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THE FIGHT FOR THE ARGONNE
Personal Experiences of a "Y" Man
by
WILLIAM BENJAMIN WEST
With an Introduction by
BURGES JOHNSON
[Illustration: FORD CAMIONETTE DRIVEN BY W. B. WEST]
[Illustration]
The Abingdon Press
New York Cincinnati
Copyright, 1919, by
William Benjamin West
TO THE BOYS OF THE 37th DIVISION A.E.F.
WITH WHOM I WAS PRIVILEGED TO
SERVE ON THE ALSATIAN BORDER
AND IN THE ARGONNE
FIGHTING UNITS OF THE
37th DIVISION
GUARD ARMY (OHIO)
AND THEIR COMMANDING
PERSONNEL ON SEPT. 5th, 1918
37TH DIVISION
MAJOR GENERAL C.S. FARNSWORTH
Commanding.
LIEUT. COLONEL DANA T. MERRILL
Chief of Staff.
MAJOR EDWARD W. WILDRICK
Adjutant General.
73RD BRIGADE OF INFANTRY
BRIG. GENERAL C.F. ZIMMERMAN
Commanding.
145th Regiment
COL. SANFORD B. STANBERRY.
146th Regiment
COL. C.C. WEYBRECHT.
135th Machine Gun Battalion
MAJOR CHARLES C. CHAMBERS.
74TH BRIGADE OF INFANTRY
BRIG. GENERAL W.P. JACKSON
Commanding.
147th Regiment
COL. F.W. GALBRAITH, JR.
148th Regiment
COL. GEORGE H. WOOD.
136th Machine Gun Battalion
MAJOR JOHN A. LOGAN.
62ND BRIGADE OF FIELD ARTILLERY
Commanding officer not announced
134th Regiment
COL. HAROLD M. BRUSH.
135th Regiment
COL. DUDLEY M. HARD.
136th Regiment
COL. PAUL L. MITCHELL.
112th Trench Mortar Battery
CAPTAIN A.S. DILLON.
ENGINEER TROOPS
112th Regiment
COL. JOHN R. MCQUIGG.
SIGNAL TROOPS
112th Field Signal Battalion
MAJOR RUSSELL L. MUNDHENK.
DIVISION UNITS
37th Division Headquarters Troop
CAPTAIN FRANK F. FREBIS.
134th Machine Gun Battalion
MAJOR WADE C. CHRISTY.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION 11
I. FIVE WEEKS IN A FLIVVER 15
II. ON THE MOVE 42
III. OUR INVINCIBLES 54
IV. HOLDING THE LINE 71
V. TANKS AND TRACTORS 83
VI. PEN PICTURES 91
VII. MORAL FLASHES 112
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FORD CAMIONETTE DRIVEN BY W. B. WEST _Frontispiece_
Facing page
GERMAN AERIAL BOMB (SMALL) 24
GERMAN AERIAL BOMB (LARGE) 48
MEMORY SKETCH OF A SECTOR OF THE BATTLEFIELD, 1918 54
FRENCH OFFICER--GERMAN OFFICER 64
GERMAN WEAPONS 94
VARIETIES OF SHELLS AND BOMBS (PHOTOGRAPHED AT NANCY) 120
INTRODUCTION
It was on the road from Neufchateau to La Foche, where Base Hospital
117 was located, that I first became acquainted with the author of
this book. He evidently knew how to run a Ford camionette, even though
it was not in just the shape in which it left the factory. I remember
that I asked him what he did for a living back in the States--those
service uniforms were great levelers--and he said he was a parson.
"But now you are a chauffeur," I objected. "Well, you see," he said,
"when I first came over they asked me to fill out blanks indicating
what I could do, and in that statement I admitted that I could run a
car. I also said I could preach. They tried me out as a chauffeur and
liked my work so well that they said they would stand pat on that;
they had never heard me preach."
As a matter of fact, I heard Mr. West preach that morning to the boys
suffering from war neurosis, or "shell shock," in Hospital 117. He had
helped them out on former Sundays there, and they sent for him again
and again.
Later, when I was in the Baccarat sector, I met a most interesting and
effective man who was in the Supply Department of the "Y" on week
days, and conducted services in outlying camps every Sunday morning
with great success. He had been a circus acrobat back in the States.
