CHAMPAGNE ATTACK
The night before the attack of September 25, 1915, Bouligny and I went
over to Battalion C. He picked up a piece of cheese that Morlae had.
Munching away, he demanded, “Where did you get this?”
“In Suippe.”
“I thought we were forbidden to go out.”
“We are.”
“How did you get by?”
“I told the sentry I did not speak French, showed him my old Fourth of
July pass, and walked through.”
Bouligny said: “Well, we will eat this cheese so they’ll have no
evidence against you.”
Morlae replied: “We shall need somebody to help carry the load we have
stacked up.”
“What have we got?” inquired Casey.
“Two canteens of wine instead of one.”
“Good,” said Casey.
“And 250 rounds of cartridges instead of 120,” called Nelson.
“And a steel helmet, instead of a cloth cap,” from Dowd.
“And four days’ reserve of food instead of two,” added King.
“And a new knife for the nettoyers” (moppers-up), put in Scanlon.
“And a square white patch of cloth sewed on our backs, so our own
artillerymen can recognize and not blow us up,” finished John Laurent.
“I’d rather be here, leaning against this tree,” said Chatcoff, “than in
little old New York, backed against a telephone pole, trying to push it
into the North River.”
“Yes,” agreed Seeger, “this is the life. The only life worth living is
when you are face to face with death—midway between this world and the
next.”
For one week the Legion had marched each night fifteen kilometers to the
front, dug trenches and returned to camp in the early morning. Again
that night we went out, and daylight, September 25, found us established
in a badly demolished trench from which we emerged at the time set for
the attack, 9:15.
The four hours between daylight and the attack were passed under a
furious bombardment. Many were killed or wounded while we waited to go
over the top.
The French had, unknown to the Germans, brought up their 75 cannon and
dug them down in another trench 25 yards behind us. The din was
terrific. Smoke screens and gas shells nearly blinded us. Men were
uneasy and dodged. The captain caught a fellow flopping. “Here, you
young whelp, don’t you know that noise comes from our own guns behind?”
Pera, a Tunis Jew, tore open his first aid bandage and we filled our
ears with cotton to deaden the noise.
The attack was carried out by seven long lines of soldiers advancing two
yards apart, each line about 100 yards behind the other.
The Colonials and Moroccans had the first line, the Legion the second.
Owing to the Germans’ concentrated fire on our trenches and on the
outlets, each man did not get out two yards from the next. Frequently
the other man was dead or wounded. But the objective was the Ferme
Navarin, and at 10:30 it was in our possession.
A soldier’s life, while of some concern to himself, to an officer is but
a means to an end. It is offered, or given, to get results. The best
officer obtains the most results with the least loss. Some give wrong
orders and sacrifice their men. Others seem to grasp every opening for
advancement and gain the objective with very little loss.
In the first run to the outlet the slaughter was terrible. Stretcher
bearers carried a continuous stream of wounded with bloody bandages on,
silent, motionless, pale-faced, dirtily-clothed men, whose muddy shoes
extended over the edge of the stretchers.
Nearer the front line, the worse the carnage. Dead were lying so thick
soldiers walked on upturned faces grazed by hob-nailed shoes. Side
trenches were filled with wounded, waiting transportation. Some, injured
in the hand, held it up watching the blood flow; others, hurt in the
leg, were dragging that member along. Holding onto their stomachs were
those whose blood was running down over their shoes. At one corner
leaning against two corpses lay a young soldier, smooth shaven,
curly-hair, mustache trimmed, his face settling into the soft, creamy
whiteness of death, a smile on his lips.
My mind flashed over to Madam Tussaud’s wax figure exhibition in London.
Two Moroccans stopped. One pulled off his vest and found a blackish red
bruise on his chest. His comrade said: “It is nothing, come along.” The
other fell over, dead. A Zouave, with back broken, or something, unable
to get up, eyes rolling into his head, twisted his body in agony. The
doctor, walking away, said: “No chance. Leave him; blood poison.”
