THE LUNÉVILLE SECTOR
ARBRE HAUT
_March_ 1st, 1918
The trenches at last! We have all read descriptions of them and so
had our preconceived notions. The novelty is that we are in a thick
woods. You go out from Lunéville (where we have been having the
unwonted joys of city life for a week or so) along the flat valley
of the Vesouze to Croix-Mare, and east to Camp New York, where some
Adrian barracks, floating like Noah’s Arks in a sea of mud, house the
battalion in reserve; then up a good military road through the Forest
of Parroy to Arbre Haut, where a deep dugout forty feet underground
shelters the Colonel and his headquarters. A mile further on, at
Rouge Bouquet, one arrives at a Battalion Post of Command dugout
now occupied by Major Donovan, Lieutenants Ames, Irving, Lacey and
Captain Mercier, an energetic, capable and agreeable officer of the
French Mission. Duck-board paths lead in various directions through
peaceful looking woods to a sinuous line of trenches which were, when
we arrived in them, in considerable need of repair. Company D, under
Captain McKenna, had the honor of being first in the lines. They were
followed by Companies B and A, Company C being in support. Off duty
the men live in mean little dugouts thinly roofed, poorly floored,
wet and cold. But they are happy at being on the front at last, and
look on the discomforts as part of the game. Their only kick is that
it is too quiet. Their main sport is going out on patrols by night or
day to scout through “No Man’s Land,” to cut wires, and stir things
up generally. With our artillery throwing over shells from the rear
and our impatient infantry prodding the enemy, this sector will not
be long a quiet one.
CROIX-MARE
_March_ 10th, 1918
We have had our first big blow, and we are still reeling under the
pain and sorrow of it. Our 1st Battalion left the trenches with few
casualties to pay for their ten days of continuous work at trench
and wire mending and night patrols. Arthur Trayer and John Lyons
of Company D were the first to gain their wound chevrons. On March
5th the 2nd Battalion began to move company by company from Camp
New York. I spent the afternoon before with each unit attending
to their spiritual needs, and ending the day with a satisfactory
feeling of having left nothing undone. I was with Company E on March
6th and will always retain a recollection of certain youngsters who
stayed for a little friendly personal chat after confession, like
Arthur Hegney, Eddie Kelly, Steve Navin, Arthur Christfully, George
Adkins, Phil Finn; while Steve Derrig and Michael Ahearn with Bailey,
Halligan and McKiernan were rounding up the bunch to keep me going.
The Company went out in the early morning of March 7th to relieve
Company A, and soon had the position taken over. About 4 P. M. the
enemy began a terrific shelling with heavy minenwerfers on the
position at Rocroi. The big awkward wabbling aerial torpedoes began
coming over, each making a tremendous hole where it hit and sending
up clouds of earth and showers of stone. Lieutenant Norman, an old
Regular Army man, was in charge of the platoon, and after seeing that
his guards and outposts were in position, ordered the rest of the men
into the dugouts. While he was in the smaller one a torpedo struck it
fair and destroyed it, burying the two signal men from Headquarters
Company, Arthur Hegney and Edward Kearney. The Lieutenant barely
managed to extricate himself from the debris and set himself to
look after the rest of his men. He was inspecting the larger dugout
alongside when another huge shell came over, buried itself in the
very top of the cave and exploded, rending the earth from the
supporting beams and filling the whole living space and entrance with
rocks and clay, burying the Lieutenant and twenty-four men.
Major Donovan of the 1st Battalion was at the Battalion P. C. with
Major Stacom when the bombardment began. As there were six positions
to defend and the shelling might mean an attack anywhere along the
whole line, the Battalion Commander’s duty was to remain at the
middle of the web with his reserves at hand to control the whole
situation. So Major Donovan requested that as he had no general
responsibilities for the situation he might be permitted to go down
to Rocroi and see what he could do there. Stacom was unwilling to
have anybody else run a risk that he was not permitted to share
himself, but he gave his consent.
Major Donovan found the men in line contending with a desperate
condition. The trenches were in places levelled by the bombardment
and though the enemy were no longer hurling their big torpedoes they
kept up a violent artillery attack on the position. The only answer
that we could make to this was from the trench mortars which were
kept going steadily by Lieutenants Walsh and F. McNamara, Corporal
Cudmore, William Murphy, Wisner, Young, Harvey, P. Garvey, Herbert
Shannon, F. Garvey, DeNair, Robertson and the one pounders under
Lieutenant Cunningham, Sergeants J. J. Ryan and Willermin. One of
their guns was blown clean out of its position.
Corporal Helmer with Privates Raymond, McKenzie, Cohen, McCormack,
O’Meara and Smeltzer were saved from the dugout and immediately began
to work for the rescue of the others, aided by 1st Sergeant Bailey,
Sergeants William Kelly and Andrew Callahan, Corporals Bernard Kelly
and William Halligan with John Cronin, Thomas Murray, James Joyce
and John Cowie. They knew that many of their comrades were dead
already but the voices could still be heard as the yet standing
timbers kept the earth from filling the whole grade. The rescuers
were aided by Lieutenant Buck and three sergeants of Company A,
who had remained until the newly arrived company had learned its
way about the sector. These were Sergeants William Moore, Daniel
O’Connell and Spencer Rossel. Sergeant Abram Blaustein also hastened
up with the pioneer section, Mackay, Taggart, Schwartz, Adair, Heins,
Quinn, LaClair, Dunn, Gillman and the rest.