What a revolutionizing influence war is, with preachers chauffeuring
and acrobats preaching! The important point was that they were all
serving whole-heartedly in whatever way they could.
It was in Baccarat that I met West again, running his car,
transporting newspapers or moving-picture machines, or canteen
supplies, or itinerant entertainers such as I, out over any sort of
road toward the front line. His glimpses of the great war were from an
angle of vision that makes what he has to say in this book well worth
reading. His duties took him into every sort of billet, and brought
him into close touch with many branches of the army, as well as with
all sorts of welfare work and workers. I find that he refers, in
passing, to that dramatic moment when we stood on a hilltop and
watched the bombing of Baccarat just below us, while the Boche machine
passed very close overhead. He does not say that he hid behind one
tree and I hid behind another, trying to keep the trunks between us
and the flying shrapnel. Nor does he say that he picked up and carried
home a fragment which landed between us in the road, although it came
just as near to me as it did to him!
This started out to be an introduction to a book. It is really a
personal expression of good will toward one whom I was glad to meet
and touch for a moment in that strange whirlpool of human activity
last summer in France.
BURGES JOHNSON.
Vassar College,
March 3, 1919.
CHAPTER I
FIVE WEEKS IN A FLIVVER
"Halt!"
When above the noise and rattle of the car--for a Ford always carries
a rattle--you hear the stentorian command of the guard, _instantly_
every stopping device is automatically applied.
"_Who Goes There?_"
"A friend with the countersign."
"Advance! and give the countersign."
The guard at charge, with bayonet fixed, awaits your coming. When you
get within a few feet of the point of his bayonet the guard again
commands, "_Halt!_" In the silence and blackness of the night you
whisper the password and if he is satisfied that you are indeed a
friend he says, "Pass, friend." If he is not satisfied you are
detained until your identity has been established.
No matter how many hundreds of times you hear the challenge ring out,
each time you hear it a new thrill runs through your whole being and a
new respect for military authority holds you captive, for you
instinctively know that behind that challenge is the cold steel and a
deadly missile.
It was a splendidly camouflaged camionette that I inherited from
Hughes when I went to Baccarat on the Alsatian border. In all my
dangerous trips, by night and day, it never failed, and I think back
to it now with a tenderness bordering on affection.
My first day on the job I was sent out to five huts with supplies,
driving my own car and piloting the men who were sent out to pilot me.
Although they had been over the roads and were supposed to know the
way, they did not have a good _sense_ of direction and so were easily
lost.
The headquarters of the 37th Division were at Baccarat on the
Alsatian border. Strasburg lay fifty miles to the east and Metz
fifty-five miles to the northwest. To hold this front, an area fifteen
to twenty miles long, was the task of the Ohio boys until they were
relieved by the French the middle of September and sent into the
Argonne Forest.
Over this area were scattered twenty-one Y.M.C.A. huts. The
Headquarters hut was at Baccarat, which was farthest from the front
line--about ten miles back as the crow flies. The other huts were
scattered over the area at points most advantageous for serving the
boys and up to within a few hundred yards of the line. We had
thirty-four men and ten women secretaries. Our farthest advanced woman
worker had a hut all her own at Hablainville, a village where our
troops were billeted and where Fritzie kept everyone on the _qui vive_
by his intermittent gifts of high-explosive bombs and shells.
Miss O'Connor always inspired confidence. It mattered not whether she
was dealing with the hysterical French women when bombs exploded in
their gardens and fields, or whether she was counseling with the
Colonel, at whose table she was the invited guest. Her quiet
assurance, her cordial greeting, her intelligent understanding, and
her keen sally of wit made her always welcome. And the boys thronged
her hut. She did not try to "mother" them--the mistake some canteen
workers made. Nor did she try to "make an impression" upon them. She
quietly lived her life among them. No one could long be boisterous
where she was, and so I always found her hut a rendezvous where men
were glad to resort as they came from the battle or from camp.
