129: World War I Before the US (Military Tech, Trenches, Global Armies, Ypres, Verdun & the Somme)

[Music] It's early in the pre-don morning, August 4, 1914. Only one day since Germany declared war on France, and Germany's SMS Gov'n is steaming westward through the Mediterranean. She's an impressive vessel. The Gov'n only launched two years ago, after that revolutionary year of 1906, when Britain's big guns only ball-ship, the HMS Dreadnacht, so drastically up to the anti-enabled warfare that the world's 'natives now speak of ball-ships as pre-dreadnacht or dreadnacht. The Gov'n isn't a ball-ship, but she does belong to a new breed that merges dreadnacht guns with first-class cruiser speed, the Battle Cruiser. And as the morning dawns, the commander of the state of the art, 23,000 tonne German war ship, the 50-something dark-haired rear admiral of French immigrant descent, Wilhelm Souchon, is pleased to see his objective in the distance. Philippeville, French Algeria. [Music] Approaching the city, Wilhelm has the Gov'n slowed down. Situated on the craggy coast of France's long-held and most prized of colonial territories, Algeria, Philippeville is crawling with French soldiers of European and North African origins soon to cross the Mediterranean to join the war in Europe. Hence, it's the perfect target. At 608 AM, the Gov'n six-inch guns open fire on Philippeville. Shells damaged the railway station. They blow up a magazine. Other buildings around the harbor suffer damage as well, while French coastal batteries answer in kind. The action is only 10 minutes and fails to strike French troops or transports, but the admiral is satisfied. This will do for now. The mighty battle cruiser steams off to rendezvous with the one other German warship in the Mediterranean, a light cruiser called the SMS Brezlau, which just hit the Algerian port city of Bohn. Yes, this was a coordinated attack. All the admiral's idea. The two German ships are now steaming east to the Italian island of Sicily. That's about 500 miles, though. So as we travel, let me give you the full details on Admiral Wilhelm's Sushon's situation. At 2.35 AM this morning, Berlin instructed him to head to the Ottoman capital of Constantinople. See, two days ago, on August 2nd, the German and Ottoman Empire signed a secret treaty. But it's only a defensive alliance against Russia, and the Ottomans aren't rushing into war. Thus, Berlin hopes that the protective presence of the all-powerful SMS-Gurban in Constantinople's waters might encourage their new ally to take action. But Wilhelm was already so close to French-North Africa that he decided to carry out his pre-planet attack there first. With that done, he's ready to lead this two vessel squadron to the Ottoman capital. They'll need to refuel for this long voyage hence the stop at Sicily, but additionally, the admiral must also be mindful of another new challenge now the war has broken out, enemy vessels. It's now 10.34 AM. The Govins crew spies two gray masses on the distant horizon. It's soon clear that their British battle cruisers are the indomitable and indefatigable. Damn it! Admiral Wonders, if his nation is at war with Britain yet. Well, better safely, sorry. To battle stations. The British and German ships charge right at each other. They're soon passing, but neither fires nor salutes. Then the two powerful British warships turn about. Do they intend to strike? No. Britain's first lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, has ordered these two battle cruisers to shadow the Govins. But the German admiral doesn't know that, and he isn't about to risk his crew, especially as the HMS Dublin joins the chase. Wilhelm pushes his stokers to fire the Govins already imperfect boilers as hotly as they can for hours on end. Incredibly, they manage to outrun the pursuing British and lose them in the missed that night. The next morning, August 5th, the Govins makes it to Sicily's port city of Messina. But Wilhelm receives a cold greeting. Though part of the triple alliance with Germany, Italy has cited German aggression and declared neutrality. Therefore, this is no longer a friendly port. Officials give the 50-something admiral 24 hours to depart. He loads as much desperately needed coal as possible, but it's not enough. He arranges for a cold-carrying cargo ship, a collier, to meet the Govins and the Breslau somewhere at sea. It's now 11 a.m., August 6th. Soon departing Sicily, the admiral receives a message from the German naval staff. "At present time, your call Constantinople, not yet possible for various reasons." Close quote. Further word from Berlin also informs him that the Austro-Hungarian Navy won't help yet either. Meanwhile, Britain has declared war. In other words, Wilhelm's friendless, portless, and low-on fuel in a hostile sea. Seeing no other options, the admiral decides to lead his two vessel squadron to the Ottoman capital anyway. He'll just hope the unwelcoming situation changes before he arrives. Nearly the moment the German vessels enter international waters. Britain's light cruiser, the HMS Gloucester, is on the tail. Day gives way to night, and for a while, four British armored cruisers join the hunt, but back off before the sun rises on August 8th. Not the Gloucester though, and at 1.35 p.m., one of her six-inch guns fires at the present. The German vessel answers in kind and salves. This, it seems, is enough. The Gloucester backs off. Confusion overtakes the British Navy in the Mediterranean for 24 hours, as war with Austria-Hungary becomes official. Meanwhile, the German vessels steam into the Aegean, where, on August 9th, they gratefully meet with the collier and take on coal. But still, they must make it to Constantinople. They're picking up British radio signals. That means they're pursuing, hunting foe isn't far behind. It's now the afternoon of August 10th. The Gobern and Brezlab maintain 18 knots as they steam into the Dardanelles. The German crew takes note of the Ottoman Empire's crescent bearing banners, fluttering above the historic forts on either side of the Europe and Asia dividing straight. But the Germans still don't know what's going on diplomatically. Are they welcome here? The German warships come to a stop. They and the Ottoman forts train their guns on one another. Two Ottoman destroyers are soon steaming toward them. The Admiral wonders, will he and his men die here? Will they be turned away to