REMBERCOURT
On Saturday night, November ninth, I had repaired to my dugout near
Bouillonville, planning to say two Masses at distant points the
following morning. I retired early to snatch a little rest.
At midnight, Lieutenant D'Orleans rushed into the dugout and roused me,
hoarsely whispering,--"Chaplain, a big movement is on!"
Rolling from my blanket I hurried outside. The night was intensely dark;
but there, in the valley before me, I could make out a long column of
troops.
For some days there had been growing signs and vague hints of a big
attack impending. Was this its beginning?
Reporting at once to the head of the column, I found Colonel Lewis and
Major Black. The troops were the 2nd Battalion of the 64th Infantry. The
Colonel, a trimly built little man, and every inch a fighter, was eating
a bar of chocolate. "Here, Chaplain, have a bar of chocolate; I have
an extra one. By the way we are going to attack at dawn."
[Illustration: ST. JOAN OF ARC.]
The personification of coolness, how proud I was of him! He was ready;
he knew his troops were ready; he was about to lead them to the heights
of grim Rembercourt, one of the most prized and fought for positions
along our front!
These brave boys of the Second Battalion, going, many of them, to their
death, needed us. Good Chaplain LeMay of the Battalion would need
assistance; moreover the 55th Infantry would be in that attack, and
they, at that time, had no Catholic Chaplain. Many needed Sacramental
Confession; all needed God's blessing. At once, I decided to cancel the
two Masses I had planned, and accompany them.
In column of squads the troops moved down the valley. As we were but
eight hundred marching against a strongly held hill, every approach to
which fairly bristled with machine gun nests, success depended primarily
on the element of surprise. We were prepared to pay something for that
hill, but if we could rush it, the cost would be minimum.
The alert enemy had thrust forward tentacles of listening posts deep
into our neighborhood, and, if a chance star shell revealed us, he would
lay down a deadly barrage.
We were favored indeed by a blanket of chill fog, that hung over the
valley, but our going in the slimy, sticky clay was labored and slow.
Dawn found us in the shelter of a hill near the old mill north of
Jolney. This old stone building overhung the river, and stood at the
eastern end of the bridge. Later that day it was occupied by General
Wahl, commanding the 13th Brigade, and used as his Headquarters. At this
point the column was halted; and Colonel Lewis, Major Black, I, and two
privates walked forward about five hundred yards around the foot of the
hill to reconnoitre. The railroad leading to Metz paralleled this
valley; and, but a few yards ahead, half a dozen box cars, hit by our
shells, were burning.
The river at this point is about one hundred yards wide and at no place
over five feet deep. It is spanned by a stone bridge sharply arched,
built for heavy strain.
Our objective lay on the opposite shore, a hill, some three hundred feet
high, covered with scrub oak and cedar. This hill, which commanded the
village of Rembercourt and the entire valley, had been firmly held and
desperately defended by the enemy even against Pershing's September
attack. Ours was now the coveted honor of wresting it from his grasp,
once and for all.
Two courses lay open to our crossing, one, to use the bridge, the other
to wade the river. The Colonel discouraged the use of the bridge, as the
fog was even then thinning out, and, if the column were discovered, in
silhouette, artillery would speedily destroy it. He therefore directed
Major Black to have his troops wade the river, keeping on the sheltered
side of the bridge.
Holding their guns clear of the water the men waded across in silence,
keeping single file. The first man to step into that icy water was the
gallant little Colonel, his blue French gas mask at "alert," his
"forty-five" and precious bars of chocolate held safely above the water.
I was directly behind him. A long column marching in single file through
a muddy stream soon cuts a deep channel; and the last two hundred men
to cross made wet work of the wading.
That our thoughts were at least partially human at that time, I now
recall the following form of reasoning expressed by a Buddie near by. "I
am going to get pneumonia out of this wetting; but, most likely, I'll be
killed anyway in this hill attack, so I should worry!"
Just at the river edge, a boy suddenly dropped his rifle and began to
alternately wildly laugh and cry. A sergeant quickly placed his hand
over his mouth to silence him lest his calls might reveal our presence
to the enemy. Gently leading him to one side he left him for the First
Aid detail. His poor mind had given out under the terrible strain; shell
shock, it was called. No comment was made by the men marching past; they
pitied him, knowing it was not that he was a coward or a quitter, but
simply that he had gone insane under the deadly reality of it all. Why
more did not go mad in that Valley of Death only God can explain!
