All language subtitles for BBC.The.First.World.War.06of10.Breaking.the.Deadlock.720p.HDTV.x264.AAC.MVGroup.Forum_[eng]

Think of the First World War
and you think of trenches.

There was mobility elsewhere,
in the East and Africa,

but the war on the Western Front
was bogged down.

The challenge on both sides
was to find new ideas, new weapons,

new spirit among the men.

Only then could they break out -
and win.

In September 1914,

the Allies had stopped the German
drive into France at the Marne.

The Germans pulled back
to high ground and dug in.

The Allies followed suit.

The result, 500 miles of trench
and fortification,

stretching from the Channel
to Switzerland,

allowing ground to be held with fewer
men, freeing troops for other fronts.

Breaking the deadlock meant
taking the offensive

but it was much easier to defend
trenches than attack them.

For all their blood and mud
and horror, trenches saved lives.

They were places of fear
and bad smells,

where walls might be shored up
with limbs and corpses,

but they were the safest places
to be in a battlefield swept
by machine-gun fire,

devastated by shelling.

The greater danger came
when you left them.

The popular image of First World War
soldiers is lions led by donkeys

but the generals knew that
battles couldn't be won
from behind a trench wall.

Sooner or later, the men would have
to go over the top,

and that meant heavy casualties.

The generals weren't so much callous
as realistic.

And there were more good generals
than bad.

Rather than sitting out the war
in chateaux miles behind the lines,

71 German generals were killed
in action, 55 French, 78 British.

The generals' response
to the deadlock was to challenge it.

To find dynamic ways to beat it.

In 1916, both sides looked for
a place to break through,

where an attack could be
concentrated and supplied.

The Germans thought
they'd found it at Verdun.

A town and mighty fortress
on a salient -

a tongue of France
sticking out into the German lines.

Verdun looked secure,

with its huge walls,

its giant circle of 19 forts,
with their outer ring of defences.

But the French had now downgraded
Verdun's status,

removing many of its guns
to needier sites.

For the French garrison, it was
becoming known as a cushy sector.

We have almost nothing to
worry about.

We often play cards and sometimes
we have to drop them

and pick up our rifles.
But it's usually a false alarm.

So we go back to our suits
and our cards,

our minds completely
on the game again.

But parliamentary deputy Emile
Driant, now a frontline colonel,

realised how vulnerable Verdun
really was.

He warned the French government.

We are doing everything,
day and night,

to make our front line inviolable,

but there is one thing
about which we can do nothing -

the shortage of hands.

If our front line is broken
by a massive attack,

our second line won't hold.

Lack of workers,
and also barbed wire.

But Driant was ignored.

On Monday 21st February 1916,

a clear, still winter's day,

over 100,000 German soldiers
drew breath,

and prepared to go over the top.

They had surprise on their side.

Above them, they had air superiority.

No Allied planes had spotted
their preparations.

Behind them, their own German
artillery opened fire.

And in front of them,
in the French lines,

Corporal Marc Stephane could hardly
believe what was happening.

We were swept by a storm,
a hurricane, a tempest,

growing ever stronger,
with hail like cobblestones,

with the destructive force
of an express train.

And we're underneath it,
do you follow?

Underneath it.

The Germans fired a million shells
that day.

When a shell bursts a few metres
away, there's a terrible jolt,

and then an indescribable chaos of
smoke, earth, stones, of branches,

and too often - alas! -
of limbs, flesh, a rain of blood.

By three o'clock in the afternoon,

the section of the wood
which we occupied and which,

in the morning,
was completely covered with bushes,

looked like the timber yard
of a saw mill.

A little later,
I'd lost most of my men.

The Germans were evolving new
solutions to the problems of attack.

They delegated command forward
to the men at the sharp end,

training them to advance
in small groups,

zigzagging and crouching,
equipped with fearsome new weapons -

light mortars, grenades,
flame-throwers.

They called these units
"storm troopers".

We moved forward from our position.

That's where I saw the most refined
weapon of modern technology

or human bestiality.

There was a spurt of flame...

HUGE EXPLOSION

..which flooded the attacking enemy
with burning oil.

Verdun was one of the defining
battles of the 20th century.

Among the attacking Germans
was a young Lieutenant Paulus

who, as a general
in the Second World War,

would command
the siege of Stalingrad.

