CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘A Profound Sense of Injustice’:

The supersession grievance

MAY 1918

VILLERS-BRETONNEUX WAS the icing on the cake for Elliott’s reputation. Now more renowned than ever as a fighting general and a real character, his outstanding leadership was widely recognised in the AIF, and the tempestuousness that had produced an abundance of diverting anecdotes was appreciated even more widely. No Australian commander was better known outside his own formation. Cutlack, Bean’s assistant AIF correspondent, began his account of Villers-Bretonneux for the Australian newspapers with a vivid portrait of the famous brigadier:

There is one man on the western front who … loves to be in the thick of it. He is of big, burly build, with immense head and jaw; his large forehead is exaggerated by baldness at the temples, and a tuft of iron grey hair stands up in the middle of his head above the forehead — stands up permanently on end with sheer energy … His every utterance — if it be but to ask the day of the week — he gives out with a lift of his chin like a challenge. The stoutest chairs creak under his weight. When he clasps his hands the sound is as of the foresail of a great ship as it luffs up into the wind. His heart is as big as the heart of an ox and as fresh as a schoolboy’s. He has led his unit … into every fight he could find. He thrives on the war. He dreams Homeric battles, it is said, every night of his life … He fought the night attack on Villers-Bretonneux with several yards of flannelette shirting wrapped around his neck, for the gas-shelling had given him a sore throat. Wherewith he looked more like the great Lord Hawke than ever. His men have the greatest affection for him. They would probably like him just as much if he enjoyed a battle less. But the valiant bigness of the man takes their fancy, and they know they would never fail in a fight for lack of stoutness in him, their leader. Whenever his unit comes into action against the Germans it goes for them, as if in some resentment — caught from the spirit of its commander — that Germans should dare to stand in its way.

Morale in the 15th Brigade had never been higher. A mood of confidence and satisfaction was evident when Elliott lunched with his colonels at Blangy-Tronville on 29 April. As they reviewed the battle the brigadier asked his guests to submit the usual reports and recommendations for awards, and to arrange for other senior officers and the leader of every platoon to compile a narrative of the part each of them played in the operation. Elliott had already given Hobbs a brief interim account of the battle; he had in mind a more substantial document distilled from these individual statements, like his controversial Polygon Wood report. This get-together was more than a convivial review of a famous victory; it was also a farewell to Marshall, who was leaving the brigade the following day as part of the reshuffle postponed by the German attack on 24 April.

No impediment intervened this time. The 15th Brigade spent the whole of May in reserve after its celebrated April exertions. Not that Pompey’s men were doing it easy — a rigorous fortification program kept them busy — but the brigade was able to adjust to the rearrangement of its battalion commanders without having to participate in dramatic front-line developments. Elliott even interrupted his supervision of this work by taking (with Hobbs’s permission) an uncharacteristic day off, setting out one ‘lovely spring’ Saturday with some of his staff for a ‘joy-ride’. Among those he visited in other AIF formations were his old friend McNicoll, Captain Symons (one of the 7th Battalion’s Lone Pine VCs), and Monash and Wieck at Third Division headquarters. It was ‘a most enjoyable time’, but soon after his return Elliott was brought rudely back to earth. Long-range German shelling of Blangy-Tronville ‘put me into the shrubbery, which largely spoiled its appearance’.

A few days later, news spread of significant changes affecting the whole AIF. Birdwood was to be promoted to lead the British Fifth Army. In anticipation of this elevation, Bean and others had for some time been considering the question of who should succeed Birdwood as corps commander and GOC AIF (administrative chief of the Australian force). The two leading contenders were Monash and Brudenell White. Haig, impressed by Monash’s fine record in leading the Third Division, was inclined to anoint him for the corps; White’s greatest advocate was Bean, who maintained a starry-eyed reverence for him and never warmed to Monash. Birdwood, aware that his association with the AIF in general and White in particular had done wonders for his career, recommended officially to the Australian government that he should remain GOC AIF, even though there was no guarantee that his army would contain any Australian unit. Monash, Birdwood advocated, should get the Australian Corps, and White should become chief-of-staff at Fifth Army with promotion to major-general — thereby continuing as Birdwood’s right-hand man — because the ‘experience to be gained should be of great value’. Beddington, who knew both Birdwood and White well, was not the only observer to surmise where the real value of such an appointment lay from Birdwood’s viewpoint.

Bean was appalled by Birdwood’s proposals. Impelled by his idealistic worship of White, Bean persuaded the well-connected journalist Keith Murdoch and other friends including Will Dyson to join him in opposition to these changes: ‘we have lost our Trumper’, Bean told Murdoch. Although White disapproved of this campaign and dissociated himself from it, Bean and his collaborators persisted; but the changes recommended by Birdwood were implemented, and remained in place for the rest of the war. There were also to be three new divisional commanders in the AIF. In addition to the vacancy created by Monash’s promotion, the policy of maximising Australian appointments in the force had resulted in the departure of two British generals who had been commanding Australian divisions (Walker and Smyth).

It was on 21 May, with cables still flying back and forth between Birdwood and Australian cabinet ministers about the proposed changes, that Pompey Elliott became aware that important appointments were in the offing. His first inkling, apparently confined to the rumour that Smyth was to be transferred and replaced by Brigadier-General Gellibrand, was enough to perturb him. Gellibrand, Elliott’s counterpart as leader of the other AIF advance guard north-east of Bapaume in March 1917, was a staff officer at Gallipoli and, before that, had served in the British army in England, South Africa, and Ceylon. Elliott had been in contact with Gellibrand from time to time during the war, but did not know him well. He was appalled that a British officer had been chosen when there was a well-credentialled Australian like himself available, and incensed that he had been superseded in the process (Gellibrand had not previously been senior to him). In high dudgeon he immediately wrote to White — ‘rather hastily’, he admitted in his diary — to protest about ‘the indignity of such an appointment’. He demanded to know why he had been overlooked, and even raised the possibility of appealing to the Australian minister for Defence.

White’s spirited reply reached Elliott the following evening. ‘Your letter has greatly pained me’, it began. White proposed to discuss the matter fully in a visit to Elliott as soon as possible, but wanted to respond in part immediately. For a start, Pompey’s diatribe clearly exemplified why he had been overlooked:

your whole letter, even as a private epistle, is so intemperate that any tribunal judging it wd condemn you for a lack of balance and quiet judgment — even if it happened to contain the germs of genius which are supposed to be the counterpoise of eccentricity.

White dismissed Elliott’s claim to have been superseded — appointments beyond the battalion unit were by selection only — and startled him with a revelation about Gellibrand:

the British officer to whom evidently you refer is an Austn born there and now living there. Then as to yourself why all this great assertion? Do you think anyone doubts your courage? No one in the AIF, I assure you. Or yr ability? It is well known; but — you mar it by not keeping your judgment under complete control — your letter is absolute evidence. Finally you actually threaten me with political influence. You have obviously written hurriedly and I am therefore not going to regard yr letter as written. But let me say this: if the decision rested with me I should send you off to Australia without the least hesitation if calmly and deliberately you repeated yr assertion to seek political aid — and if you managed to raise a dozen ‘politico-military’ enquiries I wd fight you to a standstill on them!

