THE CHAMPAGNE DEFENSIVE
VADENAY FARM, CAMP DE CHALONS
_July_ 2nd, 1918
I like this spot, but it was a terrible place to get to. We got
hurry-up orders to leave our pleasant villages on the Coole on June
26th. It was payday and some of the fellows had hiked it into Chalons
and back to find something to spend their money on. But it was “pack
your kits and trek” for everybody.
It was a beautiful soft June night. No moon, but the French highway
rolled out before us dull white in the gloom, as if its dust were
mingled with phosphorus. The men trudged along behind—joking and
singing—it was the beginning of the march. After a couple of hours
we entered Chalons, a dream city by night. Not a light was visible,
but the chalk stone buildings showed dimly on either hand, and the
old Cathedral, with the ravages of the French Revolution obscured
by darkness, was more beautiful than in the day. But before we left
that town behind, all the poetry had departed from it. It seemed to
take hours and hours of hard hiking on uneven pavements before the
wearying men found their feet on country roads once more. Nobody
knew how far the column had to go, and every spire that marked a
village was hailed with hope, and, I fear, cursed when the hope
was unrealized. They had a weary night ahead before they reached
their destinations. The headquarters found itself with Division
Headquarters in the Ferme de Vadenay, which is not a farm at all, but
some long low barracks on the Camp de Chalons. The nearest approach
to a farmer I saw there was a French soldier, who carefully nursed a
few cabbages to feed his rabbits. He was a Breton fisherman, who had
gone to the war, and the war had touched his wits. As a younger man
he had fished in the North Sea and was the only person I ever found
who could confirm the existence of Captain George MacAdie’s native
town of Wyck. It was a great triumph for George, for my geographical
skepticism had aroused a doubt as to whether he had ever been born at
all.
The Chalons plains set all of us old Border veterans going again.
The first comment was “Just like Texas.” A broad expanse of flat
brookless country with patches of scrimpy trees that surely must be
mesquite. But I delight in it. There is a blue sky over it all, and
the long reaches for the eye to travel are as fascinating and as
restful as the ocean. In Texas the attraction is in the skies. Half
of it is beautiful. The half you see by gazing at the horizon and
letting the eye travel up and back till it meets the horizon again.
But here the flat earth has beauties of its own. It is God’s flower
garden. The whole ground is covered with wild flowers—marguerites
and bluets by millions and big clumps of violets as gorgeous as a
sanctuary of Monsignori, and poppies, poppies everywhere. Colonel
McCoy gave me a copy of Alan’s Seegar’s poems with one marked
Champagne, 1915. Two lines of it are running through my head all day.
The mat of many colored flowers
That decks the sunny chalk fields of Champagne.
Champagne. The word is a familiar one with other associations. We had
thought that the bottles grew on trees and that the thirsty traveler
had but to detach the wire that held them. And behold it is a land as
dry as Nebraska. There are no such vivifying trees, nor lowly vines,
nor even abundant water. A vastly over-advertised country in the
opinion of the present collection of tourists.
BOIS DE LA LYRE
_July_ 7th, 1918
Bois de la Lyre—Harp Woods since the 69th got here. We have arrived
in two stages. We were to celebrate the 4th of July in proper fashion
with games and feasting. But there was not much with which to hold
high revelry, and the games were practically spoiled by an order
to move. Anyway, our minds are on other things. I came on Terry
O’Connor, sitting with his shirt open on account of the heat, busily
cleaning his rifle. “Man dear,” I said, “Where is your patriotism?
Every man home has a flag in his button-hole. I’m ashamed of you.”
“I’ve got me roifle” (patting it) “an’ me Scafflers” (pointing to the
brown string showing on his bared neck); “what more does a pathriot
need?”
We moved by night, as usual, but not far, to the École Normale de
Tir. The Normal School sounded big and fine. One expected a square
two-story red brick building with white sandstone trimmings—but we
found a collection of half underground iron covered dugouts, and all
overground rough little board shacks. We would be happy there now
for we find that this poetically named spot is some degrees less
attractive. It looks as if somebody had put it up in a hurry because
the cattle were out in bad weather. The Officers are in the sheds,
the men out in what they call the Bois—which are probably thick
enough for concealment from an inquisitive aeroplane. But that is all
we need while this blessed weather holds. Sunny France had ceased to
be the joke it was.
And then, something seems to be doing at last. We who are in the
know have been hearing tales of plans afoot—an attack on the Chateau
Thierry salient at Chatillon-sur-Marne seemed to be the plan when we
first reached these parts. The indications are now that the Germans
are due for another inning and we are to meet them here. Anderson has
gone up with the 2nd Battalion to hold the trenches with the French.
Donovan and McKenna are in support. There is a big dugout in a knoll
ahead of us—they call it a hill, just as in Atlantic City any place
four feet above tide water is called a height—and we are to move
there when action begins. I am sitting on top of it—have been here
all this sunny afternoon reading a book the Colonel gave me, Gabriel
Hanotaux on France under Henri Quatre—and I certainly do not like the
idea of spending my young life in a dugout P. C. during action. I
am going to tell Colonel McCoy that my spiritual duties demand that
I visit Anderson’s Battalion. He says that he wants his Officers to
enjoy this war—the only war most of them can hope to have. And I hate
dugouts anyway.
To get from Harp Woods to Chapel Woods you go north for about four
miles through Jonchery to St. Hilaire le Grand—a bit of a village
which to borrow from Voltaire’s remark about the Holy Roman Empire
does not look particularly saintly nor hilarious nor grand. The
Ohios are on the right of it, and our Company E just to the west
with patches of blue Frenchmen dotted all around. Follow the Ancient
Roman Way for a kilometer or two and you get to a patch of woods with
tops of mounds showing through them as if large sized moles had been
working there. It is marked on the map as Subsector Taupinière in
the Auberive sector. But we carry our names with us, and these bits
of the soil of France are to be called while we inhabit them P. C.
Anderson, P. C. Kelly, P. C. Prout and P. C. Finny; P.C., meaning
“Post of Command.”
I have spent the week with Anderson. He has his P. C. in an elephant
hut—a little hole about five feet underground with a semi-circular
roof of corrugated iron piled over with sand bags and earth,—enough
to turn the splinters of a shell. I passed a couple of days with
Captain Charles Baker of Company E, who is over to the right,
along the Suippes. Charles is all energy and business, as usual.
And Lieutenant Andy Ellett came in one night quite peevish because
the French had countermanded the orders for a patrol. Andy likes
the scent of danger. At P. C. Baker I saw Jim Murray, whom I once
started out for the priesthood. I spent a pleasant day wandering
about on my lawful occasions among the men in the different
positions, one of which I found very popular, as just there the
Suippes had actually enough water for a man to take a decent bath in.
At the proper time I did not fail to discover the Company Kitchen,
located on the river bank in a charming spot. While doing justice to
a good meal I discussed Mt. Vernon politics with Carmody and Vahey.
The battalion is under French command. Colonel Arnoux of the 116th
Infantry has us in immediate charge with General Gouraud in high
command. Arnoux is an elderly patient kindly man with a lot of
seasoned young veterans for officers and for Chaplain a big jolly
Breton, whom the men adore. The regiment is not much higher in
strength than our one battalion. Like all the regiments over here
it has been worn down by constant fighting and the difficulty of
finding replacements. During the week they got something to show
for the good work they have been doing the past three years—the
much desired Fourragère, a bunch of knotted cords worn hanging from
the left shoulder. Our fellows call them “pull-throughs,” after the
knotted cords they pull through their rifles when cleaning them. It
was a very interesting ceremony. Our officers were invited to it
and those of our enlisted men who wore the French Croix de Guerre.
General Gouraud, a remarkable military figure with an added touch of
distinction from his empty hanging sleeve and stiff leg—decorated
the regimental colors while the officers invested the men with the
coveted mark of distinction. The General reviewed his American
Allies, each of the officers being introduced by Major Anderson. It
was a formal affair until he came to our bunch of husky soldiers who
wore no silver or gold insignia on their shoulders but carried on
their breasts the red and green ribbon of the Croix de Guerre. Then
you can see why every man in his army swears by him. No cannon fodder
here, but interesting human beings. I liked him for it, and felt
very proud of the men we had to show him—Corporals Hagan and Finnegan
of Company F, Sergeants Coffey, Murray and Shalley of Company G, and
Sergeants Jerome O’Neill and Gunther and Corporal Furey of Company
H.[2] I was saying to myself, “General, you’re an old soldier but you
never saw better men.”