Many were absorbed in their reading, of which there was a good
assortment--the daily papers, the magazines and a choice collection of
books furnished by the American Library Association. Other groups were
intent upon chess or checkers, while in the piano corner were the
musically inclined. Sometimes it was a piano or a baritone solo, but
most often the boys were singing "Keep the Home Fires Burning," "The
Long, Long Trail," or "Katy."
One day when delivering to the hut at Neufchateau, I was attracted by
the strains of music that came from the piano in the auditorium--the
"Y" there had a large double hut. I slipped into a back seat to
listen. A group of boys were around the piano while others were
scattered through the building attracted as I had been. At the old
French piano was a small khaki-clad figure, coaxing from its keys with
wizard fingers such strains as we had not dreamed were possible. We
were held spellbound until the musician, having finished, quietly
walked away, leaving his auditors suspended somewhere between earth
and heaven. One by one we walked silently out to our respective duties
of helping to make the world safe for such as he.
One Sunday evening just at dusk, I drove to our camp at Ker Avor. The
boys called this camp their summer home. It surely was an ideal spot
in the heart of a pine forest, high up in the Vosges Mountains. It was
also near enough to the enemy lines--about a mile distant--to make it
mighty interesting.
After delivering our supplies to the hut we went out to where a gang
of soldiers who were off duty had gathered in the forest. One was
playing a harmonica and another was "jigging" and telling funny
stories. Instantly and gladly they swung the gathering into a
religious service, with songs from the "Y" hymn book and a fine snappy
address as a speaker stood on a hummock surrounded by the silent,
thoughtful bunch. The sky was our canopy and with the moonlight
filtering through the branches of the pines, an indelible impression
was registered on every fellow there.
The boys were happy to have us come and showed us about their camp,
including an ingenious little chapel which had been built by the
Germans during their occupancy of this territory in the early part of
the War.
* * * * *
My first near view of the Boche trenches came one day when, waiting
for our movie man at one of the huts, I went out "masked and helmeted"
to a hill between our first and second lines. The peculiar "chills"
and "thrills" of first sensations are indescribable. Cautiously and
with some inward trembling I followed Private Van Voliet, of the 146th
Infantry (Colonel Weybrecht's Regiment), across a shell-torn field
where twisted wire entanglements told of former fierce encounters. We
passed a Stokes mortar battery of the 147th Infantry concealed in low
bushes. The boys, lying idly in their dog-tents, wove canes from
willow branches wound with wire and capped with bullets. I was
presented with a cane by Private Boothby and a swagger stick by
Private Rhoades.
A five minute walk brought us to the "alert zone," where gas masks
must be adjusted and ready for instant use. The guard at the crossroad
allowed us to pass with the warning, "Keep under cover or you will
draw the fire of the Boche snipers." So we crawled through a hole in
the camouflaged screen which protected the road from German observers,
and keeping behind clumps of bushes we peered through at the trenches
just across the valley, in which Hun rifles lay cocked and primed for
any American who would dare become a target. I confess I breathed
easier when we got safely back to the "Y" hut.
NIGHT BOMBING
For four nights in succession Boche planes had been trying to drop
bombs on the rail-head where troop trains were being loaded near our
Headquarters. On the fourth night, when returning from a front line
hut with Secretary Johnson, who in America was a professor in Vassar
College, we stopped on a high ridge overlooking the battle line. This
was a favorite rendezvous on my return from night deliveries, as it
gave a wonderful panoramic view of the whole front line for miles in
either direction. The flashes of the guns, the dazzling brilliancy of
the star shells, the long lines of varicolored signals as they went up
from many camps and out-posts, and the flares dropped from scores of
planes, passing and repassing in the darkness overhead, can never be
forgotten. It was a nightly and wonderful Fourth of July celebration,
enhanced by the weirdness and danger of actual warfare.
As we stood this night, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, wearing
our "tin" hats and with gas masks at "alert," suddenly out of the
night loomed a German plane, flying low, the Boche engine
distinguished by its own peculiar throb. As it passed over our heads
it dropped a red flare and proceeded toward Baccarat. Evidently, it
had discovered our signals for that night and was using them. As soon
as its deception was discovered our gunners opened fire, but not until
it had dropped four bombs on the town and gotten away in safety toward
the German lines. The explosions from the bombs were terrific and the
flashes lit up the whole sky. We took refuge behind trees as shrapnel
from our anti-aircraft guns rattled down in the roadway and the "ping"
of machine-gun bullets startled our ears.
