17 ‘Come on the Royal Irish’ Thursday 7 June, Z Day. By 3 a.m. Michael Wall’s men had fixed their bayonets. The British guns stopped firing and an eerie hush fell over the countryside. Men spoke in whispers to each other. As if Mother Nature wanted to let the men know she still existed in this terrible place, nightingales were heard singing in what was left of Rossignol Wood.1 The countdown to Zero Hour began. Minutes passed away slowly; even the final few seconds of waiting for the signal to charge the German front line seemed to drag. What must have run through Michael’s mind in those final few moments of silence as he shivered with nerves and stood waiting to go with his men? His mother, family and Carrick Hill? A hero’s welcome marching with his men up the Dublin Quays? That hot bath he would have? Maybe he thought about how, when all this was over, he would meet a nice girl and get married. No doubt a word with his God passed away those last few seconds. It was during these last minutes that the Dublins in their reserve trenches took out their rosary beads and prayed for the German soldiers who were about to be vaporised.2 The overall objective that faced both General Hickie and General Nugent was to remove the Germans from Wijtschate and push them back behind a predetermined line beyond the ridge near the village of Oosttaverne on the eastern side of Wijtschate. The plan to take the objective was set to proceed in three stages throughout the day, with a specific objective at each stage. To make sure all units knew what their specific objective and tasks were, 239
Messines to Carrick Hill
and in order to have all units singing from one hymn sheet, every combat unit was given a detailed set of Operation Instructions in the days before 7 June.3 The tactics used to take and consolidate Wijtschate by both Irish divisions would be similar. These tactics had been practised on brigade training grounds in villages around St Omer back in April and May. Under a creeping barrage of artillery and machinegun fire set to lift at specific time intervals, each brigade and each battalion in that brigade was assigned a specific section of German trench to take according to a specific time schedule. Contact aeroplanes used to observe the fall of British artillery shells would fly over the battlefield at specific times throughout the day and communicate with artillery batteries below on the accuracy of their firing. When each section of German trench was taken, support units such as the Royal Engineers and Pioneers would advance to the captured line and consolidate the gains that were made. Field artillery would also move up to new lines and assist the assault on the final objective. A limited number of tanks would be available to assist the advancing infantry. In an effort to keep the element of surprise intact and to stop the planned time of attack – 3.10 a.m. – from falling into the hands of raiding Germans before 7 June, Zero Hour was deliberately kept from the men for as long as possible. It had been carefully chosen as one-and-a-half hours before dawn, and a visibility of a hundred metres had been estimated as the first light glimmered on the eastern horizon.4 The half-light before dawn at 3.10 a.m. was seen as an advantage to the attacking Irish troops. The guiding principles for General Plumer and his staff officers of ‘Trust, Training and Thoroughness’ would be put to the test. The rain had stopped and an almost full moon shone in a clear 5 sky. At seven seconds before Zero Hour, the first of Empire Jack’s 240
‘Come on the Royal Irish’
mines went up – the Trench 127 mine at the southern end of the front facing the Australians at St Yves.6 Within seconds, the rest exploded. The time officially recorded between the firing of the first and last mines along the front line was nineteen seconds.7 Standing on Mount Kemmel, Philip Gibbs from the Daily Chronicle looked on with amazement at this display, on the morning that it seemed as if hell had broken through the surface of the earth. It was, he said: The most diabolical splendour I have ever seen. Out of the dark ridges of Messines and Wijtschate and that ill-famed Hill 60, there gushed out and up enormous volumes of scarlet flame from the exploding mines and of earth and smoke all lighted by the flame spilling over
into mountains of fierce colour, so that all the countryside was
illuminated by red light. Where some of us stood watching and spellbound by this burning horror, the ground trembled and surged violently to and fro. Truly the earth quaked.8
The 36th (Ulster) Division had in front of them one of the strongest sectors of the German front line. The knoll of Spanbroekmolen and the fortified points at Kruisstraat and Peckham were on each flank of the advancing Ulstermen. The mine in front of the division was named the Spanbroekmolen mine. Dug by the 171st Canadian Tunnelling Company and packed with 91,000 pounds (41,277 kilograms) of ammonal explosive charge, it had been discovered by German counter-mining in late April and almost destroyed.9 However, it had been saved and recharged with explosives. Right up to Zero Hour, there was an element of doubt as to whether or not Spanbroekmolen would explode. In the days leading up to the attack, German tunnelling units had blown damaging camouflets near the mine, and consequently a new tunnel 241
Messines to Carrick Hill
was driven through a tract of gas-drenched ground (which cost three brave men from the 171st Tunnelling Company their lives), past the section blown in by the camouflets, to reach and save the charge just hours ahead of Zero Hour. In the end the mine went off fifteen seconds after Zero Hour. The Corps Standing Orders noted that if a mine did not go off following a wait of fifteen seconds after Zero Hour, it was to be assumed that the mine was not going to go off, and so the men were to advance to the German lines.10 This was Russian roulette. When the mine did explode, huge mounds of clay the size of farm carts were thrown into the air, forming a crater 130 metres in diameter.11 The Royal Engineers had estimated a period of twenty seconds for the mine debris to fall back to earth.12 In reality the dust did not settle for two hours.13 Following the blasts, many of the leading assaulting troops found it impossible to see more than a few metres ahead of themselves, as the air was thick with dust, smoke and panic. Visual and oral communications were near impossible. In the haze, units crossed each other, but as the fog of dust began to settle, the leading platoon and company commanders reorganised and brought some level of order back to the chaotic infantry assault.14 Some of the leading Ulster battalions had begun their advance just after Zero Hour and were in no man’s land when the Spanbroekmolen mine went off. They had used this tactic on 1 July when they had faced the Schwaben Redoubt in the Somme. However, some of the 14th Royal Irish Rifles were caught by falling debris from the mine explosion and were killed. They were buried practically where they fell, at the British Commonwealth War Graves cemetery named Lone Tree Cemetery, behind the Spanbroekmolen crater known as the Pool of Peace.15 The shock wave resulting from the explosion of 874,200 242