25-year-old Charles de Gaulle
was also there,

France's future leader, wounded
and captured defending Verdun.

On the second day of the attack,
at his HQ,

Colonel Driant received absolution
from his chaplain

and wrote a note to his wife.

The hour is near. I feel very calm.

In our wood, the front trenches
will be taken in a few minutes,

my poor battalions spared
until now.

He sent a message
to his divisional commander.

We shall hold out
against the Boche,

although their bombardment
is infernal.

Driant ordered a retreat
out of the woods.

Then one of his men was hit.

As Driant started to dress
the wound, he too was shot.

I clearly saw the colonel throw up
his arms and shout, "Oh, my God!"

Then he half-turned and collapsed.

When I could get over to him,
there was no sign of life.

Blood was flowing from a head
wound and from his mouth.

He had the colour of a dead man.

Three days later,
the Germans captured Douaumont,

Verdun's key fort.

Germany was jubilant.

Church bells rang out,
a national holiday was declared.

In France, Driant's heroic sacrifice

helped spark the flame
of national defiance.

Verdun was to be held at any cost.

The survival of France herself
was at stake.

"They shall not pass,"
declared General Philippe Petain,

Verdun's new commander.

He rotated his troops.

Three quarters of the French army at
one time or another defended Verdun,

a national effort that
ensured whole units

were not totally destroyed
in the battle.

Petain was genuinely concerned
for the lives of his men.

A quarter of a century later,

he led country into surrender
and collaboration with Hitler

rather than repeat
the blood bath of Verdun.

Route Nationale 93.

An ordinary French road,
but it saved its country's life.

Night and day, supplies for Verdun
rolled along the Voie Sacree,

the Sacred Way, as well as by rail.

Events on another front
also helped the French at Verdun.

At the end of 1915, the Allies -
Britain, France, Italy and Russia -

had agreed a plan for 1916, to pull
Germany in different directions.

Now the deal paid off.

A successful Russian offensive
forced Germany

to switch troops from France
to the Eastern Front.

From June, the initiative at Verdun
passed to the French.

And Germany's technical advantages
were short-lived.

Throughout the war, new ideas were
quickly picked up by the other side.

All our inventions seem to turn
like evil spirits against us,

like a monster destroying itself.

Amid these terrible scenes
of destruction,

the idea of ever returning home
seems indescribably glorious.

Please look after yourself
and our home,

your soul and your body
and all that is mine.

Franz Marc was killed later that day.

Finally, on 24th October 1916,

the French recaptured Fort Douaumont.

Verdun was saved.

At last the time has come,

and we set off to conquer
the enemy positions.

They don't offer any resistance.

And the few men who are still alive

come out of their holes
crying "Kamarad".

The battlefield of Verdun has
a different atmosphere

from any other I was ever on.

Its horrors are also greater.

But there's a feeling
of intense satisfaction.

It was at Verdun that the French
people found themselves again,

and emerged from the clouds
which have hung over them

since their defeat
by the Germans in 1870.

France had learned
a string of lessons at Verdun,

about artillery, new weapons,
logistics and manpower.

But at a cost of over
a third of a million casualties.

German casualties were
nearly as high,

but Germany,
fighting alone in the West and
with weak allies on other fronts,

could not endure losses
on this scale.

She would not launch another major
offensive on the Western Front

until 1918.

One can look for miles
and see no human beings.

But in those miles of country
lurk, it seems, thousands of men,

planning against each other
perpetually some new device
of death.

Never showing themselves,

they launch at each other bullet,
bomb, aerial torpedo and shell.

Unlike previous wars, the fighting
on the Western Front was unceasing.

Somewhere down the line, there was
always a gun firing, a man falling.

But for the troops of both sides,

life was not always
unrelenting warfare.

During 1916, the average British
soldier spent 100 days at the front.

For the remainder, he was in reserve,
on work detail, resting or on leave.

And over the 500-mile front,
some sectors were easier than others.

Even busy ones had their lulls.

One day, British General Lord Edward
Gleichen visited the front line.

When going round the trenches,

I asked a man whether he had
had any shots at the Germans.

He responded that there was an
elderly gentleman with a bald head

and long beard
who often showed over the parapet.

