_With the 42nd (Rainbow) Division_
1918
_November 18th._ It has been many months since I have attempted to
write anything, for the principal reason that shortly after the last
entry I was sent to the 42nd Division as Medical Consultant. The
Division was at Baccarat. At the time of my journey George E. Brewer of
New York was the Surgical Consultant, and for the first two weeks we
roomed together. Later I got a billet for myself over by the railroad.
It was a great relief to get away from the stuffy monotony of 15. The
country was beautiful, and the opportunity to roam around and enter
into the life of the war was very refreshing. We had a nice mess, not
far from our billets--Sanford, Sam Arnold, "Sister" Rennis (Y.M.C.A.),
I. N. Perry (Red Cross), Brewer and myself. Brewer was the cock o' the
walk. Henry Sanford was Division Neurologist.
We had an epidemic of what we called "three day flu"--really, I think,
grippe. Something like forty cases of pneumonia resulted from it. They
ran a very protracted course and the incidence of empyema was high.
While at Baccarat I took many little side trips with Brewer in his
motor. According to rules, I was entitled to a motor, but in spite of
constant efforts I never got it and it did much to cripple my work with
the Division.
Aside from gas attacks there was not much activity in the line. We had
several nasty gas attacks. Jaspar Coglan was gas officer and seemed
very efficient, but in spite of everything he did, they would get us in
much too large proportions.
I drove out almost every day inspecting the regimental aid posts. The
Division area was about twenty-five square miles. At one place where
there was a gap in the woods, the trees had been shot away; when the
Germans saw the dust of the motor they would put over a few shells,
but they always broke behind us. Although the line was comparatively
quiet, there was always more or less of a thrill in making these trips.
About the middle of June rumors began to spread. One, that we were
to move up north and that "big business" was soon to begin. Finally
officers from the 77th blew in to look the ground over, and then we
knew they were the relieving division and that we were to go. In a day
or two the jam in the street was terrific. 42nd moving out--77th coming
in.
I motored in advance one morning, about the twentieth of June, to a
charming little French town--Châtel. We spent two days here. A pleasant
billet and days of real rest after a month's hard work.
The Division was slowly moving north to an unknown destination, some of
it by train (the infantry)--the artillery and other overland. We found
out that it would be somewhere in the neighborhood of Châlons, so
started on ahead. We were finally assigned to a sector, of which the
town of Souain was the center, about twenty-five kilometers north of
Châlons. Medical headquarters at Vardanay.
While there visited Châlons many times and had some excellent dinners
at the Hôtel Angleterre, which was afterward totally destroyed by a
bomb. Also had a most interesting lunch with General Gouraud, to whose
4th Army we were attached. General Gouraud sent us to Verdun, where
we were well entertained by Colonel Dehays, and lunched with General
Hirschauer, the Commander of the Army of Verdun. It was all wonderfully
interesting. The view from Fort St. Nicholas was grand, but we were
shelled heartily while enjoying it. The whole country is devastated.
The days were full of new and interesting experiences. The end of
June found me in a little peasant house at Vardanay across the way
from the church. Our mess was in a combination schoolhouse and café,
just to the right of the church. Madame Michel was the old lady
proprietor's name. I had a little room under the roof, papered with
daily newspapers. She had a nice little garden. After our mess we would
congregate there and discuss what news there was.
It was pretty evident that they expected Fritz to start his next
push somewhere in that neighborhood, as there were very extensive
preparations being made. Troops and guns were arriving in large
quantities every night, and all night long truck-loads of supplies
were rumbling by my billet. Bussy-le-Château, about twenty kilos to
our east, was chosen for our evacuation hospital, and two of our field
hospitals, together with Mobile No. 2 (Captain St. John) were installed
there. Walter Cannon came with a shock team, and I think we had either
ten or twelve surgical teams.
I made almost daily trips in to Souain and the different positions
held by our men. Toward the west (Rheims) there was almost constant
bombarding, and at night the sky was brilliantly illuminated with gun
flashes and rockets, but on our immediate sector there was almost an
ominous quiet. Our artillery put over a daily barrage, but scarcely a
shell came in.
Everything was ready, and still nothing happened. All sorts of rumors
were afloat, that the attack would probably develop elsewhere, etc.