It was a good thing for all of us to have met the General—a man
that any soldier would be proud to fight under, but we were mighty
careful not to tell him that a phrase from a famous order of his was
a by-word amongst the American Officers under him. He had issued
an address couched along the lines of the Napoleonic tradition in
vigorous staccato phrases, preparing the hearts of his soldiers for
resistance unto death. The translator had turned his last hopeful
phrase, which promised them it would be a great day when the assault
was broken, into English as “It will be a beautiful day.” Many of the
high-ups, both French and American, seem to think that the idea of
a general assault along these lines in a direction away from Paris
is a mare’s nest of Gouraud’s, but the debate always winds up with
the unanimous chant, “Oh, it will be a beautiful day.” At present
we are not in the front line trenches, but in what are called the
intermediate ones. The General’s idea is to hold the front line with
a few French troops who will make themselves as safe as possible
against the vigorous shelling expected and withdraw behind our lines
when the German Infantry make their attack. Then our fellows are to
have the task of keeping goal. It’s going to bring the battle right
down to our doors, as the battalion and company headquarters are only
one or two city blocks from where the hand to hand fighting will have
to take place.
I spend most of my time amongst the men and am very much interested
in finding out how their minds react at the prospects of their first
big battle. The other German drives against the British and the
French have been so overwhelmingly successful that I was afraid the
soldiers might think that whenever the Germans get started they were
just naturally bound to walk over everything. I am delighted to find
that these bits of recent history have not affected our fellows in
the slightest. Jim Fitzpatrick of E Company expressed the feeling
of everybody when he said: “Why would I be afraid ov thim? They’re
just Dootchmen, a’int they? and I never in me loife seen any four
Dootchmin that I couldn’t lick.” I have often read statements by
reporters about men being anxious to get into a battle. I never
believed it. But I find now at first hand that here at least are a
lot of men who are anxious to see Heinie start something. I tell them
that I am desirous of getting into our first mix-up right here. This
Division has started out hunting trouble and if we don’t find it
here they will keep us sloshing all over France until we run into it
somewhere.
They will have need of all their courage, for if this general attack
is made it’s going to be a tremendous one. The opinion of the French
General staff seems to be that this line will not be able to hold.
At any rate they have been making preparations with that contingency
in view. The whole plain behind us is organized for defense with our
other two battalions in rough trenches and the Engineers in reserve.
I hear they are bringing up also a Polish Legion to take part in
the support. They have Seventy-fives in position for direct fire
on German tanks, and machine guns stuck everywhere with beautiful
fields of fire across the sloping plain. Everything is so charmingly
arranged, that I have a feeling that some of the people behind us
have a sneaking hope that the Germans will sweep across the first
lines so that they can be met by the pleasant little reception which
is being prepared for them further back. However, I think that our
friends back there are going to be disappointed unless the Germans
can spare a Division or two to smother this battalion. Their orders
are “Fight it out where you are,” which is Anderson’s translation
of Gouraud’s phrase, “No man shall look back; no man shall retreat a
step.”
Gouraud means it; and Anderson means it. I take great pleasure in
observing him these days. A young fellow yet, just 29, and fresh from
civil life—but a born soldier, with the carefulness of a soldier in
making plans and in looking after his men, and the hardness of a
soldier in ruling and using men, and a streak of sentiment carefully
concealed which is a part of the soldier’s make-up. He has some
Scotch in him by his name—a good thing for the Irish if it doesn’t
make them Scotch-Irish—but the military tradition in his bringing-up
is on the Duffy side. It is interesting to me to see the elements
of school training showing in a man’s character and views. In his
views of life, discipline and self-sacrifice, Anderson is a Christian
Brothers’ boy. I sometimes feel that old Brother Michael had more
to do with the making of Major Anderson as I know him, than his own
parents had. One result of his education had been what most people
nowadays would consider a detriment—his devotion to duty is so
sincere that it has produced the effect of despising publicity; this
he carries to an extreme. Well, he may or may not win fame in this
war, but one thing I know, that the soldiers of his Company or of his
Battalion who alternately cursed and admired him during the period
of training are delighted to have him over them in a fight and will
unanimously rank him as one of the greatest soldiers this regiment
has ever produced.
Last night he and I made the rounds of all the trenches. General
Gouraud had picked it as a probable night for the big attack, so we
started around to get the men in right spirits for it. The Major’s
method was characteristic. As the bright moonlight revealed the men
in their little groups of two or threes, the Major would ask, “What
are your orders here?” The answer always came, quick as a flash,
though in varying words, “To fight it out where we are, sir.” “To
let nothing make me leave my post, sir,” and one, in a rich Munster
brogue, “To stay here until we’re all dead, sir.” “Then, will you
do it?” “Yes, sir.” Soldiers are not allowed to make speeches, but
there’s the most wonderful eloquence in all the world in the way a
good man carries his shoulders and looks at you out of his eyes. We
knew they would stick. I had my own few words to say to each of them,
whether they were of the old faith or the new or no faith at all. We
were two satisfied men coming back for we knew that the old regiment
would give a good account of itself if the assault were made. The
night passed uneventfully and this morning I was happy to have
another Sunday for my own work. A French priest, a soldier in uniform
(a _brancardier_), said Mass for Company F in the picturesque little
soldier’s chapel that gives the woods its name, and gave General
Absolution and Communion, while I did the same in successive Masses
for Company G and Company H, and the Wisconsin fellows.
I have served notice on Anderson that unless he produced some kind of
a war in the next twenty-four hours I shall have to quit him. I had
not been back to the Regimental P. C. for nearly a week, so on Friday
I told Joe Hennessey that I wanted him to come up with a side car and
bring me down. The side car arrived yesterday morning but with young
Wadsworth running it. He had gotten impatient hanging around back
there with prospects of a fight up front and he secured the privilege
of coming up for me so as to get nearer for a while at least to the
front line. It was a great pleasure to be at mess with Colonels McCoy
and Mitchell once more—a mutual one evidently, for they both said
that I had been too long away and would have to come back. I begged
off until after Sunday.
Starting back on foot I ran into Major Donovan, who as usual walked
me off my feet. I had to visit every foot of his position on both
sides of the Jonchery road and I was glad when Major Grayson Murphy
came along in a staff car and offered me a lift any place I wanted
to go. Donovan and I are both fond of Major Murphy, so I told him I
would go anywhere in the world with him so long as he delivered me
from D.
On our way back to P. C. Anderson the Corps Officer who was with
him gave his opinion that judging by past performances the Germans
should be able to advance at least one kilometer in the massed
attack that was threatened. I didn’t say anything but it gave me a
shivery feeling, especially when I measured out a kilometer on one of
Anderson’s maps and wondered just what would have happened to poor
me by the time the gray mass of Germans would reach the point that
the gentleman from the Staff had conceded them in his off-hand way.
I needed the trip around the trenches for my own reassurance and I
stretched myself out last night for a sleep with the comfortable
feeling that the decision in this matter was in the hands of an
aggregation of Irish stalwarts who care little for past performances
or Staff theories.
We are going to celebrate tonight. Lieutenant Rerat is to bring over
a few of the French Officers and the admirable John Pleune is off
scouring the countryside and the French canteens for something to
celebrate with.
_July_ 14th, 1918 11:00 _p. m._
We are here in Kelly’s iron shack. Lieutenant Tom Young, a thorough
soldier and a good friend of mine, and old boy Finnerty and Harry
McLean are waiting for the bombardment. Everything that can be done
for the men has been done. There remains the simplest task in the
world, though often the hardest—waiting.
