The great Somme drive began on July 1, 1916, after a week's
devastating bombardment of the German lines. The enemy trenches had
been torn and shattered, and when the Allied armies, in great numbers
and with abundant ammunition, swept out and down upon them, the
impetus and force of the advance were irresistible. Trenches were
blotted out. Towns were taken. The German lines melted away over wide
areas. Victory, decisive and permanent, rested on the Allied banners.
On the third of the month the British took La Boiselle and four
thousand three hundred prisoners. But on the fourth the enemy troops
turned and fought like wild animals at bay. This was the day on which
Aleck received his wounds. In the morning, as they lay sprawled in a
ravine which had been captured the night before, waiting for orders to
push still farther on, Aleck had said to Pen:
"You know what day this is, comrade?"
"Indeed I do!" was the reply, "it's Independence Day."
"Right you are. I wish I could get sight of an American flag. It will
be the first time in my life that I haven't seen 'Old Glory' somewhere
on the Fourth of July."
"True. Back yonder in the States they'll be having parades and
speeches, and the flag will be flying from every masthead. If only
they could be made to realize that it's really that flag that we're
fighting for, you and I, and drop this cloak of neutrality, and come
over here as a nation and help us, wouldn't that be glorious?"
Pen's face was grimy, his uniform was torn and stained, his hair was
tousled; somewhere he had lost his cap and the times were too
strenuous to get another; but out from his eyes there shone a
tenderness, a longing, a determination that marked him as a true
soldier of the American Legion.
The cannonading had again begun. Shells were whining and whistling
above their heads and exploding in the enemy lines not far beyond.
Off to the right, a village in flames sent up great clouds of smoke,
and the roar of the conflagration was joined to the noise of
artillery. Back of the lines the ground was strewn with wreckage,
pitted with shell-holes, ghastly with its harvest of bodies of the
slain. With rifles gripped, bayonets ready, hand grenades near by, the
boys lay waiting for the word of command.
"Aleck?"
"Yes, comrade."
"Over yonder at Chestnut Hill, on the school-grounds, the flag will be
floating from the top of the staff to-day."
"Yes, I know. It will be a pretty sight. I used to be ashamed to look
at it. You know why. To-day I could stare at it and glory in it for
hours."
"That flag at the school-house is the most beautiful American flag in
the world. I never saw it but once, but it thrilled me then
unspeakably. I have loved it ever since. I can think of but one other
sight that would be more beautiful and thrilling."
"And what is that?"
"To see 'Old Glory' waving from the top of a flag-staff here on the
soil of France, signifying that our country has taken up the cause of
the Allies and thrown herself, with all her heart and might into this
war."
"Wait; you will see it, comrade, you will see it. It can't be delayed
for long now."
Then the order came to advance. In a storm of shrapnel, bullets and
flame, the British host swept down again upon the foe. The Germans
gave desperate and deadly resistance. They fought hand to hand, with
bayonets and clubbed muskets and grenades. It was a death grapple,
with decisive victory on neither side. In the wild onrush and terrific
clash, Pen lost touch with his comrade. Only once he saw him after the
charge was launched. Aleck waved to him and smiled and plunged into
the thick of the carnage. Two hours later, staggering with shock and
heat and superficial wounds, and choking with thirst and the smoke and
dust of conflict, Pen made his way with the survivors of his section
back over the ground that had been traversed, to find rest and
refreshment at the rear. They had been relieved by fresh troops sent
in to hold the narrow strip of territory that had been gained.
Stumbling along over the torn soil, through wreckage indescribable,
among dead bodies lying singly and in heaps, stopping now and then to
aid a dying man, or give such comfort as he could to a wounded and
helpless comrade, Pen struggled slowly and painfully toward a resting
spot.
At one place, through eyes half blinded by sweat and smoke and
trickling blood, he saw a man partially reclining against a post to
which a tangled and broken mass of barbed wire was still clinging. The
man was evidently making weak and ineffectual attempts to care for his
own wounds. Pen stopped to assist him if he could. Looking down into
his face he saw that it was Aleck. He was not shocked, nor did he
manifest any surprise. He had seen too much of the actuality of war to
be startled now by any sight or sound however terrible. He simply
said:
"Well, old man, I see they got you. Here, let me help."
He knelt down by the side of his wounded comrade, and, with shaking
hands, endeavored to staunch the flow of blood and to bind up two
dreadful wounds, a gaping, jagged hole in the breast beneath the
shoulder, made by the thrust and twist of a Boche bayonet, and a torn
and shattered knee.
Aleck did not at first recognize him, but a moment later, seeing who
it was that had stopped to help him, he reached up a trembling hand
and laid it on his friend's face. Something in his mouth or throat had
gone wrong and he could not speak.