"Well, why didn't you shoot him?"

"Shoot him?" said the man.

"Why, Lord bless you, sir,
'e's never done me no harm."

A shocking example of
"live and let live".

"Live and let live" was
a pervasive phenomenon on both sides,

of accommodation with the enemy.

It arose because,
in quiet times and in quiet lines,

men were learning to adapt to war,
and to adapt war to them.

We sometimes got out of the trench
into the tall grass behind,

which the sun had dried,

and enjoyed a warm indolence
with a book.

Not infantry training, I think.

The war seemed to have forgotten us
in that placid sector.

FRENCH SONG PLAYS

I'm with officers and sergeants
who are great fun.

There's lots of schnapps and wine.

And every day, we get so drunk,

we forget whether we are at war
or in civvy street.

In my unit,

there was a piano actually
in the trench in the front line

and we had many a good sing-song.

CHEERING

I feel great. I have never lived so
well and probably never will again.

I have just joined
our sports club.

This evening,
someone got a football.

Now we can play football,
racing, long jump.

Chocolate is the prize,
donated by our platoon commander.

Life in this sector
is gloriously lazy,

weather is perfect,

the enemy most peaceful.

And there's little to do
but lie on one's back and smoke,

or write imaginative letters
back home.

It would be child's play to shell
the road behind the enemy's trenches

crowded as it was
with ration wagons and water carts,

into a bloodstained wilderness.

But on the whole there is silence.

After all, if you prevent your
enemy from getting HIS rations,

his remedy is simple. He will
prevent YOU from drawing yours.

We often see the smoke of
the Germans' meal-time fires

ascending in blue-grey spirals.

It is only common courtesy
not to interrupt each other's meals

with intermittent missiles
of hate.

One day,
while our infantry was cooking,

there was a shout
from the enemy trench.

Could he come and eat too?
He was invited over.

The Frenchman came and ate
and made himself comfortable.

And from then on, whenever the
Frenchman noticed food was ready

in the German trenches,
he came and joined in.

Sometimes an officer tried to stir
his men into a little action.

How about posting a sniper?

Or lobbing over a grenade?

We received the following message,
tied to a stone,

from German trenches opposite.

"We're going to send a 40-pounder."

"We've been ordered to do this
but we don't want to."

"It'll come this evening

"and we'll blow a whistle first
to warn you

"so that you'll have time
to take cover."

All happened as they said
it would.

The sniper is
a very necessary person.

He serves to remind us that
we are at war.

Wherever a head, or anything
resembling a head, shows itself,

he fires.

Were it not for his enthusiasm,

both sides would be sitting
upon their respective parapets

regarding each other
with frank curiosity,

and that would never do.

British directive, March 1916.

With trench warfare,
there is an insidious tendency

to lapse into a passive
and lethargic attitude

against which officers of all ranks
have to be on their guard.

And the fostering
of the offensive spirit

calls for incessant attention.

"Live and let live" was dependent on
the sector and troops manning it.

The Germans didn't like
facing the Highland Regiments.

The British couldn't
get along with Prussians.

But some of the other Germans
were fine.

The soldier Mike gave us
some useful hints.

"It's the Saxons that's across
the road," he said,

pointing to the enemy lines
which were very silent.

"They're quiet fellas, the Saxons.

"They don't want to fight
any more than we do

"so there's a kind of understanding
between us.

"Don't fire at us
and we'll not fire at you."

"Live and let live" did not occur
where elite regiments were operating.

They had their own ideas
about getting at the enemy.

Rare footage of a daylight raid
by South African troops.

The idea was to dominate
no-man's-land,

to say to the enemy
"It's not no-man's-land, it's ours."

Raids broke up trench routines,

brought intelligence from prisoners,
encouraged aggression.

This, British high command thought,
was the cure for "live and let live".

Training sessions were organised

using elaborate models
of the target area.

Raiding became compulsory for all
regiments. Laggards were rooted out.

Higher ranks appeared in our midst,

chief of all,
the brigadier general,

followed by an almost
equally menacing staff captain.

"What was my name? I had not been
round the company's wire? Why not?"

I was to go.

Reports of daring raids
were duly submitted.

But some at HQ, like Brigadier
General Crozier, smelt a rat.