Major Donovan found them working like mad in an entirely exposed
position to liberate the men underneath. A real soldier’s first
thought will always be the holding of his position, so the Major
quickly saw to it that the defense was properly organized. Little
Eddie Kelly, a seventeen-year-old boy, was one of the coolest men in
sight, and he flushed with pleasure when told that he was to have a
place of honor and danger on guard. The work of rescue was kept going
with desperate energy, although there was but little hope that any
more could be saved, as the softened earth kept slipping down, and it
was impossible to make a firm passage-way. The Engineers were also
sent for and worked through the night to get out bodies for burial
but with only partial success. Meanwhile the defenders of the trench
had to stand a continuous shelling in which little Kelly was killed,
Stephen Navin and Stephen Derrig were seriously wounded, and Sergeant
Kahn, Corporal Smeltzer and Privates Bowler and Dougherty slightly.
The French military authorities conferred a number of Croix de
Guerre, giving a Corps citation to Corporal Helmer for working to
save his comrades after having been buried himself, “giving a very
fine example of conscience, devotion and courage.” Division citations
went to Major Donovan, “superior officer who has shown brilliant
military qualities notably on the 7th and 8th of March, 1918, by
giving during the course of a violent bombardment an example of
bravery, activity and remarkable presence of mind”; and to Private
James Quigley, who “carried two wounded men to first aid station
under a violent bombardment and worked all night trying to remove his
comrades buried under a destroyed dugout.” Regimental citations were
given to Lieutenant John Norman, Lieutenants Oscar Buck and W. Arthur
Cunningham, Sergeant William Bailey and Carl Kahn of Company E,
Sergeants William J. Moore, Daniel O’Connell and Spencer T. Rossell
of Company A, Sergeants Blaustein and Private Charles Jones of H. Q.
Company.
The bodies of Eddie Kelly and Oscar Ammon of Company F, who was also
killed during that night, with those that could be gotten from the
dugout were buried in Croix-Mare in a plot selected for the purpose
near a roadside Calvary which, from the trees surrounding it, was
called the “Croix de L’Arbre Vert” or “Green Tree Cross.” The others
we left where they fell. Over the ruined dugout we erected a marble
tablet with the inscription, “Here on the field of honor rest”—and
their names.
Company E held those broken trenches with their dead lying there
all of that week and Company L during the week following. Following
is a full list of the dead: Lieutenant John Norman, Corporal Edward
Sullivan, George Adkins, Michael Ahearn, Patrick Britt, Arthur
Christfully, William Drain, William Ellinger, Philip S. Finn, Michael
Galvin, John J. Haspel, Edward J. Kelly, James B. Kennedy, Peter
Laffey, John J. Le Gall, Charles T. Luginsland, Frank Meagher,
William A. Moylan, William H. Sage and Robert Snyder of Company E;
Arthur V. Hegney and Edward J. Kearney of Headquarters Company and
Oscar Ammon of Company F.
ARBRE HAUT
_March_ 12th, 1918
We have given up hope of getting our dead out of Rocroi—it would be
a task for the Engineers, and it would probably mean the loss of
many more lives to accomplish it. Joyce Kilmer’s fine instincts have
given us a juster view of the propriety of letting them rest where
they fell. So I went out today to read the services of the dead and
bless their tomb. Company L is in that position now, and they too
have been subjected to a fierce attack in which Lieutenant Booth was
wounded. He and Lieutenant Baker and Corporal Lawrence Spencer are
in for a Croix de Guerre for courage in action. Today there was a
lot of sniping going on, so Sergeant John Donoghue and Sergeant Bill
Sheahan wanted to go out to the position with me. They are two of the
finest lads that Ireland has given us, full of faith and loyalty,
and they had it in mind, I know, to stand each side of me and shield
me from harm with their bodies. Val Roesel, Bert Landzert and Martin
Coneys also insisted that they would make good acolytes for me. But I
selected the littlest one in the crowd, Johnny McSherry; and little
Jack trotted along the trench in front of me with his head erect
while I had to bend my long back to keep my head out of harm’s way.
We came on Larry Spencer in an outpost position contemplating his tin
hat with a smile of satisfaction. It had a deep dent in it where a
bullet had hit it and then deflected—a fine souvenir.
We finished our services at the grave and returned. I lingered a
while with Spencer, a youth of remarkable elevation of character—it
is a good thing for a Chaplain to have somebody to look up to. Back
in the woods I met two new Lieutenants, Bernard Shanley and Edward
Sheffler. Shanley is from the Old Sod. Sheffler is a Chicagoan of
Polish descent, a most likable youth. I gave them a good start on
their careers as warriors by hearing their confessions.