Emerging on the far shore, we picked our heavy way across the stretch of
swamp, that led toward the base of our objective. Although the enemy
was not aware of our presence in force, he was keeping up a desultory
shelling of his hill base as a matter of ordinary precaution. Like the
flare of June bugs along the roadside in summer, high explosive shells
would burst every few minutes, here, there, and in most unexpected
places. Colonel Lewis ordered that the men be kept in as open formation
as possible, so that fewer would be hit at a time, and falling shells be
reduced to minimum zones of destruction.
Here we had just assembled and were forming for the attack when the
sheltering fog suddenly lifted. It was now eight o'clock. We had not yet
been discovered. The men were ordered to lie in their tracks and await
orders.
From the spiritual point of view this delay was opportune; as it offered
opportunity of passing down the line, to hear confessions and extend to
all the boys divine aid.
Surely that halt was a God-send! The prayer of many a mother, far
overseas, had moved the Good Master to give her soldier boy this last
chance to pause for a prayer on the threshold of death!
This was pre-eminently the Chaplain's hour! Above all others were his
every ministration and word and glance prized and respected.
There were no infidels, no religious scoffers, among those soldiers
seriously awaiting the zero hour. In the rear areas and rest billets,
the profane and irreligious word might often have been heard; but face
to face with Death, Judgment, Heaven or Hell, the skeptic was silenced.
Boys who might have been hitherto negligent in approaching the
Sacraments were now the first to call to me, "Father, I want to go to
Confession."
In a time so uncertain, momentarily awaiting orders "Over the Top," to
hear each one individually was physically impossible. For just this
emergency, the far-seeing, merciful Church of the All Merciful God has
provided a means.
It is the General Absolution, so beautifully administered by Chaplain
McDonald of the Leviathan, and which our Faculties provided. When a
person in such emergency could not actually confess, he made an act of
Perfect Contrition, being sorry for his sins because by them he had
offended the Good God, and with the intention of going to Confession as
soon as he could. While confession was always desirable, sorrow was
ever, indispensable.
In our case the priest was morally and physically present and he gave
Sacramental Absolution to all, using the plural, "Ego vos absolvo a
peccatis vestris."
Whether on the battlefield or in hospital wards filled with men dying of
disease or wounds, the priest has a divine message to deliver and a
sacramental duty to perform from which no manner or danger of death can
deter him. "Is any man sick amongst you," says St. James in the 24th
Chapter of his Epistle (Douay or King James version) "let him call in
the priests of the Church, and they shall anoint him with oil in the
Name of the Lord." It was in the fulfillment of this Divinely imposed
duty that 1600 priests of America voluntarily turned aside from their
parochial work, and, reconsecrating their hearts to the Greater Love,
entered the National service as Chaplains during the war.
Seriously the boys studied the hill. On its rugged side was about to be
staged a tragedy in which every soldier knew he was to take part. The
training of months past was but rehearsal. The leaving home, the oath of
military service, the weary grind of march, and weapon drill, the rigid
discipline, all these were but evolving phases, making for the formation
of the seasoned soldier. And now they had reached the high altar of
National service on which they were prepared to sacrifice their young
lives.
"Morituri salutemus!" Look closely into the faces of those heroic boys:
approach with reverence the sanctuary of their thoughts.
In long, regular lines they lie, immediately at the base of the hill.
Most are still and motionless, helmeted, and with bayoneted rifles, like
figures some Bartholdi or Rodin might have chiseled from bronze. Some,
with free hand, are molding from the yellow, slimy clay, quaint little
images, suggested, possibly, by thought of the little tin soldiers of
boyhood days. Some, lying prone, are dreamily observing the blue sky
showing here and there through billowy clouds. Some have made of their
helmet a pillow and appear to sleep. Some with jest and story are
radiating a subdued merriment. Some, with eyes staring straight ahead,
seem as in a trance.
In that tragic hour I looked with their eyes and saw with the vision of
their soul. The picture we all in common saw was painted on the
canvas of memory.
[Illustration: WHERE ST. JOAN OF ARC MADE HER FIRST COMMUNION.]
It represented any American town; preferably one bowered with maple and
elm, and cast in a setting of emerald landscape. Just back from the
winding road, a cottage, trellised with moss roses and forget-me-nots.