In the evening after dark it was my habit to walk out on the plains
and watch the artillery at work. The night of the fourteenth of July
was cloudy, and it had been blowing a gale from the south all day. The
guns were all very active, some shells coming in. The gale blew so that
standing two hundred yards from the 155 mms. I could hardly hear the
report. Starting the homeward trip about eleven against the wind, it
almost made walking impossible. It seemed surely as if nothing would
happen that night.
I had just undressed and blown the candle out, when crash and a roar.
I knew what had happened and jumped from bed, pulling on a shirt,
trousers and boots, without stopping to lace them. Before I had
finished shells were dropping in Vardanay, many of them singing over
the roof. As I ran down the stairs poor old Madame Michel met me. I
sent her to the remains of the old Roman catacombs under the garden,
and walked out into the road after fumbling with the gate for what
seemed an age, trying to find the key and get it in the lock. While I
was fussing a house further down the street was struck and dust and
splinters dropped all over me.
I met Fairchild (D. S. Fairchild, Chief Surgeon, 42nd Division). His
motor was waiting, and we got in and started east toward Bussy. I
looked at my watch--it was twelve ten.
The roar of the artillery was so great that we had to yell to make
ourselves heard. Shells were flying over our heads, breaking on both
sides of the road. Where the road turned north for a few hundred yards
our motor suddenly stopped. The chauffeur managed to make it run again,
but as we waited shells were constantly screeching over our heads.
We reached Bussy in due time. The roads were crowded with all manner of
transport, and we crawled along, the only light being the gun flashes.
At Bussy all was ready. The first wounded began coming in about two a.
m. At the same time the Boche opened fire on the hospital. At first
the shots were wild, but with the break of day and probably aerial
observation, they began getting direct hits. After three or four
we decided to send nurses below and evacuate patients to dugouts,
and, after further consultation, to fall back on the other two field
hospitals and Evacuation 4 at Écury-sur-Coole. These had been prepared
in advance for just such a contingency.
The nurses left first. I took charge of the patients, and
superintended the loading of them on ambulances and got the whole lot
loaded in a little over an hour.
I had no leggings, in fact had nothing but trousers, socks, shirt and
jacket, so while we were waiting for transportation to move with, I
went in and Allison loaned me a razor with which I started to shave,
but while I was all lathered and had just commenced, they began
shelling again. I kept on, but had a good many nicks on my face, for I
could not keep my hand from jerking when they whizzed over. About five
minutes after I left the hut it was struck and completely demolished.
Got down to Écury in time for a bite to eat (lunched with Campbell),
then went back to Triage where I had been working all night. Short of
ambulances. Sent Fagely out to find trucks. He got some thirty Q. M.
trucks and pressed them into service. Majorie Nott and several other R.
C. women came on the scene, making coffee and sandwiches.
Wounded pouring in. Triage crowded. A. lost his head and was flying
around like a madman. Many necessaries lacking. Profanity flying.
Night. Dare not show a light. Promptly at ten p.m. air full of avions,
dropping twenty or more bombs on Châlons. Saw three large fires.
Wounded coming in all night. Six operating teams going, but not half
enough. They can't nearly handle the work, and too many men kept
waiting who need urgent attention.
Two p. m. Avions again over Châlons and us. More bombing. The sky full
of searchlights. Dawn. Almost dead. Two nights and a day, but the
wounded still coming in. At seven a.m. am relieved by some one. Go down
and climb in Spielman's bed and sleep till ten a. m., then go on duty.
Third night. Châlons bombed. Aviator flew over us. He could not have
been one hundred feet above the tents, and in the moonlight clearly
visible. He dropped two bombs. No one hurt. Don't remember how long
exactly we stayed here, but think it was eight or ten days. Châlons
bombed nightly.
About the sixth day returned to Vardanay. The house was locked and
Madame M. gone, but climbed in the window, got my belongings and put
them in the motor. The village was deserted, save for a few old women
and a child. They sat around the mouth of the cave and went below
whenever the shelling started. It was a pathetic sight. I left some
money with them, which surprised them more than the shells.
There is a lot of talk about the rotten way things were handled in
general. Not enough ambulances, nor general equipment, and such as we
had was antiquated.