Our little Hands Across the Seas dinner was a jolly affair. Anderson
had Kelly and myself for guests with his own staff; Keveny,
Fechheimer and McDermott (Buck Philbin—God bless him for a fine
youth—was just ordered back to the States and we miss him); and
Lieutenant Rerat brought along two good fellows like himself—a
French-Irish Frenchman named DeCourcy (his ancestors left France, on
their mission to teach the English manners and become good Irishmen
themselves, somewhere around 1066, and one of their descendants
came back to France with the Wild Geese after the Broken Treaty
of Limerick) and a plump merry doctor whose name escapes me. The
viands were excellent—considering. And Dan Mellett had done his
noble best. Anyway, we made it a feast of song, that is, the others
did. John Fechheimer (whom Heaven has sent us for our delight) has
a complete repertoire, ancient (dating back more than 10 years) and
modern—College Songs, Irish Songs, Scotch Songs, Negro Songs, music
hall ditties, sentimental ballads and modern patriotic stuff—Upidee
and Mother Machree; Annie Laurie and Old Black Joe; After the Ball
and The Yanks are Coming. De Courcy received tremendous applause for
The prettiest girl I ever saw
Was suckin-a cidah sroo a sraw.
When Rerat had explained the verbal niceties of the diction, all
joined with enthusiasm in the classic verse
Oh the Infantry, the Infantry with the dirt behind their ears,
The Infantry, the Infantry that laps up all the beers,
The Cavalry, the Artillery and the blooming Engineers,
They couldn’t lick the Infantry in a hundred thousand years.
We compelled the Major out of loyalty to his native heath to give us
Down in the Heart of the Gas House District.
Just then the Adjutant of Colonel Arnoux stepped in to give us the
news that the attack was certain and midnight the hour. So we toasted
France and America and departed for a final inspection of positions.
Everybody is as well fixed as he can be made and I have picked this
as the handiest central place to await developments.
_July_ 15th, 1918
It was 12:04 midnight by my watch when it began. No crescendo
business about it. Just one sudden crash like an avalanche; but
an avalanche that was to keep crashing for five hours. The whole
sky seemed to be torn apart with sound—the roaring B-o-o-o-m-p of
the discharge and the gradual menacing W-h-e-e-E-E-Z of traveling
projectiles and the nerve racking W-h-a-n-g-g of bursts. Not that
we could tell them apart. They were all mingled in one deafening
combination of screech and roar, and they all seemed to be bursting
just outside. Some one of us shouted, “They’re off”; and then nobody
said a word. I stood it about 20 minutes and then curiosity got the
better of me and I went out. I put my back against the door of the
hut and looked up cautiously to see how high the protecting sand
bags stood over my head, and then I took a good look around. I saw
first the sky to the south and found that our own guns were causing
a comfortable share of the infernal racket. The whole southern sky
was punctuated with quick bursts of light, at times looking as if
the central fires had burst through in a ten-mile fissure. Then when
my ear became adjusted to the new conditions I discovered that most
of the W-h-e-e-z-z were traveling over and beyond, some to greet
the invaders, some to fall on our own rear lines and back as far as
Chalons. I crawled around the corner of the shack and looked towards
the enemy. Little comfort there. I have been far enough north to see
the Aurora Borealis dancing white and red from horizon to zenith; but
never so bright, so lively, so awe-inspiring, as the lights from that
German Artillery.
I stepped inside and made my report to Lieutenant Young, who was busy
writing. He called for a liaison man. Harry McLean—just a boy—stepped
out of the gloom into the candle light. He looked pale and uneasy—no
one of us was comfortable—but he saluted, took the message, made a
rapid Sign of the Cross, and slipped out into the roaring night. A
liaison man has always a mean job, and generally a thankless one. He
has neither the comparative protection of a dugout or fox-hole under
shelling, nor the glory of actual fight. Our lads—they are usually
smart youngsters—were out in all this devilment the whole night and
I am glad to say with few casualties. Every last man of them deserves
a Croix de Guerre.
I wanted to see Anderson. He was only 40 yards away by a short cut
over ground. I took the short cut—we were not allowed to use it by
day—and had the uncomfortable feeling that even in the dark I was
under enemy observation. It was the meanest 40 yards I had ever
done since as a lad of 12 I hurried up the lane to my father’s door
pursued by an ever-nearing ghost that had my shoulder in its clutches
as I grasped the latch. But I went in now as then, whistling.
Anderson and Rerat were there. They had a word of comfort to tell;
that General Gouraud had planned to meet artillery with artillery and
that our fire was bursting on the enemy forces massed to attack us in
the morning. Just then a nearer crash resounded. The major spun in
his chair and fell; Rerat clasped his knee and cried, “Oh, Father,
the Major is killed.” The Major picked himself up sheepishly as if he
had committed an indiscretion; Rerat rubbed a little blood off his
knee apologetically as if he had appeared with dirt upon his face at
drill; and I expressed jealousy of him that he had gotten a right to
an easy wound stripe.
Just then a gas-masked figure opened the door and announced that
there were two wounded men outside. That came under my business and
it was a relief to find something to do. I followed the messenger—it
was Kenneth Morford—one of two good lads the Morford family gave
to the service. Around the corner I came on Jim Kane badly hurt in
the legs. Kenneth and I lifted him and carried him with difficulty
through the narrow winding trench to the First Aid Station where we
left him with the capable Johnny Walker and went back for the second
man. It was Schmedlein—his folks were parishioners of mine—and he
had it bad. I was puffing by now and blaming myself that I had not
followed Major Donovan’s rules for keeping in condition. As I bent to
the task I heard Phil McArdle’s voice, “Aisy now, Father. Just give
me a holt of him. Slither him up on my back. This is no work for the
likes of you.” I obeyed the voice of the master and slithered him up
on Phil’s back with nothing to do but help Jim Bevan ease the wounded
limb on our way to the dressing station.
Corporal Jelley of H—a fine soldier—and Private Hunt of E—he had a
cablegram in his pocket announcing the birth of his first born—had
been killed by the shell that struck in front of our dugout, and my
friend Vin Coryell wounded. We found later that some men of Company
H who had been sent to the French for an engineering detail, had
been killed—Corporal Dunnigan, whom I married at Camp Mills; Patrick
Lynn, Edward P. Lynch, Albert Bowler, Russell W. Mitchel, Patrick
Morrissey, James Summers, Charles W. O’Day and Walter M. Reilley.
Company G had also suffered losses during the bombardment: Paul
Marchman, Theodore Sweet, Harold Cokeley, Patrick Grimes, Patrick
Farley, killed; with Corporal Harvey J. Murphy and Charles J. Reilley
fatally wounded.
Around P. C. Anderson there was plenty of shelling but no further
casualties until morning broke. At 4:30 the firing died down after a
last furious burst over our immediate positions. The French soldiers
in front began to trickle back down the _boyaus_ to the defensive
positions. Our men crawled out of their burrows, eager to catch the
first sight of the enemy. A few wise old French soldiers stood by to
restrain them from firing too soon, for in the half lights it is hard
for an unaccustomed eye to discern the difference between the Poilu’s
Faded-coat-of-blue and the field gray of the Germans. Nearly an hour
passed before one of them suddenly pointed, shouting, “Boche, Boche!”
The enemy were appearing around the corners of the approach trenches.
Rifle and machine gun fire crackled all along the front. The Germans,
finding that this was the real line of resistance, went at their
job of breaking it in their usual thorough fashion. Their light
machine guns sprayed the top of every trench. Minenwerfer shells and
rifle grenades dropped everywhere, many of them being directed with
devilish accuracy on our machine gun positions. Many of ours were
wounded. Sergeant Tom O’Rourke of F Company was the first man killed
and then one of the Wisconsins.
That day the Badgers showed the fighting qualities of their totem.
Several of their guns were put out of action at the outset of the
fight, and practically all of them one by one before the battle was
over. In each case Captain Graef, Lieutenant Arens and the other
officers, together with the surviving gunners, set themselves calmly
to work repairing the machines. Corporal Elmer J. Reider fought
his gun alone when the rest of the crew was put out of action, and
when his gun met the same fate he went back through a heavy barrage
and brought up a fresh one. Privates William Brockman and Walter
Melchior also distinguished themselves amongst the brave, the former
at the cost of his life. There were many others like Melchior, who,
when their gun was made useless, snatched rifles and grenades of
the fallen Infantrymen and jumped into the fight. As specialists,
they were too valuable to be used up this way and an order had to be
issued to restrain them. Sergeant Ned Boone, who knows a good soldier
when he sees one, said to me: “Father, after this I will stand at
attention and salute whenever I hear the word Wisconsin.”