That reminded me that I had some neglected parishioners in Company
I, so I went over their set of trenches. Around the P. C. it looks
like pictures of the houses of wattles and clay that represent the
architecture of Early Britain. Met Harry Adikes and Ed Battersby
and found them easy victims when I talked confession. Where do the
Irish get such names? Ask Wilton Wharton what his ancestors were
and he will say “Irish”; so will Bob Cousens and Bill Cuffe, Eddie
Willett, Jim Peel or Jim Vail. Charlie Cooper is half way to being
Irish now, and he will be all Irish if he gets a girl I know. I know
how Charlie Garret is Irish,—for he comes from my neighborhood, and
if it were the custom to adopt the mother’s name in a family he would
be Charles Ryan. The same custom would let anybody know without his
telling it, as he does with his chest out, that George Van Pelt is
Irish too. I saw one swarthy fellow with MIKE KELLEY in black letters
on his gas mask, but on asking him I found that he was Irish only by
abbreviation, as he was christened Michael Keleshian. Tommy O’Brien
made himself my guide and acolyte for my holy errand; and he first
took me on a tour amongst the supply sergeants and cooks for he
wanted us both well looked after. So when we had gotten Eddie Joyce,
Pat Rogan, Michael O’Brien, Tom Loftus and Joe Callahan in proper
Christian condition for war or hospitality, we sallied forth around
the trenches.
Religion in the trenches has no aid from pealing organ or stained
glass windows, but it is a real and vital thing at that. The
ancestors of most of us kept their religious life burning brightly
as they stole to the proscribed Mass in a secluded glen, or told
their beads by a turf fire; and I find that religion thrives today
in a trench with the diapason of bursting shells for an organ.
I had a word or two for every man and they were glad to get it;
and the consolations of the old faith for those that were looking
for it. It makes a man feel better about the world and God, and
the kind of people he has put into it to know in conditions like
these such men as Bill Beyer, Fordham College Man; Pat Carroll,
Chauffeur; Tom Brennan, Patrick Collins, whom I am just beginning
to know and to like; Bill Dynan, whom I have known and liked for a
long time; manly Pat Hackett and athletic Pat Flynn, solid non-coms
like Ford, Hennessey, McDermott, Murphy, Denis Hogan, Michael
Jordan, Hugh McFadden, not to mention the old Roman 1st Sergeant
Patrick McMinaman. It was the vogue at one time to say with an air
of contempt that religion is a woman’s affair. I would like to have
such people come up here—if they dared: and say the same thing to the
soldiers of this Company or of this Regiment—if they dared.
The last outpost was an interesting one. It did not exist when I was
in these parts with the 2nd Battalion, as our friends on the other
side had not yet built it for us. But recently they have sent over
one of their G. I. cans (that, dear reader, means galvanized iron
can, which are as big as a barrel, and which tells the story of what
a minenwerfer torpedo shell looks like when it is coming toward you)
and the G. I. Can made a hole like the excavation of a small cottage.
In it I found four or five of Company I snugly settled down and very
content at being that much closer to the enemy. Here I met for the
first time Ed. Shanahan, a fine big fellow who ought to make good
with us, and Charlie Stone, whose mother was the last to say good-bye
to me as we left Camp Mills. Mess came up while we were there and
we did justice to it sitting on clumps of soft earth which had been
rolled into round snowballs by the explosion—and chatting about New
York.
ST. PATRICK’S DAY IN THE TRENCHES
_Sunday_, _March_ 17th 1918
What a day this would have been for us if we were back in New York!
Up the Avenue to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in the morning, and the big
organ booming out the old Irish airs and the venerable old Cardinal
uttering words of blessing and encouragement. And in the afternoon
out on parade with the Irish Societies with the band playing Garry
Owen and Let Erin Remember and O’Donnell Aboo, as we pass through the
cheering crowds. And how they would shout in this year of Grace 1918
if we could be suddenly transported to New York’s Avenue of triumph.
But I am glad we are not there. For more than seventy years the old
Regiment has marched up the Avenue in Church parade on St. Patrick’s
Day. But never, thank God, when the country was at war. Other New
Yorkers may see the Spring sweeping through the Carolinas or stealing
timidly up the cliffs of the Hudson or along the dented shores of
Long Island; but there is only one place in the world where the old
Irish Regiment has any right to celebrate it, and that is on the
battle line.
The 3rd Battalion is in the trenches, so I went up yesterday and
spent the night with Major Moynahan, who gave me a true Irish
welcome. He and Leslie have made good Irishmen out of Lieutenants
Rerat and Jackson and we had a pleasant party.
We had not a Cathedral for our St. Patrick’s day Mass but Lieutenant
Austin Lawrence had Jim McCormack and George Daly of the Medicos pick
out a spot for me among the trees to conceal my bright vestments from
observation and the men who were free slipped up the boyaus from the
nearby trenches for the services.
Later in the morning I said Mass back at Camp New York for the 2nd
Battalion in a grove of young birch trees on the hill slope, the
men being scattered singly over the slope and holding very still
when the bugler sounded the alert for an enemy aeroplane over head.