In protesting about Gellibrand’s nationality Pompey had left himself wide open. Gellibrand did have an extensive background in the British army, but was born in Tasmania and had returned there to live in 1912. (However, when it suited White in other contexts he acknowledged that Gellibrand was essentially British.) Elliott admitted that White’s letter ‘a good deal upset me, my nerves no longer being what they should be’. Only a few nights earlier his equilibrium had been further jolted by the burst of a big enemy shell alongside his headquarters chateau. He woke suddenly to a deluge of glass fragments and a reek of phosphorous, while his office downstairs was wrecked. Lieutenant Schroder was wounded, and Bob Salmon, also on duty, had a very lucky escape.

White visited Elliott on 23 May. They had a heated discussion. ‘He said Birdwood would not promote me’, Elliott told Kate afterwards. The brigadier then itemised his outstanding record.

He admitted all that and said they had no General braver or more capable in the AIF, but I suffered from lack of control of judgment. Pressed to say what he meant, he could only say that I break out like a volcano if things don’t go just as I want them.

White cited a number of examples — Elliott’s protest about the battalion commanders initially allotted to the 15th Brigade; the forceful action he took to obtain water for his men after the notorious desert march; the controversies he initiated after concluding that neighbouring British formations had let his brigade down at Fromelles, Polygon Wood and elsewhere; his forceful anti-looting measures; and

the row I had with a young staff officer who kept all my Brigade out in the rain until it suited him to get up about 10am in the morning after we had marched all night … Now would you believe it possible that they are now dragging all this up to show I am not fit for a higher job. It is amazing and incredible. I should have thought that taking this in conjunction with my fighting powers, which he admits are not approachable, it would have proved that I was the very man for the job.

White’s main priority was to persuade Elliott not to proceed with any protest. In his written reply to Elliott’s diatribe, White indicated that he had not yet shown it to Birdwood in order to give the brigadier an opportunity to withdraw it, but he would oppose with the utmost vigour any attempt by Elliott to take the matter further. Now, in person, White maintained the pressure, clearly appalled by the notion that Elliott might appeal to Senator Pearce. Initially White denied that any such right of appeal existed. Elliott insisted that it did, and as a lawyer he ought to know. White then made it clear that if Elliott proceeded with this course of action he would be deprived of his command. According to subsequent accounts Elliott provided of this conversation, both publicly and privately, White said that he and Birdwood would regard any such appeal as an intolerable reflection on themselves, tantamount to an expression of no confidence. Whether a right of appeal existed or not, Elliott would find himself on his way home to Australia. White also gave the impression, Elliott subsequently claimed, that he would be first in line for any subsequent divisional vacancy.

This astute blend of intimidation and inducement did the trick. Pursuing his grievance to the limit promised to be a daunting course, especially for a commander with Elliott’s profound sense of commitment to his men. He had been greatly moved by a letter he had recently received from Norman Marshall’s mother, who described the relief pervading a Melbourne gathering of members and friends of the 15th Brigade when the announcement was made (by Colonel Duigan) that General Elliott had been offered home leave, but had opted to stay with his men: ‘we all breathed more freely’, she wrote. The brigadier withdrew his letter of protest, and decided not to proceed with the appeal.

Elliott’s conviction that he was the victim of a monstrous injustice never wavered. Far from it. The discovery that Glasgow and Rosenthal had also been preferred to him for promotion redoubled his chagrin. Elliott had been promoted to brigadier-general at the same time as Gellibrand and Glasgow, but was a colonel well before both. Also influencing his reaction was his awareness that the increase in pay accompanying promotion to major-general would have been especially welcome, now that Glen Roberts had wrecked his legal practice. In those dark days when he was struggling to come to terms with what Roberts had done, he had consoled Kate and himself with the financial implications of a promotion which his record had entitled him to regard as within reach. Elliott was not foolish enough to imagine that he would find it easy, but he had earned the opportunity by proving himself a fine brigadier, and he felt ready for the challenge. He was proud of the achievements of the men he led, justifiably proud — his own leadership, as informed observers such as Bean and Cutlack recognised, had been integral to the 15th Brigade’s distinguished record.

Missing out on a division was an extremely bitter pill to swallow. He felt, as he put it, ‘embittered by a profound sense of injustice’. After White had left at the end of their heated discussion, Pompey remained outside for half an hour, pensive and alone, before he rejoined his staff. One of them remembered what he said when he came in:

My boy, if you want to get on in the army, go on leave to Paris, learn dancing, take lessons in deportment, learn to bow and scrape.

Other disappointed aspirants nurtured his sense of grievance. McNicoll and Tivey had been senior to all three of the promoted generals, and both protested about their rejection in tense interviews with White. Monash had supported McNicoll’s claims beforehand. After Gellibrand succeeded Monash as commander of Third Division, a corrosive rift developed between McNicoll and Gellibrand of such magnitude that McNicoll asked to be relieved of his command and to be sent home to Australia. McNicoll asked Elliott if they could write together to the Defence minister; Pompey replied that they could communicate separately with Senator Pearce, but if they sent him a joint letter they risked being court-martialled for mutiny. At one stage Elliott had a conversation with Tivey about the appointments. Tivey claimed that when he protested to White about being overlooked, White had given him the impression that he would get the next divisional vacancy. Pompey concluded that he and Tivey had been conned by a ‘paltry act of deception’. He was livid. ‘It roused in me a deep and abiding sense of injury’.

Having to explain to aggrieved brigadiers why they had been passed over was yet another instance of White doing Birdwood’s job. Elliott had been quick to discern Birdwood’s shallowness, but when he criticised decisions and policies of the Australian Corps he did not blame Birdwood alone; he also accused White of shortcomings. White was an organiser of exceptional capacity and considerable charm. His planning of the Gallipoli evacuation was brilliant; but in France, compared to his flair for logistics and administration, it seemed at times that operational tactics were not his strongest suit.

It was during the dreadful 1916-17 winter, when inappropriate attacks were being ordered in appalling conditions, that Elliott had persuaded McCay to oppose the Flers operation scheduled for the 15th Brigade (which was subsequently undertaken by another AIF formation with disastrous consequences). At that time Pompey had also recommended to White that such enterprises should not be ordered without personal forward reconnaissance by the senior commander ordering them or a staff officer on his behalf; White had replied that such a policy could jeopardise the whole forward impulse. In this instance it was Elliott who was displaying the sound judgment that White accused him of lacking. (White seemed to demonstrate after the war a greater tolerance of commanders refusing to attack than he had shown during it.) Moreover, although one of White’s most attractive characteristics was his self-effacing abhorrence of overt ambitiousness, his charm tended to fray under sustained strain and he had a steely resolve. He had earlier helped Birdwood remove General Legge from the AIF on specious grounds; Legge, like Elliott, was opinionated, forthright, and nationalistically Australian.

Although Elliott withdrew both his letter of protest and his intention to appeal to Senator Pearce, he remained determined to ensure that his grievance was put on record. He decided to compile a comprehensive account of the controversies that he believed had led to his supersession. It was a remarkable document:

The complaint against me as laid down by General White is that I suffer from lack of control of my judgment and that this causes friction which would or might have disastrous consequences if I were raised in rank. In the event of my death I desire to place upon record, in justice to myself and my family, an account of every such incident.