Our own Stokes Mortar men fought with equal energy and enthusiasm
under Lieutenant Frank McNamara and Sergeants Jaeger and Fitzsimmons
with Corporals John Moore, Gerald Harvey and Herbert Clark. They did
not take time to set the gun up on its base plates. Fitzsimmons and
Fred Young supported the barrel in their hands, while the others
shoved in the vicious projectiles. The gun soon became hot and before
the stress of action was over these heroic non-coms were very badly
burned.
During this interchange of fusillades the Germans were seen climbing
out of the approach trenches and taking their positions for an
assault on the whole line.
They swept down on our trenches in masses seeking to overcome
opposition by numbers and make a break somewhere in the thinly held
line. Grenades were their principal weapons-rifle grenades from those
in the rear, while the front line threw over a continuous shower of
stick grenades, or “potato-mashers.” An exultant cry went up from
our men as they saw the foe within reach of them. Many jumped on top
of the trench in their eagerness to get a shot at them or to hurl an
answering grenade. The assault broke at the edge of the trench where
it was met by cold steel. It was man to man then and the German found
who was the better man. The assaulting mass wavered, broke and fled.
No one knew how it might be elsewhere, but here at least the German
Great Offensive had lost its habit of victory. They were unconvinced
themselves, and hastened to try again, this time in thinner lines.
Again they were repulsed, though some of them, using filtering
tactics, got up into places where their presence was dangerous. One
of their machine gun crews had established themselves well forward
with their light gun, where it was troublesome to the defenders, and
an enemy group was forming to assault under its protection. Mechanic
Timothy Keane came along just then in his peaceful occupation as
ammunition carrier, which he was performing with a natural grouch.
Seeing the opportunity, he constituted himself the reserve of the
half dozen men who held the position. He found a gun and grenades
and leaped joyously into the fray; and when the attacking party was
broken up he called, “Now for the gun, min,” and swarmed over the
parapet. The others followed. The surviving Germans were put out of
action and the gun carried off in triumph.
Again and again the Germans attacked, five times in all, but each
time to be met with dauntless resistance. By 2:00 in the afternoon
the forces of the attacking Division was spent and they had to
desist until fresh Infantry could be brought up.
All this while and through nearly three days of the battle the enemy
used another power which proved in the outcome to be more annoying
than directly dangerous. We had often read of superiority in the
air when our side had it. We were now to learn the reverse of the
fine picture. The German planes for two days had complete mastery.
They circled over our heads in the trenches, front and rear. They
chased automobiles and wagons down the road. You could not go along
a trench without some evil bird spitting machine gun bullets at you.
I doubt if they ever hit anybody. It must be hard to shoot from an
aeroplane. After the first day they ceased to be terrifying—in war
one quickly learns the theory of chances—but the experience was
always irritating, as if some malicious small boy was insulting one.
And they must certainly have taken note of everything we did. Well,
it was no comfort to them.
When the Infantry assault was over the shelling began again. They
put minenwerfer in the abandoned French trenches and threw over
terrific projectiles into ours. They dropped a half dozen shells on
Captain Prout’s P. C. and utterly ruined that humble abode. Prout,
with recollections of his native Tipperary, said, “Yes, Father, I got
evicted, but I never paid a penny of rent to any landlord.”
In spite of these events the issue of the day’s battle was not in
doubt after 10:00 o’clock that morning. There had been anxious
moments before, especially when many machine guns were put out of
action and the call for further fire from our artillery met with
a feeble response. I dropped in on Anderson. True to his motto,
“Fight it out where you are,” he was putting the last touches to his
preparations for having his clerks, runners and cooks make the last
defense if necessary.
“Do you want some grenades, Padre?” was his question.
“No, Allie,” I said, “every man to his trade. I stick to mine.”
“Well here, then: this is my battalion flag,” stroking the silk of
the colors. “If things break bad in the battle you will see that it
don’t fall into the hands of the enemy. Burn it up if it is the last
thing you find time to do before you go.”
“All right, I shall look out for your flag. That is a commission that
suits my trade.”
And I received what was to be his last bequest—if things went bad. I
said no more, but in my ears was humming “Down in the heart of the
Gas House District in Old New York.”
They breed good men there. Over in Anderson’s old Company E, now in
the able hands of Captain Baker, there were a lot of Anawanda braves
who met the attack with the same fiery zest as their comrades on the
left, as I shall tell in its place. I was not long with Anderson when
in sweeps Kelly as brisk and jaunty as if he were on his way to the
Fair at Kilrush in his native County Clare on a fine Saturday morning.
“How are things going, Mike?” said the Major.
“No trouble at all,” said the Captain. “We’ve got them beat.”
But there was still trouble ahead. All afternoon the trench mortar
shells and whiz-bangs kept bursting in the whole sector, making the
work of litter bearers and liaison men very difficult. Also the task
of burying the dead, which Mr. Jewett of the Y’s athletic department
volunteered to superintend for me with the sturdy assistance of
Corporal Michael Conroy of Company H.
Company H was in support—the most thankless and difficult sort of
a job for any unit, whether Company, Regiment or Division. It is
called upon for detachments which must go up under shell fire, and
go in where the battle is hottest, and in unfamiliar surroundings.
The unit generally gets little public credit for its share in the
fight though military men know that it is a compliment to be held
in support. It means that the Chief Commander has confidence that
the smaller fractions into which it may have to be split are under
well trained and competent leaders. However, nobody likes the job.
Certainly big courageous Captain Jim Finn did not like it. He wanted
to lead his own company in the fight and the H men would rather fight
under their great hearted Captain than under any other leader in the
world. That pleasure was denied them, but the Company surely did
honor to the training and the spirit their Captain put into them.
I saw a platoon going up the boyau with Lieutenant Wheeler, all of
them flushed with the joy of action. “Over the top with Fighting
Joe,” called John O’Connor, from the words of Tom Donohue’s song.
Their services were needed often on the 15th to support the gallant
defenses of Companies F and G.
On the morning of the 16th there was another furious assault. A whole
German Battalion attacked one of the defense positions and for a time
the situation looked serious. Lieutenant Young of F was killed while
organizing the resistance. Lieutenants Wheeler and Anderson of H and
Sears of F took all kinds of chances in meeting the situation and
were carried off wounded. Some parties of Germans managed to get up
into the trench. Joe Daly, while carrying ammunition, almost ran into
a German. The latter was the more excited of the two, and before he
could recover his wits, Daly had snatched a rifle which was leaning
against the trench, whirled it over his head like a shillelah, and
down on the German’s skull. Then he ran into the middle of the fight.
Sergeant Bernard J. Finnerty and Corporal Thomas Fitzgerald of H saw
a group of Germans who had ensconced themselves in an angle of the
approach trench whence they were doing terrible damage with their
potato mashers. Michael Tracy, a crack shot, who had done great work
that day with his rifle, made a target of himself trying to find
a better spot to shoot from, and got wounded. But they had to be
dislodged. So Finnerty and Fitzgerald rushed down the trench, hurled
over hand grenades into the party, and destroyed it—but at the cost
of their own heroic selves. John F. O’Connor, Mechanic of Company O,
jumped on the parapet to get a position to bomb out a machine gun
crew which were sheltered in a hollow. He drove them into the open
where our own machine guns settled them.
The places of the wounded Lieutenants of H Company were taken by
Sergeants Eugene Sweeney and Jerome and William O’Neill (two of
“The three O’Neills of Company H”; the third, Daniel, being First
Sergeant, was with Captain Finn). In Company F Sergeants Timothy
McCrohan and Thomas Erb with Corporals James Brennan and John
Finnegan led the fighting under Captain Kelly and Lieutenants Marsh
and Smith. Bernard Finnegan and Matt Wynne refused to quit when
badly wounded. William Cassidy, Company Clerk, who could not content
himself with that work while the fight was on, and Corporal Michael
Leonard, an elderly man who had volunteered when men with a better
right to do so were satisfied to wave the flag—these too won great
renown. They and the others routed the enemy out of the trenches,
following them over the top and up the _boyaus_. Cassidy and Leonard
were killed, and my old time friend, Sergeant Joe O’Rourke of H, and
many another good man. Sergeant William O’Neill was wounded, but kept
on fighting, till death claimed him in the heat of the fray. His
brother, Jerome, still battled valiantly and he was always worth a
hundred men.[3]
Eugene Sweeney was twice wounded and refused to retire till the enemy
was chased utterly from the field. When his wounds were dressed he
insisted on returning to the lines.