It became increasingly difficult
as time went on

to obtain correct reports
from officers' patrols.

It was my habit to order samples
of German wire

to be cut and brought back.

Thus one would know that
the German line HAD been visited.

At least one squad of reluctant
raiders had an answer to that.

They found a large coil of German
barbed wire in no-man's-land

and just snipped bits off,
sending them in with bogus reports.

That went on every night.

And the old man never knew we had
a coil of Jerry wire on our side.

Many, though, entered the spirit,
proudly displaying their trophies.

Raiding and shelling helped put the
war back into gaps between battles.

One night, in May 1916,

Siegfried Sassoon joined
a raiding party into no-man's-land.

The raiders vanished
into the darkness on all fours.

I crawled out after them.

Shells started to fire.

News came back,

"O'Brien says it's a wash-out.
They can't get through the wire."

A bomb burst, then a concentration
of angry flashes.

Wounded men were crawling back,

among them a grey-haired
lance corporal who'd had

one of his feet almost blown off.

"Thank God. I've been waiting
18 months for it

"and now I can go home."

Sassoon's raid was launched
from these trenches.

The objective - this ridge.

But it all went badly wrong.

I went to look for O'Brien, groping
my way along the edge of a crater.

Bullets hit the water near me.

There, I discovered him.

He moaned. He'd been hit
several times.

The stretcher-bearer bent over him,
then straightened.

In a surprising gesture,
he took off his helmet.

O'Brien had been one of
the best men in our company.

Shelling was
the biggest killer of the war.

"Live and let live"
continued on and off,

but the loss of comrades made it
increasingly difficult to sustain.

Speaking for my companions
and myself,

I can categorically state that
we were in no mood

for any joviality with Jerry.

We hated his guts.

We were bent on his destruction
at each and every opportunity.

Our greatest wish was
to be granted an enemy target

worthy of our Vickers machine gun.

We were under shellfire
for eight hours.

It was like a dream.

Some of the men looked quite insane
after the charge.

As we entered German trenches,

a great number came out,
asking for mercy.

Needless to say,
they were shot right off.

The Royal Scots took
about 300 prisoners

and immediately shot
the whole lot.

There were many cases on both sides
of prisoners being killed
after surrender.

Such atrocities fuelled hatred
further.

But many prisoners were captured.

They provided excellent opportunities
for propaganda.

British newsreel film of German PoWs

was used to convince
audiences back home

that Britain was gaining
the upper hand.

By the end of the war

there were nearly nine million
prisoners in total

and captivity was not
their only hardship.

It's already been two years
since you were here last

and Mother Nature needs
to fulfil her urges again.

As you can't come and see me,
I'm forced to go looking elsewhere.

Don't think I'm joking.
I'm serious.

I don't care what you think of me

but you can't expect me
to waste my youth like this.

After all, I'm not made of wood.

And what a person needs,
a person must get.

Please don't be cross with me,
will you?

Your ever-loving Thelma.

Your sweet children send you
lots of love.

Another German wife was careful
to reassure her absent husband.

We've got a real slut in our house

who's always got someone
new with her.

That bitch isn't good enough
for such a decent man.

The poor thing fights at the front

while she swans off
to the cinema and the pub

with the other fellas back home.

Dearest man,
please don't think evil thoughts,

because there are also good women
who are faithful to their men.

Letters from home were
the soldiers' lifeline.

German troops were offered these
beguiling colour postcards

to reassure loved ones that they
were comfortable, happy and safe.

But news from the front
was rarely so cosy.

A German factory worker, learning
that her husband had been killed,

wrote to her boss to resign.

My beloved husband worked here
for years,

and I did the same work,
with his tools.

And I was proud that,
while he was fighting at the front,

I could represent him here

It was not always pleasant
in the factory,

but my husband's letters
gave me courage.

And so, until his death,
the job was sacrosanct to me.

That's why I can't do it any more.

More and more women in Germany,
France and Britain were
making munitions.

Many men were contemptuous of
women's abilities to do their jobs,

and fearful that if they managed it,

the women might not clear off
afterwards.

Jeannie Riley wrote to her husband
at the front about her new job.

We were told that the amount of work
we do in three weeks

would've taken the men three years.

and, Jamie,
the men are getting quite mad at us.