When we returned to town we found everything in confusion. One bomb
had exploded in the treetops a half block from our billet and had
wrecked the beautiful mansion of the French mayor of the town. It also
wounded some American soldiers in a nearby barracks. Another bomb
landed between two buildings at Hexo Barracks, killing three of our
boys and one French poilu, besides wounding many and shattering the
buildings. Four horses were killed by pieces of shrapnel, and when
looking over the scene of destruction the next morning I noticed a
hole, clean cut, through a half-inch steel tire on a nearby cart. It
had been cut by a piece of shrapnel about an inch long which had also
gone through spokes and hub and buried itself in the ground.
[Illustration: GERMAN AERIAL BOMB (Small)]
At four o'clock one day, after the regular round of hut deliveries, a
special order was handed me from our chief for immediate execution. In
ten minutes I was off in my ever-faithful flivver. My order took me to
Reherrey, a village near the line, where a special pass was secured
from the commanding officer, allowing me to go over a dangerous road
exposed to the German guns. From the Y.M.C.A. Hut at Reherrey, I took
with me a new secretary, a Congregational minister from the Middle
West, to relieve McGuffy, the secretary at St. Pole, whom I was to
bring back to headquarters.
When we reached the hut at St. Pole, the secretaries, including
McGuffy, were out at the front with supplies for the boys. While
waiting for them to return we strolled about through the desolate
remnants of this old peasant village. My companion had not been under
fire before, so when the first shell from the Boche "heavies" came
whistling and whining toward us he hastened to the dugout saying,
"This is no place for me." He was ashamed of his own fear and proved
that he was a "regular guy" by joining in the laugh and jibes of the
fellows. Being reassured by the passing of several shells safely
overhead, he rejoined me in our tramp through the village. Every
portable thing of value had been carried off by the Huns and what was
left had been destroyed. Stoves had been broken down and beds and
furniture demolished.
When McGuffy got back we started for Baccarat. It was a stormy night,
black as ink, and we had to go over roads which the bombardment of the
early evening had torn up. It took two hours to go eight miles. When
we arrived we found an anxious group of "Y" workers discussing the
probability of our having been blown to pieces or captured by the
Boche, and they were just about to send out a searching party.
* * * * *
No soldiers ever had anything on the boys from the Buckeye State. They
had been sent to the Alsatian border to hold the line against a
threatening foe. Persistent rumors told of a German drive on this
sector. Nothing but our men and guns and a few hastily constructed
wire entanglements stood in their way. And the German army had a name
for sweeping right through such open country and taking what it
wanted. But many things caused Fritz to stop and think. The German
raiding parties were failures. Only two out of a score succeeded in
getting the Americans. That meant that the Yankee out-posts were not
only on the job but also that they were absolutely fearless and able
to capture single-handed superior numbers of the enemy.
Then, one night just as the Germans seemed to be concentrating on a
dangerous salient, eighty of our big guns in a couple of hours coughed
up twelve hundred tons of gas and spit it in the faces of an enemy
that dared to think it could fool with Uncle Sam's boys from Ohio. For
two days after, the Boche were carrying their dead out of that area.
No more threats of a German drive were heard in that sector, but
reports came frequently of Boche prisoners and deserters who offered
to surrender whole companies of Huns if they could only be guaranteed
that the Americans would spare their lives.
Major H, a friend of old college days, was a staff officer of the 37th
Division and was as brave as he was big. His clear brain and military
genius laid out our machine-gun nests. He had studied carefully every
foot of ground and planted machine guns wherever they could command an
enemy advance or night raid. The direct and crossfire of these guns
were so coordinated that many guns could play upon a dangerous enemy
approach. It was a most exciting chess game which was being played
with real armies and men.
The Petty Post was the strategic point of our army out in No Man's
Land, and signals from the post would give warning of any sudden move
of the enemy. Its location was changed from time to time.
On August 27, at 7:30 P.M., we left headquarters in the official car.