Framed in the doorway, a sweet-faced mother, silver threads amid her
gold of hair, is looking across distant fields. A path leads over the
hill, and it would seem she watched and waited for someone!
Last night she knelt beside a vacant chair, and, in the lonely vigil of
her tears, prayed that God would bless and spare her boy. In the window
hangs a service flag. Tomorrow, My God! there shall a message come from
overseas changing its silver into gold!
Who is it can smile with heart breaking the while
When the soldier bids loved ones "Farewell"?
Whose heart is it grieves, when the patriot leaves,
With an anguish that no tongue can tell?
It's only the mother! For man knows no other
Whose soul feels the weight of such woe;
Who can smile and look brave and for lonely hours save
The torrent of tears that must flow.
Whose heart is it knows that wherever he goes
He'll be true to his country and flag?
That he'll fight the good fight and die, serving the Right
With never a boast or a brag?
It's the mother whose breast as a babe he caressed
And who watched o'er his childhood with joy.
Though the years may have flown, and to manhood he's grown,
Yet to mother he's always--"My boy"!
Who is it can yearn for the soldier's return,
When the trumpet of war calls no more:
When victorious he sees his proud flag kiss the breeze
Of his own, his beloved, native shore?
It's the mother whose face like a halo of grace
Hovered near him to cheer him afar.
Angels envy her joy as she welcomes her boy
Triumphant returned from the war!
Who is it shall kneel at the graveside and feel
The full woe of a soldier boy, dead!
Who shall measure such loss, who shall carry the cross,
And yet live, when his spirit is fled?
It's the mother who'll wait at Death's golden gate,
Where sorrow and parting shall cease!
And she evermore with her boy as of yore,
Shall be crowned in the Kingdom of Peace!
One of the brave company commanders in this Battalion was Captain Hall.
Coming to me he said, "Chaplain, if I get 'bumped' in this attack, I
want you to do me a favor." He then gave me a written message to a
certain person in the Division who owed him $300.00. "Get after him,
will you, Chaplain, and see that the money reaches my folks." "I will be
glad to, Captain," I replied. Then, as one good turn deserved another, I
wrote out and handed him a little note, which, if he, and not I, came
through alive, was to be forwarded to my Chicago home. The Captain was a
graduate of West Point, and had seen hard service both on the western
plains and in the Cuban war. His hair was gray, and he wore a long gray
mustache of which he was proud, and which he was in the habit, when
especially thoughtful, of stroking. My hair also was gray, especially
since our last gas attack in Bois-le-Pretre.
A Captain from Philadelphia lying in the mud not far from us, noticing
our two gray heads close together, mischievously and in a stage whisper
remarked, "Old men for counsel, but young men for action!" What Captain
Hall, blazing with sudden wrath, thereupon said to him, I think it just
as well not to here record! At the time, however, it seemed that he sort
of expressed my own feelings on the subject!
Gallant Captain Hall came through alive; but I can see him even now in
the very thick of the fighting that followed a few minutes later.
Standing out on the hillside in full view he fought with his steel blue
"45" a duel to the death with a German officer who rashly attacked him.
For a moment I held my breath, as they deliberately exchanged shot for
shot. Then I saw the German fall heavily; and Hall, his right hand
twirling his gun, and his left fondly stroking his mustache, coolly
surveyed the line looking for another shot.
It was two in the afternoon before the fog began to thicken. The zero
hour was at hand!
Although we had marched many weary miles, had lain motionless in the mud
for five hours, and had meanwhile tasted neither food nor drink, we did
not mind it. One ignores bodily needs under heavy mental stress. I
carried a little meat and bread in my pocket, which, that noon, I shared
with good Father LeMay.
At two-thirty, when the sheltering fog was thickest, quietly the word
was passed down the line "Get ready." At that moment I was near the
western end of the column near a stone quarry, strongly defended by the
enemy with machine guns and automatic rifles.
Promptly the boys made ready, slipping off packs, many even their
blouses. It was to be a bayonet rush up that hill, and the idea was to
feel as cold and shoulder free as possible. The pain of mustard gas is
not so intense if one's body is cool and dry. Officers as well as men
were lightly clothed; their only weapons, automatics. I substituted a
sweater for my blouse. All felt the tense strain, and throats grew dry
and temples throbbed.
At that moment was given a final General Absolution and Blessing.
Sharply, along the crouching line like a flash of fire, boomed the
command to advance--"Guns and bayonets now, boys, and give them hell!"