One woman I work with, well,
she lost her finger in a machine

in the works,
but she's a tough one.

When she came back
from the Western Infirmary,

she carried on like
nothing had happened!

I have to get up at 4.30
every morning.

So I'll have YOU up at the same time
when you come home...

if God spares you.

Jeannie's husband Jamie
did come safely home.

The most important battle Jeannie
Riley and her colleagues

were working towards
in 1916, was the Somme.

It's now a byword for wholesale
suffering and slaughter,

but its architect, General
Sir Henry Rawlinson, conceived it

as an offensive
with limited objectives,

more dependent on guns than manpower.

With plenty of guns and ammunition,

we ought to be able to avoid
the heavy losses

which the infantry have always
suffered on previous occasions.

The French were due
to play the lead role,

but with Verdun dragging on,
the British bore the brunt.

And there was intense political
pressure to deliver a victory.

General Sir Douglas Haig was the
British Army's commander-in-chief.

He turned Rawlinson's plan
into a major offensive.

When the British guns opened up
on the Somme on 24th June 1916,

the windows rattled in London,
160 miles away.

But, after seven days of bombardment,

the British artillery had neither
silenced the German guns

nor destroyed their defences.

A sergeant of the Tyneside Irish
went over the top on 1st July,

with lines of men
on either side of him.

I heard the patter-patter
of machine guns in the distance.

By the time I'd gone
another ten yards,

there seemed to be only
a few men left around me.

By the time I'd gone another 20
yards, I seemed to be on my own.

Then I was hit myself.

Farmers around the Somme
still gather a harvest of iron

for the French army
to collect and defuse.

In this war,
what happened in the factory

directly affected the outcome
on the battlefield.

30% of British shells fired
on the Somme were duds -

a drastic failure of quality control.

But the key factor was that
there weren't enough heavy guns

and British artillery
wasn't much good.

On that terrible first day,

it became clear that
the French knew what they were doing

and the British did not.

The French artillery,
in THEIR attacks,

did not shoot the ground to bits
before they moved over it.

A short, intense bombardment,
followed by a rush of men

gave them the position
clean and intact.

We would shoot our ground
into a quagmire

and then send troops
slowly forward over it

and expect them to provide their own
cover from the enemy's retaliation.

On 1st July, the French gained
all their objectives

at a cost of a few thousand men.

Britain achieved virtually nothing,
with casualties of 57,470.

It was the heaviest loss suffered
in a single day by the British Army

in its entire history.

There had been a host of lessons
for both sides since 1914,

and the British became avid learners.

How to lay down shellfire
over the heads of advancing men,

how to locate enemy guns,

using flash-spotting,
sound ranging and trigonometry,

and how to knock them out.

Better shells, better fuses,
better guns and better gunners.

While the Germans came to rely
more on skilled infantrymen,

often acting on their initiative,

the British concentrated on
fighting a technical war.

It was all too late for the Somme.

Haig must bear the responsibility
for not stopping the slaughter

when the breakthrough failed.

The battle petered out
in November 1916,

with around half a million casualties
on each side.

Cambrai, in northern France.

On 20th November 1917,

the site of the first major use
of tanks in the world.

Here, the British Army would put
what they had learnt into practice.

Britain's invention of the tank

cracked a key
First World War problem -

how to combine fire power
and movement.

Tanks needed dry, hard ground.

They'd got it at Cambrai.

The attack was led by a general,
from the front.

A lithe figure strode up,
pipe aglow, ash stick under his arm.

Unexpected, it was General Elles.

"I'm going over in this tank,"
he announced, tapping "Hilda".

I swung the door open
and he squeezed through inside.

The artillery now knew
not to chew up the ground ahead.

A short, sharp bombardment,

and then over 300 tanks
rolled into the first light.

Just before 6.30am, the barrage
commenced and we started off.

Our first bump came fairly soon.

We climbed a bank,
crashed through a hedge

and came down heavily
on the other side.

We were thrown about
like so many peanuts

and we had to clutch on
to whatever we could.

The tanks, looking like giant toads,
became visible against the skyline.

Some of the leading tanks
carried huge bundles

of tightly-bound brushwood,
which they dropped into

the wide German trenches,
then crossed over them.