About July 24th or 25th, orders to move. Where, no one knows. Started
cross country with field hospitals, going west.
Château-Thierry. Started in all over again. Night and day wounded
pouring in. Insufficient ambulances. Insufficient hospitalization. Not
an evacuation hospital on the scene till the main push is over. Two
field hospitals taking the brunt of the work. Transporting wounded in
trucks thirty-five kilometers clear to Commercy.
Pushed on with the troops to Épieds and later to Fère-en-Tardenois.
Much evidence that the Boche is beating a hasty retreat, from the
quantities of stores and munitions left behind.
Considerable bombing. Was almost caught on the road by three bombs
returning from La Ferté with Perry.
We pulled out the end of August and left for Bourmont near Chaumont.
En route spent three delightful days in a small French château in
Lysantry, five kilometers from La Ferté. The old caretaker cooked for
me and I ate under the trees. I hated to go.
We understand the Division gets thirty days' rest, but we get seven,
then orders to move. All night groping our way in the dark, arrive in
Longchamps at dawn in a drizzling rain. I knocked on the door of the
first house in the village and after a long pause was admitted by a
very old man. He had a fine spare room and without undressing I wrapped
myself in blankets and fell asleep. The old man was eighty-six and his
wife eighty-four. They lived there all alone.
Next day moved to Chatenois two kilometers away where headquarters
were. No news of probable destination. Three nights later another move,
this time to Germiny on the road to Toul, or rather just off it. Dirty
little place, but got a fair billet. Two nights here, then all night on
the road, arrived at Bicqueley in early morning and camped by roadside
thirty-six hours (B. is ten kilometers south of Toul). Later on to
Bruley. Rotten billets. The place is full of French and everything is
crowded. Rain and mud.
Probably the attack will be at St. Mihiel.
Saw a ghastly notice posted in the Y. M. C. A. to the effect that if
any of our men were taken prisoner and questioned to say nothing; that
torture would undoubtedly be used, and that such men would never be
allowed to return alive, no matter what they said. It ended by saying
let them meet Eternity with the knowledge they had done their duty. It
gave me a thrill as I read it.
At most of our stops I have been fortunate in finding French families
where I could get something to eat.
It is St. Mihiel. We move to Ansauville. The attack commences--I forget
the date. In fact, one seldom knows it. We are in advance of the
heavies, they firing over our heads. The show opens at one thirty a. m.
It is drizzling. The fire is very intense, but nothing like Souain.
By four p.m. the guns ease off and the men go over. Met Normand who
was in charge of Vittel, also a Major Finck, a fine man. They asked me
to billet with them. The whole place is shot to pieces and there is
scarcely any shelter to be found. We three, and sometimes a fourth
casual, sleep in a kitchen. It is about the only place that has half a
roof.
Later next day Normand and I pushed north with the advancing troops.
The roads were simply jammed, but we followed up, finally getting into
Essie. Every one is wild with enthusiasm, for the Boche is simply on
the run. Groups of German prisoners are constantly passing us on the
road down. Many have their knapsacks all packed, so must have been
expecting us. I counted over eleven hundred going through the fields.
They certainly make a most cheering sight.
We pass through several small towns, nothing but a mass of rubble now.
The balloons are all moving forward.
Essie is a mass of ruins. The 82nd Division is holding the place. None
of the transports have come up and there is still intermittent shelling.
The 42nd's triage is here in a cellar. We met and talked to a large
number of the liberated civilians. They were happy, but very quiet.
Most of them were old people. One woman had a baby by a Boche. Every
one pointed her and it out, but it was more in the spirit of historical
interest than anything else. An unfortunate accident. She clutched the
baby as if in her eyes it was a perfectly good infant.
Toward night we made our way back and the next day started for
Thiaucourt to help get out the civil population. The town was fairly
intact when we first entered it, but while we were there they started
up a violent artillery action. Soon buildings began to go. Most of the
shelling was for one of their ammunition dumps they had abandoned in
their precipitous flight. However, a little later the guns were turned
on the town.
We got out all the civilians without any casualties. I have heard
since that the place is completely wrecked. They kept on shelling it
intermittently until November 11th.