Instantly leaping forward, the men hurled themselves up the hill.
Helmeted, masked, their bayonets flashing, like the crested foam of some
giant wave they swept forward.
We had not advanced fifty feet when over the hillside there burst a hail
storm of lead. The enemy hurled into our faces every manner of
destruction; bullets and steel fragments screamed through the air,
"thudding" into every foot of ground!
The first boy to fall was Riorden of New Jersey, who pitched forward,
terribly torn, shortly to my right. Onward and upward swept the line. As
I paused a moment beside Riorden to absolve him, Walsh of Syracuse, New
York, running some thirty feet in advance, waved his arm for me to
hurry. "Holy Joe" was the name given the Chaplain. I never knew its
origin, but it was the title most generally used and always with the
utmost respect.
Even then could be heard the horrible crash of steel on steel, hand to
hand bayonet contact, screams of terror and pain, when the blade
dripping blood was withdrawn from its human scabbard. The advance soon
reached the hilltop and the gray-clad Germans resisted desperately. The
most terrible, horrible, and indescribable of all sights and sounds were
now before me. Wild-eyed, panting, fiercely visaged boys in American
khaki and German gray, feinting, parrying, and madly lunging with
glittering bayonets--the crash and shrill metallic stroke of steel on
steel, and Oh! the grunt and scream of agony when the blade sank to its
hilt in a blood-spurting human breast! Each boy, in that moment of
deadly shock, was fighting for his own life--it was destroy first or be
destroyed, and the first to get in a fatal blow survived. No alien
soldier lives however, who can withstand that most terrible and supreme
of all fighters--the American Doughboy! Hands were being raised and
cries of "Kamerad" heard from every side. The grim heights of
Rembercourt were ours; but, my God! see the price we have paid for that
eight minutes of struggle.
Boys are down all over the hillside, dead and dying. Tossing, moaning,
begging for help, their cries of agony pierce the heart. From the
military point of view, indeed, it was called a splendid, clean-cut
piece of work. Rembercourt and its approaches in our hands at last, with
hundreds of prisoners and spoils of war--all at a loss to us of but nine
killed and fifty-two wounded.
[Illustration: IN THE CHURCH AT DOMREMY.]
Ah! but who shall measure the cost of those nine dead boys to mothers
and beloved ones at home! See their lifeless forms lying there amid the
wreckage of the hillside. A few minutes ago they knew the thrill of
vigorous young manhood; they knew that death might claim them in that
charge; bravely they went over the top, hoping for the best.
From one to another I hurried with service for all. The dying claimed
first care; the dead had to wait; and the chill shadows of night had
crept to the hill crest before all the wounded were removed and the last
poor body buried.
A terrific cannonade had meanwhile been in progress. Our batteries had
opened along the entire front. Tons upon tons of steel were passing on
wings of thunder not three hundred feet above our heads. Little heed the
boys gave it, so occupied were they with duties near at hand.
Finally, numbed and over-powered to the point of utter exhaustion, I
sought an abandoned shack at the foot of the hill. Without removing so
much as a single garment, still wet from wading the river, with no taste
for food or drink, I threw myself on the floor and fell at once asleep.
It was dawn of the following morning, Monday, November 11, when I awoke.
If the cannonading of the evening before was terrible, that morning's
bombardment was infinitely more so. It was the first time I had heard a
full powered "Drum Head" barrage--where so many batteries and guns are
engaged that the sound of firing and subsequent explosion is continuous
and unified in volume. The hills and valleys shook under the rocking
recoiling guns as from an earthquake.
Going among the men, I found even the most seasoned of them grimly
silent. Their faces, set, as in plaster cast along cadaverous lines,
deeply furrowed and caked with dust, perspiration, and powder smoke,
made hideous appearance. Never have I seen such wan, frightful
expression in human eye. As grim automatons they handled their guns, and
moved silently about. Possibly they were too wearied to talk; for to
speak, so as to be heard, meant calling at the top of one's voice.
Not far away I met Colonel Cummings. Briefly I narrated the happenings
of the day before at our west end of the line. Most warmly he
congratulated us and then, in confidence, informed me "Foch has agreed
to an Armistice!"
He had just come from Headquarters, which was sending out orders to line
and battery commanders to cease firing, that very morning at eleven
o'clock.
Silently we gripped hands; but the hearts of both of us thrilled with
"Te Deum."