Two chauffeurs who knew every shell-hole in the roads and who could
feel their way in the darkness were in the front seat. Major Hazlett
and another major who was inspecting trench conditions and personal
equipment were on either side of me in the back seat. The powerful
motor "purring" quietly waited Major Hazlett's "We're off." Quickly
the eight kilometers to the field headquarters of Colonel Galbraith,
147th Regiment, were covered. After cordial greetings the Major was
closeted in secret conference with the Colonel. In a half hour we were
off again. Major Hazlett alone knew his objective. That night it was
the sector near Heberviller. The captain's headquarters was a little
frame shack eight by ten feet, carefully guarded in the heart of a
dense woods. The sentry at the door demanded the password. In the
weird candlelight were the captain and four aides. We sat on empty
boxes and the edge of a table. Runners coming in out of the blackness
of the forest stood at attention while they communicated their secret
information and awaited further orders. Here investigations were made
and all the latest "dope" on possible enemy action was obtained.
It was gratifying to note the solicitude of the officers for the
comfort of the men. It was early fall and the nights were cool.
"Captain," said the Major, "how are your men dressed?"
"There is no complaint, sir."
"Do they still have their summer underwear?"
"Yes, sir."
"It is getting too cold for that. I will see that a new issue is
granted."
All stood to salute as we took our departure. When again on our way
the conversation of the back seat showed that the interest of these
officers in their men was genuine. For example:
"Harry, those boys do not have any overcoats. Nothing but raincoats
for these cold nights. Whose fault is that? Can't you get some
action?"
"They must have them immediately. I will so report to the Issue
Department."
Many times our car came to a sudden stop as a stentorian "Halt!"
pierced the darkness and our second chauffeur went forward to give the
countersign. One weak-voiced guard failed to make himself heard until
our car was almost past. Major Hazlett was instantly aroused:
"What is the matter with your voice?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Then shout it out. If this happens again I'll have you
court-martialed."
"Yes, sir!" And with a salute we proceeded.
Our last mile with the car was over shell-torn roads and past guards
who dared to pass no man without full proof of his identity. Many
German spies had been caught recently. Through the ruined village of
Heberviller we passed to the old chateau. Here we left the car with
the chauffeurs, and having been armed we started with two guides for
the trenches. Every gun emplacement was inspected to see if orders had
been faithfully carried out--and woe betide the man who failed. The
Major's intimate and technical knowledge of every detail in
machine-gun fighting, won the admiration of the men.
For three hours we walked "duck-boards"[1] through a maze of
connecting trenches, stealthily and silently following our guides and
stopping "dead" when a star shell burst near us. We had secret hopes
of taking prisoner some of the "Heinies" whom we could almost hear
breathing out there in No Man's Land.
As we talked with the men in Petty Post No. 10, the German 77's were
feeling for some vulnerable point just back of our line. We could see
the flash of the gun and hear that peculiar, fascinating "whine" as
it passed over our heads, and finally its mocking challenge as it
found its target. One of the men who was off guard, lay curled up in a
shell hole beside the trench, sleeping peacefully to the music of the
guns. Conversation here was whispered, and even the illuminated faces
of our wrist watches were carefully concealed in our pockets. And
every man knew well the reason why.
The sergeant in charge had a "hunch" that Fritz was coming over at a
certain hour of the early morning. We knew that "dope" coming from
enemy sources is often misleading and decided not to wait for the
"party." The next day we learned that the "party" was not "pulled
off," and our return to camp gave us a few hours of perfectly good and
needed sleep.
AN AIR BATTLE
Boche planes overhead were so common as to excite little interest, but
when in the midst of a heavy anti-aircraft barrage, the French
children playing outside our garage excitedly announced "Trois Boche
avions," we left off "tuning up" our engines and went out to watch
them--three specks high overhead and out of range of our guns.
Suddenly, from somewhere in the sky above, two Allied planes shot
toward the German "birds," and a battle ensued which we could clearly
see, although they were too high for us to hear the sound of their
machine guns.
With terrific burst of speed one of our planes shot toward one of the
German planes and seemed almost to ride on top of it, all the while
pouring into it a stream of machine gun bullets, the smoke of which we
could see. When they separated, ours rose but the German shot
downward, evidently out of control, and we held our breath in anxious
joy as we watched him drop two thousand feet or more. Then as he came
through a cloud and was hidden from the view of our planes, he
suddenly righted and shot off toward the German lines.
