THE ENGLISH SECTOR
The company filed off the boat, and crossing the dock stumbled into
formation down the railroad track by the hospital train, and was
introduced to a bit of backwash from the drive. Some English wounded
were being carried from the train to the boat by German prisoners. We
looked curiously at the latter. These were the Huns we were taught to
hate, whom we were to kill. They were husky, blonde chaps, in faded
greenish gray uniforms, with their little flat caps. They paid scant
attention to us, but carried the English very carefully and gently.
Maybe the Tommy who walked near by with fixed bayonet had something to
do with it. At any rate, I didn’t feel any very lusty rage or horror
at them, and though one or two of our men cursed at them under their
breath, it didn’t seem at all convincing, but rather forced. Most of
the wounded men whose faces I saw glared at us with the usual British
“What the devil do you mean by looking at me, sir?” so I suppose they
were officers. I don’t blame them for not liking to be stared at. One
or two fellows couldn’t help groaning when their stretchers were lifted.
But “C” Co. is moving off, and we swing into column of squads and
hike off behind them, our great heavy packs, religiously packed with
all the items prescribed for us and much besides, getting heavier
and heavier. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Calais was quiet; the
cobbled streets apparently peopled only by a few little gamins of
both sexes who greeted us with the cries that accompanied us through
France--“Souvenir,” “Bis-keet,” “Chocolat.”
We passed through the outskirts of the town and into a dusty, sandy
road between green dikes or ramparts dotted with anti-aircraft guns.
Then we passed by a group of weather-worn barracks, dusty and dreary,
labeled--doubtless by some wag, we thought--“Rest Camp,” surrounded by
wire fences.
We cross a canal, turn to the left, and pass along to another--“Rest
Camp No. 6.” The leading company turns in at a gate in the wire fence;
we see American uniforms and campaign hats; one or two officers in
overseas caps, strange looking to us then; then we pass in through the
gate and realize that this is our temporary destination.
We were billeted in tents, about 12 feet in diameter--and about 20 men
to a tent. Sand everywhere. A hideous open latrine next to the mess
hall. After the usual hurly-burly and confusion, we finally kick other
companies out of our tents, are in turn kicked out of theirs, and,
after a long wait, get--“tea.” Oh, how Americans did love that word!
The officers were lodged in luxury--the five of us had a whole tent,
with some boards to sleep on. We ate at the British officers’ mess,
where meals and very good beer and wine were served by Waacs. The next
thing was an officers’ meeting, and that night a talk by an English
major. He cheered us up by telling us that very few ever came back, and
narrated several choice tales of sudden death in unusual and gruesome
forms. He was apparently bent on removing from our minds any impression
that we were in for a pleasure trip. We afterwards heard that he was
severely criticised by other British officers for trying to get our
wind up first thing.
The next morning our equipment was cut down. We could only keep what
we could carry on our backs. The contents of our barrack bags, the
extra equipment, the complete outfit that had been subjected to so many
inspections, upon which we had turned in reams upon reams of reports at
Camp Dix, were ruthlessly collected, dumped into trucks and carted off
to Heaven knows where by a Q. M. 2nd Lieutenant. No count was taken, no
papers signed. The omniscient powers, who had deviled our lives out to
collect this stuff, hadn’t told us anything about this little ceremony.
So underwear, socks, extra pairs of shoes were a drug on the market;
and we simply couldn’t give the cigarettes away. A great quantity were
turned over to the Y. M. C. A. canteen. Of course, we never saw our
barrack bags again.
The next day we formed with rifles, belts and bayonets, and marched
about four miles out into the flat, flat country; past windmills
and hedges and a little estaminet here and there, until we came to
a British gas house. Here some English and Scotch sergeants issued
English gas masks, and after a couple of hours gas mask drill we went
through the gas house, and started back to camp. On our way we stopped
by at an ordnance hut where our American Enfields were exchanged for
English Enfields, with their stubby looking barrels and heavy sight
guards. In our army issuing or exchanging any piece of ordnance
property is like getting married, and when a rifle is involved it is
like five actions at law and a couple of breach of promise suits.
Here we filed in one door, shoved our rifle at a Tommy, beat it for
the other door, grabbed an English weapon and bayonet, and the deed
was done. I happened to be in command of the battalion that day, and
somewhere I suppose the British government has a couple of grubby slips
of paper on which I’ve signed for 1,000 gas masks, rifles and bayonets.