meet their deaths by British guns? It's neither. The two Ottoman vests signal that they are here to escort the Germans through the mine laden straight. Relief washes over the German crews. Perhaps they have friends in Constantinople after all. Welcome to History that doesn't suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. There was a good reason for Admiral Wilhelm Sushon's brief disinvitation to Constantinople. The Ottoman Grand Vizier was extracting all sorts of promises from the German government, the pinnacle of which was the transferring of the Goblin and Brezlau to the Ottoman Empire. The ships are renamed the Avuz Sultan Saleem and Midjidli respectively, while their German crews don't fez caps and join the Ottoman navy. Quite the win, especially as the vessels essentially replaced the two dreadnoughts the Ottomans just lost. Well, never received. The Ottoman government had previously commissioned British firms to build the ships, but with the war breaking out, Britain's first lord of the Admiralty went in Churchill requisitioned both. None of this forced the Ottomans to enter the war, yet all of this set the stage for it to do so as Germany and Austria-Hungary's ally on October 29, 1914. Thus, the main early power players in the Great Wars dueling alliances are set. These are the central powers of Germany, Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, and on the other side, the allied powers of France, Britain and Russia. Now, HTDS remains a US history podcast. I promise, but even though the United States doesn't enter this war until April 1917, understanding that decision requires a basic grasp of what this war looked like before then. So today, we'll get that basic grasp with the story of World War I from 1914 through the end of 1916. And given our perpetual US focus, I'll pay special attention to the region of the war that will most deeply concern the United States, the Western Front. We'll see the development of new military technologies, including gas, flame throwers, and early aerial warfare. will meet soldiers from Britain and France's large global empires. We'll experience the evolution of trenches. We'll get a glimpse of the second battle of Ipris, as well as the battles of Verdun and the Som. And with all of that, I'll still be sure to mention, even if in the greatest of gravity, what's happening on the Eastern Front and in the Middle East as both will have important consequences for the United States. And PS, though HTDS is not a global history, please keep in mind that Japan is furthering its imperial ambitions by fighting as an allied power in the Pacific and there's some action in Africa. And even still, we'll get a taste of these developments in future post-war episodes. So, ready for more than two years of war in one hour? Good. Then let's leave the Dardanelles and head to the Western Front, where this December, a batch of fresh French troops are getting their first taste of No Man's Land. It's 8 a.m. December 16, 1914. We're about 100 miles north of Paris, two miles outside the French village of Emma Combe. French artillery, powerful 75s, are slamming the German lines as Lubebaptin and the rest of the 280th Regiment's 21st Company take their positions in an advanced trench. Just last month, this dark-haired, a stash-yode Frenchman was at home. In Périac Minévois, with his wife and her children, but conscription paid no heed to his six-year-old protest and screams of "papa" at the train station. Now, this very average French villager, a family man, barrel maker, and in his case a socialist, is a soldier standing in a trench, and handfully processing his company's orders. Are they really going to charge in broad daylight at the Germans? He gets his answer only minutes later, as those fateful words ring out. "One vol!" The company turns a corner into a trench, writing straight at the German line. At its end, is a set of crude steps. Again, Lui can hardly believe it. They're not going out in mass, but single-file. And it doesn't take the German machine gunners long to notice the rifle-bearing men and blue coats and red pants running at them. Lui charges out. Men he stood by minutes ago, littered the ground. Dead. He leaps over their bodies and splashes through blood to join the others, flattened against a nearby railway embankment. German bullets whizzed by, making a sickling thud as they strife earth or flesh. Its whole squad of southern Frenchmen is pinned, but an impatient commander in the trench is unconcerned. He yells out, "If this section doesn't move forward, we'll fire on it!" With no other choice, Lui crawls forward. Those who dare to stand are filled with bullets. Lui sees a buddy from back home. He calls out, "Pirier, old friend, I think we want to see the church teller tell you again, we need to clear out of here." Freepy, a bit farther through this field that used to be a sugar beet farm Lui rises and dashes toward a shallow spot of it. The machine gun tears up the ground around him, but he makes it. He's safe. Others do too. They dig deeper as the bullets continue to fly. By nightfall, Lui has seen countless soldiers drop dead, bandaged a man with no jaw and half a dangling tongue, and is yet watching the village school teacher from Espazette draw his last breaths while bleeding out from his shredded stomach. The teacher dies later that night. [Splash] "Trench warfare, la guerre des Tonscheis" as the French put it. No single phrase better sums up the Great War, especially the Western Front. But these trenches didn't appear overnight. Nor was the slaughter we just witnessed in December 1914 peak trench warfare. With no disrespect to the dead, the battle we just witnessed was filled with bad tactics. Commanders on both sides are still learning how to fight in the trenches. But that raises the question, "Why trench warfare?" Let's take it from the top. After July and early August's declarations of war, the Schleeth and Plan inspired German army appeared to be an unstoppable war machine. It's charged through Belgium and barreled through northern France. Indeed, France and its ally Britain considered it a miracle when they brought the German advance to a halt at the first battle of the Maare in early September. Hence, the miracle of the Maare. Of course, you remember all that from the last episode. But the French and British soon learned that stopping the Germans and actually pushing them back were two very