BREST--ANCEY-LE-FRANC
Vive la France! With all the emotion that must have thrilled the heart
of Lafayette, sailing up the Chesapeake to Washington's assistance at
Yorktown, we gazed on the rugged coast of Brittany. Our convoy alone, if
you will, more than compensated, in point of _number of troops_ at
least, for the 20,000 who wore the fleur-de-lis at the surrender of
Cornwallis. Mere _number_ of troops, however, was not the question--it
was all we then needed. France would, no doubt, have sent us more in
1783, even as we would have sent more to her in the world war, had there
been the need.
Brest was the only harbor along the western France coast with sufficient
depth of water to accommodate the Leviathan; and, inside her breakwater,
on Sunday, August 10, we dropped anchor.
This harbor and city, with a history rich in recorded and traditional
lore, antedated the Christian era. The Phonecian, the Carthaginian, the
Roman, and the Frank, had each, in turn, left upon its sheltering bay
and rock hewn hills the impress of his generation.
Apart and aloof from the beaten paths that lead from London to Paris it
held, through the centuries, "the even tenor of its way."
Here had the painter ever found color and form for his canvas; the
romanticist, theme and character for his story. In the deep-voiced
caverns of these towering cliffs lived the Pirates of Penzance. The
solitude of yonder St. Malo inspired Chateaubriand with his immortal
"Monks of the West"; and Morlix, just east of Brest, was, in days of
peace, the dwelling place of peerless Marshal Foch.
By nightfall all the troops had been ferried to the wharfs and formed by
companies in the railroad yards along the water front.
Promptly at five o'clock, with headquarters troop at the head of the
column, Colonel Taylor and all officers on foot, we began our march to
Ponteneuson Barracks. Each of us, on leaving the Leviathan, had been
rationed with a sandwich. We had hoped to dejeuner on the wharf before
beginning the march, but such was not our good fortune--the single
sandwich was all the food--or drink for that matter--we tasted until ten
o'clock the following morning.
The march of eight torturous, hill-climbing, miles, while exhausting in
the extreme, was not without interest. It brought us within seeing and
speaking distance of the inhabitants. A group of little boys and girls
trudged along at our side singing what they no doubt believed to be our
Marseillaise, "Cheer, cheer, the gang's all here." The shrill voices of
these petit garcons expressed our only bienvenue to France!
Their elders, in their quaint Breton Sunday costumes, sitting on
doorsteps or grouped along the roadsides, viewed us interestedly, but
quietly and without demonstration. Although it was the highway used by
thousands of American troops passing through Brest, we heard no word of
cheer, nor saw a single banner of welcome in those eight weary miles of
back torture under full packs.
At nine o'clock we arrived at Ponteneuson. Well might this place be
called, at least at that time, the vestibule of hell! If there is any
boy of the A. E. F. who has anything good to say--or the slightest
happy memory to recall--of Ponteneuson, I have yet to meet him.
It was officially called a "Rest Camp"--where we might recuperate from
our long confinement on shipboard. But if lying hungry and cold on the
fog-drenched rocks of Brittany, with a chill wind sweeping up from the
neighboring ocean, freezing the very marrow of one's aching bones, be
considered rest, it was a kind entirely new to us.
Lying near me on the chill ground that night was Major Winthrop
Whittington of Cleveland, Ohio, one of the most efficient, kindest and
wittiest of our officers, and who later served as our Chief of Staff.
Someone had just remarked that Napoleon used frequently to come to
Ponteneuson. "That explains," quietly remarked the Major, "the
three-hour sleep theory held by Napoleon--(sufficient for any man);
three hours is all any man could sleep in such a hell of a place."
How we survived that night and the following six days and nights can
only be ascribed to that merciful dispensation of God which has carried
us through many a trial. Our habitation was now the open field, drenched
in a dust storm that blew constantly. We sat on the roadside and ate our
meager fare, making joke and jest of our utter lack of comfort.
Immediately adjacent to us was the guard house, a prison camp, pitched
in the open field, and surrounded by barbwire fencing. The only shelter
these wretched boys had--they were all Americans--were holes they had
burrowed in the ground and little shacks they had constructed from odd
pieces of boards they had found. Through the days and nights the chorus
of their angry, cursing voices was borne to our ears on the howling
wind.
One day we were hurried into formation and sent past the reviewing
stand. President Poincare of France was paying us a call. His motor car,
escorted by an outriding troop of French cavalry, and heralded by shrill
bugle calls, came whirling into our midst on the wings of a dust cloud.