The transaction would probably have been a fatal blow to a U. S.
ordnance officer. Being only a reserve officer of infantry, it seemed
to me pretty sensible.
Back in camp we were pretty much left alone, and some there were who
lost no time making an acquaintance with the estaminets of Calais. In
thirty-six hours we had learned enough English to discourse glibly of
“tuppence ha’ penny,” and I even overheard Price offer to “Shoot you a
bob,” and somebody promptly took “six penn ’orth of it.” But this was
nothing compared to our excursions into the unexplored fields of the
long suffering French language. By that evening most of the men seemed
quite proficient in a few such indispensable phrases as “Vin rouge tout
de suite” or rather “Van rooge toot sweet,” “Encore,” “Combien,” and
“Oo la la, ma cherie.”
The next morning--Wednesday, June 5th--we left Rest Camp No. 6, and
glad we were to leave it, for a dirty, hot hole it was. We hadn’t
been bombed, though the town got its usual raid, and the camp was
complimented the next night by the Boche.
The hike to the station was long and hot and made without a rest. Of
course, not knowing as much as they would later, the men’s packs were
tremendous. The overcoat, blanket, 100 rounds of ammunition and extra
shoes and rations alone are a good load, and when one adds several
suits of underwear, extra toilet articles, Jenny’s sweaters, Aunt
Sarah’s wristlets, a couple of cartons of cigarettes and pipe tobacco,
and some chocolate, it gets tremendous. Little Effingham’s pack as
usual, was down to his heels, but he stoutly refused assistance, also
as usual. The company arrived at the station feeling like a dyspeptic
bear with scarlet fever.
We were forthwith introduced to the famous “Hommes 40, Chevaux 8.” It
was seldom that bad, but even 25 or 30 men are a tight fit in those
little cattle cars, as you all can testify.
We rolled out of Havre, pursued to the last by the children and orange
sellers, who seemed to spring up from the ground everywhere in Northern
France.
This first trip was short. We passed from the low country into a gently
rolling terrain, and at about 1 o’clock arrived at Marquise, where we
detrained.
We were met by a couple of Scotch officers from the 14th Highland
Light Infantry. They guided us up the road to the village where we
were billeted, about two miles away. On the way one of them, Captain
“Jimmie” Johnston, told us that their battalion was detailed to act as
instructors for the 311th Infantry.
The first little crossroads village was our billet--Rinxent. The
command “Fall out t’ right of th’ road” sounded quite welcome to the
overloaded marchers and we watched the rest of the battalion march by
enroute to their billets at Rety, two kilos further.
The company was scattered along the road in small billets of from
ten to forty men. Company headquarters was established in the corner
estaminet. This was our first introduction to French billets. The usual
procedure consisted of:
1. Protest to billeting officer or N. C. O. at putting human beings
into such a place. Unsuccessful.
2. Long argument with house holder, he speaking French very fast and we
speaking American very loud. Usually ended by the argument of a five
franc note to the frugal French peasant.
3. Cleaning out the stable, chicken house, or barn, with voluble
protests from f. F. p.
4. Making sundry discoveries during the first night.
5. Pitching pup tents in nearest field.
We got permission to use a field about 100 yards square for a drill
ground and two platoons pitched pup tents there.
The first night a few of the boys became slightly excited over the
privilege of visiting the estaminets, and tried to drink up all the vin
rouge and cognac at once. The consequence was that the dispensers of
good cheer were put under the ban for several days.
Now the training of the company began in earnest. The majority of the
men had had only the most hasty smattering of the elements of squad
drill; many could not shoulder arms properly. Two platoons would use
the drill field while two drilled on the roads outside. The training
schedules called for a good nine-hour day of drill and ceremonies,
varied occasionally by short practice hikes by company or battalion.
Lewis guns were issued to us here. A few officers and n. c. o.’s
had taken courses in the use of this weapon at Camp Dix; company
and battalion schools were at once started, the latter conducted by
Scottish n. c. o.’s from the 14th H. L. I.