different things. Both sides began trying to outflank the other, which meant holding their ground while sending other troops farther to the north. As the weeks passed, this race to outflank the other became the race to the sea, resulting in a crude, curving hundreds of miles long front line, filled with trenches running from the Swiss border all the way up to the English Channel by the end of October 1914. Thus we have the Western Front. But as the flanking failed, both sides found their troops couldn't advance without getting slaughtered. It seems that industrialized modern weaponry has completely changed the way war functions. Here are a few examples. Let's begin with that most basic of weapons carried by infantrymen, the rifle. From muzzle loading to breach loading and repeating, we've seen this firearm evolve significantly since our early American Revolution episodes. Long gone are the days of firing one ball every 30 to 60 seconds and hoping it even discharges. Now, infantrymen have far more dependable repeating rifles. Like Germany's Gavir at 98 and Britain's Lee Enfield rifle, the French Army's F-3. These can easily fire 15 rounds per minute and that speed doubles in the hands of well-trained troops. In fact, back in August 1914, when the Germans first encountered the British, or to use some great war slaying when the Fritzes first encountered the Tommy's, they genuinely mistook this small but professional army's rapid rifle fire for machine guns. Speaking of the machine gun, it too has advanced quite a ways from its Gatling and Max gun predecessors. It's faster, lighter, more durable, and more powerful. Take for instance Britain's Vickers machine gun. This modern marvel of war fires 600 rounds per minute, has a range of 4,500 yards, and, thanks to its water cooling capabilities, can operate for hours on end. Artillery 2 has upgraded in just about every sense. Let me remind you that before Louis Brachta charged out of that trench with his fellow French infantrymen, or "Felé Poilu", as they're called, in a nod to their unshaven, hairy state, and early 20th century masculinity. French 75 millimeter field guns were already pounding the German lines. Though invented in the twilight of the last century, this relatively light cannon, often called the French 75, or "Jusseau-en-Kahn's", truly belongs to the 20th century. The French 75 combines an impressive recoil mechanism and rapid action breech design that allows it to fire at an incredible rate over its 12,000-plus yard range. Even lighter and faster, Sir Wilfred Stokes take on mortars. While not the most accurate, this 50-inch long, 3-inch diameter, 100-pound tripod-looking mini cannon that will come out later in 1915, can fire 20-plus bombs a minute. Like the French 75, the Stokes mortar belongs to this new-bold century. Facing these state-of-the-art weapons and others to boot, the Allied and Central Powers alike dig trenches to hold their positions. Initially, they think it's a temporary measure, but soon realize this will be the way of things. As such, they start to try to cross the shell-doubt machine gun-riddled patch of Earth between their trench and their foes. That lifeless space dubbed "No Man's Land". They learn from their mistakes. Mistakes like Cindy Louis-Baptized Company over the top one at a time, and broad daylight from the same spot. But the tuition bill is steep. As we enter 1915, the Western Front has seen 300,000 men die, and another 600,000 wounded. Yes, nearly one million casualties already. But with the new year, this war's young soldiers will meet even more new tools of death, unlike anything ever seen. In the 70th afternoon, April 22, 1915, we're at the edge of the Western Front and West Flanders, Belgium, just beyond the town of Iprich, where troops from the Global French and British Empires, as well as their local Belgian allies, are passing another tedious day in their curving line of trenches that bulge into those of the Germans. In military terms, such a bulge is called a salient. Now salients have unique defensive challenges, and this one is particularly important. Losing it would give the Germans access to French ports and the English Channel. So what uniquely then, the allies can't afford to lose Iprich. All that said, today seems calm enough. Until about 5pm, that is. Carried by the breeze, a greenish yellow cloud now fills the air over a few miles of the salient's north side. Specifically, a long section of trenches as well as a division of older French reserves, the 87th territorial. The men start to feel congested, and their eyes sting. No, more than that. Eyes, nose, mouth, lungs, all of it burns. Every single man, be he European, Arab or Berber, Christian or Muslim, a youth of the 45th or an older soldier of the 87th, it doesn't matter. They flail about, drop to the ground, and let out shrieks as they cry out for water. Close to the cloud of outside its reach, Colonel Anouille Moldak looks on in horror. A young Arab soldier within the clouds screams out to him. Colonel, those bastards have poisoned us. Complete desperation grabs these poor souls. With their eyes in every inch of their respiratory systems, quite literally scalding inside of them, the blood spitting soldiers scramble from the trenches, more desperate for water than scared of German bullets. Germany's use of chlorine gas today not only starts the second battle of Iprę. It effectively gives birth to modern chemical warfare. In the months to come, both sides will use chlorine, and other gases will follow. Far more deadly and invisible fast gene in late 1915, and perhaps more infamously even if less lethal, skin blistering and blinding mustard gas in 1917. Both sides will use artillery to launch gas castors with horrifying effect and develop goggled gas masks to protect their soldiers. gas causes less than 1% of the Great Wars deaths, but by God, it's psychologically wrecks soldiers and hundreds of thousands of young men will be left blind or otherwise impacted for the rest of their often shortened lives. It's so terrifying that the later Geneva Protocol of 1925 will ban such chemical warfare. But to return to the second battle of Iprę, it does seem for a moment that gas could break the stalemate. After all, it devastates an entire four to five mile stretch of the Allies' trenches in capacitating or killing its French and North African victims. But this isn't the turning point that German leadership hoped