A few days later we went out to Pont-à-Mousson. (We referring to
Normand and myself.) The action had shifted more to the east, judging
from the intensity of the artillery action. We passed out along the
Thierry road. The lines had, of course, all pushed forward, but the
place was just lined with the old gun emplacements. As our road
gradually neared the Boche lines one could hear that a very heavy
duel was in progress. We continued to the cross-road which turns into
Pont-à-Mousson. Shells were dropping here every three minutes. We timed
them, and when one exploded, beat it, full steam ahead. Our batteries
were more terrifying than Fritz's, because they were on both sides of
the road and were going off right under your nose.
When we arrived in the town things were very active. We took shelter
in an abri for a time, but as most of the shells were passing over,
searching out our "heavies" behind the town, we decided to walk along,
across the river and climb into Mousson, a high conical hill where the
French observation post was. It was a long, hot pull with a constant
accompaniment of whistling shells, but when we got there it was well
worth while.
The post was on the very top in some partially demolished buildings,
the view from whence was superb. One, with the aid of the glass, could
see Metz distinctly, even reading the time on the Cathedral clock.
Five hundred yards across to the next hill was the German observation
post, but "noblesse oblige," they left one another alone. Below, across
the river, were three German towns with the peasants working quietly in
the fields, and right across the river was one of the Crown Prince's
many châteaux, untouched, although one of our 75's could have blown it
to fragments in five minutes.
As the gun-fire was likely to increase rather than diminish with
sunset, we started down the hill and back through Pont-à-Mousson.
The place was all but deserted, only a few Americans hanging around
the mouths of abris. We found our motor and driver, however, after
some little search, keeping careful lookout in the meanwhile where the
shells were falling. Just as we were leaving the town two 77's broke in
the road behind us, but doing no further damage than to cover us in a
cloud of earth.
Two days later ordered to move forward and accordingly took position
at Beaumont just behind Sains made famous by the stand of the Marines
earlier in the summer.
Beaumont was nothing but a mass of wreckage and mud. We pitched the two
field hospitals on the ground floor of all that remained of an old-time
château, while the officers lived in the abandoned French dugouts.
These were fairly comfortable, but infested with rats. The whole place
is a sea of mud and filth.
During most of the St. Mihiel drive we had fine weather, except the
first three days. The drive started September 12th, with the moon in
the first quarter, consequently we had great German aerial activity.
One evening a Boche plane was brought down by one of our men just at
sunset. Both Germans were killed. Every night planes flew over our
heads all night, but fortunately nothing fell near us.
* * * * * * * *
On September 26th I was detached from the 42nd Division and sent as
Medical Consultant to the Justice Group of seven hospitals at Toul. H.
C. Madden (Lt.-Col.) was Commanding Officer--an efficient man. The work
here is purely medical and very tame after the Division. I was much
disappointed as Thayer had promised me the 3rd Army Corps.
Toul is a dreary place and the darkest corner of France I have found.
I have tried to organize the service, a thing requiring some tact, as
each hospital has an excellent chief of its own medical service.
On October 6th I got into Paris for the Red Cross medical meeting. It
was my first sight of real civilization since the previous April when I
hated the everlasting dreary nights. However, this time it did not make
much difference, as I was dog-tired and only too glad to turn in after
dinner. Spirits are brighter moreover with the continuing good news. ***
_The Last Salvo_
_November 11th._ _The last salvo was fired at eleven this morning!_
While I was in Paris called on L. There were two old chatterboxes there
who cackled about divorces and clothes. It gave me such a strange
sensation and seemed so unreal and trivial. I suppose the world must go
on in spite of war--"battle, murder and sudden death."
_November 18th._ Was commissioned Lieutenant-Colonel to-day and walked
down town and bought some silver leaves in the afternoon.
On November 3rd a telegram from Helen telling me that dear father had
died on the tenth of October. I had expected it, but it was a shock.
_November 24th._ Have just returned from what I hope will be the last
Paris medical meeting. I want to get home, and kicking about the city
is pretty dreary. Called on every one I knew. Saw Dorziat and Lucien
Guitry in "Samson" and supped at Maxim's.
Have applied for home, and am hoping with all my heart that it will go
through. Work over here is an awful anti-climax now.