In addition, there were battalion, regimental and corps schools for
bayonet, gas defense, liaison (for the runners), bombing, rifle
grenade, musketry and several more. From this time until we left
France there were always a number of men away at schools. Of course
this was necessary, but it broke up the training of the company as a
whole. Also, we were brigaded with the British, and some men would go
to a British school and qualify as instructors, only to come back and
find that the American system was being used, and vice versa. Both
systems might have their good points, and did have, but the rate at
which orders and instructions and ways of doing things changed from
day to day was enough to bewilder old hands at this game; and we were
greenhorns.
“Jimmy” Johnston helped a lot. He was in command of what was left of
the 14th battalion, Highland Light Infantry--about four squads. Of
medium height, rather stocky build, with a bonny, handsome face and
bright blue eyes under his Scotch cap, Jimmy was one of the finest
fellows and best officers that ever stepped. He had been through the
Gallipoli expedition, and two years on the Western front; had been
reported killed in action, and gone home on leave to be greeted as one
risen from the dead.
Jimmy had been through the mill. He knew. Always with a word of
encouragement, to avoid dampening our American energy, he would help
along with quiet hints and canny suggestions that were worth their
weight in gold. When we came staggering along under heavy packs, he
said nothing, but strolled along with his little cane and admired
the landscape. When orders would come in thick and fast, each one
contradicting the last, and all to be executed at once, Jimmy would
intimate verra, verra cautiously, that if we used our own judgment we
should get along somehow, and that C. O’s and chiefs of staff had to
keep themselves busy, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt ’em. Like
most Scotch officers he seemed to live mostly on whiskey, and throve on
the diet.
On June 11, Major Odom went to a Corps school, and I was left in charge
of the battalion. Of course, that evening orders came in to move next
morning. We had just begun to get in our English transport--the little
limbers and the cranky rolling kitchen with which we were to become so
familiar later. Up to then we had cooked on our American field ranges.
At 7 o’clock next morning we pulled out and marched down to Rety.
There we fell in behind the 2d battalion, and started on our first
full day’s hike. The packs were still heavy, and those full cartridge
belts--Lord, how much 100 rounds of ammunition can weigh after a
while! As usual with green troops, the leading element set too fast a
pace. Rests seemed but a minute. Finally, on a long, long up grade, we
halted for lunch. After chow and an hour’s rest, we pulled on, picking
’em up and putting ’em down. On, over broad white roads; turning off
into narrower roads shaded by rows of tall trees, turning into the
highroad again. We passed stragglers from the 309th and 310th Infantry,
so knew that the whole 78th Division must be in France and on the move
near us. The hills were higher, the women were older. We came to a
village; three estaminets, two stores, a school house, a blacksmith’s
shop, a sign. “Brunembert.” Regimental Hdqrs. and Supply Co. are halted
there. We keep on; on the other side of town “C” and “D” companies meet
their advance party guides and turn off; we hike on half a kilometer,
half way up a hill, turn off to the right, hike around the hill, and
finally, at about 3 P. M., plumb tuckered, the company is split, two
platoons going to one farmhouse, the other two to another, at Haute
Creuse.
Haute Creuse itself was only a crossroads, with one poor cottage.
Battalion headquarters was there. The company billets were a good
quarter of a mile apart. In addition, when I inspected the billet
assigned the 3rd and 4th platoons, I found a remarkably dirty old
barn, with a cesspool and manure heap outside that was awful, even
for France. The only spring was near the pool. So the next morning we
moved these platoons over to the other billet, pitching pup tents in a
beautiful field just on the other side of the barnyard.
That afternoon an old duffer in an English major’s uniform came ambling
along. He expressed great anguish at our not using the billets assigned
to us. It meant nothing to him that our comfort, health, convenience
were served by our using our own tents. The plan was that that lousy
old typhoid trap should be occupied, and so it must be done. And he, it
appeared, was the “area commandant.”
So I said “Yessir,” and tipped Sgt. Ertwine off to have some men make a
great show of striking tents, and resolved privately to take a chance
yet. Jimmy Johnston came along later and told me that area commandants
were a tribe of dud officers who were given that job to keep ’em out of
mischief.
I was hauled over the coals three or four times about it. The old Major
wrote to his General Hdq., and they wrote to our hdq., and it came down
the line to our Colonel, whose soul shivered before the wintry blast.