The Germans had a sure range on the outlet. Wounded men, walking back in
the trench, were jostled and knocked about by strong, running men,
forcing themselves to the front. Shells were falling all around as we
ran into “No-Man’s-Land.” Machine guns were out on the slope,
“rat-tat-tat-tat,” a continuous noise. Men lying behind guns, rifle
shooting, working, cursing, digging trenches, throwing dirt, making
holes.
At every corner stood calm, square-faced, observing officers directing,
demanding, compelling. What are such men in civil life. Why do we never
see them?
In the open I stopped and took a quick look around. The only man I knew
was Crotti, an Italian. He spoke in English: “Where is the Legion?” The
officer overheard. His face changed. He did not like that alien tongue
just then, but understood, and smiling, said: “The Legion is there.”
They were crawling up a shallow trench, newly made in open ground, at an
angle of 45 degrees from us. We did not try to force our way back into
the trench against that crowd, so kept out on top and joined our
comrades, who laughed when they saw us running in from where the Boche
was supposed to be.
The man alongside puts on his bayonet as the order is passed down the
line to go over on command. The officers snap out: “Five minutes, three
minutes, one minute, En Avant!” The Colonials, the Moroccans and the
Legionnaires, all mixed up, arrive about the same time. Up, and over the
Boche line trench. Where is the wire? It has been blown away by
artillery. Instead of deep, open trenches, we find them covered over!
Swarming we go up on top the covered trenches then turn and throw bombs
in at the port-holes from which the Germans are shooting. Boches run out
at the entrances, climb from the dugouts, hands in air, crying,
“Kamarad.”
More grenades inside and more German prisoners. The first line men keep
going. German dead lie all about. German equipment is piled around; we
pass the wounded, meet the living enemy. A running Zouave met a Boche,
who goes down with the Zouave’s bayonet in his chest. The Zouave puts
his foot on the man, pulls out the bayonet, and keeps on his headlong
rush.
An old, grey-haired Poilu met a Boche in square combat, bayonet to
bayonet. The old man (his bayonet had broken) got inside the other’s
guard, forced him to the ground, and was choking him to death when
another Frenchman, helping his comrade, pushed the old man aside in
order to get a sure welt at the Boche. The old man, quick as a cat,
jumped up. He thought another German was after him and recognized his
comrade. The German sat up and stuck up his hands. The Frenchmen looked
foolish—it would be murder! Half a dozen Germans just then came from a
dugout. That old man took his ride with the twisted, broken bayonet,
picked up a couple of German casques, and, lining the prisoners up, took
them to the rear. Prisoners all about. One big German officer
surrendered with a machine gun crew who carried their own gun. Unwounded
prisoners lugged their wounded comrades on their backs while others
limped along, leaning on comrades. Many had broken, bruised heads.
Prisoners bore French wounded on stretchers. The dead lay in all
directions, riddled, peppered by the 75’s, mangled with high explosives,
faces dried-blood, blackened.
Behind the first line, into the newly-made communication trenches,
noticed where dirt had been thrown to the bottom of the trench, walking
on dead Germans’ grazed faces bristling whiskers, partially covered with
loose dirt, so that their bodies were not noticed by comrades going to
the front. Continued bombardment, more dead. Germans running, equipment
strewn everywhere, black bread, cigars, many casques, more dead, broken
caissons, dead horses, cannon deserted—their crews killed, Boche shells
in lots of three lying about in wicker baskets. Trenches full of dead,
legs, arms and heads sticking out.
We followed the Germans into a maze of gas and got my eyes and lungs
full. Then felt weak and comfortable. The Luxemburg corporal came along
and pulled me out. Dropping behind, we finally came upon the Legion,
waiting in a communication trench to flank the Germans. A wonderful
Legionnaire, with the face of a Greek god (shot in the stomach), came
hobbling along on a stick. He sat down and renewed an acquaintance with
the corporal which had been started at Toulouse.