I described former St. Patrick days to them and told them they
were better here. New York would talk more of them, think more of
them than if they were back there. Every man in the town would be
saying he wished he were here and every man worth his salt would
mean it. The leading men of our country had called us to fight for
human liberty and the rights of small nations, and if we rallied to
that noble cause we would establish a claim on our own country and
on humanity in favor of the dear land from which so many of us had
sprung, and which all of us loved.
In the afternoon we had a fine concert under the trees. Sergeants
Frye and Tom Donahoe played for Tommy McCardle’s funny songs, and for
John Mullin’s serious ones. McManus and Quinn played the fife for
Irish dances, and Lieutenant Prout, by special request, recited John
Locke’s poem, “Oh Ireland, I Bid You the Top of the Morning.”
In the middle of the concert I read Joyce Kilmer’s noble poem, “Rouge
Bouquet.” The last lines of each verse are written to respond to
the notes of “Taps,” the bugle call for the end of the day which is
also blown ere the last sods are dropped on the graves of the dead.
Sergeant Patrick Stokes stood near me with his horn and blew the
tender plaintive notes before I read the words; and then from the
deep woods where Egan was stationed came a repetition of the notes
“like horns from elfland faintly blowing.” Before I had finished
tears had started in many an eye especially amongst the lads of
Company E. I had known it was going to be a sad moment for all, and
had directed the band to follow me up with a medley of rollicking
Irish airs; just as in military funerals the band leads the march to
the grave in solemn cadence and departs playing a lively tune. It is
the only spirit for warriors with battles yet to fight. We can pay
tribute to our dead but we must not lament for them overmuch.
CROIX-MARE
_March_ 18th, 1918
I buried a soldier of the 117th Signal Battalion in Croix-Mare today
with unusual honors. Private Wilkerson had been killed in action
and as he was a Catholic Major Garrett had asked me to perform the
ceremony. The French were most kind in participating, but that is
no new thing. Colonel Dussauge always has his Chasseurs take part
with us in funerals, though it is a distraction to me to see them
trying to accommodate their short choppy gait (“like soldiers in the
Movies” according to Bandsman McGregor) to the air of a Dead March.
I said to the Colonel: “There is one thing your men can’t do.” “What
is that?” “Walk to a funeral march.” “Thank you for the compliment,
Monsieur l’Aumonier.” The Curé, too, always came to our funerals.
And we had a fine grizzled old Oblate Division Chaplain who has been
in all the French wars from Madagascar to Tonquin. The Government
tried to put him out of France when the law against Religious was
passed, but he refused to go, saying he would live his life in France
if he had to live it in jail. I met a number of these religious in
the army, most of them returned from exile to offer their lives in
defense of their country. If the French Government puts them out
after the war is over they will deserve the scorn and enmity of
mankind as a rotten set of ingrates.
At the grave we found we had other spectators. I saw General Menoher
and General Lenihan with a short spare-built civilian whom I took for
a reporter. He had a French gas mask with a long tape, which hung
down between his legs like a Highlander’s sporran. There were Moving
Picture cameras too, which seemed to spell a Presence. I whispered
to the old Curé that his picture would be put on the screen in every
town in America, at which he was, I could see, somewhat shocked
and altogether pleased. After the ceremony a number of the Signal
Battalion took advantage of the opportunity to go to confession; and
I was standing by the side of a truck performing my pious duties
when General Lenihan approached with the slim reporter. They did not
intrude, so I missed my chance of making the acquaintance of the
energetic Newton W. Baker, Secretary of War of the United States.
LUNÉVILLE
_March_ 21st, 1918
For the past twelve days volunteers from the 1st Battalion have been
preparing, under command of Lieutenants Henry A. Bootz and Raymond
H. Newton, for a _coup de main_ in connection with the 41st Battalion
of Chasseurs. They have been training with the French at Croix-Mare
and I find it interesting to watch them. They go through all sorts
of athletic stunts to get into perfect condition, study the ground
through maps on the blackboard showing just what each man’s position
is to be, and then work out the whole thing over a ground which is
very much like the Ouvrage Blanc, where the raid will take place.
Last Saturday afternoon, after I had been hearing confessions amongst
them, four or five of the Irish lads waited to see me. I went for
a walk with them around an old moat and as we stood looking at a
stone tablet that commemorated the victory of some Duke of Lorraine
over a Duke of Burgundy four hundred years ago, Billy Elwood put the
question, “Father, do you think we’ll be afraid?” “Not you,” I said,
“not a bit of it. You may feel rather tight across the chest for the
five minutes before you tear into it, but when you get going you’ll
forget even that, because your blood will be up.” “I believe you,”
he said. “Of course you know none of us are afraid and we are all
anxious to have a try at it, but it’s our first time in a thing of
this sort and the only worry we have is that something might go wrong
inside of us and spoil the good name of the Irish.”
Before the raid started there was an amusing little interlude.