for. Between their own troops, shock at seeing the gases horrifying effect and the unyielding courage of the Canadians to the French right, the Allied line doesn't give. The salient will shrink by the time this one-month battle ends in May 1915. But it won't break. A last aspect of this first large-scale gas attack worth noting is the global force we just met at Iprę. Frenchmen alongside Arab and Berber and North Africans with Canadians to their immediate right. This is but a few short miles of trenches, yet we have soldiers from three different continents. The vast majority of the several tens of millions fighting in Europe are European, true, but the presence of non-Europeans at a given battle isn't unusual either. For the course of the war, France mobilizes some 500,000 men from its colonies to fight in Europe. These colonial troops, often called "troup en disjen" or "terrière" are heavily north and west African, but not exclusively. On one occasion, our favorite poilu, Louis Berthard, even bumps into black colonial troops from the French Caribbean island of Maatanieque. Nor should we forget the uniquely uniform zuave. Many French citizens from French Algeria, many of these European descent troops had never set foot on European soil before the war. And of course, you can't forget that global motley crew, the French foreign legion. They too crossed the Mediterranean to fight for France. Britain is likewise relying on its empire. Between 1914 and 1915, roughly 140,000 troops from India battle on the western front. The Indian corps withdrawn from Europe that second year, but 800,000 of them continue to fight against the Ottoman Empire in the Middle East. And be it in Europe, the Middle East or elsewhere, the Sun never setting Empire is also supported by the sweat, blood and tears of 650,000 Canadians, 210,000 Irish, 416,000 Australians, 125 new zealanders, including a Maori contingent, as well as Newfoundlanders and South Africans, both black and white. These global soldiers, including Christians and Muslims, the latter of which largely ignore the Ottoman Empire's call for jihad, choosing instead to fight fiercely for the Allies, are often a huge percentage of a given colony or dominion's population. For instance, 38% of all 20 to 40-year-old Australian males join the fight. So this is a very real sacrifice. Indeed, Australia and New Zealand, or ANZACs, as their combined troops are called, will never forget what their troops give for the British Crown and the Glippoli campaign. Champions by British First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill, and named for the small European peninsula on the west side of the Dardanelles straight, where this episode started. This campaign is an allied amphibious attack, seeking to bust through the mine laden Dardanelles and take the fight to the very heart and capital of the Ottoman Empire. Within days of the chlorine attack at Iprhe, and the first arrests of what will become the Armenian genocide, ANZAC forces land at Glippoli on August 25, 1915. It proves the start of a nine-month slaughter, as the Ottoman Turks bravely defend their homeland and find a new national hero in the leadership of Mustafa Kamal, while the ANZACs give their all for the allied powers in their king. The ANZAC blood spilled and lives lost on the distant foreign shores of Glippoli will later be seen as the start of Australia and New Zealand's future national identities. Both will forever remember the anniversary of that deadly landing at Glippoli on April 25, as ANZAC day. There's so much more that could be said of 1915, but as soldiers on the western front filled the trenches, as soldiers on the eastern front, loosed and gained territory, or the Russian people fear, Grigori Rasputin's growing influence and doubt the loyalty of their German born Zarina, Alexandra. As Italy sees the opportunity to pick up new territory and joins the allied powers, and the American people fume at Germany's sinking of the Lusitania. Our overview of the Great War and focus on the western front calls us to that theater's enormous German offensive of 1916. This is the devastating ten-month-long battle of Verdun. We now enter the year 1916. It's been just over a year since the start of the Great War and two million soldiers, brothers, sons and fathers, are dead. As Europe's men disappear to the front, women, or in some cases in France, colonial men, take their places in factories or other parts of the workforce. Of course, civilian life has its own challenges, particularly for those living in occupied areas, like the Belgians in French on the western front. Some are refugees, others are forced to work for the enemy, all wild children go hungry. And for all of this death and destruction, the stalemate of Trinch Warfare has yet to budge. But General Erich von Faulkinheim believes he has the answer. A 54-year-old aristocrat, a Jungke, and chief of the German general staff with a quintessential Prussian mustache, Erich von Faulkinheim is determined to bring France to its knees. Now, he would really prefer to strike at Britain. That's why he's an advocate of unrestricted submarine warfare. But among those he can hit on land, the German commander doesn't see victory, impressing through industrial lacking Russia's endless land, or hitting hard at a light switching late-comer Italy. France, though. Britain's crucial ally and industrial power, yet lacking the population to bleed as indefinitely as Russia? That's the ticket. Make France, Faulkinheim believes, and Britain will follow. But the German commander can see as well as anyone else that simply send you men over the top, that is, charging out into no man's land, isn't working. That said, what if he can draw the French out? Can he make them charge into deadly no man's land, where his artillery can shred these men of the Third Republic? He thinks that's possible, and from there, historians will forever argue as to whether he intends to bleed France dry to total victory or simply hopes to bring them to the negotiation table. Either way, the key will be taking a piece of French turf so vital to France's tactical interests and sense of national pride, the nation will have no choice but to send wave after wave of poilue to try to retake it. That place is Verdun. Roughly 150 miles east of Paris, Verdun holds a special place in the hearts of the French people. For all the bad memories of the Franco-Prussian War, this