YANKS
“Ask Corporal Stapley to report here, Sergeant.” A bluff Irishman,
late of the regular army and now attached to the marines for his
experience, saluted his Captain and turned to obey. A few minutes
later he returned with the non-com.
“What luck, Stapley?” asked the Captain.
“Couldn’t find them, sir,” was the reply.
“That’s bad. Made every effort, I suppose.”
“We did, indeed. Jennings, of the Police, was with us and we scoured
around thoroughly. A Red Cross ambulance is pretty easy to spot and
we landed half a dozen, but they were all O. K.”
“Haven’t the least idea where those fellows could have gone?”
“Not the least. Case of mysterious disappearance. We thought they
might have gone back to the base and we telephoned there to be on the
lookout for them, and you may wager they are. We called from LaFerté
again later, but they hadn’t seen them. Jennings ’phoned both the
Meaux and Paris police to be on the watch.”
“Unfortunate. Well, you did all you could. Say, a little more
personally: I see, by the records, that you are a Brighton Academy
boy; is that right?”
“I am; class of 1919, but I don’t know what year we’ll get through
now.”
“Well, let us hope it is not deferred. Then college, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“Brighton is a fine school. It was my prep. school, too. I liked it
immensely. Good teachers, good courses, fine halls, splendid library,
superb athletic field.”
“I’m awfully glad to know you went there, Captain. A good many of
our fellows are over here, or were in the service somewhere. There’s
Herb Whitcomb--he’s up in Flanders, or was--and Roy Flynn, invalided
home, I believe. Some of the fellows are with the flying force--two
of my class, Jimmy Hill and Dick Mann. Three of the older fellows,
two classes ahead of me, went into the navy. Ted Wainwright and Jack
Harris did, too, and are on a submarine. Old Brighton did its share!”
“Yes, and I heard of another from the school; he’s a Red Cross
ambulance driver; forget his name now. Only a youngster, but doing
some great work. A yarn went around our camp about his landing on a
couple of German spies and killing one of them. They said the boy had
his own sporting rifle. Must be some plucky kid! Know him?”
“Perhaps I do,” evaded Clem.
“Well, what I wanted to say is this: We go into action in the
morning. The advance will be in formation by platoons. The units
will keep together at first, but what will happen later, how much we
shall become separated, no one can tell. I am going to keep an eye
on you. If anything happens I’ll do all in my power And I’m going
to ask you, as an old Brighton boy, to do the same for me. Somehow,
you know I feel as though it might be--that is, you see, there will
be hard fighting and a great number of casualties and we must all do
our best. We’ve got to make good and we shall. But some of us--I’m
afraid a good many of us--won’t come out of it--won’t live to see the
result. Here’s my card, Stapley--my home address. My wife would like
to know if--you understand.”
“Yes, I understand, Captain. You may trust me.”
“Thank you, Stapley. Hope you get along well at old Brighton when you
get back. Good luck! Taps will sound in about half an hour. Sorry you
didn’t find those spies. They may turn up yet.”
The young corporal left the spot and went to where his own platoon
was bivouacked. The men, officers and all, slept scattered on the
ground, to avoid casualties from stray shells. Each man had a blanket
and poncho and though the temperature was low for June, the nights
being chilly, it ideal camping weather for men long hardened to it.
Some of the toughest fellows had no more than thrown a corner of
the blanket across their shoulders, sleeping in their clothes and
removing only their shoes. It was the order to do this, as marching
feet need an airing and, better, a dabble in cool water. A little
stream ran near by and one might safely wager, where it emptied into
the Marne, the water that night ran black with the soil of France.
Morning dawned clear and breezy. Shortly after reveille, a messenger
arrived from the American headquarters and another from the French
Field Staff. Half an hour later the two regiments of marines, moving
like one man, were marching straight across country a little to the
northwest of Château-Thierry. It was the intention to drive the Huns
out of their threatening positions in the hills where they were
concentrating troops and artillery, mostly machine-gun units. A
brigade also of the Third Division U. S. Regulars, moved forward at
nearly the same time in support of the marines, if needed.
No prettier sight could be imagined than those long lines of
soldiers, over two thousand in number, sweeping forward. They
had been called “the Matchless Marines” and by another equally
expressive, though homelier name, “the Leathernecks.” Picked men,
every one of them chosen with regard to his athletic and probable
fighting ability, they could but live up to the standards set for
them by their predecessors in the same force, adhering always to the
maxims that “the marines never retreat” and that “they hold what
they’ve got.”
The peeping sun shone upon their brown uniforms and glistened on
their bayoneted guns, as they moved through waving grass and over
fields of yellowing grain. There was no sound of drum or fife. No
band played martial music--that is not the custom when a modern army
goes against the enemy--but here and there along those steady, triple
lines could be heard laughter, snatches of song, the voice of some
wag bantering his fellows.
The orders to the commanding general of the division ran something
like this: Rout the enemy from the village of Bouresches. Break up
the machine-gun and artillery positions in Belleau Woods and if
possible capture Hill No. 165. Consolidate positions at these points
and south of the village of Torcy and hold them.
It was evident that the commander-in-chief depended fully on “the
Leathernecks” and felt confident that they would do as ordered,
although they had before them a large undertaking. It was known that
the Germans had two divisions of picked troops at this point, with
still another division in reserve.