After exhausting his comrade's emergency kit and his own in first aid
treatment of the wounds, Pen called for assistance to a soldier who
was staggering by, and between them, across the torn field with its
crimson and ghastly fruitage, with fragments of shrapnel hurtling
above them, and with bodies of soldiers, dead and living, tossed into
the murky air by constantly exploding shells, they half carried, half
dragged the wounded man across the ravine and up the hill to a
captured German trench, and turned him over to the stretcher-bearers
to be taken to the ambulances.
It was after this day's fighting that Pen, "for conspicuous bravery in
action," was promoted to the rank of sergeant. He wore his honor
modestly. It gave him, perhaps, a better opportunity to do good work
for Britain and for France, and to rehabilitate himself in the eyes of
his own countrymen; otherwise it did not matter.
So the fighting on the Somme went on day after day, week after week,
persistent, desperate, bloody. It was early in August, after the
terrific battle by which the whole of Delville Wood passed into
British control, that Pen's battalion was relieved and sent far to the
rear for a long rest. Even unwounded men cannot stand the strain of
continuous battle for many weeks at a stretch. The nervous system,
delicate and complicated, must have relief, or the physical
organization will collapse, or the mind give way, or both.
At the end of the first night's march from the front the battalion
camped in the streets of a little, half-wrecked village on the banks
of the Avre. Up on the hillside was a long, rambling building which
had once been a convent but was now a hospital. Pen knew that
somewhere in a hospital back of the Somme Aleck was still lying, too
ill to be moved farther to the rear. It occurred to him that he might
find him here. So, in the hazy moonlight of the August evening, having
obtained the necessary leave, he set out to make inquiry. He passed up
the winding walk, under a canopy of fine old trees, and reached the
entrance to the building. From the porch, looking to the north, toward
the valley of the Somme, he could see on the horizon the dull gleam of
red that marked the battle line, and he could hear the faint
reverberations of the big guns that told of the fighting still in
progress. But here it was very quiet, very peaceful, very beautiful.
For the first time since his entrance into the great struggle he
longed for an end of the strife, and a return to the calm, sweet,
lovely things of life. But he did not permit this mood to remain long
with him. He knew that the war must go on until the spirit that
launched it was subdued and crushed, and that he must go with it to
whatever end God might will.
He found Aleck there. He had felt that he would, and while he was
delighted he was not greatly surprised. There was little emotion
manifested at the meeting of the two boys. The horrors of war were too
close and too vivid yet for that. But the fact that they were glad to
look again into one another's eyes admitted of no doubt. Aleck had
recovered the use of his voice, but he was still too weak to talk at
any length. The bayonet wound in his shoulder had healed nicely, but
his shattered knee had come terribly near to costing him his life.
There had been infection. Amputation of the leg had been imminent. The
surgeons and the nurses had struggled with the case for weeks and had
finally conquered.
"I shall still have two legs," said Aleck jocosely, "and I'll be glad
of that; but I'm afraid this one will be a weak brother for a long
time. I won't be kicking football this fall, anyway."
"It's the fortune of war," replied Pen.
"I know. I'm not complaining, and I'm not sorry. I've had my chance.
I've seen war. I've fought for France. I'm satisfied."
He lay back on the pillow, pale-faced, emaciated, weak; but in his
eyes was a glow of patriotic pride in his own suffering, and pride in
the knowledge that he had entered the fight and had fought bravely and
well.
"America ought to be proud of you," said Pen, "and of all the other
boys from the States who have fought and suffered, and of those who
have died in this war. I told you you'd be no coward when the time
came to fight, and, my faith! you were not. I can see you now, with a
smile and a wave of the hand plunging into that bloody chaos."
"Thank you, comrade! I may never fight again, but I can go back home
now and face the flag and not be ashamed."
"Indeed, you can! And when will you go?"
"I don't know. They'll take me across the channel as soon as I'm able
to leave here, and then, when I can travel comfortably I suppose I'll
be invalided home."
"Well, old man, when you get there, you say to my mother and my aunt
Milly, and my dear old grandfather Butler, that when you saw me last
I was well, and contented, and glad to be doing my bit."
"I will, Pen."
"And, Aleck?"
"Yes, comrade."
"If you should chance to go by the school-house, and see the old flag
waving there, give it one loving glance for me, will you?"
"With all my heart!"
"So, then, good-by!"
"Good-by!"
It was in the spacious grounds of an old French chateau not far from
Beauvais on the river Andelle that Pen's battalion camped for their
period of rest and recuperation. There were long, sunshiny days,
nights of undisturbed and refreshing sleep, recreation and
entertainment sufficient to divert tired brains, and a freedom from
undue restraint that was most welcome. Moreover there were letters and
parcels from home, with plenty of time to read them and to re-read
them, to dwell upon them and to enjoy them. If the loved ones back in
the quiet cities and villages and countryside could only realize how
much letters and parcels from home mean to the tired bodies and
strained nerves of the war-worn boys at the front, there would never
be a lack of these comforts and enjoyments that go farther than
anything else to brighten the lives and hearten the spirits of the
soldier-heroes in the trenches and the camps.