_December 6th._ Toul. Called up Neufchâteau three days ago and spoke to
Major McLean. General Thayer, as usual, was not there. However, McLean
told me I would get my home orders. The same night Colonel Thornburgh
told me he had arranged matters so I could go, but now it was necessary
to wait for my rating card before the final orders could be issued, so
here I am, waiting.
Last night we went over to a musical show at the Marshal Ney Barracks.
It was very poor--absolutely devoid of imagination or humor.
This morning I got the motor after some scrapping and took Yocum,
Hodges and Kennon over to Metz. We went via Pont-à-Mousson. There
was a thick fog which practically obscured the views. As we passed
through Pont-à-Mousson I could not but think of the time I was last
there with Normand when shells were coming and going all the time. The
road was still fairly full of transports, but nothing like old times.
Pont-à-Mousson was more shot up than when I last saw it, and it was
almost deserted.
From there we soon ran into German territory, with old gun
emplacements, camouflage and ruined buildings all along the road.
Metz was gaily decorated with flags, and the streets were gay with
French and Americans, but the whole air suggested a conquered city.
Some shops had posted "Maison Française" on the door; painters were
rapidly changing the signs from German to French. The Hotel welcomed
one, but everywhere it was with the air of the conqueror. The people
were frightened and did not know what was going to happen. There
were only eight thousand real Alsace-Lorraines in the city, so an
intelligent German officer told me, and most of the "hurrahing" was
done from policy.
Boys and men were doing a thriving business in selling Boche souvenirs.
Iron crosses and belts being their specialty. And the Americans were
the victims, especially the large army who fought the war in swivel
chairs and are seeing the front for the first time.
In spite of all tales to the contrary, the shops seemed full,
especially the provision stores. Prices are very high. I saw plain
women's hats, that are generally seen at a store like Macy's piled by
hundreds in a box and selling for fifty cents, marked fifty and sixty
francs. There was no rubber, so bicycle tires were made of a steel
spring arrangement and one of rope. Shoes had wooden soles.
We had a very good plain dinner, but paid ten francs for what
ordinarily would have been about three marks. The beer was simply
bitter water.
Coming home we passed on the other bank of the Moselle and back through
Lorry, Fleury, Meiul-la-Tour, and so home, but the roads were all
deserted--so very different from my previous visits.
_December 12th._ Yesterday Fullerton (Major Robert Fullerton of St.
Louis) asked me to go to Montfaucon and Varennes with him. We started
this morning at eight a. m. in a drizzling rain and fog.
On our way out we went through Commercy, St. Mihiel and Verdun. The
latter looked much tidier than when I saw it in July with Brewer. Out
of Verdun through the Gate St. Paul into the beyond on the Montfaucon
road, the battlefield is still fresh. The destruction is worse than
anything I have so far seen. The earth for miles is torn with shells,
one hole knocked out and then the edge of that hole knocked into
another. Several of the holes were twelve to fourteen feet deep, and
thirty-five or forty feet across. Everywhere was wreckage; gunners'
positions, guns (77's), machine guns, clothes, rifles and quantities of
Boche ammunition; all the towns about were obliterated.
While we were waiting at the former Crown Prince's house, the owner
turned up after an absence of four years and three months. I wish I
could describe the scene. She was a plump little woman of fifty-five or
more. Two men friends drove her out from somewhere. We were standing in
the door when she descended from the old trap. She came in through the
mud and announced in a cheery voice that this was her old home. There
was a little tremor in her voice when she turned and said: "There was
the salle-à-manger, but gentlemen, as you see, it is all no more. We
left it at two a. m. September 2nd, 1914, and with it everything in my
life departed." Still the voice was cheery. "My husband, son-in-law and
two sons have been killed. My grandfather, who was buried over there
(pointing) has been turned out of his grave." She then looked around a
few minutes, gazing in a wistful way, then walked out the front door,
turned and looked back at the mass of wreckage. Her lips trembled, she
covered her mouth with her hand, and we heard a few soft sobs. Then she
quietly turned, pulled up her skirts and tramped out into the muddy
road.
Cressy à Varennes. We passed through there on the way back. Like
the other neighboring towns it only exists in name. The same utter
desolation, shell holes, tin cans, wire, guns, shells, fog and rain.