Corporal John Finnegan had been wounded in the leg the day before.
He tied a bandage around the wound and stayed where he was. He was
with Lieutenant Young when that leader was killed and ran to avenge
him. A shell burst near him and he was hurled in the air, falling
senseless and deaf. I saw him in the First Aid Station, a little way
back, where he had been carried. The lads there had ripped up his
breeches to re-bandage his earlier wound. He was just coming to. They
told me he was shell shocked. “Shell shocked, nothing,” I said. “A
shell could kill John Finnegan, but it could not break his nerves.”
Just then he got sight of me. “There’s nawthin’ the matther with me,
Father, exceptin’ that I’m deef. They got the Lootenant and I haven’t
squared it with thim yet. I’m goin’ back.” I told him he must stay
where he was at least till I returned from the Battalion Dressing
Station, which was 500 yards down the old Roman Road.
Going out I saw Marquardt, Hess and Kleinberg carrying a litter. I
offered to help and found it was Dallas Springer, a dear friend of
mine since Border days, now badly wounded. We got him with difficulty
down the shelled road to the Battalion Dressing Station where I found
the Surgeons, Doctors Martin, Cooper and Landrigan working away
oblivious of the shells falling around. Landrigan had been out most
of the night of the big bombardment arranging for the evacuation of
the wounded. I put Dallas down beside Michael Leonard, a Wisconsin
lad named Pierre, and Harold Frear, a slim, plucky lad whom we had
rejected at the Armory for underweight when he applied for enlistment
just a year ago, but who had pestered us all till we let him by.
I was told that Lester Snyder of our Sanitary Detachment had been
brought in nearly dead, a martyr to his duty, having gone out to
bandage the wounded under heavy fire. It was a consolation to me to
recall the devout faces of all five of them as I gave them Communion
a day or two before.
Between looking after these and others who kept coming in it was
a good while before I got back to the First Aid Station in the
trenches and John Finnegan was gone. They had kept him for some time
by telling him he was to wait for me. But after a rush of business
they found John sitting up with a shoe lace in his hand. “Give me a
knife,” he said, “I want to make holes to sew up my pants.” Johnny
Walker had mine but he wouldn’t lend it. “Lie down and be still.”
“All right,” said Finnegan, “I have the tools God gave me.” He bent
his head over the ripped up breeches and with his teeth tore a few
holes at intervals in the hanging flaps. He carefully laced them up
with the shoe-string, humming the while “The Low Back Car.” Then
he got up. “Where’s me gun?” “You are to wait for Father Duffy. He
wants to see you.” “Father Duffy done all for me I need, and he’d be
the last man to keep a well man out of a fight. I’m feeling fine and
I want me gun. I’m going back.” He spied a stray rifle and seized
it. “Keep out of me way, now, I don’t want to fight with the Irish
excipt for fun. This is business.” So wounded, bruised, half deaf,
John Finnegan returned to battle. Immortal poems have been written of
lesser men.
The attacks on the position of Company G were not so bitter and
persistent as Company F had to sustain. The G men felt rather hurt
about it, but their genial Captain smilingly tells them that it was
because the enemy know they could never get a ball through where G
Company soldiers kept the goal. On the 15th the enemy certainly got
a taste of their quality. A strong attack pushed in at a thinly held
spot and were making off with a machine gun. Lieutenant Ogle mustered
his platoon, sped over the top and down upon the enemy with grenades
and cold steel. A short sharp fight ensued. The gun was carried back
with shouts of laughter and in a few moments was barking with vicious
triumph. Sergeant Martin Murphy, Corporals John Farrell, Michael
Hogan and Thomas Ferguson—four soldiers of the jolly, rollicking
Irish type, were Ogle’s mainstays in this dashing fight. Lieutenant
Boag was wounded, but his platoon was ably handled by Sergeant John
McNamara.
When Prout’s dugout was smashed to pieces by shell fire, Sergeant
Martin Shalley, who is the very type and pattern of the Irish
soldier, took charge of the rescue work and dug out the buried men
in time to save their lives. Another shell destroyed the kitchen of
Cook William Leaver. Thus relieved from his peaceful occupation he
got himself a gun and belt and ran out into the fight garbed in his
blue overalls. Michael Foody, tiring of being made the cockshot of
aeroplanes which were flying low over the trenches, determined to try
reprisals, and leaning back against the trench, began to discharge
his automatic rifle in the direction of one that was particularly
annoying to him. It was a long chance, but before he had emptied his
feeder he had the joy of seeing the plane wabbling out of control and
finally making a bad landing back of the German lines.
Corporal John G. Moore lived up to the best traditions of his gallant
Company. He had been wounded but refused to go back. Later his post
was suddenly occupied by half a dozen Germans. They called upon him
to surrender, but Moore does not know that word in German or in any
other language. He says he took it to mean a command to fire, so he
started to put hand grenades over the plate and the two Germans that
were left made quick tracks for the exit gate. Moore’s delivery is
hard to handle. Alfred Taylor also proved his mettle by sticking to
his post when wounded and insisting furthermore on joining a raiding
party the same day.
Raiding parties were G Company’s stock in trade. Lieutenants Ogle
and Stout revel in them. They were out at night looking for the
trouble that did not come their way often enough by day. One of these
patrols fell upon what they called a bargain sale and “purchased” new
German boots and underwear for the whole Company. John Ryan got left
behind in one of these raids and had to lie for two days in a shell
hole with Germans all around him. He finally got back with valuable
information concerning movements of the enemy.
Further to the east and separated from the other companies by a
battalion of the 10th Chasseurs was Company E under Captain Charles
D. Baker. During the bombardment only one man, Michael Higgins, was
killed. The attacks of the enemy on the next two days were of the
filtering kind, and were easily repulsed, George McKeon being the
only man slain.
By the 18th they began to grow weary of these trivial actions and
Captain Baker ordered two platoons to go a raiding. The first
platoon, under Lieutenant Andrew L. Ellett and Acting-Sergeants
Malloy and McCreedy, went up the boyau on the left. They had not
gone a quarter of a mile when they saw Germans in a trench. Douglas
McKenzie, in liaison with the French, reported them as gathering for
an attack. The Lieutenant climbed out of the trench to get a better
view, and Matt Cronin got out behind him with his automatic rifle to
start things going. Some of the enemy were in plain view and Cronin’s
weapon began pumping merrily. The enemy responded and he received a
wound. The fight was on. It was a grenade battle. Our men rose to
it with the same zest they had shown when they fought their boyish
neighborhood fights, street against street, in Tompkins Park or
Stuyvesant Square. But this was to the death. Both Sergeant Malloy
and Archie Skeats took that death in their hands when they caught
up German grenades out of the ditch and hurled them back at the
enemy. Lieutenant Ellett’s men were far from their base of supplies.
Three times they fell back along the _boyau_ as their ammunition
ran out; and three times with fresh grenades they advanced to meet
the foe. The Lieutenant was wounded, but a hole or two in him never
mattered to Andy Ellett. He withdrew his men only when he felt he
had done all that was necessary. Then he handed over his charge to
Sergeant Frank Johnston, a warrior every inch, who had joined up with
Anderson’s old company for the war because he knew Anderson of yore.
He had fought, with him many a time in the Epiphany Parish School.