Pompey then proceeded to review, in reverse chronological order, 21 controversial episodes, defending his conduct pungently in each instance:

(1) his report on the Aubigny Line;

(2) his instruction to shoot retiring British soldiers at Villers- Bretonneux who refused to rally when called on to do so;

(3) his frustration with Birdwood’s refusal to endorse vigorous anti-looting measures against the British;

(4) his threat to execute looters at Corbie;

(5) his clash with the British staff captain who was slow to vacate Hedauville;

(6) his Polygon Wood report and its suppression by Birdwood;

(7) his vigorous opposition to the appointment of Street as his brigade major;

(8) his protests concerning false British claims of captured machine-guns and prisoners at Bullecourt;

(9) the occupation of Bertincourt;

(10) his criticism of Fourth Division operations involving his brigade in February 1917;

(11) his disparagement of attacking methods generally during the 1916-17 winter;

(12) his clash with Birdwood after some of his men followed a sensible non-provocation policy initiated by the Guards unit they had relieved;

(13) his protest against a proposed 15th Brigade attack which was later undertaken unsuccessfully by the 7th Brigade in November 1916;

(14) his criticisms of the Fromelles operation;

(15) the vigorous action he took to obtain water for his men after the desert march;

(16) his pointed remarks about the folly of ordering the desert march in the first place;

(17) his opposition to the transfer of certain officers he had appointed to the 15th Brigade;

(18) his vehement opposition to three of the four battalion commanders initially allotted to his brigade;

(19) the mild reprimand he received for risking himself in the tunnel encounter in July 1915, instead of sending a subordinate;

(20) his spirited protest in response to Bean’s dispatch about undesirable behaviour in Cairo;

(21) his clash with Birdwood after a training exercise in Egypt.

In the overwhelming majority of these controversies Pompey’s forceful defence was convincing.

Elliott’s apologia also condemned Birdwood in the strongest terms for a circular he had issued in the wake of the Villers-Bretonneux triumph. This document, which infuriated Pompey, deprecated the growing tendency within the AIF to disparage the British. The Australians, according to Birdwood, had made such a name for themselves that running down their ‘kith and kin’ was ‘not necessary for the full acknowledgment of the great work’ they were doing. Pompey was incensed to discern an ‘insinuation that when they speak as they do they are not telling the truth’; in fact, ‘to my own certain knowledge the truth is being understated if anything’.

It is the vilest libel upon us that was ever published to suggest that to add unworthily to our own fame we deprecated the efforts of our British comrades. I will go further and say that in some cases it would be impossible to libel the conduct of some British units.

Elliott cited the scathing reply by a British cavalry general to a request for barbed wire from a commander ‘whose troops had behaved disgracefully’. (Pompey provided no identifying details, but this was surely General Harman of the Third Cavalry Division addressing a 14th Division officer on or about 4 April 1918.) The cavalryman’s response, Elliott wrote, was to ask if

it was proposed to put the wire in front or behind them, as judging by their performance that day he thought it was advisable to have something put behind them to keep them in their place. I do not think so cutting a remark or a juster one has been made by any Australian.

Pompey also described a recent incident involving an AIF front-line unit. This unit had submitted to the staff captain of a British formation (to which it was temporarily attached) an urgent request one afternoon for extra bombs. When no bombs had materialised by ten o’clock the following morning, the commander of that AIF unit went looking for the staff captain, and found him playing bridge. The Australian threatened to take his men out of the line if the bombs did not reach his men within half an hour; the staff captain put down his cards, made the necessary arrangements (the bombs arrived in time), and the Australian departed. ‘By jove’, the staff captain observed as he returned to the bridge table, ‘stout fellers these Australians, but socially — impossible!’

As usual, Pompey was careful to emphasise that his criticisms of some British formations did not apply to all of them. A ‘very large number of the units in the British Army are doing magnificent work, quite equal to our own efforts’, Elliott wrote in a covering statement to accompany Birdwood’s circular when it was distributed in his brigade. However, he added,

great numbers of men and officers have had to be employed who were obviously unsuitable for the task, except after long training, which it has not been possible to give them. While exercising the utmost firmness towards units and individuals on the battlefield we should, nevertheless, restrain our criticisms when out of the line and endeavour to set them an example in this as in other things, and help them whenever possible by advice and assistance.

Pompey showed this statement to Birdwood: ‘though it seemed to my eye that he squirmed inwardly at its terms, he could make no comment’ because it ‘was all too true’.

Elliott was particularly riled by Birdwood’s circular because he felt that the corps commander had done little or nothing to counteract ‘shameless lies’ propagated for years about alleged Australian indiscipline. Whenever his men had to find billets in a village they had not been in before, they tended to find the civilians there ‘panic stricken’ because of lurid tales disseminated by the British about Australians’ ‘savage brutality’. In fact, Elliott claimed,

the inhabitants when they became better acquainted with our men preferred them to all others, not alone because they had more money to spend and spent it freely, but because of their far greater courtesy and gentleness towards the women, their love of children and love of helping in the farm work in which they were eager to assist.

As a result, his men had ‘never left a French district without the people parting from us with the utmost good will and delighted to welcome us whenever we returned’. He himself maintained a warm correspondence with the first family he stayed with in France, the Brunets of Steenbecque.

It was not only because this persistent denigration was unwarranted that Pompey found it so repugnant. Also influential was a transformation of his own:

Though myself possessing what may be called a good education, I am free to confess that the opinions and ideas which I had previously formed of the French People and their Institutions underwent the greatest possible change during my residence among them. The longer our stay in France continued, the more I found to admire.

His conversion was far from unique, he sensed:

To a people so insular and isolated as we Australians undoubtedly were prior to the War, our experiences in this respect in France were undoubtedly an education and a very great pleasure. To our astonishment we found that though differing in language and race we were more closely allied in our mental development and real feelings with the French than with the English themselves.

Elliott bitterly resented Birdwood’s double standard. With the British consistently terrifying French civilians by typecasting his men as barbarians, there had been no significant intervention by Birdwood. Moreover, looting was in fact more prevalent among British units than in the 15th Brigade, and Birdwood had prevented Elliott from dealing vigorously with British looters. Yet as soon as the boot was on the other foot and Australians began to cast scathing aspersions on the British after the inadequate performance of a number of their units, Birdwood, Pompey contended, had been mighty quick to pounce.

Even after providing a detailed account of 21 controversial episodes and exposing what he saw as Birdwood’s double standards, Pompey’s trenchant apologia was still not finished. He wanted to show that the decision not to promote him in May 1918 was the culmination of a pattern of hostile treatment by a corps commander resentful of his forthrightness and nationalistic outlook. He therefore included a lengthy account of how he had been mysteriously culled from the honours list for Lone Pine and oddly overlooked on other occasions as well. Only then did he bring this remarkable document to a conclusion.