Corporal Bob Foster of Company D had a little Irish flag given to him
by Sergeant Evers of the Band, and the lads were determined that that
flag would go over the top in the first organized attack made by the
regiment. A young officer, not of our Division, who had been sent
as an observer, saw the flag stuck at the top of Foster’s rifle and
felt it his duty to protest against it. After a short parley Bootz
demanded, “What are you here for, anyway.” “I’m an observer,” was the
response. “Then climb a tree and observe, and let me run this raid.”
Our artillery was busy bombarding the position that was to be the
object of assault and at 7:35 P. M. the men went out through our
wires under cover of darkness and took up their position near the
_chicanes_ (passages) in the enemy wire, which had been reconnoitered
the night before. Our artillery laid down a barrage at 7:50 for a
space of three minutes upon which the front line advanced and got
possession of the German trenches without opposition, as the Germans
had evacuated them during the heavy bombardment of the past two days.
They were just in time in reaching shelter for the German artillery
began to shell their own abandoned line most vigorously. The trouble
about this attack was that our own artillery preparation had been too
good. The Germans could not help inferring that this point was to be
made the object of an assault, so they drew back and waited until
the infantry had reached the position. Then they turned on them the
full force of artillery and machine gun fire from positions further
back, leaving to the assaulters the choice between getting back to
their own lines, or attacking an unknown and well defended position
in the dark. The French Officer in charge gave the order to retire.
During this period Edward Maher of Company B must have been killed
because no word of him was ever received. Corporal William Elwood
and Joseph Miller of Company C were fatally wounded. Badly wounded
were Sergeants John F. Scully, Fred Almendinger and Martin Gill of
Company A and Patrick Grogan of Company D. After getting back to the
French trenches Bootz and Newton repeatedly led parties back over
the shell-swept area to search for Maher, and to see if the Germans
had reoccupied their trenches. On this mission Thomas P. Minogue of
Company B was killed. Lieutenant Newton carried in one French soldier
and Private Plant carried in another. Lieutenant Bootz, with Corporal
Joseph Pettit of Company C, helped Sergeant Scully to the lines, and
going out again, they found Joe Miller, his right leg amputated by a
shell. Miller was a big man but Bootz swung him up on his back and
with Pettit assisting, carried him back into the lines.
The following officers and men taking part in this _coup de
main_ were decorated by the French authorities on March 22nd at
Croix-Mare: Division Citations, First Lieutenant Henry A. Bootz,
Second Lieutenant Raymond H. Newton, Private Marlow Plant; Regimental
Citations: Company A, Joseph C. Pettit, Frank J. Fisher, Privates
George McCarthy, Bernard McOwen, Michael Morley, Sergeant John
Scully; Company B, Sergeants Spiros Thomas, Christian Biorndall,
Corporal William F. Judge, Privates Frank Brandreth, Vincent J.
Eckas, Daniel J. Finnegan; Company C, Sergeant Eugene A. McNiff,
Corporal Herman E. Hillig, Privates Bernard Barry, Michael Cooney,
James Barry, John J. Brawley, Joseph A. Miller; Company D, Sergeant
Thomas M. O’Malley, Corporal Thomas H. Brown, Privates Denis
O’Connor, Patrick Grogan, John Cahill, Harry H. DeVoe.
Of the wounded, Elwood died shortly after being brought to the
Hospital at Lunéville and Joe Miller succumbed the next day after
sufferings borne with a fortitude that begot the admiration of
nurses and doctors used to dealing with courageous men. The others
are wounded badly enough but they will recover. Almendinger, who
describes himself as “half Boche and half County Kilkenny,” was going
off to the operating ward to have his wounded eye removed when I saw
him the second time. “Never mind about that, Fred,” I said, “Uncle
Sam will look after you.” “I’m not thinking about Uncle Sam at all.
There’s a girl back in New York who doesn’t care whether I have one
eye or two, so I should worry.”
THE GAS ATTACK
_March_ 20th and 21st, 1918
But meanwhile there had been other happenings in the sector which
quite overshadowed the 1st Battalion raid.
Company K went into the line in the Rouge Bouquet Sector on March
12th, 1918, relieving Company H. The Company Headquarters were at
Chaussailles, and the two platoons in the front line were: on the
right, at Changarnier (C. R. 1), one platoon; in the center at C. R.
2 a half platoon; and on the left at Chevert (C. R. 3) a half platoon.
There were no casualties for the first eight days except that John
Ring received a bullet in the arm. Our patrols did not come into
contact with the Boches (who apparently never left their lines) and
except a few minenwerfer and some shelling with 77’s the sector was
quiet, the weather was fine, and every one spoke of the tour at the
front as a picnic.
About 5:30 on the evening of the 20th the Boches suddenly began to
bombard the entire company sector, from a line not far from their
own trenches to a line several hundred yards in the rear of Company
Headquarters, with mustard gas shells and shrapnel, the heaviest
bombardment being in the vicinity of C. R. 2, where Sergeant Frank
Doughney was in command, of C. R. 3, where Lieutenant Bill Crane was
in command, and at the first aid station, where Lieutenant Patten
and his group were quartered, together with the fourth platoon under
Lieutenant Levi. This bombardment lasted about three hours.
