner – they were met by a young lieutenant, the officer in charge of this section of the line. Woodward looked about him. The dugout was only a little over two metres square and two metres high. Around the walls were timber planks, and sections of railway line held up a timber roof. Above this were sandbags and above those a layer of bricks covered with mud and debris for camouflage. Though it might save the occupants from shrapnel balls and shell splinters, it offered little protection from a direct hit or being buried alive.

  From this tiny, muddy position, the daily coordination of the tunnelling work and the men was conducted. The tunnellers were divided into two teams and worked four days at the front then were rested for four days at billets in the rear. During their four days in the line, they worked six-hour shifts on a continual 24-hour basis: six hours on and then six hours off, in which they would eat and get what sleep they could. The officer and his sergeant would be on duty continually for these four days, grabbing what sleep they could and eating when food was available, and then only after the men had eaten.

  Defending this part of the line were troops of the South African Scottish Regiment. ‘I imagined that on the previous day I had got my full issue of surprises but here was a super surprise,’ noted Woodward. ‘Who would have imagined he would ever meet Dutchmen or Boers clad in kilts defending a Frontline Trench in France?’10 After initially finding it comical, it dawned on Woodward that it was a sign of the strength and resilience of the Empire that men from so far afield and with such a recent antagonism to Britain were now working, fighting and dying for King and Empire.

  Passing along the frontline, Woodward noted the high water table, which did not bode well for mining. Between the duckboards laid in the bottom of the trench he could see dark, muddy water, and he could smell the musty, damp odour of wet hessian and timber. Water oozed between and out of the sandbags lining the sides of the trench and the parapet above, dripping endlessly into the quagmire below.

  After a pot of tea at battalion headquarters, he was led down into some of the Canadian workings, known as the Monmouth House and Essex Farm Mining Systems. Then, after a dinner of cold stew and tea, he set out again underground, crawling through tunnels just a metre high and less than a metre wide. Dank and wet, he dragged himself through a hundred metres of this tight tunnel system. Above, the nightly German strafe on the lines with trench mortars added to the unreality of the situation.

  By the time he emerged it was dark. Back at the officers’ dugout, he was offered a hessian bunk, one of three fixed to the wall, with the lowest just clear of the muddy floor. A hessian curtain, an attempt perhaps at privacy, flapped restlessly in the draught while water dripped from the roof and oozed between the timber that had been laid on the mud floor. But at least he had a bunk, he thought, unlike the men who were sleeping wet and cold on the fire step of the trench, protected only by a flimsy waterproof sheet. Wet, and physically and mentally exhausted, he stretched out fully dressed, placed his gas mask and revolver near to hand, pulled a mud-caked blanket over his head and was soon asleep.

  Two days later, after a rest in Armentières, Oliver Woodward found himself back at Amen Corner, but this time with 40 men under his command. No sooner had he arrived than the battalion intelligence officer approached him and asked if he could investigate what appeared to be the sounds of enemy mining. Though this proved to be a false report, he felt for the first time the fear of a silently digging enemy tunnelling close to his lines, scraping away the earth beneath him or quietly packing bags of explosives. Any reports of active mining were coordinated by the intelligence officers and as well as a report going to headquarters such information was passed on to the troops and published in what was known as the Corps News.

  At 3.30 am on 21 May 1916, as his men were working in the Essex Farm Mining System, a tunneller’s pick struck the face, and a fall of earth revealed a black hole. They had broken through into a German tunnel. The men sent word, and Woodward raced to the shaft and pushed his way down the tunnel to the face. He and another officer, Lieutenant Allen, carefully broke down a further section of the wall, the wet mud falling at their feet, and gingerly peered in. They half-expected an explosion, a rifle shot or a smack in the face with a shovel, but all was silent.