Elliott had certainly fulfilled his aim of setting down his version of events for posterity in case anything happened to him during the war. But the contents of his apologia were dynamite, and he had to work out what to do with such an explosive document in the meantime. He decided to entrust it on a confidential basis to the head of the London-based Australian War Records Section, Captain J.L. Treloar. A shy, unprepossessing 23-year-old clerk, Treloar possessed dedication, zeal, and organisational talent in rare measure; he had served with the AIF at Gallipoli, and later for a time as Brudenell White’s clerical assistant. Elliott and Treloar were developing a mutual respect and regard that was to endure. Treloar’s trustworthiness was not in doubt. Earlier on, as Elliott knew, the only surviving copy of his suppressed Polygon Wood report had been taken to London and handed to Treloar (not by Pompey himself, but possibly by someone on his staff). Treloar was in an awkward position, but the document was clearly a significant war record, and he decided to retain it on a top-secret basis. It ‘was smuggled to me and held by me with some trepidation’, he later admitted.

While Elliott was compiling his lengthy apologia he also had to respond to a complaint emanating from the British staff captain he had evicted from Hedauville. Birdwood had directed Hobbs to obtain a statement from Elliott about the incident. Pompey’s report covered the background to it in detail, and convincingly demolished the complaint (he incorporated this statement into his apologia as his version of that controversy, the fifth on his list of 21). ‘I have as much reason to be proud of my English origin as anyone’, he declared in the statement, citing the contribution of his relatives past and present to Britain’s army and navy, and ‘I gladly testify to the most gallant conduct’ of the British cavalrymen assisting his brigade in April 1918. He also made a point of stressing that he did not want to ‘place undeserving reproach upon anyone’. However,

I feel strongly that the shielding of incompetent officers and unworthy conduct of individuals, particularly Staff Officers, … adds to the difficulties we are in … I shall be glad to give evidence in any Court of Inquiry that may be held.

Later in May, Elliott learned that Birdwood was leaving the Australian Corps to command Fifth Army, with Brudenell White accompanying him as chief-of-staff. ‘I was never so delighted with anything in my life’, Elliott enthused; ‘we are well quit of them’. Pompey had never had much regard for Birdwood’s ability. As for White, he

is undoubtedly a very able man but he is now completely under General Birdwood’s thumb, as he sees his future being made by sticking close to him and this is natural under the circumstances. But I cannot help thinking that it has more than once led to the betrayal of Australia’s interests.

Pompey was very pleased that the new commander of the Australian Corps would be Monash. ‘I have a great admiration for him’, he wrote. ‘I think I’ll get on all right under him, couldn’t do worse anyhow than under Birdwood’. Elliott’s only regret was that Birdwood ‘still retains the position of GOC AIF, but that arrangement I am sure cannot last long’. This understandable assessment encouraged him to nurture the hope that he might be promoted to divisional command after all. He had to have a strong chance, he felt, if some alternative to the Birdwood–White regime — Monash, presumably — was in charge of promotion, and Birdwood’s continuation as GOC AIF hardly seemed compatible with departure from the Australian Corps.

However, Pompey’s aspirations were dashed. Not only did Birdwood remain GOC AIF; he made it clear that there would be no promotion for Elliott. This became apparent when Hobbs turned up at 15th Brigade headquarters, and with a grim face asked Elliott outside for a private word. The generals formed a striking contrast in physique as they strolled into the garden together. Elliott wondered what was coming; his diminutive companion came straight to the point. Hobbs announced that he had been directed to reprimand Elliott in the strongest terms for the Hedauville incident, adding that Birdwood had indicated that the brigadier would receive no further promotion in the AIF because of the way he treated British officers. Elliott, stunned, reeled away in amazement. Hobbs gave him a consoling pat on the back: ‘I had to tell you that, but by God you were right’, he declared fervently.

For the rest of his life Elliott referred to this deeply felt grievance about being deprived of an AIF division as his ‘supersession’. Whenever a promotion within an AIF battalion would result in an officer being overtaken by someone of lower rank, the necessity for that supersession had to be ratified after investigation by a higher commander, and the officer supplanted had to be notified. From the level of battalion command upwards, however, each appointment was determined by the personal selection of the GOC AIF, a method that enabled White to contend that the issue of supersession did not arise. Elliott dismissed this as sophistry.

He was not the only AIF general to become agitated about being superseded. In mid-1915 McCay felt so aggrieved by Legge’s appointment to succeed Bridges that he submitted a formal protest, declaring that only his sense of duty prevented him from relinquishing his command ‘rather than submit to the injustice done to me and the reflection on me that is implied by my supersession by an officer 6 years my junior as Colonel’. He even requested ‘that this protest may be forwarded to the Australian Government’ (in effect, exercising the right of appeal that White had denied Elliott). Nine months later, when Lieutenant-Colonel C.H. Brand missed out on a brigade command in the expanded AIF, he submitted what Birdwood described as ‘a representation regarding his supersession’. And, most revealing of all, when the May 1918 appointments were submitted to the government for approval, the Defence minister was formally advised that the new divisional commanders ‘will supersede’ a number of officers (including Elliott). While it was understandable that White would dismiss claims of supersession as simply beside the point because of the nature of the selection process, it was predictable — especially straight after the Villers-Bretonneux triumph — that Elliott would feel not only superseded but intensely aggrieved about it.

Birdwood’s correspondence indicated that Elliott was not even in the running for a division. The astonishing stream of chatty, ingratiating letters that Birdwood sent to an array of influential correspondents was crucial to his own reputation (and only possible because White was doing so much of his real work). Among the matters covered in Birdwood’s letters to one of his regular correspondents, Senator Pearce, was his perception of how individual AIF commanders were going, and which of them were in line for promotion. He had shortlisted Gellibrand as a potential candidate for a division as early as March 1917, and anointed Rosenthal, an artilleryman without infantry experience, for promotion to divisional command even before he made his mid-1917 début as an infantry commander with the 9th Brigade.

Elliott was conspicuous in these letters by his absence. From March 1916 Birdwood did not mention him at all, either as a prospective divisional commander or when bringing Pearce up to date on the AIF’s activities. At both Polygon Wood and Villers-Bretonneux, for example, where Pompey and his brigade had been outstanding, Birdwood referred to the 15th Brigade approvingly but avoided any reference to Elliott. In contrast, Birdwood’s letter to Pearce about Villers-Bretonneux described Glasgow as ‘a most excellent brigade commander … of much determination and fine character’, and pointedly associated Rosenthal with an ‘excellent piece of work’ by the 9th Brigade in a later engagement of much less significance. Birdwood’s silence about Elliott was surely no accident — he clearly wanted to avoid giving Pearce any inkling that Pompey’s superb record entitled him to be a contender for a division.

No further vacancy arose until the end of the war, but if one had it would have gone to Brand, with Wisdom probably next in line. Elliott’s record was far superior to Brand’s, and Pompey would have regarded any proposition that Wisdom might be preferred to him as preposterous after his first-hand experience of undistinguished leadership from the 7th Brigade commander in March 1917. However, Elliott was not even on the short list (nor was Tivey, despite White’s assurances to each of them).