fortress city among the hills and ridges of the Muse River was stood the attacking German alliance for ten weeks. Following that war, the French built impressive steel and concrete forts on Verdun's surrounding hills, and in 1914, the surrounding ring of fortifications stood firm against German attacks, only adding to the region's storied reputation. Yes, the fall of Verdun would crush France's spirit, and better still, this salient is ripe for the taking. Given its quiet nature since 1914, France's commander-in-chief Joseph Schofr has left Verdun with few forces and has taken several guns from its forts for the Champagne offensive. On the ground, Lieutenant Colonel Emil Drian has sent warnings of Verdun's vulnerability for months, but France's husky white mustashod commander has given little heed as he busily prepares to attack the sun. German planes flying across and missions have taken note of these vulnerabilities, though. Sounds like Verdun is just the place for Erich von Falconheim's plan. For Unteniemengarist. Operation Judgment. It's a cold but beautiful morning, February 21, 1916. We're in a snow-covered forest, Le Bois de Co, roughly 10 miles north of Véadon, France. Two blue-clad French infantrymen, Hwailu, Artizié one another, is a crank away on a coffee grinder. When the grinding and shatter, their corporal is just starting to wake, and that's when it happens. The bombardment seems to rearrange the earth itself. Trees shatter and the splinters, stones fly, and divots appear in the ground. Meanwhile, the Hwailu respond to this artillery barrage in a manner that only hardened soldiers could. As they dive in their dugouts, they curse the Germans for not waiting until after their morning coffee. A fair complaint, with the exception of a short tactical break, which the Germans take only so the French would come out and show where they're hiding. This barrage of 80,000 shells fired by 1,220 guns lasts for nine hours. It's now approaching four in the afternoon. The shell ain't has stopped. The popular author and politician in command of the 56th and 59th battalions of Chasseur, Lieutenant Colonel, Amy de la Chiant, rises. The attack he's feared and warned of is here. Then goodness, some reinforcements have arrived in the last few days, and luckier still that heavy winter storms delayed this German attack. But will that prove enough? There's a little time for the Colonel to wonder, as a Hwailu comes running up to him with a hollering. That kind of leadership is exactly why the Hwailu, under his command, affectionately called the Colonel "Father Trion", that is, "Hea Trion". He rallies his young chasseur, reportedly calling out. "You're here. This is our place. They shall not move us out of it." Tight, organized groups of grey-clag Germans advance across the newly arranged, dipeted, and tree stump covered ground. Rifles crack for Nade's fly, hand-to-hand combat ensues, and perhaps most terrifying of all. The German spits sustained streaks of fire up to 20 yards in length with flamethrowers. Though the Germans introduced this innovation about a year ago, it's here at Verdun that the flamethrower sees its first systematic and widespread use, fighting only stops at the dark of night. Commanded by Emperor Wilhelm's Seconds the Sun, "Comprince Wilhelm", Germany's fifth army continues forward in the days to come. It's not unchecked though. Bad weather slows them, and they're understandably cautious as they advance over ground without clearly marked trenches. Of special note, however, is the self-sacrifice of Péreux et Réon and his two battalions. Though his warnings were ignored, despite knowing the odds were so against him, he had his wedding ring mailed to his wife that same warning. He and his 12-18,000-poilou defend their position ferociously through the following day. By the time the Sun sets on February 22nd, only 70 of them are still standing. And among the fallen is their beloved colonel, their father, Péreux et Réon. They'll rest eternally in those very woods, right along with the majority of his boys. In the following days, the French 51st puts up a strong fight, as do Algerian zouabs and Moroccan tiratiers from the 37th African Division. Many of these various soldiers, these Christians, Muslims, and the secular republic's non-believers from two continents, likewise make the ultimate sacrifice here. On February 25th, the exhausted German 24th Brandenburg Regiment can hardly believe their prize. They cautiously approach one of Adon's most noted fortifications. He'll topping for Duomol, only to find its entire defensive force consists of less than 60 older reservists, the territories. Talk about a win. German newspapers shout the success across the fatherland. French newspapers buy in large no better than to report it, though the devastating news still travels. Thus it is that the Germans now hold a ridge a mere two miles from Véardin itself. With a sizable divot in the salient's line north of the city, French commander Joseph Jorf is tempted to cut his losses, to reorganize defenses behind Véardin. But he can't. Not only is Véardin a source of French pride, but his failure to listen to Péreux and the Colonel's subsequent death. Oh, martyrdom in the eyes of the nation has made Véardin his new political nightmare. It must be held at all costs. And this is when Philippe Pitta enters the story. Ah, Philippe Pitta. Years from now, he'll become one of France's most controversial figures, but we won't get ahead of ourselves. Today, we begin simply by noting that he isn't your typical French commander. A humble farmer's son who opted for a military career, the brass of Republican France appreciate his non-arrested credit background. They do not, however, care for his sarcastic wit. Nor did they appreciate in the years leading up to the Great War, his faith in the power of artillery over that of a zealous infantry. Thus, by 1914, then 58-year-old Philippe Pitta's peace-time career appeared stuck at the rank of Colonel. Then war came, and within two months, he was a general. Philippe's reputation and command both grew in the next year, as he saw success at Aoteu yet showed remarkable concern for the lives of his men. But well and good as all of that is, General Joseph Jofr has one major reason for selecting Philippe Pitta to take command at Véldone. He's available. Or he would be if someone could find him. Not to worry, Philippe's aid to camp knows how he likes to pass his downtime. After five hours of scouring Paris's brothels and hotels on the 9th of February 24th, his search concludes at the Aoteu de Ménus near the Goudouneur, where the almost 60-year-old general is in bed with one of his favorite ladies. 