But finally Lt. Col. Myers took it up and obtained permission for us to
stay where we were.
At Rinxent a number of second lieutenants, just commissioned at the
Officers’ Training Camp at Langres, had joined us. We had a captain
and five or six second lieuts. attached to “B” Co. The captain, who
was commanding the company in my absence at bn. hdq., was a peculiar
individual, with very fierce and imposing mustachios, and a manner to
match; but an absurdly incongruous weak and husky voice, due to throat
trouble. The lieuts. were rather a good bunch; men who had been n. c.
o.’s in outfits that had come over during the preceding year, and some
of whom had been in the trenches already. We were fortunate in keeping
one of them, Lieut. Bivens Moore, in the company; the others we lost by
transfers from time to time.
Training was resumed again; schools ran in full force. Officers and
men were continually going off to sundry corps or army schools in the
vicinity; at St. Omer or points near by. Harold Sculthorpe went off
to a cooks’ school, and we didn’t see him again for many a month. Sgt.
Peterson was made Brigade Postal N. C. O. We received our first mail
from home, and nobody can ever tell how welcome it was. Letters were
the one slender thread that connected our new life with the old. A
bit of mail cheered up a soldier for days; a disappointment when mail
came in without one for him made him blue for a week. It was pleasant
to see the earnest faces of fellows like Sgt. Schelter, and Corporal
DeGrote beaming when they heard from their wives and little ones.
With the impatience and eagerness of the newlyweds, I was of course
sympathetic. And as for the majority, who were waiting for letters from
the best little girl in the world, they were either insufferable in
their glamourous egotism, or serio-comic in their suffering, according
to whether the lady had seen fit to be kind or cool when she took her
pen in hand. Certain ones, too, who shall be nameless, would receive
letters in sundry handwritings, with a variety of post-marks. Don
Juans, these; gay and giddy Lotharios in the old home town.
We were billeted at a typical French farm of the larger type. As you
turned in off the road through the gateway, a black dog chained in a
little stone dungeon just inside barked fiercely. This poor beast had
been chained in that one place for so long that he knew nothing else.
He was half blind; and one day when I unchained him and took him for a
walk down the road, he was desperately frightened; and as soon as he
got back he made a dash for his kennel, and refused to come out.
The long, two story house took up most of the left hand side of the
courtyard. The officers had two rooms here, one of which we used for
a mess. The family lived mostly in the big kitchen, where a little
fire burned on the great hearth. On the other two sides were stables,
some of which were used as billets, storeroom and orderly room. The
manure heap adorned the center of the courtyard. Behind lay a small
but important yard, which in turn opened on the big field where two
platoons were in pup tents around the border, and where the company
formed.
The people here were dull, homely, grasping and churlish. I do not
recollect ever having been given a pleasant word by one of them; but
of complaints and claims for damages there was no lack. They seemed to
resent our presence from the very first; we were apparently as much
intruders to them as German troops could have been.
The men soon began to resent this attitude, and to reciprocate in kind.
Soldiers are apt to be heedless, and are of course a nuisance to the
people they are quartered on; but at Rety they had greeted us in the
main as friends, and we in turn tried to give as little trouble as
possible. Here our notions of being the welcome young warriors got a
good severe jolt.
We on our side took some time to learn how to conduct ourselves. How
were we to know that a French peasant would far rather have you walk
over him than over one of his fields? Why was it a crime to cut down a
stunted dead tree for the company kitchen? And where, oh, where were
the pretty mademoiselles?
But even in Northern France all the people were not like this. Remember
the old woman just down the road, who lived with her daughters in the
cottage which was battalion headquarters? They were very poor, and
worked very hard; all the long summer day--and it was light from 4:30
A. M. to 9:00 P. M.--they were busy, indoors and out. Her three sons
were in the army, one a prisonier de guerre, two at the front. When one
of them, only a young lad, came home for a few days’ permission, he
went out every morning at 6:00 o’clock and worked until dusk. How many
of us would have done as much? And the old lady and girl always had
a smile and cheery word, and would give soldiers a drink of milk and
insisted on having officers going to bn. hdq. stop for a cup of coffee.
Even the pretty little goat in the yard grew friendly with olive drab,
and would romp with us like a dog.