Pen had his full share of these pleasures. His mother, his Aunt
Millicent, Colonel Butler, and even Grandpa Walker from Cobb's
Corners, kept him supplied with news, admonition, encouragement and
affection. And these little waves of love and commendation, rolling up
to him at irregular intervals, were like sweet and fragrant draughts
of life-giving air to one who for months had breathed only the smoke
of battle and the foulness of the trenches.
At the end of August, orders came for the battalion to return to the
front. There were two days of bustling preparation, and then the
troops entrained and were carried back to where the noise of the
seventy-fives on the one side and the seventy-sevens on the other,
came rumbling and thundering again to their ears, and the pall of
smoke along the horizon marked the location of the firing line.
But their destination this time was farther to the south, on the
British right wing, where French and English soldiers touched elbows
with each other, and Canadian and Australian fraternized in a common
enterprise. Here again the old trench life was resumed; sentinel duty,
daring adventures, wild charges, the shock and din of constant battle,
brief periods of rest and recuperation. But the process of attrition
was going on, the enemy was being pushed back, inch by inch it seemed,
but always, eventually, back. As for Pen, he led a charmed life. Men
fell to right of him and to left of him, and were torn into shreds at
his back; but, save for superficial wounds, for temporary
strangulation from gas, for momentary insensibility from shock, he was
unharmed.
It was in October, after Lieutenant Davis had been promoted to the
captaincy, that Pen was made second lieutenant of his company. He well
deserved the honor. There was a little celebration of the event among
his men, for his comrades all loved him and honored him. They said it
would not be long before he would be wearing the Victoria Cross on his
breast. Yet few of them had been with him from the beginning. Of those
who had landed with him upon French soil the preceding May only a
pitifully small percentage remained. Killed, wounded, missing, one by
one and in groups, they had dropped out, and the depleted ranks had
been filled with new blood.
In November they were sent up into the Arras sector, but in December
they were back again in their old quarters on the Somme. And yet it
was not their old quarters, for the British front had been advanced
over a wide area, for many miles in length, and imperturbable Tommies
were now smoking their pipes in many a reversed trench that had
theretofore been occupied by gray-clad Boches. But they were not
pleasant trenches to occupy. They were very narrow and very muddy, and
parts of the bodies of dead men protruded here and there from their
walls and parapets. Moreover, in December it is very cold in northern
France, and, muffle as they would, even the boys from Canada suffered
from the severity of the weather. They asked only to be permitted to
keep their blood warm by aggressive action against their enemy. And,
just before the Christmas holidays, the aggressive action they had
longed for came.
It was no great battle, no important historic event, just an incident
in the policy of attrition which was constantly wearing away the
German lines. An attempt was to be made to drive a wedge into the
enemy's front at a certain vital point, and, in order to cover the
real thrust, several feints were to be made at other places not far
away. One of these latter expeditions had been intrusted to a part of
Pen's battalion. At six o'clock in the afternoon the British artillery
was to bombard the first line of enemy trenches for an hour and a
half. Then the artillery fire was to lift to the second line, and the
Canadian troops were to rush the first line with the bayonet, carry
it, and when the artillery fire lifted to the third line they were to
pass on to the second hostile trench and take and hold that for a
sufficient length of time to divert the enemy from the point of real
attack, and then they were to withdraw to their own lines. Permanent
occupation of the captured trenches at the point seemed inadvisable at
this time, if not wholly impossible.
It was not a welcome task that had been assigned to these troops.
Soldiers like to hold the ground they have won in any fight; and to
retire after partial victory was not to their liking. But it was part
of the game and they were content. So far as his section was concerned
Pen assembled his men, explained the situation to them, and told them
frankly what they were expected to do.
"It's going to be a very pretty fight," he added, "probably the
hardest tussle we've had yet. The Boches are well dug in over there,
and they're well backed with artillery, and they're not going to give
up those trenches without a protest. Some of us will not come back;
and some of us who do come back will never fight again. You know that.
But, whatever happens, Canada and the States will have no reason to
blush for us. We're fighting in a splendid cause, and we'll do our
part like the soldiers we are."
"Aye! that we will!" "Right you are!" "Give us the chance!" "Wherever
you lead, we follow!"
It seemed as though every man in the section gave voice to his
willingness and enthusiasm.
"Good!" exclaimed Pen. "I knew you'd feel that way about it. I've
never asked a man of you to go where I wouldn't go myself, and I never
shall. I simply wanted to warn you that it's going to be a hot place
over there to-night, and you must be prepared for it."
"We're ready! All you've got to do is to say the word."