The groups stationed at the outposts were caught on their way in, the
two groups under Corporals Caulfield and Joe Farrell being led by
Corporal Farrell into an incomplete dugout about 300 yards in front
of our lines, the other two going directly in.
The second platoon, under Lieutenant Dowling in Changarnier, were not
so heavily shelled and being on higher ground, were not gassed so
badly as the others.
In C. R. 2, Harry McCoun was struck by a shell which carried away his
left hand. He held up the stump and shouted, “Well, boys, there goes
my left wing.” Sergeant Jack Ross and Private Ted Van Yorx led him
under heavy fire back to the first aid station, where Doctor Patten
tore off his mask to operate on him (for which he earned the Croix de
Guerre), but McCoun died the next morning.
In C. R. 3, Lieutenant Crane walked from one post to the other in
the midst of the heaviest bombardment in order to encourage the men.
In the midst of this bombardment, several of the runners, including
particularly Privates Ed Rooney and Ray Staber, distinguished
themselves by their courage and coolness in carrying messages between
Company headquarters and the front line.
The men were prompt in putting on their masks as soon as the presence
of gas was recognized, but it was found impossible to keep them on
indefinitely and at the same time keep up the defense of the sector.
Immediately after the bombardment, the entire company area reeked
with the odor of mustard-gas and this condition lasted for several
days. It had been raining heavily the night before, and there was no
breeze whatever.
By about midnight some of the men were sick as a result of the gas,
and as the night wore on, one after another they began to feel its
effects on their eyes, to cry, and gradually to go blind, so that by
dawn a considerable number from the front line had been led all the
way back and were sitting by the Lunéville road, completely blinded,
and waiting their turn at an ambulance, and the third platoon
were unable to furnish enough men to man all their posts and were
compelled to ask for replacements.
Meanwhile, about ten o’clock at night, the first and fourth platoons
had been ordered to leave their reserve positions and march back to
the Lunéville road and down the cross-road on the other side where
they lay down in the mud and slept till morning. In the morning they
filtered down to replace the casualties in the other two platoons.
About three o’clock in the morning Lieutenant (Doctor) Martin came
down in the midst of the gas to relieve Lieutenant Patten, who had
been blinded and taken to the hospital. Lieutenant Martin was
himself affected by the gas and went blind on the following morning.
By dawn, the men were going blind one after another, and being
ordered to the hospital. Often, by the time they got to the
ambulance, the man leading was himself blind and both got into the
ambulance together. Not a man lost his head or lay down on the job
and not a man left for the hospital until he was stone blind, or
ordered to go by an officer, and a number of men were blinded while
on post, while others stuck it out for so long that it was finally
necessary to carry them on stretchers to the dressing station; and
this although all had been instructed that mustard gas was one of
the most deadly gases and that it caused blindness which lasted for
months and was in many cases permanent.
By ten o’clock in the morning fully two-thirds of the company had
been blinded, and about this time Lieutenants Crane, Dowling and
Levi, and Captain Hurley one after the other went blind and were led
back, followed later by Lieutenant Burns.
Throughout the day the men continued to go blind, until by seven
o’clock only about thirty were left, almost all of whom were in the
front line, under command of Lieutenant Tom Martin, and they were so
few that it was necessary for them to go on post for four hours at a
stretch, with two hours off, and some of them, including Tom Hickey,
Barney Furey, John McLoughlin, Pat McConnell and Jerry O’Connor were
on post for as long as six hours at a time.
At seven o’clock Lieutenant Hunt Warner, with Lieutenant Zipp,
appeared with reinforcements, consisting of forty men from Company
M. Lieutenant Warner was put in command at Chevert with Sergeant
Embrie of Company K, as second in command; Sergeant Von Glahn of
Company M, was put in command at C. R. 2, where the gas was at
that time especially heavy; and Lieutenant Zipp was put in command
at Changarnier, with Corporal Joe Farrell, who knew the sector
thoroughly and spent the night going from one post to another, as
second in command, Lieutenant Tom Martin at Changarnier being in
command of the whole company sector.
That evening about dusk the men in the front line heard an explosion
in the rear and looked back in time to see the battalion ammunition
dump go up in a blaze of glory, on seeing which all broke into
applause and loud cheers. It was thought that the Boches might be so
foolish as to think the evening propitious for a raid, and all posts
were manned and all were ready to give him a warm reception, but he
failed to show up.
At seven next morning the French appeared and the relief was
completed by about nine o’clock, when the survivors set out for
Lunéville, where they were taken in hand by Lieutenant Arnold, who
ordered them all, much against their protest, to a hospital where
they were surprised to find that they were casualties, their injuries
consisting principally of burns on the body, which had just begun to
show up, and which kept most of them in the hospital for at least a
month.
On their arrival at the hospital they found there some of the French
troops who had relieved them on that morning and who had already
become casualties because of the gas which lingered in the area.
The men killed, besides McCoun, were Salvatore Moresea, whose body
was found by the French in No Man’s Land the day after the Company
was relieved, Carl Braun, of Headquarters Company, hit by bullet,
with Robert Allen, Walter Bigger, and Lawrence Gavin, who died in the
hospital within a day or two as a result of the effect of the gas on
their lungs. About four hundred of our men were put out of action in
this gas attack including practically all of K Company, many of M,
and some from Headquarters, Supply and Medical.