Was this treatment justified? It is true that the decision boiled down to personal selection by an individual authorised to choose (even if Birdwood, as his correspondence with Pearce confirms, lobbied unashamedly to keep that power to himself). From this perspective, one might conclude, Birdwood was simply entitled to make whichever decisions he thought best, and that was that. After all, that was how the system worked; Pompey had been making equivalent selection decisions affecting officers under his command throughout the war. But was it really appropriate to rule Elliott out? After the war Birdwood reiterated the case for the affirmative. Elliott was ‘so entirely wanting in judgment and self-control that I should never have had a moment’s happiness had he had an independent command like that of a Division’, because he would be liable to involve his men in something ‘without authority or reason’. However, the corps commander who would have been dealing with Elliott’s alleged unreliability was Monash, not Birdwood. Elliott’s admiration for Monash was as profound as was his distaste for Birdwood. It seems that Monash did not agree with Birdwood about Elliott, but he had little say in the appointments.

The 21 controversial incidents, as reviewed in Pompey’s trenchant apologia, do not substantiate Birdwood’s assessment. Only one of those episodes, the occupation of Bertincourt in March 1917, could be categorised as a possible instance of Elliott committing his men ‘without authority or reason’. However, not only did he have compelling justification for the action he took in that instance, but he also ensured that neighbouring formations were informed, and Hobbs endorsed what he did (which was hardly surprising — it was consistent with an instruction from Birdwood himself that Pompey’s advanced guard had to secure its own flanks).

White, it is true, described Elliott’s offending characteristics more broadly, stressing his propensity to cause friction as a result of lapses in judgment and self-control. This broader perspective on Elliott’s perceived shortcomings brings several other incidents from his list of 21 into the reckoning. Naturally, Pompey vigorously defended his conduct in each instance, but it is noteworthy that his immediate superior tended to agree with him even if Birdwood and White did not. Bertincourt was far from unique. For example, the 15th Brigade belonged temporarily to Monash’s Third Division at the time when Pompey threatened summary execution for the next officer caught looting in Corbie. After disapproving rumblings began to circulate in higher British circles about this notorious notice, Monash ‘fully upheld’ Pompey’s approach: ‘the situation around Corbie was very critical indeed, and a strong hand was necessary to retain control’. Similarly, Hobbs was uncomfortable about having to reprimand Elliott for the Hedauville incident, concluding that Pompey’s forcefulness was understandable on that occasion; he may also have been ambivalent about, rather than wholeheartedly critical of, the brigadier’s instruction at Villers-Bretonneux to shoot British back-pedallers who refused to rally.

Not all the controversies Pompey had been involved in were featured in his apologia. It did not refer to his spontaneous resolve to order a counter-attack towards Doignies and Louverval on 23 March 1917, a decision that Bean evidently regarded as the biggest black mark against Elliott in the whole war. However, Bean’s account of this incident is mistaken in several respects. Furthermore, when Pompey compiled his apologia he was responding to what White said were the reasons for his rejection. White did not refer to this spontaneous counter-attack, because (as Bean recognised) he was unaware of it. If White had mentioned it, Pompey would no doubt have included in his apologia a spirited defence of the decision itself, as he did on several other occasions.

But it was his initial unwillingness to tell Hobbs about it — until Wieck persuaded him to do so — that was indefensible. Still, all this amounted to in the end was a short-lived inclination that was nipped in the bud by Wieck, the superb brigade major Pompey valued so highly. If every commander guilty of an imprudent initiative that his staff persuaded him not to proceed with was thereby disqualified from promotion, few would have been eligible. When Harington, the chief-of-staff Elliott rated more highly than any other, was serving a very senior leader who made a habit of dashing off blistering missives in a furious frame of mind, he refused to send them. This happened repeatedly, whereas Pompey did not repeat his mistake — after March 1917, even when he issued an order as obviously controversial as his Villers-Bretonneux directive to shoot British back-pedallers, a copy was sent to Hobbs. As Elliott realised, a good blend of attributes in the commander–chief staff officer partnership was crucial. One of Gough’s biggest problems, for example, was that his chief-of-staff for much of the war was a demonstrably unsuitable partner for him.

Elliott’s biggest problem, in the context of his 1918 aspirations to promotion, was the perception that he was prone to go it alone, to act independently without heeding superiors’ instructions or the exigencies of the overall tactical situation. This assessment by the Birdwood–White regime was accepted by Bean, but is it valid? In this connection it is illuminating to review the two big battles where his brigade was outstanding and his own superb leadership significantly influenced the outcome — Polygon Wood and Villers-Bretonneux. At Polygon Wood he had every reason to recommend postponement of the 15th Brigade’s operation. The pre-emptive German attack had achieved a deep penetration on his right, inflicted sizeable casualties in three of his battalions, destroyed much of the accumulated ammunition, and played havoc with other AIF preparations. But when he was overruled, he proceeded to carry out the operation as ordered, and achieved a brilliant victory in circumstances of the gravest adversity.

The situation at Villers-Bretonneux would have tested the most patient, team-spirited commander. It occurred at a crucial time, even in the context of the whole war, and Villers-Bretonneux was obviously a critical position. Elliott was convinced the Germans would attack, convinced the British would be driven back, convinced his men would have to retrieve the situation, and convinced he had the plan that would enable them to do it. He was proved correct in every respect. It was obviously vital to launch the counter-attack as soon as possible, not only to give the Germans minimal time to consolidate, but also to utilise the lingering mist that had aided the enemy’s attack. Early in the morning Elliott put the wheels provisionally in motion for the operation that he — and Hobbs — forever afterwards maintained would have done the trick and, bearing in mind the 13th Brigade’s casualties, at a lower cost than was eventually incurred. But when Hobbs told him his brigade had to stand fast and wait, he obeyed orders. He was immensely frustrated, but he did what he was told. The injustice of the damaging perception that Pompey was not a team player was underlined by Bean himself in his account of Lagnicourt (March 1917):

No commander in the AIF was more eager than Elliott to assist to the utmost any force acting on his flank, and on this, as on other occasions, he was anxious to do even more than was asked or expected.

This keenness to assist neighbouring formations was one of Pompey’s many attributes as a commander. Even Brudenell White conceded ‘he was a born soldier’. Tactically Elliott was astute, adaptable and, at times, innovative. Robustness, the ability to handle the immense stress involved in leading thousands of men when jolting shocks were inevitable and danger and death ubiquitous, was regarded by at least one well-credentialled study as the most important characteristic for any senior commander to possess. Elliott demonstrated, at Polygon Wood especially but also at Lone Pine and elsewhere, that he had this vital attribute. Also important was a good grasp of administration and supply, in order to instil confidence in the men under his command that they were being looked after as well as possible. Elliott showed up well in this respect, too: during the dreadful 1916-17 winter Bean was staggered to find that Pompey had positioned kitchens far enough forward to provide three hot meals each day for men in the front line.

Boldness, bravery, arranging good communications, instituting effective training methods, and utilising constructive conferences with subordinates were other recognised criteria for a top-ranking commander which Pompey clearly met. Elliott had always been a dedicated student of armed conflict, and in this war, by insisting that reports had to be submitted after an important engagement by every leader in his brigade — even down to platoon commanders — he accumulated a more informative picture than any of his AIF counterparts of what had actually happened in battles such as Polygon Wood and Villers-Bretonneux. As a result, he was better equipped to discern the lessons to be learned.