38-year-old Uje Nia Don. Philippe reports to Véldone the next day. The same day the Germans take for Duomol. Philippe starts his new command by instructing his officers to stop sending the pa-lou out on deadly, pointless counterattacks. Now the only attack of a clear tactical advantage is to be gained. See, unlike pretty much every other French general, Philippe wants to play defense rather than offense. Here at Véldone, he's going to push his long-held and often scoffed at belief that artillery is better than sending out the infantry. The playboy general intends to make good use of the salient's forts, maintaining what he calls a "line of resistance" that the Germans shall not pass, while letting them come to his booming artillery. Hold up. That's German General Eric von Falkenheim's plan. Huh. I guess two can play this deadly game. Philippe knows infrastructure and supply lines will be key. He divides the salient's lines into sectors, which are connected with phone lines. It places the pa-lou on an eight-day rotation, which keeps them fresh and in as good of spirits as anyone can be at the front. As reinforcements pour in, eventually swelling to half a million men, Philippe modernizes the supply line, swapping out horse-drawn carts for 4,000 engine-driven trucks. This endless stream of heavy vehicles pummel the road, referred to as "le vois sacré", that is, the sacred way. So the thin, mustachioed general assigns the two old to fight territorial's to road maintenance. They're joined by a small outfit of colonial workers from French-Indochina, or as you and I will later know it, Vietnam. But as Philippe improves supply lines and receives reinforcements, the German offensive continues. In early March, they take the village of Duomong. Of note, among their pa-lou prisoners is a young wounded captain named Charles de Gaulle. By soldiering on, the German 5th Army presses hard on the hills of the Muse River's West Bank. Big artillery, mortars, gas, machine guns, and flamethrowers all carry out the work of death. By the end of March, Véardin's already produced 90,000 French and 80,000 German casualties. Nor is the fight staying on the land. It's also spread to the sky. It's an unspecified day in the early months of 1916. Jean-Navar is soaring over Véardin. When the Great War started, pilots and planes and zeppelins alike focused mostly on reconnaissance even if they dropped off the occasional bomb or fire to gun at their flying rivals. But while reconnaissance remains an important job, the skies have grown more dangerous. Germany's various models of Faka-Aindeka monoplanes have interrupting gear that synchronizes machine guns to fire through the propellers, while France still developing the same tech is mounted machine guns on the top wing of their new Po-by planes. But the war won't wait for France to catch up. Here at Véardin, aerial warfare is starting to hit critical mass. Pulling on a stream to engage the machine gun on this top wing, Jean fires at his German foe. This is but one of his 257 engagements at Véardin. A gifted pilot, Jean has, on occasion, downed two combatants in a single day, and over the course of his career, will down 11 planes. Between his growing kill count and ability to navigate close-range combat or dog fights, he numbers among those leap pilots referred to as an ace. Nor is he the only one here. early in his career. A young German pilot. Atvail Dahlmphil one day surpassed Jean's notoriety. But we're not ready for the story of Manfred von Lyschtoven, aka the Red Baron, not just yet. Yet, despite his ace status, Jean-Nevah hates killing. More than anything, he prefers to break the rules by performing daring, dangerous aerials to entertain the Poirot-Lupi-Lau. He knows all too well that, and many cases, he's giving these men an trenches the last smile of their lives. The mincee machine horrors have failed on continue. Yet, defense playing Philippe Pétain's line is holding. Newspapers throughout France and the world shout the name Pétain. Joseph Jolf is becoming concerned. Might increasingly popular Philippe take his job? The heavy-set commander of the French military decides he has to get Philippe out of the way. But he won't let that distract him from the offensive he's now planning with his British counterparts either. One that he sure will break the stalemate when they attack the Germans in northern France at a stretch of the western front near the Summer River. We've now reached the Summer of 1916. The Great War is going in several directions right now. Here's where things stand across the war's major theaters. Feeling threatened by Philippe Pétain's rising star, but knowing he can't exactly fire a national hero, French commander Joseph Jolf gets rid of him another way through promotion. In an early May, Philippe receives command of Army Group Center. Vialdon remains under him, but now at an arm's distance, with General Hubert Nivelle taking his place. His leadership is a more traditional, offence approach. The mencing of tens of thousands of men each month at Vialdon will continue. At the end of May, Britain and Germany's pre-war naval arms race comes to a head. Powerful dreadnoughts, battle cruisers and more, a total of 250 warships blast away at one another in the North Sea. Over the course of a few days, this engagement, the Battle of Jutland, since 6,904 Brits and 2,551 Germans to their watery graves. Yet, despite Britain's heavier death toll, the battle is inconclusive as the heavily damaged German Navy fails to break the likewise hurting British Navy's strangling blockade. Frustrated but aggressive as ever, German Vice Admiral Heinheim's sheer argues that, if Germany is to break Britain, it must resume the policy pursued through most of 1915, even if this upsets the Americans. Germany must engage in unrestricted submarine warfare. On the Eastern Front, Russia launches its Brusila offensive that June. Fighting through the summer, Russian forces regain ground in Galicia, taken by the Austro-Hungarians last year. It will prove the greatest Russian success of the war, but hundreds of thousands will die on each side, while wounded and missing will run the three-month campaign's