There was double reason for this confidence. The Americans had
already been performing most creditably within the sector about
Château-Thierry. A few days before a strong detachment of American
regular troops had withstood an attack of the enemy at Veuilly Wood,
nine miles north of the Marne, and had driven them back. The day
following a detachment of machine gunners had held the approaches
to the bridges across the Marne, connecting the north and the south
towns of Château-Thierry itself and prevented the Huns from crossing,
while a battalion of Americans, supporting French artillery that was
pounding the Huns in the northern end of the town, captured and wiped
out more than their number of Germans who had managed to gain the
south bank by pontoons. On the same day the Third and Twenty-eighth
Divisions of U. S. regulars, commanded by a French officer, had
defeated the enemy in his attempt to make a crossing of the Marne at
Jaulgonne, a few miles east of Château-Thierry, and had driven him
back to his former positions. But all these battles, relatively small
actions in themselves, had been fought according to European methods,
and had been directed by French generals and aided by French infantry
and artillery.
The action now about to take place was to be that of the Americans
alone, under American staff direction, and the boys were going into
it tickled with the idea of being allowed in their own way to get a
whack at the Huns.
Corporal Stapley, as he trudged along with his squad, thought of a
good many things of a rather solemn nature, though not once did he
permit a hint of this to bother his fellows. The next in line was a
wag named Giddings, but Clem noted that the youth was very quiet now,
and that his face was pale. With a laugh Clem turned to the fellow:
“Say, Gid, it’s a fine day for this little picnic.”
“Wonder when the strawberries and ice cream will be served,” Giddings
remarked and Clem knew that no matter how the young man really felt
he was game. The corporal glanced down the line; there were other
pale faces and set lips, but there were also smiles and laughter. One
man struck up a song, with words and music _ad libitum_:
“Where do we go from here, boys,
Where do we go from here?
To punch the Hun
Like a son-of-a-gun.
It’ll be some fun
To make him run
And get his bun
And take his mon.
Oh, hi, yi, that’s where we’ll go from here!”
Some joined in. Laughter broke out down the line. One chap began to
whistle the Sailor’s Hornpipe and another, in a deep bass voice,
tried to put impromptu words to it, after the manner of the popular
version concerning “de debbil,” but without much poetic success:
“Did you ever see the Heinie
With his skin all black and spiny
A-diggin’ in the trenches
With his big toe nail?”
And another laugh followed, but it was cut short by a shell which
tore through the air only a little above the heads of the men, and
exploded not a hundred feet behind the last line. It was immediately
followed by a second that landed about the same distance from the
front of the first line and ricocheted, turning and twisting, then
lying still--not ten steps ahead of the line. There was a little
squirming, and two fellows were obliged to step almost over the
menacing thing. Pulling down their steel helmets and lowering their
heads, they veered apart, while some arms went up in front of faces
and eyes. But the shell proved a “dud.” Had it exploded it would
doubtless have sent half a dozen boys to the graveyard and the
hospital.
“One back and one front and the next one--”
“A clean miss!” shouted Clem.
The words were no more than said when his prediction came true. The
shell went high and wide. But that which immediately followed was
of a far more deadly character than shells. Shrapnel and whiz-bangs
could not cover the ground, but it seemed as though the rain of
machine-gun bullets that suddenly swept down from the thickets and
rocks of the great hillside which loomed ahead must reach every inch
of space.
“Double quick! Charge!” came the order, echoed from mouth to mouth by
under-officers and still, like one man, that khaki-clad host went at
it on the run. Every man saw that the more quickly the work was done
the better chances he and his fellows had for surviving that leaden
hail.
“Smash ’em! Tear ’em to pieces!” Clem found himself yelling again and
again and he heard similar shouts on all sides of him.
“Give ’em ballyhoo!” howled young Giddings.
And they did--if that expresses something like annihilation! Before
the Huns could do more than fire a round or two from a score of
well-placed machine-guns on the hillside the marines, like waves of
avenging devils, were upon them with a fury that those long-practised
death-dealers of the Fatherland had not before experienced and
totally unprepared for. They were used to seeing their accurate
shooting from such an array of fire-spitters stop their enemies and
drive them back but no such result was in evidence now.
Many of the Huns broke and ran, some tried to hide, some threw up
their hands and shouted: “Kamerad! Kamerad!” A few stuck to their
guns until overpowered, and died fighting. Many, threatened with
the bayonet, surrendered at once. And the marines went yelling
on, overtaking the fleeing Germans, stabbing to death, shooting
or clubbing with rifles those who still resisted. Breaking up the
machine-gun nests, they rounded up the prisoners until the hillside
was entirely in American hands. Then the Yanks halted and sought
shelter from the German artillery which now began to throw shells
upon the eastern and northern side of the hill from enemy positions
beyond. On the southwestern slope, where they were out of danger from
this fire, the victorious regiments re-formed for further duty,
bringing in all scattered units and trying to count the cost.
The taking of the hill had not been entirely one-sided, except in the
matter of a victory. The machine-gunners had been placed in position
to hold this strategic bit of ground and to make it hot for those who
attempted to take it from them, and they were past masters at that
sort of thing. The reception they gave the marines exacted a heavy
toll.
Following fast upon the heels of the men from overseas came the
wonderfully efficient American Red Cross. Ambulances rushed across
the fields, many of carrying capacity only, a few fitted up for field
dressing stations. Doctors and nurses, braving the enemy shells,
attended the most urgent cases only, sending the majority back to the
newly established evacuation hospitals which had, within two days,
supplanted those of the overtaxed French, or to the bases that also
had moved nearer this fighting front.
And so everywhere on the hillside up which the marines had so
gloriously charged, the _brancardiers_ moved with their stretchers,
rapidly bringing away the wounded, whether friend or foe. And the
officers who were still on duty went about among the men, detailing
squads here and there for burial duty and to help and comfort their
unfortunate companions. It was the work of a little more than two
hours.