Elliott had also repeatedly demonstrated a capacity for the kind of flexible delegating that would have been increasingly required of him as a divisional commander. One such instance, at Villers-Bretonneux, concerned the additional units he was given, a Light Horse troop and a battery of the Royal Horse Artillery. Elliott did not assign a specific role to either; instead, he made sure that each commander understood the overall plan, and allowed them both to decide how they could best assist its implementation. This policy proved most successful. ‘Nothing could exceed the zeal and ability of these two officers’, Pompey enthused; both ‘appreciated to the very highest degree the trust’ given to them, and ‘I have never been better served by anyone’.

The admiration was mutual. For the battery commander, Major A.W. van Straubenzee of the Chestnut Troop, it was a revelation to see the rapid response of Pompey’s men to his orders, their keenness to get at the enemy, and their ‘marked ability to use their rifles and machine guns’. Afterwards, in an honour bestowed by this famous unit only once before in its long history, van Straubenzee invited Elliott and his officers to become honorary members of the Chestnut Troop mess ‘as a permanent record of the regard and admiration we had for them’. That rare distinction surely scotches the notion that Pompey was consistently, even compulsively, anti-British.

It was also at Villers-Bretonneux that Elliott made a special point of thanking the commander of the Royal Berks for his unit’s welcome assistance with the mopping-up, which was supposed to have been provided by the Durhams. While Pompey predictably castigated the Durhams, he did praise the Berks appreciatively, just as he had lauded other British units such as the Chestnut Troop and the cavalry that his brigade fought alongside earlier in April. He was blunt and tempestuous, certainly, but he gave praise as well as criticism where it was warranted.

Another factor inevitably affected Elliott’s willingness to dish out harsh criticism at times. He was all too aware that his men had been let down considerably by neighbouring British formations whenever they were involved in important engagements at the Western Front. Examples included Fromelles, Bullecourt, Polygon Wood, Vaire (4 April 1918), Villers-Bretonneux, and the pursuit to the Hindenburg Line (Bertincourt). Interestingly, both Monash and Hobbs were just as scathing as Elliott about some British units during March and April 1918, but expressed their criticism more discreetly. Unlike Pompey, they made sure Birdwood did not see or hear it.

As a combat formation, the 15th Brigade attracted rave reviews. Most memorable, perhaps, was Bean’s tribute to this ‘magnificent instrument, fit, like Cromwell’s Ironsides, for the hardest military tasks’. On the compelling basis that the fundamental task of a commander was to persuade and inspire his men to fight well, Elliott was an outstandingly successful general. A feature of his leadership was his willingness, appreciated by his men, to share risks and dangers with them. He could never be accused, as Monash frequently was, of being unwilling to go forward himself to make an enlightening personal inspection. A few observers have suggested that, if anything, Pompey perhaps overdid this personal reconnaissance; but the evidence that his superiors regarded this tendency as excessive is minimal (and, if they did, Rosenthal was at least as ‘guilty’). Pompey’s style was the antithesis of remote, cushy chateau-dwelling; always deadly earnest, he was up-front in more ways than one. When Rawlinson issued an edict in April 1918 that there was to be no retirement from the British positions then held, Pompey’s response was characteristic:

I have accordingly given orders that when their last reserves are thrown in, every Battalion Commander and every member of his staff shall be armed with rifles and take their place in the firing line. The personnel of my Headquarters here are also organised in echelon to serve as final reinforcements, and finally, by my orders, myself and Staff Officers, when no other reinforcements are forthcoming from Division, proceed to the firing line to fight (as I hope) to the end.

It was a feature of Elliott’s leadership that he was forever on the lookout for promising officer material, and always doing his utmost to ensure that appropriate individuals were sent to the various training schools. The school he established in his own brigade reflected his unflagging commitment to maximising the effectiveness of whatever formation he was commanding. Not only did Hobbs conclude that the 15th Brigade school was far superior to its equivalents elsewhere in the Fifth Division; it was, he enthused, ‘one of the most perfect and successful schools I have ever visited’. At one stage, Elliott told Milly Edwards, the father of one of his men gave him a new watch after he had recommended the son for a promotion course. In reply Pompey thanked the donor for the gift, but urged him

to get right away from the idea that his boy or he had ever been under the very slightest obligation to me … It is because my boys know that they deserve their promotions to the full when they get them that they do not feel under any obligation to me, … and they know that no matter how much I have helped them in the past, no matter who their friends may be or how friendly I may be to them, they will be smitten good and hard if they let me catch them out in the least degree.

‘You’ve got men’s lives in your hands’, Pompey would remind his officers, ‘if you can’t do your job you’re out!’ Throughout the war, from the very first weeks at Broadmeadows, he was ruthless in dispensing with officers he felt were not up to scratch. Sometimes Birdwood and White overruled him, most notably when he objected to three of the 15th Brigade’s initial battalion commanders and the appointment of Street as his brigade major (Pompey claimed with good reason to have been vindicated on all four objections).

Some of his men claimed that Elliott was not impartial. When assessing candidates for commissions he was inclined, they sometimes felt, to prefer aspirants with a good education. From the brigadier’s viewpoint, however, this attitude was not a matter of favouring an old school tie, as some observers assumed, but a result of bitter experience. All too often during the war he found that men he had singled out because they were brave and had demonstrable leadership qualities tended, if their educational background was limited, to struggle in certain other requirements (fluent written expression and absorption of technical information, among others).

A classic case was Private Milton Brockfield of the 59th Battalion, a labourer from a Victorian coastal town. As Pompey was aware, Brockfield ‘repeatedly displayed brilliant courage in the field’, particularly at Polygon Wood, where he vigorously rallied a large number of retiring Welch Fusiliers; impressed, the brigadier recommended him for the DCM and an officers’ training course. But the instructor’s report was damning: Brockfield ‘has a great opinion of himself, but no military knowledge’, and ‘I do not consider he has really tried’ to gain it. Pompey admitted to feeling

very much disappointed about this man … I have noticed, however, with great regret, that men who distinguish themselves frequently, if not of good education to begin with, fail to realise the value of book knowledge and are reluctant to make sustained effort to gain it.

One veteran, asked by Pompey about his pre-1914 background and shrewdly sensing the reason, replied straight-faced that before the war he was a swagman.

There was also the odd raised eyebrow about preferential treatment for Elliott’s relatives. Pompey’s cousin Charlie (the son of his uncle Robert Elliott) was the only English-born member of the 15th Brigade’s machine-gun company to be commissioned, according to another Englishman in that unit who took a dim view of his own lack of promotion beyond sergeant and the anti-British tendencies that he felt Pompey displayed. By 1918, however, Charlie was no longer under Pompey’s command. He proved ‘a splendid officer’, the brigadier reported, but had been reduced to ‘a complete wreck’ by the 1916-17 winter; ‘rheumatism and sciatica have made an old man of him at 26’.

After that terrible winter Pompey had also been concerned about the precarious health of Eric Walker, brother of George Elliott’s widow Lyn. At one stage it was feared he had consumption. Walker doggedly ‘insisted on coming back’, Elliott reported, but ‘looked so ill that I would not let him go into the line’. In May 1917 Walker was about to move forward with his men to participate in the 15th Brigade’s operation at Bullecourt when he was whisked away to a school at the last minute. Walker’s ill-health would have proved fatal, Pompey believed, if he had not intervened. The officer who replaced Walker was killed in the battle.