[Illustration: GENERAL LENIHAN, LIEUTENANT GROSE, COLONEL MITCHELL,
FATHER DUFFY, MR. GEORGE BOOTHBY OF THE “Y,” AND JUDGE EGEMAN, OF THE
K. OF C.]
The other platoon was commanded by Lieutenant Tarr with William
Maloney and Michael Lynch as Sergeants. Dick O’Connor, who always
went to battle with song, was the minstrel of the party, his war
song being “Where do we go from here, boys?” John Dowling, Cowie,
Joyce, Gavan and McAleer went ahead to scout the ground. They passed
through some underbrush. Suddenly they flushed two Germans. Dowling
fired and shouted, “Whirroo me buckos, here’s our mate.” His cry was
answered by Maloney, a mild-mannered Celt, who knows everything about
fighting, except how to talk of it afterwards. Lieutenant Tarr gave
the order and led his whole platoon over the top across the level
ground and up to the trench where the Germans held the line. It was
grenades again and hand to hand fighting on top of it. A party of the
Germans fled to the left. They heard the battle of Ellett’s platoon
from there and they turned with upthrown hands and the cry “Kamerad.”
Dowling helped the first one out of the trench by the ear. “Aisy
now, lad, and come along with me. The Captain is sitting forninst
the blotter to take your pedigree.” Back went most of the platoon
with the prisoners, their mission accomplished. Eleven prisoners
had been taken and fifty Germans left dead upon the field. But the
never satisfied Maloney elected himself to cover the retreat with
Hall, Breen and Hummell; and with such a leader they kept battling
as if they were making a Grand Offensive until they were ordered to
withdraw.
I have been to the Third Platoon of Company E and everybody talked
about that patrol at once. Everybody except Maloney. But everybody
else was talking about Maloney. I looked around to see what Maloney
would have to tell. And I found no Maloney. Maloney had fled, sick
of hearing about Maloney.
This was practically our last shot in the battle. The German attack
had evidently come to a complete standstill. They even lost their
command of the air on the afternoon of the 17th, when a fleet of
British aeroplanes had come along and driven them to cover. On our
part we were preparing to become the aggressors. The 3rd Battalion
was being brought forward to relieve the 2nd, and to take command of
both came our good old Lieutenant Colonel, jaunty and humorous as
always in a fight and without a worry except as to whether he and I
had enough smokes to last. All care vanished when my orderly, Little
Mac, sneaked up from where I had left him in the rear, bringing two
cartons of cigarettes.
Today we received definite word of what had happened meanwhile in
the support Battalions. During the bombardment, young Wadsworth was
killed at Headquarters, and I lost other good friends in Company
B—Sergeant Harry Kiernan, as good a man as he looked, and that is
a great compliment; Arthur Viens, one of my own parish lads, and
Joseph Newman, and Archie Cahill, mortally wounded. Louis Cignoni
of Company C and Sam Forman of the Machine Gun Company were also
killed. Sergeant Charles Lanzner of Company A was killed while doing
brave work as a volunteer carrying a message to Company B under the
fearful cannonading. The Polish Battalion also had met with a savage
reception that night.
The French gave news that the enemy was held in every part of the
long front, with the exception of a portion of the line around
Chateau Thierry and running up the northeast side of the salient. The
old Rainbow had not a single dent in it. I got our fellows stirred up
by telling them that they had gone and spoiled one of the loveliest
plans that had ever been prepared by a General Staff. “What do you
mean, spoil their plans? All we spoiled were Germans!” “That’s just
the trouble. The men who planned this battle did not really expect
you to stick, and they were all ready to give the Germans a terrible
beating after they had walked through you and gotten out into the
open space. The trouble was that you fellows did not know enough to
run away, and the Generals finally had to say, ‘We shall have to
scrap our beautiful plans and fight this battle out where those fool
soldiers insist on having it fought.’”
Around midnight we were told that we would be relieved by morning.
Why? No one knew. Where were we going? No one knew. The French were
to take our place. They were slow in coming. We wanted to be away
before sunrise or the enemy would have a fine chance to shell our
men as they made their way over the plains. I waited the night there
in Kelly’s shack, impatient for the relief to come ere dawn. Finally
the Poilus, their blue uniform almost invisible by dark, began to
appear. I started off with Mr. Jewett down the road to St. Hilaire.
We picked up Bill Neacy with a Headquarters detachment, and found a
back road down to Jonchery. I watched for the dawn and German planes,
filled with anxiety for our withdrawing columns. But dawn came and
no shelling, and shortly afterwards I fell into the kindly hands of
Major Donovan, and soon good old John Kayes and Arthur Connelly had
a beefsteak on the fire for us. The 2nd Battalion came drifting in
in small parties, and reported everybody safe. Then I saw Pat Kinney
and knew that the Colonel was somewhere about. He had come out to
look after his men. I certainly was glad to see him, and I got the
reception of a long lost brother. He bundled me into his car, and
in a short time had me wrapped in his blankets and taking a long
deferred sleep in his cot at Bois de la Lyre.
VADENAY
_July_ 21st, 1918
We packed up our belongings in the Bois de la Lyre on July 20th and
went to this town of Vadenay. Colonel McCoy had a ceremony that
afternoon which shows one reason why we are so devoted to him. I had
written up the recommendations for citations furnished by Company
Commanders during the recent battle; and the Colonel, fearing they
might not go through, embodied them in a regimental citation and read
them to the assembled soldiers. It was fine and stimulating; the 2nd
Battalion is as proud as if it had won the war and the others are
emulous to equal its fame.
I went back to my billet and found a visitor who announced himself as
Father James M. Hanley of the Diocese of Cleveland. I remembered the
name. I received a letter some two months ago, a fresh breezy letter,
full of the unrestrained impatience of a young priest who had come
over to take part in the war and had landed in an engineer outfit
not far from a base port. He appealed to me as an old-timer to tell
him how to beat this mean game. I answered and told him what to say
to Bishop Brent, and Bishop Brent, nothing loth, had sent him to me
for the 42nd Division. The more I talked with the new Chaplain the
more 69th he looked to me; so I said to him: “I am going to keep you
with me. Father McDonald is in ill-health and has orders for a new
assignment. We shall have a big battle in a week or two and we shall
need two men because there is a good chance of one of us being bumped
off. Major Anderson’s battalion will very probably be in reserve so
you report to Major McKenna and tag along with him. I shall tie up
with Major Donovan.”
The next day was Sunday. It was the first day the whole regiment was
in one place since we left Camp Mills. There was a beautiful church
in the town and I announced four masses with general absolution and
communion without fasting. In all my life I never saw so many men at
communion in one day. The altar rail was too narrow to accommodate
them, so we lined them up on their knees the length of the aisle, and
two priests were kept busy passing up and down giving communion. The
non-Catholics we took in groups near their companies and had brief
exhortation and silent prayer.
I never use the motive of fear in talking to soldiers about religion
because it does not suit with their condition, and anyway I can get
more substantial results without it. But the government and the army
believes in preparedness for death, as is shown by their ambulances
and hospitals and pensions. I believe in spiritual preparedness; so
too, do the men. I am happy to think that my own charges are well
prepared. May the grace of God be about them, for I feel we are in
for a big fight.
One thing sure, they are not afraid of it. Coming in to Vadenay I saw
Amos Dow, a stripling youth of Company K, just back from the hospital
after four months of absence—he was terribly gassed last March and
his condition then had me much worried. He was still looking none too
well.
“What brought you back,” I asked. “You are not fit for this kind of
work yet.”
“Well, they did offer me other jobs, but I wanted to be with my own
outfit, and I wanted to get a Dutchman after what they did to me, and
I was sick of hearing the Marines talk about how good they are. I
want to get into a first class battle with this Division like you’ve
been through while I was coming up, and when I meet those birds from
the Marines, I’ll have something to say to them.”
“You’re a blood-thirsty youth. But far be it from me to stop you.
It’s your trade. But you can’t carry a pack, so I’ll fix it up to
make it easy for you.”
“Joe,” I called to Sergeant Flannery, “I want you to get Captain
Mangan and Lieutenant Kinney to adopt this savage child in the Supply
Company for a week or two. See that he gets up where he can smell
powder, but without too much hiking, and then give him his belt and
rifle and let him go to it.”
“I had better get a lariat and a picket pin and tie him up,” growled
Joe.
He was right. By morning the lad was gone off with Company K. He was
afraid I would spoil his chance for a battle.