casualties well over a million, thus adding to the millions of casualties Russia has already seen. The suffering Russian people are running out of patience for this war, and for their Zahar. Oh, and of course hundreds of thousands of casualties have stacked up in the Balkans too. In the Middle East, British forces are fighting their way through Ottoman defenders in Mesopotamia. Thomas Edward Lawrence, aka Lawrence of Arabia, is assisting and encouraging the Sharif of Mecca who say in Ibn Ali to carry out an Arab revolt, in the name of Independence from Ottoman rule. Yet, neither Lawrence nor the Sharif know that at the same time, Britain's Mark Sykes and Francis Fasois-Josepico are working out a secret agreement as to how their respective empires will divvy up a post-war Ottoman-free Middle East. There's yet more action in Asia and Africa, and even Ireland where British forces are crushing a rebellion, seeking an independent Irish Republic. But fascinating has all of these developments are. They are not our stories today. Continuing with our focus on the Western Front, the summer of 1916 brings us to what well may be this theatre's, if not this war's, most infamous battle. The Summer. You might remember my mentioning some briefly a little earlier. Yes, this is the major offensive that French commander Joseph Julf was busy planning so many months ago when Colonel Emil Triant was sending warnings of a Don's vulnerability. The wheels started turning back on December 29, 1915, when the new commander-in-chief of the British Expeditionary Force, Field Marshal Sir Douglas Hague, met with his French counterpart. They dreamt up a joint Franco-British offensive to hit the Germans in northern France, in Piccadilly near the Sun River. The choice of location was French-driven and more convenient than strategic. This is simply where the Western Front defending British and French armies bump into each other. They decided to strike the following year in 1916, when their allies Russian-Italy would likewise do so. The thinking hears that, if pummeled from the southeast and west, Germany won't be able to meet the needs of the moment by moving troops from one front to the other, as was its practice thus far. Okay, not a bad idea. Ah, but as we know, General German Eric von Falkenheim beat them to the punch with his offensive outvaled on in late February 1916. Nonetheless, the Franco-British plan was not to be deterred. They adapted. With hundreds of thousands of Pwalu heading to Véldain, the Sun would remain a joint effort, but become significantly more British than French. Thus, Field Marshal Sir Douglas Hague and the British Fourth Army's commander, Sir Henry Robinson, do much of the planning. Now, these two have their differences, but to appreciate those, we need to talk about what trenches now look like for a second. Remember earlier in the episode, when I said that trenches would evolve? Oh, that they have. Not all trenches are equal, but generally, defenses start with barbed wire. Not a little barbed wire. A lot. Many soldiers survived the machine guns, gas, and mortars, only to charge across no man's land and get caught and barbed wire like a fly in a spider web. Killed by a bullet or simply exposure, their corpses might hang here and rot in a week's or months-long battle. Past the wire is the frontline trench. It's deep enough for a soldier to stand and is likely lined with four maintaining and bullet-catching sandbags. Meanwhile, the trench itself should zigzag or curve so that, if taken, the invading force can't infallate the defending soldiers. Those defending also have various types of armaments here. Other trenches break off from this one. Forward into no man's land, we might have saps, which are small paths for spying or launching an attack, and they're quite dangerous. Whereas several hundred yards behind the front, we have the support trench, filled with supplies and reinforcements, ready to move to the front. Several hundred yards farther back still is the reserve trench. More men and supplies are here, but if we need them, it means the frontline has been taken and it's time to regroup for our counterattack. Finally, these three rows of trenches have to be connected and this is done by criss-crossing them with communication trenches. In short, trench systems are now as complex as a small town, which is why soldiers often name trenches just like streets, with names from back home, of course. Don't picture the trenches as being classy, perfectly safe, or comfortable, though. Soldiers could be well outside of the enemy, chatting away when a perfectly placed mortar suddenly ends a life. Nor is the enemy the only concern. Sandbags fail, or are in short supply. It rains, snows, or just turns out that the water table is high, and soon a soldier might be knee deep in water. That water then mixes with blood and other bodily fluids of the dead, and now a scrape on the knee is a life threatening infection. In fact, forget the scrape, just stand in the water long enough and your soaked feet will start to bloat, decay, and possibly need some degree of amputation. Appropriately enough, that condition is called trench foot. Oh, and don't forget the rats. Lots of rats. That all said, let me now slightly contradict myself with greater nuance. While both sides experience the hell of trench life, allied trenches tend to be rougher. The Germans, as the invading force, wisely settle in for the long haul. They're more likely to dig deeper, impressively reinforced dugouts, poor concrete, and I kid you not even run electricity and bring in bunk beds. That kind of awesome, almost indestructible, several-line trench system is what the Germans have at the sum. And with that background, let's talk strategy. Sir Henry Robinson wants to blast the Germans for days on end with artillery. Great, that's agreed upon. And given that starting point, field marshals who Douglas Hague optimistically thinks that after their bombardments undoubted success in decimating the barbed wire and German trenches, British infantry will meet little opposition. They'll be able to fly through the German lines. They should do so then, paving the way for the British cavalry, which will charge through and into the country beyond. Henry's less sure. It's his fourth army that will charge out, and he'd prefer to "by and hold". By this, he means take the Germans first line, hold it, meet the likely counter attack, then