Jack Prictor, husband of Kate’s cousin Ina, enlisted in the Third Division, but Pompey arranged for him to switch across to the 15th Brigade. Asked about the transfer by one of his new comrades, Prictor claimed that he had simply applied for one. ‘Come off it’, his inquirer persisted, ‘I couldn’t get transferred to another company, let alone a different brigade’. When Prictor eventually admitted that he was related to the brigadier by marriage, there were confident predictions that he would soon find himself up for promotion. He did. Pompey sent him to the brigade school, then to England for officer training: ‘Ina’s Jack is a good signaller’, Elliott told Kate, and ‘I think he will do splendidly’.

Of course, being human, Elliott kept a close eye on his ‘own’, but he did not really treat them very differently. His desire to protect Eric Walker was partly influenced by the death of Eric’s brother Ken; Pompey felt similarly protective towards non-relatives such as Lieutenant Bob Johnston, whose brother (like Ken Walker) had been one of the 7th Battalion officers killed at Gallipoli. It was the fact that Pompey knew something about Jack Prictor and Eric Walker before they came under his command — as distinct from men he did not know beforehand at all — that enabled him to assess them relatively quickly as potential officers. But they had to perform: ‘I would not promote even my own brother’ if he was not ‘fit for the job’.

The case of Reg Avery typified Elliott’s approach. Avery was a Charleville drover whose brother had married Pompey’s sister. He was a Third Division NCO until Pompey arranged a transfer to the 59th Battalion, sent him to a school, and ‘urged him to study hard and get a good report’. Although Reg thought ‘he did all right’ at the school, in fact he ‘did very badly’, the brigadier was told. ‘If he cannot learn the work, it is no use promoting him’, Elliott concluded, ‘I’ve given him his chance’. There were no soft options. On 4 April 1918, during the fighting near Vaire, Avery was on a bicycle delivering a message from Elliott himself when he was killed. Reg’s death convinced Jack Avery to return home to Australia. After his other brother was killed in France a year earlier, his mother ‘nearly went out of her mind’ with grief; he was worried about how she would react to the news about Reg, especially with her only remaining son liable to be sent into the battle zone. For thousands of Australians like her, this terrible war inflicted years of agony. It was a time of powerless waiting, inescapable tension, and overwhelming sorrow.

‘I am perhaps a hard taskmaster, but I always try to be a just one’, Pompey told Norman Marshall’s mother. That he had no favourites when he detected any failure to meet his exacting standards was shown time and again. Visiting the 58th Battalion’s advanced headquarters early one freezing winter’s morning, he had to wait a few moments before Denehy, having been alerted to the brigadier’s arrival, emerged from a dug-out looking flustered. ‘Good morning Denehy, is this your first appearance today?’ Pompey asked pointedly in front of the colonel’s men. When he had to deal with serious offences by frequent wrongdoers, Pompey sometimes allowed them to expiate their sins by tackling dangerous assignments. He adopted this flexible approach at both Gallipoli and the Western Front.

At Gallipoli one morning a 7th Battalion rascal known as ‘Scotty’ was brought before him after souveniring the copious contents of a rum jar. Pompey had just returned from the front trenches, where a periscope he was looking through had been shattered by a nearby Turkish sniper ensconced in a fortified post. With his face and neck still smarting, Pompey decided to give Scotty a choice: court-martial and disgrace, or expiation and a recommendation for a bravery medal if he would crawl out that night and place an explosive device next to the sniper’s nest. Scotty, full of alcohol-inspired bravado, was so keen to tackle this challenging task that he had to be restrained from setting forth immediately — any attempt in daylight would have been suicidal. Hours later, in mid-afternoon, Scotty was in a more sober state when he asked to be taken to a suitable vantage-point for a look at the sniper’s post and surrounds. After a quick glimpse he was brought back to Pompey. ‘Sir’, he announced, ‘I’ll take the court-martial’. Pompey relished that story. The enjoyment he derived from such diverting moments helped to sustain him through the darker times.

Not everyone endorsed Elliott’s methods. They could seem odd, if not eccentric, to outsiders unfamiliar with them, such as the member of Glasgow’s staff who included disparaging references to Elliott in the unreliable account of Villers-Bretonneux he wrote decades afterwards. Some 15th Brigade officers felt harshly treated. Naturally, those keen to minimise friction sometimes found his tendency to call a spade a spade unhelpful. What was commendable decisiveness to his admirers could seem regrettable impulsiveness to others. Tivey thought Elliott was inclined to get too excited during a battle. Just before his men set off to carry out the Villers-Bretonneux counter-attack, Pompey rode up to give them a parting pep-talk; according to a 59th Battalion veteran, he promised to have them relieved before morning if they attained all their objectives. When this relief did not materialise, they realised that it might have become impossible for Pompey to keep his promise, but it was perhaps imprudent to give an assurance when his capacity to deliver was to a considerable extent out of his control.

Moreover, Pompey was convinced that it was essential to be able to evaluate subordinates accurately, and believed he did this pretty well — as indeed he did. But he was not infallible, as his underestimation of Lieutenant Moon VC confirmed. In addition, while keeping his officers on their toes, Elliott might have done more to show that he valued their efforts. Pompey regarded no-one in the 7th Battalion or 15th Brigade more favourably than Geoff McCrae (who admittedly lacked confidence in his own ability), yet McCrae had no idea how much his colonel appreciated him until he learned from his family back in Melbourne that Pompey had praised him glowingly in a letter to George McCrae.

Perhaps Elliott’s greatest vindication in the context of his supersession was the overwhelming endorsement of his leadership by the men he led. Despite his eccentricities, his rough tongue and his rigorous standards, ‘somehow they seem to know that I love even the worst of them’. As Bean wrote, with ‘exuberant vitality he overworked them, strafed them, punished them; and yet they would do anything he asked of them’. Those who knew him best tended to have the utmost admiration for him. The mother of a 60th officer killed at Fromelles assured Kate in mid-1918 that ‘many letters I have received from soldier friends … say how loved your husband is’. Even after his death (long afterwards in some instances) Salmon, Schroder, Doyle, and others who had served on his staff all put their veneration on record, as did, among his colonels, Marshall, Stewart, Freeman, and Scanlan. Duigan described Pompey as ‘absolutely the best General in the Australian Army’. According to Schroder, ‘no greater soldier or gentleman ever lived’.

After Elliott became a brigadier, he was repeatedly assured by men he had previously led that they wished he was still their commander. This happened whenever he came across the 7th Battalion in France. And it was not just cheap flattery, either — some of them actually applied for a transfer to his brigade. So did a number of the light-horsemen temporarily attached to the 15th Brigade during its advanced guard operations; they wanted to become part of such a purposeful and proficient formation permanently. Even more telling was the number of wounded 7th Battalion officers who opted to rejoin Elliott when re-enlisting after being repatriated to Australia. Scanlan, Mason, Grills, and de Ravin were all familiar with Pompey and his methods, and all wanted to serve under him again. Even ‘Birdie’ Heron, whose fondness for drinking and skylarking had landed him in hot water with his colonel more frequently than any of Pompey’s other original officers, joined the 15th Brigade after recuperating from his Gallipoli wounds, and persuaded his brother to do likewise.