[Illustration: TAPS AND FAREWELL VOLLEYS FOR OUR HEROIC DEAD.]
Alighting in front of the improvised reviewing stand, he immediately
became the center of an animated group; the khaki of our camp
officers mingling with the blue, red and gold of the French. No time
was lost by the little man in black suit and cravat in starting the
review. The long lines of our doughboys, their rifles, with fixed
bayonets, flashing and dazzling in the rays of the setting sun, swept by
like some rushing, splashing Niagara torrent. The review was evidence,
at least, as to our number, stamina and equipment.
The following morning, a full hour before the dawn, we were quietly
aroused, ordered to roll our blanket packs and get into line. Glorious
news! We were on the move, starting for our training area and thence
into the fighting lines! Within forty minutes we were on the march,
leaving Ponteneuson, as we had entered it, under cover of the night.
Our immediate destination was the railroad yards at Brest, where we
would find our trains. Those wretched days of exposure, lack of food and
sleep greatly weakened many. Chaplain Kerr, who had entered the service
with me at Governor's Island, New York, died of pneumonia, and was
buried at Brest. Although frequent halts for rest were made, many of
the troops fell out and were carried to the First Aid Stations.
How shall I describe the cars that carried our boys from the sea coast
towns to the fighting fronts of France? Each car, plainly marked "Hommes
20, Chevals 8," offered equal accommodations for 20 men or 8
horses--especially were they equipped for the comfort of horses. It was
sans air brake and sans spring; and when the engineer made up his mind,
which he often did, to stop that train, he did so in a manner the most
alarming to aching limbs and weary eyes. "Let's go," the soldiers' war
cry, rang out along the creaking, swaying, grinding train, and we were
off on our 400-mile journey to the training area assigned to our
Division somewhere in France.
How we enjoyed, at least, our eyesight on that journey! The appeal to
the eye was constant--the color and form of scenes unfamiliar offering
views of compelling attraction and delight. Each unadorned car window
and door became the frame of pictures not a Millet nor a Rembrandt could
depict.
The villages, their sturdy houses of gray stone and red tile roofs;
their streets, transformed from "routes" to "rules," where country roads
came to town; their shopping squares stirred to enterprise by signs of
"Boulangerie," "Boucherie," "Cafe" and "Menier Chocolat." Towering over
all, the never-failing church, its lofty, cross-surmounted tower, giving
to the scene tone and character.
Rolling fields, aglow with harvest gold of wheat, oats and rye;
orchards, teeming with luscious fruit ready to be gathered; rivers,
threading their silvery way through meadow and wood; splendid roads,
binding the beauteous bouquet of landscape with ribbons of silky white.
The outstanding feature of that three-day journey was the apparent utter
lack of enthusiasm on the part of a supposedly demonstrative people.
Waiting at crossroads or railway stations, they would look at us in that
same quiet, observing manner we had noticed at Brest. We passed through
Morlix, home city of Foch; Versailles, and Sennes; and at no place did
we hear so much as a single cheer. There were no welfare workers at any
point, and if "Cafes" were numerous, we always paid well for our wine,
bread and "cafe au lait."
Coming from our own beloved America, where welfare workers greeted and
feted us at every station, this apparent lack of hospitality more
noticeable was difficult to understand. Possibly their impoverished
condition forbade the refreshment part; but cheers and vives are
possible, even to the poorest!
Tuesday morning, August 19th, found us paralleling the picturesque river
Yonne, which waters the vine-clad valleys of Burgundy. The sound of big
gun firing had reached us in the early dawn, and we were all a-thrill
at the thought of mighty things impending. Vaguely the words "Toul,"
"St. Mihiel," "Verdun," and "Metz," had filtered back from the flaming
front; and, like hounds tugging at the leash, we were eager for the fray.
At high noon we reached the quaint old town of Ancey-le-Franc,
Department of Yonne. Here we left the train and drew up in formation
along the roads and back through the lanes and fields. On the platform
of the "gare" our gallant Division Commander, Brigadier General Baarth,
attended by his staff, who had come on ahead of us by way of Paris,
greeted us warmly and reviewed the troops. We were the first American
soldiers to enter this area, and the village folks of Ancey-le-Franc,
Shacenyelles, Fontenoy, and Nuites sur Yonne, welcomed us to their
humble homes, barns and fields where we were to be billeted, with simple
and cordial hospitality.