The event had one consoling feature, and that was the superb conduct
of the men. They had been told most awful stories of the effect of
gas. When they found that their whole position was saturated with it,
they felt that their chances to live through it were slender, and
that they would surely be blind for a long time. And yet not a single
man quit his post until ordered. There was no disorder or panic; the
men of Company K were forced to quit their position, but they quit it
one by one, and every man was a subject for a hospital long before he
left. And the Company M men coming up to take over the position, and
seeing the blinded and tortured soldiers going back, had courage in
equal measure. Soldiers that will stand up to it as these had done
under the terrors and sufferings of that night can be relied on for
anything that men can be called on to do.
LUNÉVILLE
_March_ 23rd, 1918
We are quitting this sector and going back to the Langres area to
rest up a bit and study out the lessons we have learned. Most of the
companies have started already. The Germans are shelling this city
today for the first time in over three years. It is an interesting
experience to be in a shelled city, and, so far as I can see the
results, not a particularly dangerous one.
ST. BOINGT
_Palm Sunday_, 1918
This has been an ideal Spring day. I said Mass in the village church
for the “4th Battalion” (Headquarters, Machine Gun, Sanitary and
Supply Companies). Later in the morning Major Lawrence and I dropped
in to the High Mass. I was interested in the palms. When I was a
lad we used cedar, before the days when ships from the Spanish Main
brought their cargoes of broad palmetto leaves, which we carry in our
hands on Palm Sunday and wear in our hats through Holy Week. Here
they use anything fresh, young and growing, that the country and
the season afford. The people pluck small branches from the trees on
their way to Mass, the preference being for willow shoots with their
shiny yellow green bark and furry buds. There is a fine old-world
countryside flavor to this custom of plucking these offerings to the
Lord from one’s own trees or along familiar lanes, that we never get
from our boughten palms.
This I felt especially when I saw what they were doing with them.
When the procession began, everybody arose and followed the
crossbearer out of the church portals into the mellow spring morning.
Around the church they went, their ranks now swelled by a crowd of
our own soldiers. Our route lay through the graves of the village
dead. At each grave a lone figure or a small group would detach
themselves and kneel in prayer while they stuck their fresh young
twigs in the soil around it. We too found a place for our offerings
and prayers when we came to a recently made mound with a Croix de
Guerre and bronze palm embossed upon its stone—a French soldier,
“Mort pour la Patrie.” We borrowed pussy willows from the people and
pulled branches of green box, and covered that grave with them while
we made our soldier’s orisons for the man that was sleeping there,
and for our own fine lads that we had left behind in the dugout at
Rocroi and under the Green Tree Cross at Croix-Mare.
After Mass I started off across the fields to visit the 2nd Battalion
at Essey la Cote. A wonderful spring day—fresh and sweet and clear.
From the hill one could see the dull red tiles of twenty villages
clustering along the slopes of the rolling landscape. Faint sounds of
distant church bells came to my ears; and nearer, clearer notes from
overhead such as I had never heard before. Skylarks! It was the final
touch to make it a perfect morning.
I dropped down to the road which led to the nestling village, and met
a band of children romping out. Here too was spring. They gathered
round me, not at all shy, for they were bubbling with excitement
and anxious to talk. The American soldiers—they were so—big-and
so young—and so nice—and so devout (they filled the church at
three Masses)—and so rich (they gave money like nobody had ever
seen before, and the Commandant had put a twenty franc note on the
collection plate). “Good Old Bill Stacom,” I mused, “we are both far
away from our little parish in the Bronx, but he has not forgotten my
teachings on the first duty of the laity.”
I dined with Captain Jim Finn and his happy family of bright young
Lieutenants—Sherman Platt and Becker and Otto and Flynn, clean cut
active youngsters who enjoy their work and are delighted at serving
with the old Regiment. I spent the afternoon amongst the men. They
too were enjoying the day lazily, cleaning up equipment in chatty
groups or propped against sunny walls, or wandering through the
fields. They have heard of the big German Drive in the north and
they know that we have been halted and are to be sent in somewhere.
They are somewhat disappointed at not getting back to Longeau and
Baissey and Cohons and Percey once more, but if there is anything big
happening they don’t want to miss it. That’s what we are here for.
Billy Kaas offered to be my guide to the hilltop, from which
the whole countryside can be seen for miles around. The spot is
interesting for other reasons. It marks the high water level of the
German invasion of Lorraine in 1914, and now it marks the furthest
backward step we are to make on this journey. I feel prophetic
twitchings that it will be a long long time before we are allowed to
pitch our tents in that part of France over there which has not known
invasion by the enemy. The news from the North is grave, and our side
will need every soldier it has if the Germans are to be held off. And
that is a job that will take a lot of doing. Well, as the men say,
“that’s what we are here for.”
