Soissons, dallyin’ with a Maxim gun. He was a musical cuss, an’ he uster
sing a song to the tune of the ‘Old Gray Mare—She Ain’t What She Uster
Be’—somethin’ like
‘The U. S. flag will fly over Germany
Less than a year from now——’
[Illustration:
Men walked silent, remembering the old dead.
]
—and now it is, an’ it’s a pity he ain’t here to see it—” “Well, but
he’s restin’ easy where he is—me, I’m cold as hell an’ this dam’ drizzle
is drainin’ down my neck——”
There was nothing but the mist and the rain, and a mean, cold little
wind with a bite in it. North and south, from the edge of Holland to the
Metz gateway, all the armies were marching. Ahead, just out of contact,
went the German armies. The battalion passed a dense little wood of
firs—Christmas-tree woods, the battalion called them. This clump showed
unmistakably that it had been a camp; but there was no litter; the Boche
who bivouacked there had left it neat and clean. Along the road in
orderly piles were some hundreds of the round German helmets, and parked
precisely in a cleared place, where horse-lines had been, was a battery
of 105 field howitzers. The old Boche was jettisoning what he didn’t
need. The battalion observed and was thoughtful.
“What about the ole Boche?—You think he was licked enough?” “No, I
don’t. That stuff back there, they laid it down under orders, like they
do everything. It’s stacked—it ain’t just thrown away. An’ look how they
police up behind themselves—” “Yeh! Remember the other day, when we was
advance-guard, we could see their rear-guard, sometimes—perfect order,
an’ all that—not like a defeated outfit, at all!” “Sure! I hope to spit
in yo’ mess-kit it ain’t! An’ those little towns back yonder, with the
arches an’ the flags and the welcome returnin’ heroes stuff—none o’ that
was for us—” “They ain’t licked enough. Look at this country—winter
ploughin’ done—everything ship-shape—no shell-holes—no trenches—no barb’
wire—who in hell won this war, anyway?” “You said it. We oughter got up
in here an’ showed the old Boche what it was like, to have a war in his
own yard.” “Well, I’ve been in all of it, an’ pers’nally I was glad when
the shootin’ stopped. I got me some sleep an’ a full belly, an’ a pair
of new shoes—an’ some fireman’s underwear, too. An’ I was right proud
not to be killed. I ain’t prepared to die—” “We know you ain’t,
sergeant—we know—” “Aw, belay that—I mean, I was glad, myself, but we
oughter gone on—oughter’ve finished it while we was at it. He wasn’t
licked enough, an’ now he’s goin’ home like a peacock wit’ seven
tails——!”
This was the consensus of opinion, delivered with consideration in the
rain. The replacements, especially those who had joined up after the
Armistice, in Belgium, were savagely regretful. The chaps who had come
in after the Champagne, and been among those present at one fight, were
bloodthirsty, but to a lesser degree. Only the veterans were entirely
calm.
The rain fell, the road grew heavier. The battalion, soaked and
miserable, plodded on. They passed through many villages, all alike; all
ugly and without character. The houses were closed and shuttered. You
saw few people, but you always had the feeling of eyes behind the
shutters. One thick-bodied Boche, in uniform—an artilleryman, by his
leather breeches—stood in the doorway of a house, smoking a porcelain
pipe that hung to his knee. His face was set in a cast of hate. He stood
and stared, and the battalion, passing, looked him over with respect.
[Illustration:
One thick-bodied Boche.... His face in a cast of hate.
]
“Understand a bird like that.” “Yeh—he’s honest. Those dam’ Heinies in
the billet last night, they made me sick. That fellow that talked
English. Says he was glad his American frien’s, present by agreement in
the Rheinlan’, to welcome—says that to me, an’ would the Herr Soldier
like a good cup of coffee?” “Dam’ his remarks—how ’bout the coffee?”