  They enlarged the hole, feeling a draught of fresh air blow on their faces. There was still no sound and no detonation, so they stepped through the hole into the enemy’s workings for the first time. Around them, the tunnel was in a good state of repair and superior to the Allies’: the walls were boarded and secured, and there was a good drainage system. Cautiously, with pistols drawn and each holding a small torch, their yellowish beams casting strange, distorted shadows on the timbered lining boards, they moved along the tunnel. Stooped, alert and frightened, they walked towards a tangle of boards and, bracing, found that the gallery had been badly shattered, probably by a Canadian camouflet. Access had been blocked. Why the Germans had not cleared this debris and reopened the tunnel was something of a mystery. For safety, Woodward established a listening post and returned to the surface.

  Though they had been there just over a week, that same afternoon the Canadians officially handed over the tunnelling operations to the Australians and marched out. Two days later, they were relieved and returned to their billets in Armentières; they had survived their first spell at the front.

  The 2nd Australian Tunnelling Company, just south of Armentières, had taken over the operations of the 172nd Tunnelling Company Royal Engineers. Though they had been in the area for only one week, they decided to slow down the Germans, who were very active underground there, by firing a camouflet on 22 May 1916. It was the first to be fired by the Australians on the Western Front. They followed this up with another camouflet when they heard Germans very close to their gallery in the early hours of 30 May. Soon after, smoke was seen rising from the German trenches, most likely through the entrance shaft to the mine, indicating a successful attack.

  In late May 1916, in an assault on the Australian line near Cordonnerie, just to the west of Lille and near Fromelles, a German raiding party, including four miners who carried small explosive packs, intended to destroy Allied dugouts and the entrances to mining operations. Members of the 2nd Australian Tunnelling Company were caught up in the fighting when the German raiders mistook the entrance to an Australian mine for a large dugout and threw in an explosive charge. The Australian tunnellers and pioneers rushed out. Private William Edward Cox, a labourer from Parramatta, was the first to emerge. He was shot in the stomach at close range and fell back, dying. The next man out was bayoneted but survived; he and four others were captured.11

  Meanwhile, the 3rd Australian Tunnelling Company was near Lens. In June they fired a pipe mine, a common method of making quick, localised attacks on the enemy’s line. In essence it was an explosive charge fired at the end of a bore hole that
had been driven towards the enemy lines, but it generally had limited and unimpressive results.

  The Australians were very welcome at the front. They brought wide and varied experiences in tunnelling and new ideas, and they had arrived at a time when it was extremely difficult to get more miners from the British pits, especially from the coalmines, as men were pressed to keep up coal production for the war effort.

  By now, the firing of camouflets and large offensive mines had become incessant, reaching its zenith along the British 1st Army front from Vimy Ridge, near Arras, north to Laventie, which is northwest of Fromelles, a distance of about 30 kilometres. During June 1915, the British fired 79 mines there, while the Germans fired 73. Along the whole British front, 227 mines were fired that month, about one every three hours.12

  After a similar request by the British, a New Zealand Tunnelling Company had been formed in September 1915 from various mining areas across the country. They were the first New Zealand military unit to arrive in France, in March 1916, and were already undertaking offensive mining operations at Vimy Ridge in the Arras sector. This was some two months before the Australians arrived, yet in late May, some New Zealand troops were attached to Woodward’s company for specialist training. It was a case, according to Woodward, ‘of the blind leading the blind’.13

  There were no targets on the German lines opposite Woodward’s section of the front that were worth an offensive-mining effort. And the area was not suited to offensive mining, as it had a high water table – six metres – beneath which the men could not dig. So the tunnellers focused on defensive mining operations to protect the trenches. This meant digging a vertical shaft or an incline to a depth between three and six metres below the surface and then a level gallery or tunnel towards the enemy. Below no-man’s-land, a lateral gallery was dug parallel to the Australian frontline, and from this, galleries spaced 15 metres apart were driven towards the German frontline to form listening posts. From the end of these galleries two short tunnels were driven left and right, forming a ‘T’ to ensure no aggressive German mining could be carried out and not detected. And to be prepared for German tunnellers, bore holes of 20 centimetres diameter were drilled and filled with explosives.