Elliott’s immediate superiors also rated him highly. He retained McCay’s confidence as long as that unpopular general remained commander of Fifth Division. While the 15th Brigade was attached to the Third AIF Division, Monash lavishly praised the quality of Elliott’s leadership. As for Hobbs, he clearly found Pompey a handful from time to time; the brigadier’s volatility and forthrightness ensured that he would have been a difficult subordinate for anyone. However, after an awkward start while they were getting to know each other, Hobbs handled him pretty well, as Elliott increasingly appreciated. Hobbs certainly esteemed Pompey’s capacity. He showed this not only by frequently choosing the 15th Brigade when there was a tough task to be allocated; he also told Birdwood that, as far as he was concerned, it would have been appropriate to give Elliott a division in 1918.

Pompey’s aggrieved frame of mind was aggravated by the distribution of awards for Villers-Bretonneux. Having been informed by Hobbs that Birdwood wanted DSO submissions minimised, Elliott had confined himself to recommending the four colonels in his brigade most actively engaged in the operation. He was incensed to learn that not all of even this miserly quartet had been approved, yet more than a dozen DSOs were awarded to officers in Heneker’s division. Watson missed out, Pompey fumed, despite obtaining ‘the most valuable information’ during the battle and sharing it with a brigadier in Heneker’s division, General Coffin, who did not conceal from Watson his ire about being ‘unable to obtain any information from his own battalions’. Coffin’s battalions ‘were utterly defeated, and he himself freely admitted that “but for the Australians the Bosche would have been firmly established in Villers-Bretonneux”’, yet there was a DSO for Coffin but not for Watson.

Elliott took up the matter with White. It did seem anomalous, White agreed in an amiable reply, but he was powerless to intervene. He went on to deny a suggestion in Elliott’s letter that he did not welcome ‘strong and clear expression of honest opinion’, and gave him some advice:

I like you for your plain speaking. But as before I would caution you against extremes. Neither as children nor as grown up men can we run roughshod over our fellow creatures. And when we take a strong and fighting attitude we must — if we are going to achieve anything more than derision — be well balanced and sure of our ground … whereas it may be honest always to say what one thinks, there are two objections to it: (1) the other person may be seriously damaged thereby (2) there is no certainty that the opinion expressed is the correct one.

This unsolicited advice was well targeted. In controversy Pompey sometimes undermined his argument (often in circumstances where he had a compelling case) by incorporating hearsay ‘evidence’ which turned out to be unreliable — in other words, by not being sufficiently sure of his ground. A typical example was his previous letter to White. He could convincingly claim to have been unjustly overlooked, but flying off the handle about being superseded by a British officer was hardly the best way to proceed when the response could predictably be made that Gellibrand was not, in fact, British.

White’s advice did not deter Elliott from being characteristically frank in the full report he compiled on Villers-Bretonneux. The grossly inappropriate distribution of DSOs was, he declared, ‘a further illustration of how unfairly the Australians are discriminated against in such matters’. He maintained that his brigade ‘should have been permitted’ to counter-attack early on 24 April, when ‘it was quite evident that the 8th Divisional Staff had quite failed to cope with the situation and were in point of fact largely in ignorance of the situation’. Furthermore, the ‘attack as finally ordered was misconceived’: the operation should have been carried out by his brigade as he originally proposed, with the 13th Brigade, and any British units assisting, placed under his command.

Elliott’s forthright report also referred to Birdwood’s ‘insulting’ circular. ‘For four years almost we have had to endure in silence albeit with writhing souls’ British denigration of Australian indiscipline, when ‘all they had to base it on was our men’s lack of saluting and their free and independent manners’. Not only was this repeated criticism fallacious, he continued; considering the brazen British propensity to loot, it was blatantly hypocritical:

One [British] Brigadier General who relieved me north of the Somme boasted in the presence of my Staff that they had eaten nothing but chicken, drunk nothing but champagne since the 2nd day of the Retreat. I said simply I don’t permit looting here and he subsided.

After his controversial supersession and the suppression of his Polygon Wood report, Pompey decided to take no chances with this one. He handed it to Treloar himself.

Elliott’s bitterness about the supersession grievance was so intense that he became resentful not only of those who made the decision to overlook him, but also of the promoted commanders who benefited from his rejection. Gellibrand and Glasgow, the men he felt had superseded him, became the main focus of his spleen. He seemed less perturbed (though irritation was occasionally discernible) about Rosenthal, a commander of prior seniority and similar style to himself. Pompey increasingly saw Gellibrand and Glasgow as rivals who had deprived him of the crowning accomplishment of his career. The unfairness of the situation from his perspective prompted him to compare their careers unfavourably with his and to draw conclusions that were in some instances (though not all) wayward. His distorted and sometimes distasteful assertions enabled his detractors to draw ‘told-you-so’ conclusions that he did lack judgment and therefore the decision to pass him over was correct. Pompey was his own worst enemy at times.

Gellibrand, Elliott alleged, had less experience both in front-line service and as a brigadier. This gap, according to Pompey, had been enlarged by Gellibrand’s eyebrow-raising resignation from command of the 6th Brigade in 1917 and his ensuing four-month stint in England. Moreover, Gellibrand’s advanced guard had been outperformed by Elliott’s alongside in March 1917, with the Noreuil reverse a notable black mark. As for White’s correction concerning Gellibrand’s nationality, Pompey retorted that Gellibrand ‘if not wholly British was well lacquered by his experience in the British Army’. (Gellibrand, for his part, had described Elliott in 1915 as ‘bull headed and ultra Victorian’, ‘very gallant and despotic’.)

For Pompey, the obvious means of comparison with Glasgow was the famous counter-attack their brigades had just conducted together. Pompey became very touchy about suggestions made in contemporary accounts of the battle by Bean and Cutlack (and repeated ever since) that Glasgow’s men had the harder task. In comparing the ground to be covered, for example, Pompey claimed that his brigade had ‘by far’ the more difficult assignment. Besides the multiple changes of direction, his men had more undulating terrain to contend with and more obstructive wire to get through. Furthermore, the 13th Brigade had more scope than the battle chronicles acknowledged for preliminary reconnaissance, which was undertaken by Pompey’s men at his insistence with beneficial results. In particular, he would never have accepted at face value Heneker’s claim that the British had dislodged the Germans from the nearby wood which became such a problem for the 13th Brigade, and Glasgow should not have done so either. Such assertions by Pompey were not without merit, but the adversarial tone he sometimes adopted in propounding them was regrettably unseemly.

By mid-1918 the AIF was in top form, full of confidence and well established as an outstanding combat force. There were several experienced and well-credentialled leaders who could consider themselves contenders for divisional vacancies. Rosenthal, Gellibrand, and Glasgow were not unreasonable choices once Elliott was ruled out by the selector-in-chief. If Elliott had not been deemed ineligible, however, his claims were at least as compelling as theirs, and he should have been well ahead of any other aspirant. Whether it was justifiable to disqualify Elliott from divisional command is debatable, but there can be no doubt about the impact of this setback. It was the greatest personal disappointment of his life.