For several days we used whatever little fields we could for drill;
every square foot of land that was suitable seemed to be under
cultivation. This was unsatisfactory, to say the least. Finally Col.
Meyers arranged for us to have the use of the top of the great hill. It
was a splendid place to drill--after you got there. But oh, that hike
up that young mountain and down again, twice a day! Will we ever forget
it?
When we had been here about a week, Major Odom returned, and a day
or so later Lieuts. Schuyler and Merrill rejoined the company. They
were all primed with the new wrinkles they had picked up at school at
Chatillon, and took over the first and third platoons respectively.
Schuyler’s conscientiousness, high spirits and inexhaustible energy
made him a great asset to the company. Merrill was an equally hard and
willing worker, and though young, was one of the brightest men in the
regiment. He had graduated from the school at the head of his class,
which included majors, captains and lieuts. from all over the A. E. F.
We were stationed about 50 kilometers behind the lines; and had the
Germans made one more drive on Calais that summer we should have
undoubtedly gone into action. No lights were shown at night, and it was
seldom that we did not hear the droning buzz of the great Boche bombing
planes winging their way to bomb Calais or Boulogne, or maybe some
nearer town, Desvres or St. Omer.
At the beginning of July details of officers and n. c. o.’s were
sent up to the front lines for four day tours of observation. Sgts.
Ertwine, Perry and I went on the first one, and were in the line with a
battalion of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Our experiences, while
interesting, hardly belong here. Lieut. Foulkes went up the next week
and landed in the midst of an attack, so he saw plenty of action. Then
Lieut. Schuyler went up with an Australian outfit, who didn’t let him
pine for excitement during his stay. It was an excellent system, and we
saw at first hand how things were really run in the trenches.
When I returned from my tour, an orderly brought around late that night
some red covered books and leaflets, and we were told that these would
be put into effect the next day. These were the new system of combat
formations, involving an absolutely new extended order drill, and
formation of the company. Lieut. Moore had drilled a few times in these
formations; the rest of us knew no more about them than the company
cooks did. So next morning we sallied forth, books in hand, and worked
the formations out step by step. Everyone was quick to see that this
was something like business, as of course our old army regulations
were absurd when it came to using the new special weapons, such as
automatic rifles, hand and rifle grenades, and so on. So the new
formations were mastered remarkably quickly.
A bayonet course with trenches, “shell holes” and dummies was
installed, and a sergeant of the Northumberland Fusileers was
instructor. He was a good one, too; but as usual, we were up against
it, as he taught some things slightly differently from the American
methods.
It was while going over this course that Gustave Fleischmann stepped in
a hole and broke his leg. It was a bad break, for I saw his foot and
lower leg go out sideways at a right angle, in spite of his leggings.
He was game enough, though, and smoked a cigarette while waiting for
an ambulance and surgeon. We heard from him several times from English
hospitals, but he was never able to rejoin the company.
We also lost another very valuable man in Corporal Edward Johnson.
This man could have claimed exemption for either dependents or a weak
heart. He refused to do either, and we managed to get him passed by
the medicos for foreign service. The daily hike up that hill, however,
and the strenuous life generally, were too much for him, though he
kept at it until he was worn down to a very dangerous point. I made
him go before the surgeon, who at once ordered him transferred to a
depot brigade. I know that Johnson was not liked by some of you men
on account of his conscientiousness. I believe, however, that when
you look back upon it you will appreciate his honest, unselfish and
unceasing labor for his squad, platoon, and company.
That countryside was beautiful at this time. It rained often, but in
showers; not the continuous drizzle that came later. Maybe it was
because we took more notice of such things than usual, not knowing if
we would see another summer, but the green fields, fresh in the early
morning and cool and sweet at night, and the hedges, and the pretty
little bits of woodland along the creeks and ravines, all seemed lovely
as never before.
In the next town, just over the hill, was an Australian rest camp. We
got along with the Aussies much better than with Tommies, and every
night numerous visitors went down to cultivate the entente cordial with
the assistance of the town estaminets.
Our first payday in France came about this time, and what with back pay
coming in, and the high rate of exchange, and being paid in francs,
some of the boys waxed rather too exuberant over the flowing bowl. What
with Janicki and Effingham trying to clean up Brunembert, starting in
with a couple of Tommies and ending with an abrupt thud when they got
around to “D” Co. headquarters; and sundry members of the Irish brigade
making a Donnybrook Fair out of the highways and byways, I had a busy
night.