No undue familiarity was intended; respect for their commander was in
no degree lessened, but they loved him and would have followed him
anywhere, and they wanted him to know it.
The unusual activity in the Allied trenches, observed by enemy
aircraft, combined with the terrific cannonading of their lines, had
evidently convinced the enemy that some aggressive movement against
them was in contemplation, for their artillery fire now, at seven
o'clock, was directed squarely upon the outer lines of British
trenches, bringing havoc and horror in the wake of the exploding
shells.
It was under this galling bombardment that the men of the second
section adjusted their packs, buckled the last strap of their
equipment, took firm bold of their rifles, and crouched against the
front wall of their trench, ready for the final spring.
[Illustration: Into the Face of Death He Led the Remnant of His Brave
Platoon]
At seven-thirty o'clock the order came. It was a sharp blast of a
whistle, made by the commanding officer. The next moment, led by
Lieutenant Butler, the men were up, sliding over the parapet, worming
their way through gaps in their own wire entanglements, and forming in
the semblance of a line outside. It all took but a minute, and then
the rush toward the enemy trenches began. It seemed as though every
gun of every calibre in the German army was let loose upon them. The
artillery shortened its range and dropped exploding shells among them
with dreadful effect. Machine guns mowed them down in swaths.
Hand-grenades tore gaps in their ranks. Rifle bullets, hissing like
hail, took terrible toll of them. Out of the blackness overhead, lit
with the flame of explosions, fell a constant rain of metal, of clods
of earth, of fragments of equipment, of parts of human bodies. The
experience was wild and terrible beyond description.
Pen took no note of the whining and crashing missiles about him, nor
of the men falling on both sides of him, nor of the shrieking,
gesticulating human beings behind him. Into the face of death, his
eyes fixed on the curtain of fire before him, heroic and inspired, he
led the remnant of his brave platoon. Through the gaps torn out of the
enemy entanglements by the preliminary bombardment, and on into the
first line of Boche entrenchments they pounded and pushed their way.
Then came fighting indeed; hand to hand, with fixed bayonets and
clubbed muskets and death grapples in the darkness, and everywhere,
smearing and soaking the combatants, the blood of men. But the first
trench, already battered into a shapeless and shallow ravine, was won.
Canada was triumphant. The curtain of artillery fire lifted and fell
on the enemy's third line. So, now, forward again, leaving the
"trench cleaners" to hunt out those of the enemy who had taken
refuge in holes and caves. Again the rain of hurtling and hissing and
crashing steel. Human fortitude and endurance were indeed no match for
this. Again the clubs and bayonets and wild men reaching with
blood-smeared hands for each other's throats in the darkness.
And then, to Penfield Butler, at last, came the soldier's destiny. It
seemed as though some mighty force had struck him in the breast,
whirled him round and round, toppled him to earth, and left him lying
there, crushed, bleeding and unconscious. How long it was that he lay
oblivious of the conflict he did not know. But when he awakened to
sensibility the rush of battle had ceased. There was no fighting
around him. He had a sense of great suffocation. He knew that he was
spitting blood. He tried to raise his hand, and his revolver fell from
the nerveless fingers that were still grasping it. A little later he
raised his other hand to his breast and felt that his clothing was
torn and soaked. He lifted his head, and in the light of an enemy
flare he looked about him. He saw only the torn soil covered with
crouched and sprawling bodies of the wounded and the dead, and with
wreckage indescribable. Bullets were humming and whistling overhead,
and spattering the ground around him. Men in the agony of their wounds
were moaning and crying near by. He lay back and tried to think. By
the light of the next flare he saw the rough edge of a great
shell-hole a little way beyond him toward the British lines. In the
darkness he tried to crawl toward it. It would be safer there than in
this whistling cross-fire of bullets. He did not dare try to rise. He
could not turn himself on his stomach, the pain and sense of
suffocation were too great when he attempted it. So he pulled himself
along in the darkness on his back to the cavity, and sought shelter
within it. Bodies of others who had attempted to run or creep to it,
and had been caught by Boche bullets on the way, were hanging over its
edge. Under its protecting shoulder were many wounded, treating their
own injuries, helping others as they could in the darkness and by the
fitful light of the German flares. Some one, whose friendly voice was
half familiar, yet sounded strange and far away, dragged the exhausted
boy still farther into shelter, felt of his blood-soaked chest, and
endeavored, awkwardly and crudely, for he himself was wounded, to give
first aid. And then again came unconsciousness.
So, in the black night, in the shell-made cavern with the pall of
flame-streaked battle smoke hanging over it, and the whining,
screaming missiles from guns of friend and foe weaving a curtain of
tangled threads above it, this young soldier of the American Legion,
his breast shot half in two, his rich blood reddening the soil of
France, lay steeped in merciful oblivion.