Nothing can ever picture the dreary awfulness of it all. It looked as
if the sun had faded and we were at the end of the world, stepping into
the Infinite.
Back to Toul at seven and it was good to see a few lights burning in
the homes.
_December 13th._ Raining hard all day, but very warm and balmy.
Cornelia Landon and Rose Saltonstall of Boston are at our mess for
a few days. I asked Colonel Thornburgh to invite them, as they were
billeted here and sick. The Madame told me there were two sick
Americans down there, and I was much surprised to see little Landon.
Saltonstall is very bright and attractive. We don't see much of them,
for they only show up for lunch, playing in the evening.
It seems strange to be sitting December 13th with your window open,
enjoying the efforts of the moon to work through the clouds.
_December 15th._ Went to Neufchâteau on the excuse of seeing Thayer,
who was not there. A beautiful sunny day. Met Tommy Robertson at the
Officers' Club and had a fairly good representation of a real cocktail.
Landon and Saltonstall left this morning. I did not see them again,
but they left two nice little good-by letters.
_December 20th._ A bit colder. There was a flurry of snow yesterday,
but still, with the exception of a few days in October, there has been
no cold weather.
Took my daily walk up to the railroad track. Found the life of P. T.
Barnum among some old books and read hard for two hours.
Colonel T. has an attack of rheumatism, is in bed, and feels very sorry
for himself.
We take Christmas dinner at B. H. 45, that is unless I have the good
luck to get away before then. Every one is beginning to feel very
homesick and restless. I cannot realize that Christmas will be here in
four days. There isn't a suggestion of it in the air.
The children keep up a continual chatter in the next room, but strange,
it is rather pleasant than otherwise. If they would only not start the
squeaky old pump at seven in the morning!
_Christmas Eve, 1918._ It hardly seems possible that another year has
rolled by and Christmas is here again. One year ago to-night, and now
here again in Toul.
Goodall, Yocum and self went to Nancy this afternoon. In the evening
the Delatté children came in my room, played the piano and they danced.
I gave them some candy; then to supper.
Dinner was pretty sad. Never try and be gay, is a rule that should be
taught in childhood.
My landlady, is having "tea" at nine this evening, and I am expected to
join. The day started beautifully, but it is sleeting hard now. And mud
everywhere.
No signs of Christmas anywhere among the French, except Madame Delatté
asked me to go to Midnight Mass with her. She got confessed this
afternoon, and is ready now for another year of miserliness. Much to my
astonishment, she made me a brioche.
_December 28th._ Waiting! Waiting for orders to return. Cadwalader
called me up Friday and said he had received his, and that my name was
on the same paper, but nothing has come. It is very trying. Over three
weeks now in daily anticipation.
Yocum, Goodall and self went to Neufchâteau. Saw Finney, Boggs and
Longcape, but no one knew anything about what was happening. We lunched
and came back by way of Domremy, Jeanne d'Arc's birthplace. Then across
via Voucoleur to Colombey-la-Belle. Heavy fog and rain, as usual. There
were no lights on the machine, so we had to grope the last four miles
home.
_New Years Eve._ By special invitation I was asked to see the old year
out with Madame De Salle, my neighbor of the next room. There was great
stirring about all afternoon in her rooms, and I could hear a stirring
of something in a bowl. Phillip, her son, age eight, came in to get me
at eight p. m., but I did not turn up till nine. When all the guests
were assembled, which was promptly at nine, we sat down, ate a piece
of dry sponge-cake, drank a small glass of white wine, then a little
coffee. Lieutenant Le Beau, Madame Gérard, the local teacher of the art
of piano-playing, a fat, healthy, false-toothed dame, Madame Ralling,
and her son waxing into manhood, down on his upper lip and a voice that
wabbled from treble to bass. At midnight we all kissed.
But this is all as nothing now, for it is January 2nd, 1919, and
at three fifteen p. m. this afternoon, after all hope of anything
immediate had vanished, received orders for home. Telegraphed H. and
leave for Paris Saturday, January 4th, en route for Angers and from
there to a port of embarkation.
_Printing House of_ WILLIAM EDWIN RUDGE _New York City_