Another night we shall remember is that of July 4th. Sgts. Ertwine,
Perry and Anness were going up for commissions at the Officer
Candidates’ School at Langres, and the officers gave them a farewell
supper that evening. The company was, I understand, also celebrating
the national holiday conscientiously. When the festivities were at
their height, we heard the squealing of bagpipes, and the curious
bump-bump-bumpetty-bum of the Scottish drummer, that nobody on earth
but a Jock can keep step with. The band of the H. L. I. had been
serenading the Col. and were going back to their billets.
All turned out to see them pass, and as they swung up the road, Lt.
Foulkes, in an inspired moment, detailed Supply Sgt. Levy to bring ’em
back for “B” Co.
In five minutes the pipes returned, with Joe marching at their head
twirling the drum major’s baton. They turned into the courtyard, and
were taken into our midst with a mighty burst of cheers, skirling
of pipes, and thunder of the drums. That was a scene I shall never
forget--a wonderful setting for a musical comedy. The dark courtyard,
fitfully illumined by the glare of a few lanterns and torches--the
crowd of olive drab figures around the Scotties in their kilts, with
one in the center doing a Highland fling. The visitors were already
fortified, but additional liquid refreshments were hastily procured for
them, and a testimonial taken up in the way of a collection. In the
meantime the drummer, well on the shady side of sober, rendered several
ballads. We reciprocated with Irish songs by Peter and others, and a
breakdown by Kitson. It was well on towards midnight when they left;
and next morning the Major wanted to know “what the hell was B Company
up to last night?”
Another pleasant time was had by all one day while I was at the
front. Someone at staff hdq. felt an idle curiosity to see how fast
the division could turn out, if it had to. Accordingly the order went
forth--march at 2:00 P. M. Thinking the Boches had broken through and
we were “for it,” there was a mad scurry and scramble; the kitchen
pulled to pieces; rations hastily issued; and the company, under Lt.
Dunn, reported to the Brunembert road about half an hour after the time
set, and about two hours sooner than had seemed possible that morning.
After fussing about a bit, the companies were marched back to their
hastily abandoned billets.
All the time we were in the English area, rations were short. The
British ration must have been much smaller than ours, or else there
was a hitch somewhere. Our men were used to three square meals a day.
The British only had porridge, tea and bread and jam for breakfast; a
regular meal--stew or meat and vegetables--in the middle of the day,
and tea and bread and cheese at night. This didn’t go far to relieve
the aching void that every American soldier cherishes under his belt.
We spent thousands of francs from the company fund buying potatoes and
whatever else we could to eke out the ration. But even so, there was
never any difficulty in following the advice of those doctors who say
to stop eating while you still feel hungry.
July 14th was Bastile Day. We were turned out for a ceremony to
celebrate it. The ceremony consisted of marching to Brunembert in
the rain, squads left, right dress, present arms, order arms, squads
left, and hike back in the rain. I can’t say my bosom dilated with
enthusiasm, nor did the spectators--a dozen children, two estaminet
keepers and the usual “orangee” girls--emit any rousing cheers.
I see by the Regimental History that the Duke of Connaught and General
Pershing “honored us with a visit” at this time, but said visits were
practically painless for “B” Company, as we didn’t even see the dust
from their automobiles.
By this time the regimental transport was complete--or as nearly so
as it ever was; all furnished by the British. Each battalion was now
functioning as a separate unit, and Lt. Gibbs had his hands full
with the supply and transport. He was accordingly made bn. transport
and supply officer, and the Major selected Lt. Foulkes as battalion
adjutant. So we lost the best officer in “B” Company, and I believe
the best line subaltern in the regiment. I know he hated to leave the
company, and there wasn’t a man but missed him from that time on. He
always had a soft spot in his heart for us, as Bn. Adjt. and later
as Regimental Adjt. Foulkes was one man I was never disappointed in.
McMahon, his striker, went with him. Mac was a good scout too.
By July 18th we had skirmished over every inch of the big hill; hiked
over all the roads within a six mile radius; bayoneted about 500
“Boche” gunnysacks apiece, and made ’steen triangles at musketry drill.