It was broad daylight
as we crossed no-man's-land
and the German front line.

I saw very few wounded coming back
and a few German prisoners.

The enemy wire had been
dragged about like old curtains.

The tanks appeared to have
busted through.

The tanks, still experimental,
were part of one of the most

sophisticated,
innovative plans of the war.

The aim was to break through German
lines with minimal loss of life.

The artillery would use
their new skills and technology

to locate and target the German
batteries before the battle.

The tanks would punch a hole
in German lines,

with the infantry tucked up close
for mutual protection,

while the cavalry pushed through.

Secrecy was crucial.

Screens were erected
to hide movements.

Telltale tracks were
covered with mud.

The question ever uppermost
in all our minds was,

"Does the Hun suspect anything?"

It was most exciting.

About 9am, retreating infantrymen
gave us an account

of swarms of tanks,

so many that it was absolutely
impossible to stop them.

A little later,
the tank monsters came creeping

to the ridge south of the village.

Not one of us had seen
such a beast before.

Then, a dramatic indication
that real progress had been made.

For the first time,

we saw the magnificent spectacle
of our field artillery

limbering up and going forward.

First at a trot, then at a gallop,

battery after battery,

to take up new positions
on the captured German front line.

The Germans were caught on the hop,

then pushed back five miles -

a greater allied advance than any
achievement on the Somme or Flanders.

It was a long, hard day,

but the sight of all the ground
that had been taken

with so little bloodshed
was real a tonic.

Troops seemed very pleased
with our tanks,

so pleased
we had many drinks with them.

It's astonishing how much whisky
the British Army carries
into battle.

On 21st November, church bells
rang out across Britain,

just as they had done in Germany
for Verdun.

And, again, the celebrations
were a little hasty.

The British had not achieved
all their objectives.

Some villages near Cambrai
remained in German hands,

including Flesquieres.

The Highlanders in this sector
had been ordered

to keep well away
from the newfangled tanks

so they couldn't help them
by knocking out machine-gun nests
and artillery.

Lurking near Flesquieres

was one of the few German batteries
trained against tanks.

A tank emerged from the village.

Distance - 275 metres! Fire!

Damn! Too far!

Fire!

Very close. Aim a little
to the right! Fire!

Hit! A hit!

Oh, lord. A column of fire was
bursting out of the monster.

Two of our men ran to the tank
and when they returned,

they described the half-burned
bodies of the crew.

Inside the tanks, the crews wrestled
with the world's latest technology

under fire.

Just at this critical moment,

the auto-vac supplying petrol
to the engine failed.

The engine spluttered and stopped.

We were now a stationary target.

In the sudden silence, we could hear
the thud-thud of falling shells

and metal and earth
striking the sides of the tank.

The atmosphere IN the tank was foul.

With tense faces, the crew watched
the imperturbable second-driver

as he coolly and methodically
put the auto-vac right,

ignoring all the proffered advice
to give it a good hard knock.

The Germans knocked out
32 tanks at Flesquieres.

More were crippled by storm troopers

in the narrow streets
of Fontaine-Notre-Dame.

There was horrible slaughter
in Fontaine, and I,

who had spent three weeks before the
battle thinking out possibilities,

had never tackled the subject
of village fighting.

I could've kicked myself again
and again for this lack of foresight

but it never occurred to me
that our infantry commanders

would thrust tanks into such places.

The Germans also had the bright idea

of mounting anti-aircraft guns
on lorries

and attacking the tanks
with armour-piercing shells.

Nine tanks roll towards us.

The captain orders
"Steady, men. Wait for it."

When the enemy is
less than 100 metres away,

the command rings out, "rapid fire!"

The first tank rears upwards,
those following halt.

One direct hit after another.

Within a week, the Germans launched
a massive counterattack,

with storm troopers
supported by aircraft.

Within ten days they'd recovered
all their lost ground.

Yet Cambrai was crucial
for the British.

They'd gained valuable experience
with the tanks

and cracked their artillery problems.

Vital lessons were learned
about teamwork on the battlefield.

The big challenge for both sides now

was how to consolidate
the successful breakthrough.

The master of that would win the war.

In the next episode
of The First World War,

British and German Navies clash
at Jutland,

the dark world of spies
and saboteurs,

and America is pushed into the war.