The next day the same thrilling scene was staged a little to the south
of us. But this time there was no disappointment. The rapid
"pu-pu-pu-pu-pu" of the machine gun told us that our pilot's gun was
working perfectly, and a burst of flame from the enemy plane told also
how true was his aim.
There can be no more thrilling moments in life than when you are
watching bodies out of control hurtling through space and are
breathlessly anticipating the crash. Your heart suspends operation,
even for an enemy. Hun though he was, he was still a hero of the air,
and chivalry prompted a decent burial on the banks of the beautiful
Meurthe. The wrecked plane furnished souvenirs for the many who saw it
fall.
HAND GRENADES
The hand grenade is a mighty dangerous weapon, but also a most
effective one when wisely used.
At Merviller I was delivering a load of supplies to the Y.M.C.A. hut.
A quarter of a mile to my right a deafening explosion was accompanied
by a mass of debris thrown high in the air. "A German bomb!" was the
first thought. And we waited expectantly to see where the next one
would strike. When there was no second, I drove around to investigate.
On a side street I found a crowd of soldiers and French civilians
already gathering. The Red Cross ambulance had "beat me to it," and
the surgeons were already working over the mangled bodies of four
American soldiers. The street was littered and unexploded hand
grenades lay everywhere. Two soldiers had been carrying gunny sacks
filled with grenades when one accidentally exploded, it in turn
exploding others until the wreckage was complete. A military
investigation would report the cause of the accident and the damage
wrought, and thus an incident of war would quickly become history.
THROUGH A GERMAN BARRAGE
On my last Sunday with the flivver I drove with Secretary Armstrong to
our hut at Pettonville. In the forenoon we helped Secretary Reisner in
the canteen. Then we closed, ate a lunch, and, loaded down with cakes,
raisins, cigarettes, and tobacco, started for the trenches. As we
neared the front line the Germans began shelling the woods toward
which we were headed. While we did some lightning calculating, we
never slackened our pace but went through to the battalion
headquarters. There a sniper volunteered as guide to the trenches. We
passed several company headquarters and gave out our supplies to the
men as they stood in the line with their mess kits.
When we left the first-line trenches we walked or crouched through
woods, where the bark of the trees toward the enemy was riddled and
broken by bullets, shrapnel, and shell; then through trenches which
had been abandoned but which ran far out into No Man's Land and
furnished splendid avenues to our Petty Posts. No. 4 was the first,
and was so exposed that only one man at a time was permitted with the
guide. Secretary Armstrong went first. While we were examining the
graves of German aviators who had been killed when their planes
crashed to earth, a rifle bullet whistled over our heads. We had been
seen by a German sniper, so we quickly crouched low behind the trench
wall. I found myself right over the grave of one of the Germans, and
was rewarded by finding on it a piece of German shell, grim paradox of
the fortunes of war.
We continued through the trenches to P.P. No. 5. This was our nearest
point in this sector to the enemy front line. It was difficult to get
through because of the mud and water in the trench. In some places,
because of exposure to the enemy guns, we had to crawl on our hands
and knees. At the post were eight men, two at the observation post and
the rest in a dugout nearby. The men at the P.P.'s are on guard
forty-eight hours, and off twenty-four hours. After ten days they are
relieved and go back for ten days' rest.
This special post was raided four times during that week. One report
said three hundred Germans came over but the men at the post said
about sixty. One attack was a surprise and they got four of our men.
The other times the Germans were routed with varying losses. The
P.P.'s are only observation posts and are not intended to be held in
case of raid, but usually our boys were eager to give Fritz all that
was coming to him, and they seldom failed no matter how largely
outnumbered.
There were no signs of fear among our splendid fellows, and while it
required courage to be a mile or more beyond the supporting line,
lying out in No Man's Land, yet the very danger and the adventure of
it made a mighty appeal to the full-blooded Yank, and there was never
a lack of volunteers.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Duck-boards are sections of boardwalk laid in the bottom of the
trenches to keep the soldiers up out of the mud. These sections are
about ten feet long and two wide, and made by nailing cross pieces to
two scantling.