“Well, it tasted funny, but it was hot.” “Old guy at our billet gave us
some cognac. Hot stuff! He didn’t let on, though.—You know those trick
certif’cates a soldier’s family gets in Germany?—Colored picture like a
Croi’ Guerre certif’cate, shows a fat, beer-drinkin’-Heinie angel
standin’ over a dead Boche—signed Wilhelm I. R.—you know. Well, this
bird had six of them in his front room, all framed on the wall. I
gathered they was his sons. Four bumped off at Verdun in 1916. One very
recent—Soissons, July.—Wonder if we met that fella? He stood there an’
looked at me while I was readin’ them, an’ he looked like a wolf. I
don’t blame him—. But howcome he gave us the cognac—?” Later the
battalion learned that the Boche had orders to be hospitable....
Toward noon the clouds lifted, and the rain slowed to a thin drizzle,
although it did not stop. The battalion filed between hills toward a
great valley, dimly seen. The hills towered over them, dark,
menacing—“No wonder the ole Boche has such a mean disposition, livin’ in
a country like this—” The battalion came into a town with paved streets
and trolley-cars and tall factory chimneys that did not smoke. Platoon
commanders said it was Remagen; those towers to the right would be the
bridge. There was a bridge, a great steel structure of high black
arches. The battalion filed upon it. Under it black water flowed
swiftly, with surges and eddies dimpled by the rain. High rocky hills
came down out of the mist on the farther side.
“So this is the Rhine,” remarked the battalion. “Hell!” A few files were
interested. A lank Texan said: “I don’t see much to make a fuss about.
You boys ever see the Trinity in overflow time? Ten miles from bank to
bank, in the McKenzie Bend country—why, we’d call this a creek down
where I come from—” “Naw, it ain’t much river—an’ no more is your dam’
Trinity! I was raised in Sent Louie—Ole Miss’sip’, now—” “Well, rivers
in this country are mainly over-touted. That Marne, it wouldn’t be much
more’n a branch, down South. I never saw that there Vesle River, but a
guy in the 32d Division, that was with me in Neuilly, he says you could
mighty near jump across it.” “Heard anything about chow?—Galleys went on
ahead awhile ago—when do we eat——”
For four years no hostile troops with arms in their hands had seen this
river; only sad files of prisoners had crossed it, under German guard.
The battalion turned right on the eastern bank and went up the river, on
a broad road between a cliff and the swift black water. There were many
houses, a continuous town. It was past noon of a Friday, the 13th
December, and the Boche school-children were out. They gathered to look
at the passing column. The Marines eyed them keenly. These kids were
different. They did not point or talk or cry out, after the manner of
children. They stood in stolid groups, wooden-faced, with unwinking
pale-blue eyes. The boys were nearly all in field-gray uniform cloth—cut
down, perhaps, from the cast-off clothes of an elder. Some of them wore
boots and round soldier-caps. They carried books and lunch-boxes,
knapsack fashion, on their shoulders.—“Look, will you—that kid there
ain’t more’n a yearlin’, and they’ve got him in heavy marchin’ order
a’ready!” “Yeh,—they start ’em early—that’s howcome they’re the way they
are—these Boche.” There were round-faced little girls with straw-colored
braids, in cloaks. They did not look poorly fed, like the waxen-faced
children the battalion remembered in France. And at every corner there
were more of them. The battalion was impressed.—“Say—you see all those
kids—all those little square-heads! Hundreds of ’em, I’ll swear!
Something’s got to be done about these people. I tell you, these Boche
are dangerous! They have too many children——”
[Illustration:
They stood in stolid groups, wooden-faced.
]
[Illustration:
“I tell you, these Boche are dangerous! They have too many children.”
]
[Illustration:
The 1st Battalion of the Rhine—5th Marines took the road.
]
SONGS
FIVE
“LONG BOY”
One of the very few soldier songs that survived the Atlantic
voyage—although it suffered some sea change—was “Long Boy.” It ran (with
variations):
“_Good-bye, Maw! Good-bye, Paw!
Good-bye, mule, with your old hee-haw...._
· · · · ·
_I’ll bring you a Turk an’ a Kaiser too,
And that’s about all one fellow can do...._”
This file is cheering his soul in the angle of the bridge at
Silly-le-Long, just outside of Cognac Pete’s buvette. In a little while
an M. P. with no ear for music will run him in.
[Illustration: [Soldier]]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.