proceed in a slower, steady fashion. This might be more reasonable, particularly since, after more than half a million casualties to date, much of the small professional army, with which Britain started the Great War, has given way to recruit in Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener's volunteer, "new army". Grouped in what are called "pal-batown". with local friends, they could use more training. In fact, maybe Henry's more measured expectations are still too optimistic. Well, we'll soon find out. It's about 7 a.m. on a warm summer's day, July 1st, 1916. British artillery is pounding the 14-mile long German line between Gumpkuhl and the Sum River to the south. In fact, this bombardment has been going on for a week, straight, with over 1,000 British guns unleashing more than 1.5 million shells. But right now, the bombardment is especially fierce because soon, three divisions of the British Third Army will mount a diversionary attack at Gumpkuhl as 14 divisions of Sir Henry Rollinson's fourth Army carry out the main assault. Yes, the British offensive is about to begin. 720 a.m. An incredible explosion that goes across the lines as chunks of earth fly into the heavens and a 130-foot wide crater opens under the German Reddow at Hawthorne Ridge. It's the work of the Royal Engineers' 250-second tunneling company. The German Reddow and soldiers alike disappear. But with 10 minutes left before the main attack, it also lets the Germans know that the British assault is 9. 730 a.m. The signal sounds. From across miles of trenches, British troops pour into No Man's land. While not all, many soldiers, particularly the inexperienced pals of Italians of the new army, are walking. They do so with official blessing. After all, the expectation is that their week-long bombardment has destroyed the barbed wire and otherwise decimated the Germans. Further, many of these men, some older reservists, aren't in the best shape to be carrying heavy packs in the heat. They're struggling. But soon, many will be dead. Reliant on hastily made and poorly performing shells of two small at caliber anyway, the British bombardment hardly scratched the Germans in their conflict dugouts. It rarely even broke the wire. So now, German machine guns and artillery roar in No Man's land, shredding the British divisions. With the exception of a few, like the Ulster 36th on the British left, few units even break through German lines. Some who get close enough are greeted by plane grows. Even as French General Friton on Fosch's divisions down by the sum join in, it's clear today will not be the envisioned the size of Allied victory. By the end of the day, 19,240 British, lie dead. Total British casualties are 57,470. The numerous Pals battalions means that communities across the British Empire lost hundreds upon hundreds of their brothers, sons, and neighbors today alone, generally by 12 noon. These towns will never forgive the leaders behind this disaster, especially Field Marshal Sir Douglas Hague, or as many will forever know him, butch your Hague, or more pointedly, the butch your of the sum. Across both sides, over a million men become a casualty of war before the sum offensive ends in November. Also of note, the Someday Buse yet another new military innovation. The Tank. The next month, in December, the Battle of Véidon finally comes to an end as well. Across its 300-some odd days, more French soldiers than not take a turn here, as they do indeed hold this salient with a determination that, in the Paso-ompas, that is, they, the Germans, sham-opas. Véidon claims more than 700,000 victims, of whom 305,000 are dead or missing. And of course, I've only given you a small glimpse of a few battles and campaigns. From the western to the eastern front and beyond, there are so many others. The dead are stacking up by the millions. This is indeed a lost generation. Feeling these losses. How do the living even cope? Back in May, 1915, after the Second Battle of Iprich, Canadian physician and lieutenant colonel John McCray lost a friend. The death inspired the young doctor and colonel, then serving in Flanders, Belgium, to write a poem. In it, he captured the jarring contrast soldiers experienced here and in northern France, as they fought and died amid the beauty of the defiant red poppy. A delicate red flower that, despite the shells and bullets, always grows back, even as crosses marking the dead spread across those same fields. But while capturing this haunting beauty, the colonel, speaking for the dead, also asks the reader to take up the fight, that their deaths might not be in vain. His poem will prove timeless, and during well into the 21st century, and cementing the red poppy as the symbol of the Great War, of coping with such devastating loss by remembering the fallen. The poem is called "In Flanders Fields." Let me share it with you. In Flanders Fields, the poppy's blow, between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place, and in the sky, the larks still bravely singing fly. Scares heard amid the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago, we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie. In Flanders Fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe. To you, from failing hands we throw, the torch be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppy's grow, in Flanders Fields. Our author will join the very war dead for Honeyspeaks. Colonel John McCray dies in January 1918. Appropriately, he's laid to rest in northern France, where red poppy's grow. Thus, after well over two years and millions of dead, the war remains undecided. It's an ongoing contest as we enter 1917. With both sides feeling the drain of lost resources and lives, a drain pushing the Russian people to revolution, Germany will decide it has to be Britain on the seas, and therefore must resume unrestricted submarine warfare. But as Germany pushes harder, the new commander of the French military, Fili Petain, will carefully guard the lives of his poilue. When asked why he's so passive, the French general will give a simple answer. "J'atton les chars, elle est à me les calmer." I am waiting for the tanks and the Americans. HTS is supported by fans at htbspodcast.com/motion. My gratitude to Kind Soul for being funding to help us continue. Thank you. Thanks to our patrons, whose monthly gift puts them at the Easter status. 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