ST. REMY AUX BOIS
_March_ 27th, 1918
Dropped over in the morning to call on the First Battalion. I found
them in the field, where Donovan had had them lined up for a cross
country run. I prudently kept out of his way until he was off with
his wild youngsters, and then I looked up George McAdie, who had a
stay-at-home duty. Reilley and Kennedy and McKenna were cavorting
cross country with the rest. Good enough for them—athletics is a big
part of their lives. But George and I are philosophers. So while
Donovan led his gang across brooks and barbwire fences and over hills
and through woods, George and I sat discussing the most interesting
beings in the world; soldier men—their loyalty, courage, humor, their
fits of laziness and sulkiness. He pointed out to me a dark Celt who
had been discontented with the mean drudgery of a soldier’s life and
was hard to manage. Different methods had been tried to jack him up.
All failed until the Captain gave him a chance to go over in the
Lunéville raid. At last he found something the lad was eager about.
He went through the training with cheerfulness, distinguished himself
under fire for his cool alacrity, and is now playing the game like a
veteran.
Finally the harriers got back, the Major the freshest man amongst
them. “Oh, Father,” he said, “why didn’t you get here earlier? You
missed a fine time.” “My Guardian Angel was taking good care of me,
William,” I said, “and saw to it that I got here late.”
In the afternoon the band came over and we had a band concert in the
church square and afterwards a vaudeville show given by the men. The
Major was asked to say something and he smilingly passed the buck to
me. I got square by telling the story of a Major who had been shot
at by a German sniper while visiting one of his companies in the
trenches. He made a big fuss about it with the Captain, who in turn
bawled out an old sergeant for allowing such things to happen. The
sergeant went himself to settle the Heinie that was raising all the
trouble. Finally he got sight of his man, took careful aim and fired.
As he saw his shot reach home, he muttered, “Take that, confound you,
for missing the Major.”
BACCARAT
_Easter Sunday Night_
Yesterday we were at Xaffévillers, Magnières and St. Pierremont. For
my Easter celebration I picked Magnières, as the whole 2nd Battalion
was there and two companies of the 1st in St. Pierremont, only ten
minutes away. For confessions I set up shop in the street at the
crossways, and I had a busy day of it. There was always a long file
waiting, but when nobody has much to tell the task is soon sped.
I stayed with Stacom. It is always a pleasure to be with Stacom and
his officers. He has a way of kindly mastery that begets affectionate
loyalty. A man likes Stacom even when he is getting a call down from
him. At supper with Doc Houghton, Joe O’Donohue, Arthur Martin,
McDermott, Fechheimer, Landrigan, Ewing Philbin, Billy Burns
Guggenheim, and Joe McNamara. A man might search the list of all his
acquaintances and not find a set of men so congenial and happily
disposed.
I looked up the Curé, an alert slender youngish man with a keen
intelligent face, a soldier just back that day _en permission_ to
keep the old feast with his own people. The Germans had held him as
a hostage in 1914 and had thrice threatened to shoot him, though he
had looked after their wounded. If thoroughness was their motto they
would have been wiser to do it, I reflected as I talked with him;
for he was a man that would count wherever he went, and he certainly
had no use for Germans. “Too big a man for this place. We won’t be
able to keep him long,” said Stacom’s landlady, a pleasant thoughtful
woman, whose son of seventeen was just back for the holidays from
some college where he is beginning his studies for the priesthood.
The village church was a ruin. Both sides had used it to fight from
and both sides had helped to wreck it. The roof was gone and most
of the side walls. The central tower over the entrance still stood,
though the wooden beams above had burned, and the two big bells had
dropped clean through onto the floor. The Curé used a meeting-room
in the town hall for his services, but that would not do for my
congregation. The church faced a long paved square, so I decided to
set up my altar in the entrance and have the men hear Mass in the
square. The church steps served excellently for Communion. It is one
of the things I wish I had a picture of—my first Easter service in
France; the old ruined church for a background, the simple altar in
the doorway, and in front that sea of devout young faces paying their
homage to the Risen Savior. My text lay around me—the desecrated
temple, the soldier priest by my side, the uniforms we wore, the hope
of triumph over evil that the Feast inspired, the motive that brought
us here to put an end to this terrible business of destruction, and
make peace prevail in the world. Here more than a thousand soldiers
were present, and the great majority crowded forward at Communion
time to receive the Bread of Life.
I hiked it into Baccarat with the Battalion. At a point on the road
the separated elements of the Regiment met and swung in behind each
other. Colonel Barker stopped his horse on a bank above the road
and watched his men go by, with feelings of pride in their fine
appearance and the knowledge of how cheerfully they had given up
their prospects of a rest and were going back into the lines again.
With his usual kind courtesy, he wanted to have me ride, but for once
I preferred to hike, as I was having a good time.
Arriving in Baccarat I ran into Captain Jack Mangan,—always a joyous
encounter. We found a hotel and something to eat; met there Major
Wheeler, Ordnance Officer of Division, a Southerner of the finest
type. I tried to start a row between him and Mangan. I always like
to hear these supply people fight—they battle with each other with
such genial vigor. When they began to swap compliments I left them,
to look up the Y. M. C. A. to see if there were religious services in
town that I could announce to my Protestant fellows.