The survivors of our 2nd Battalion are camped in a wooded island
in the stream and I spent the afternoon with them. The weather was
delightful and they were enjoying a lounging, lazy, gossipy day,
which is the one compensation for being in the Infantry—the artillery
have fewer killed, but their work never lets up. I went amongst them
to pick up incidents for my narrative. One of the first things I
found was that the recent battle had given them increased confidence
and respect for their officers. A Company F man said to me: “I’ll
take back anything I ever said about Captain Mike. At Baccarat he
had me fined two-thirds of three months pay for taking a drink too
much and I said that if I had the job of rigging him up for a night
patrol, I’d like to tie bells around him and put a lantern on his
head.”
My first visit was to Company H, which had been the greatest
sufferer. In addition to the names I have already cited, one of the
most frequent on all men’s lips was that of Dudley Winthrop. Dudley
is a fine youth and one of my best friends. I tell him that he has a
name like a movie actor, but he says he can bring around two cousins
of his named Connelly from Company G to prove that he belongs to the
Fighting Race. I hope he gets the Croix de Guerre he has been put in
for, for he certainly deserves it. Patrick J. Dwyer, William Gordon
and Daniel Marshall are also cited by their fellows for sticking it
out while wounded, with Thomas McDermott, who was tagged for the
hospital and refused to go. High praise also for Martin Higgins
(a born fighter) and Andrew Murray, Dan McCarthy, Sergeant Val.
Dowling, William Smythe, Sammy Kleinberg, whom I saw going around
all week cheerfully carrying the wounded with the clothes burned off
his back by a misdirected flare; Tom Heaney, Robert Cooper, Michael
Kearns, James O’Brien, John Thornton, John A. Fredericks, Donald
Gillespie, John F. Lynch, Joseph Mattiello, with cooks Pat Fahey and
Gorman, Timothy Walsh, Peter Breslin, John J. Walker, Charles Rogan,
Michael Higgins, Dennis Kerrigan, James Guckian, John J. McCormack,
James Todd, John Kelly, Frank Garvin, Lawrence Farrell, Bill
Fleming, Charles Klika, William McNamee, James Merrigan, John Maher,
Harold Avery, Patrick Connors, John P. Furey, Frank Condit, Robert
McGuiness, John Higgins, James Keane, Patrick Travers, Thomas Slevin,
John Ryan, John and James French, Bruno Guenther, Daniel Dayton,
Frank Doran, Charles Ziegler. The men who were on the digging detail
that had such heavy losses in the bombardment praise the coolness and
solicitude for their safety of Lieutenants Becker and Otto.
Company G talked most about their Captain, the serenest pleasantest,
and most assuring person in the world in time of trial and danger.
Also Lieutenants Ogle and Stout, Norris and Joseph Boag, who was
wounded in the fray. I myself had seen Carl Kemp of the same Company
on duty at Battalion Headquarters standing through the bombardment on
the top of the parapet on his duties as lookout. Sergeant Jim Coffey,
wounded and still fighting; and, in the same class, Ralph Holmes and
John Flanigan; James Christy, working his automatic from the top of
the trench; Dennis Roe, always a good soldier in a fight; Sylvester
Taylor and Joseph Holland, liaison men; Sergeants Jim Murray, Edward
McNamara, Thomas T. Williamson and Frank Bull, Mess Sergeant Hugh
Lee; James Henderson, Thomas Gallagher, William McManus, Michael
Hogan, William Carroll, Morris Lemkin, Dennis O’Connor, John
McNamara, John Conroy, Frank McNiff, Joseph P. Alnwick, Patrick
Burke, Patrick Duffy, David Fitzgibbons, Angelo Dambrosio, James
Keavey, Nicholas Martone, Lawrence Redmond, James Ryan and John Ryan,
the Hans brothers; Thomas Slevin, Herbert Slade, James Walsh, Allen,
Henry Curry and John Fay as Company liaison; Arthur Ayres, George
Murray, Herman and Lyons as litterbearers; Louis Mugno, Maurice
Dwyer, Patrick Keane, Charles McKenna, James Elliott, mechanics;
Michael Hogan, Patrick Burke, young O’Keefe, Robert Monahan, Frank
Garland; and, to end with a good old Irish name, Mack Rosensweig. I
know he’ll be with us if we ever get a chance to go over and free
Ireland, and he’ll be a good man to take along.
In Company F it was all praise for Captain Mike and praise and
regrets for Lieutenant Young. I did not need to have them tell me
anything about their liaison group, as I saw them at work—from the
Corporal in charge, John H. Cooke, who, though wounded, stuck at his
job, to Harry P. Ross, John J. Carey, Leon Duane, John Gill, William
Grimson, Harry McLean. Sergeant Major Michael J. Bowler did good
work looking after the wounded. Tom Kenney carried in Lieutenant
Anderson and I saw James Bevan do good service in the same line; also
Marquardt, Goble, Gray and Harry Rubin. First Sergeant Joseph Blake
was a cool leader, as also Charles Denon, Leo McLaughlin, and Tim
McCrohan. Of those who were wounded and stuck, the name of Sergeant
Eugene Cunningham was mentioned, as also John Butler, Edward Callan,
John Catterson, Albert Curtis and James Brennan. Pat Frawley (one
of the best soldiers the regiment ever had), was wounded and stuck,
was knocked senseless and still stuck. Others who distinguished
themselves in hand to hand fighting were Patrick McGinley, Peter
Sarosy, Thomas McManus, Malcolm Joy, always lively in a fight; and on
the Roll of Honor the popular vote placed Sergeant Phil Gargan, whose
kitchen was ruined (“wounded at Lunéville, killed in Champagne,”
said Phil); James P. McGuinn, Oscar Youngberg, William Gracely, Hugh
Haggerty, Lewis Edwards, Michael Gettings, Joseph McCarthy, John J.
Tyson, James Moran, Edward Moore, James Kelly, Cornelius Behan, Ned
Boone, James Branigan, Tom Cahill, James Coogan, Joseph Coxe, Morris
Fine, Dick Leahy, Nat Rouse, and, to end once more with a good Irish
name, “Pat” Levine.
Company E added to my extended list the names of James A. Donohue,
Walter Dowling, Ray Dineen, and most of all, Fred Gluck, who rendered
heroic service as litter bearer. At Headquarters the Colonel himself
spoke enthusiastically about the good work of young Joe Hennessy,
who was on the road at all times on his motorcycle, oblivious of
danger even after being wounded. I found that Company M was carrying
Corporal Dan Flynn as A. W. O. L. on its records. Dan had gone up to
the Second Battalion on paper work and finding that a fight was on he
got himself a rifle and stayed there till it was over.
We are all well satisfied with the spirit of every man in the
regiment during the last fight. I had but one recommendation to
make to Colonel McCoy. The Company litter bearers are left to the
selection of the Captains. Now the Captains are chiefly interested
in front line work and they refuse to spare a good rifleman for any
other task. But the litter bearers have a task which is most trying
on morale and physique, and it will not be easier if it comes to open
warfare, where they will have to stand up when the fighting men lie
in shell holes. The litter bearers acquitted themselves well in this
fight, but I feel strongly that nothing is too good for the wounded.
I want the Colonel to insist that one man in every four be a picked
man who will go and keep the others going on their work of human
salvage until every man drops in his tracks. I would select in every
four men one of our solid Irish, of the kind that with death all
around, hears nothing but the grace of God purring in his heart.
CHAMIGNY SUR MARNE
_July_ 24th, 1918
Sur Marne—there is magic in that. I have always wanted to see
the Old Regiment add the name of that river, so full of martial
associations, to the history-telling silver furls on its colors. We
are not in battle yet. Nothing could be more peaceful than the scenes
in which we live, if one shuts one’s eyes to uniforms and weapons.
The broad, silvery Marne forms a loop around the little village and
the commodious modern chateau (owned, by the way, by an American), in
which we live. We revel in our new found luxury. Following a motto
of this land, “We take our good where we find it.” I got a variation
of that as I came into the lordly halls and stood staring around me.
Sergeant Major Dan O’Connell gave a signal like an Orchestra Leader
to the Adjutant’s Office Force and McDermott, O’Brien, Jimmy Canny,
White, Monahan, Farrell, Whitty, with Dedecker and Dietz joining in,
sang deliberately for my benefit, “There’s nothing too good for the
I-i-i-rish.” A sentiment which meets with my hearty approval.