Over the top again. A backward glimpse showed the wounded man hobbling
behind us, back again to the front. I noticed the Legionnaires running,
chin forward, bayonet fixed, greatly bunched, and thought the Germans
could not miss hitting so many men. So, being the last man in the
company, I kept running along the outside. The corporal was killed going
over. He fell into a shell hole among a lot of German wounded and dead.
We were ordered to turn to the right, down this trench. I, the last man,
became first.
Blinded with gas, I blundered along, bayonet fixed, finger on trigger,
stumbling over dead and wounded Germans, bumping into sharp corners of
the trench, on into another gas maze, and across the second line trench.
Someone pulled my coat from behind and I discovered that our men were
going down that cross trench. So I fell in about the middle of the
company, pumped the gas from my stomach, and by the time I was in shape
again orders came that we should hold this trench, which had gradually
filled with our men.
It had rained all day. Racing through the trenches, dirt fell into the
magazines of our rifles. It makes one furiously angry when the magazine
will not work. I grabbed a rifle laying alongside a man I thought dead.
He was very much awake. He quite insisted on using his own gun. The next
man was dead. He had a new rifle. I felt much better.
It was impossible to stay in that crowded trench. I found a large shell
hole in the open, eight feet deep, with water in the bottom. With shovel
and pick, I dug out enough on the side of the crater to find dry ground
and tried to sleep. I was awakened by officers who wished to make me go
into the trenches. I did not understand French. Those officers insisted
I did. Of course, I did not. I knew they wanted the nice, comfortable
place I had constructed for themselves. So, paid no attention, but
covered up my head and tried to sleep. I could not. Then remembered
something—I had eaten no food for twenty-four hours. So soaked hard tack
in the water at the bottom of the shell hole, dined, and then went to
sleep in spite of the rain, the bombardment, and the homeless officers.
Next day made another attack over the top. Got into a Boche machine gun
cross-fire; orders were to dig down. Noticed a large shell crater about
20 yards to the left, where a half dozen Poilu were laying in comfort
below the earth level and fairly safe. Was crawling toward them on my
stomach, with nose in the ground, when I felt the earth shake
(impossible to hear in the never-ending cannon roar), looked up, and
about 80 or 100 feet in the air, when they had rested on a teeter after
going up and before coming down,—I saw a number of blue overcoats, and I
looked over to the shell crater and saw it was larger, fresher and
empty. However, I crawled over there and stayed till darkness relieved
me.
Those men were in comparative safety, while I was out in the open and
exposed, yet they were killed, and I lived to tell about it. Soldiers
naturally become fatalists, and will not be called till the shell comes
along with his number on. They see a shell fall, a cloud of dirt and
dust goes up—no damage done. Another shell falls,—a man stood there,—he
goes up,—he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time,—and out of luck.
Why worry? There are too many shells, and the one that gets you is the
one you will never see. If it does not get you right then it is time
enough to worry,—if it does you won’t need to worry.
On September 28, the Legion attacked the Bois Sabot or wooden shoe, a
wooded eminence protected by fifty yards of barbed wire entanglements,
stretched, tree to tree, behind which bristled three rows of machine
guns. About four o’clock, the Legion lined out to attack in a long row,
a yard apart. The Germans watched our formation, their guns trained on
the first wire, and waited.
Finally, the Colonel said to a Sergeant, “Here, you take this section.
Go over and wake them up.” No one was anxious. The rifles of the Boche
could be seen above their trenches. But Musgrave said, “Let’s go over
and stir them up and see what kind of a show they put up.” The section
went, 35 or 40 men. Just two, both Americans, Musgrave and Pavelka, came
back.
That attack lasted all night. Daybreak was coming. All the officers had
been killed, except a little squeaky voiced Lieutenant. He was afraid to
give the order to retreat. But, daylight in sight, he finally said,
“Gather up the wounded and go back to the trench we left.” The dead were
left in rows by hundreds, as thick as autumn leaves, each man on his
stomach, face to the foe.
Artillery was then brought up. Two days later, we again attacked. The
wire and the whole mountain top had been blown away. The Germans we met
were either dead, wounded or dazed.