A diary is a sort of magic carpet; it is here, and then it is there.
Three days ago we hiked it from Vadenay to the nearby station of St.
Hilaire-au-Temple where we entrained for parts to us unknown. Our 2nd
Battalion and the Wisconsins, which formed one of the sections, had
the mean end of a one-sided battle while waiting at the station. The
German bombing planes came over and started dropping their “Devil’s
eggs.” C-r-r-unch! C-r-r-unch! C-r-r-unch! the face of the earth was
punctured with deep holes that sent up rocks and smoke like a volcano
in eruption; the freight shed was sent in flying flinders, but the
train was untouched. Animals were killed, but no men.
“We don’t know where we’re going but we’re on our way” might be
taken as the traveling song of soldiers. We dropped down to Chalons,
crossed the river, going first in a southeasterly direction to
St. Dizier, then southwest to Troyes, and rolling through France
the whole night long we came in the morning as near Paris as
Noisy-le-Sec, from which, with glasses, we could see the Eiffel
Tower. Judging from our experience with the elusive furlough, that
is as near to Paris as most of us will ever get.
We were impressed with the new enthusiasm for American soldiers
among the French people; every station, every village, every farm
window was hung with colors, some attempt at the Stars and Stripes
being common. And stout burghers, lovely maidens, saucy gamins, and
old roadmenders had a cheer and a wave of the hand for “les braves
Americains, si jeunes, si forts, si gentils,” as the troop train
passed by.
“Looks as if they knew about the big battle we were in,” said
Lawrence Reilly.
“Not a bit of it,” said the grizzled Sergeant Harvey. “I have seen
the Paris papers and nobody but ourselves knows that the Americans
were in the Champagne fight. These people think we are fresh from
the rear, and they are giving us a good reception on account of the
American Divisions that hammered the Jerries three or four days after
we helped to stand them up. Isn’t that so, Father?”
“I think you’re right, Sergeant. For the time being what you fellows
did is lost in the shuffle.”
“Who were these other guys?” asked Mike Molese.
“They say it was the 1st and 2nd Divisions up near Soissons and the
26th and 3rd around Chateau Thierry.”
“How is it these fellows manage to get all the press-agent stuff and
never a thing in the paper about the 42nd?” asked Tommy Murphy.
“Well, those other fellows say that it is the Rainbows that get all
the advertising.”
“Well, if I ever get home,” said Bobby Harrison, “I’ll tell the world
that none of those birds, regulars, marines or Yankees, have anything
on the Rainbow.”
“Oh, what’s the difference?” said the philosophical John Mahon, “as
long as it is American soldiers that are getting the credit.”
“Do you subscribe to those sentiments, Kenneth?” I asked John’s side
partner, Hayes.
“I certainly do, Father.”
“Then I make it unanimous. This meeting will now adjourn with all
present rising to sing the ‘Star Spangled Banner.’”
CHATEAU MOUCHETON, EPIEDS
_July_ 26th, 1918
Somebody is always taking the joy out of life. We had but three days
in our pleasant villages on the Marne when they routed us out and
lined us up on a hot, broad highway, where we waited for the French
camions which were to take us towards the field of battle. Finally
they arrived—a long fleet of light hooded trucks, each driven by a
little sun-burned, almond-eyed, square-cheeked Chink—Annamese or
Tonquinese, to be more accurate. We sailed in these four-wheeled
convoys past what is left of the village of Vaux (the completest job
of destruction we had yet seen, the work of our American artillery)
through Chateau Thierry, which had only been pecked at in comparison,
and northwest to the town of Epieds.
Here we witnessed one of those melodramas of war, for the sight of
which most civilians at home would sell, I am sure, one year of their
lives. There were four of our observation balloons in the air. Four
or five German attacking planes were circling above them intent on
their destruction; and a few doughty French flyers were manœuvering
to resist them. The convoy paused on the road to watch the result
of the combat. In fact, all the roads converging there were brown
with canvas hoods and khaki uniforms. Both the stage and the
accommodations for spectators were perfect. The spectators arranged
themselves along the roadside; the scene was set in the clear sky
overhead. Suddenly one of the Germans darted high in the air over the
balloon on the extreme left. Anti-aircraft guns barked viciously, and
the ether broke out in white and black patches around him, but he
managed to place himself where they could not fire at him easily, as
he had the balloon in the line of fire from the strongest battery.
Then he turned and swooped down on the balloon, swift as a hawk at
its prey. He swerved upwards as he passed it and all four Germans
soared rapidly upwards and away. We saw something drop suddenly
from the balloon, which rapidly developed into a parachute with two
observers clinging to it. A thin wisp of smoke which we could detect
from the balloon then burst into flames, and the blazing material
began to drop towards the parachute. But the automobile to which the
silk observation tower was attached began to move, and the fiery mass
missed the parachute on the way down. We were glad that the observers
had escaped, but we felt that in this first round of our new battle
we had to concede first blood to the enemy.
We hiked from Epieds—a pleasant walk—to this fine chateau, the main
building of which is occupied by French Staff Officers of a Corps
d’Armée. Our headquarters is in a large outbuilding, the men being
in the nearby woods. I have been circulating around amongst our 1st
Battalion and also the Ohios on my own particular concerns. Took
supper with Company D. Buck is away, as Major Donovan has taken his
four company commanders on a reconnoitering expedition, since his
battalion is to be first in. Had supper with Lieutenants Connelly,
Daly and Burke. Daly is a fine, intelligent active youth, graduate
of Holy Cross and of the Old Irish 9th Mass. Burke got his training
in the regular army. He is a soldier of the silent determined kind,
and a very efficient officer, with no blamed nonsense about him. The
other three of us, of a more normal racial type, cannot see any sense
in being too sensible. Connelly winked at me and began to “draw”
Burke by expressing envy of the lucky birds who had gotten orders
to go back to the States. Daly played up strongly, and Burke’s face
showed ever-increasing exasperation and disgust. Finally he blurted:
“Father, why don’t you shut these slackers up? We’re here to see
this thing through, and such talk is bad for morale.” When I laughed
as loud as the rest he grinned and said: “Oh, I know that if they
gave you fellows New York City with Boston to boot, neither of you
would go back.” A true statement, as I know. I paid for my supper by
hearing their confessions.
_Later_
The reconnoitering party came in for a severe shelling, and Buck has
gone back wounded and Hutchinson gassed. Donovan is back here, also
gassed, but ready to go in again if they want his battalion, though
his orders to relieve the French have been countermanded. While I am
writing, a polite French Staff Officer came in with the word that the
original orders should stand. Donovan buckled his harness on anew and
went out to lead his battalion forward once more. I posted myself in
the gateway of the Chateau and gave absolution to each Company as
it passed. Then I hastened out on the main road, and made similar
announcements to the Ohios, as that regiment moved up to the front.
There is every evidence that we are in for a battle, big and bloody.
COURPOIL
_July_ 27th, 1918
We spent last night in this shell-torn town, and this evening we
take up the pursuit of the withdrawing Germans. Donovan’s battalion
is out getting touch with them and McKenna is starting up too. The
84th Brigade has already relieved the 26th American Division and a
Brigade of the 28th and have been in a hard battle with the enemy at
Croix Rouge Farm. It took all their undoubted courage to sweep over
the machine gun nests, and they succeeded in doing it at the price
of a battalion. The roads coming down are filled with ambulances and
trucks carrying the wounded and dripping blood. We are relieving the
167th French Division, but nothing seems definitely settled, and
messengers are coming and going with orders and counter orders. I
have greater admiration than ever for McCoy these days. He moves in
war as in his native element, expending his energies without lost
motion or useless friction.
Tonight we go to the Chateau de Fere. If the Germans decide to make a
stand at the Ourcq we shall be in action by tomorrow.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] These distinctions were won by men of the 2nd Battalion in a
_coup de main_ led by Lieutenants Ogle and Becker (also decorated) in
the Baccarat Sector.
[3] The three O’Neills and Bernard Finnerty as also Sergeant Spillane
of Machine Gun Company came from the town of Bantry. “Rebel Cork”
added new leaves to its laurel wreath of valor in this battle on the
plains of Champagne.