We got another march order, and after the usual bustle of cleaning up
we pulled out with full equipment on July 19th at 9:00 A. M.
It was only a four mile hike this time, to Lottingham, the nearest
railway depot. There we were parked in a little yard off the road,
and saw the 309th and 310th Inf. go by to entrain. We waited about an
hour, and I broke up a very promising crap game, to my secret regret.
I afterward chucked the bones out of the car window, much to Dunn’s
disgust.
At 11:30 we were packed into a train, which rolled off in the usual
nonchalant manner, at an average speed of six miles per hour. We passed
through some pretty enough country during the afternoon, and speculated
wildly on our destination, as usual missing it completely.
At 8:30 P. M. we pulled up at Ligny alongside an American Red Cross
train, with a couple of real American nurses in it. How good they
looked to us! The car windows were nearly all shattered, and the cars
scarred with bullets and shrapnel. This was a bit of the real thing.
The battalion detrained, formed on the road, and we hiked off through
the long summer twilight, guided by Vafiadis, our advance party detail.
We were being introduced to the Arras-St. Pol road, with which we were
to become well acquainted shortly. We went on, over the railroad tracks
at Roellecourt, stopped for a ten-minute rest at dusk and watched the
cows come home down the hill--another homesick sight for the country
lads--and hiked on and on. At last, well after dark, we turned off up
another road; past a bit of woods, then off to the right past a large
farmhouse, and Vafiadis pointed out a little plot about as big as a
Harlem flat and said we were to billet there. I remarked “likell” and
pushed ahead into a nice grassy field where we pitched pup tents for
the night. I knew there would be an awful yowl from the owners in the
morning, but let it slide.
Next morning we found that this was St. Michel, and that St. Pol, quite
a sizeable town, was only a quarter of a mile away. Pup tents were
pitched up the hill from the field, in the woods, along a rough lumber
road. The kitchen was installed under some trees near the farmhouse,
which was deserted. We found a lot of kitchen utensils--the place had
been an estaminet--and put some of ’em to use. The day was spent in
resting and getting cleaned up and settled. In the evening some went
into St. Pol.
That night we found out why the place was deserted. St. Pol was a
railroad center, and quite convenient for the Boche bombers. No bombs
landed in camp that night, but they were hitting all around, with a
roar and a jar that gave a fellow a queer sensation in the stomach.
Being bombed is such a helpless, hopeless sort of process.
Earlier in the war St. Pol had been under long range artillery fire;
and between that and the air raids there were plenty of shell holes all
around. There were some among our pup tents, and a couple of huge ones
just across the road in the woods.
Company headquarters was established in the attic of the farmhouse,
battalion headquarters being on the first floor. Regimental Hdq. was at
Foufflin-Ricametz, about 4 kilos away.
In a couple of days a vitriolic and voluble French woman descended
upon us. It appeared that we had broken into the house, used her
things without permission, taken eggs the hens had laid, used several
priceless old boards from the barn to make a mess table, walked on the
grass, and disturbed the manure pile. I never did believe she and her
husband ever lived there; but we put everything back, and ate in the
mud until Thompson and Farry found some boards elsewhere. These two
French people made life as miserable as they could for us while we were
there, continually claiming damages and protesting at everything we
did, it seemed.
Most of the inhabitants of St. Michel and St. Pol slept at night in
long dugouts tunnelled underneath the hills. They were very damp, foul
close holes, with little cubicles scratched out of the walls to sleep
in. They weren’t taking any more chances with H. E.
Our “intensive training” was continued here. We were rejoiced that we
hadn’t that awful hill to climb, and somehow we got away with using the
field to drill on. The mornings were taken up with problems, and before
long we were well acquainted with those woods; then there was bayonet
drill, bombing, the everlasting gas mask drill, musketry, physical
drill, and so on. The afternoon was devoted to special drill for Lewis
gun, V. B. and hand bombers, runners, etc., while the rest of the
company did problems or musketry. We stood retreat and reveille along
the lumber road--oh, yes, and that 15 minutes of manual of arms before
retreat every night.
Usually it rained here. Drill went on just the same, though. We could
hear the thunder of the big guns at night, and the crash and roar from
the droning bombing planes let us know that this was in grim earnest,
and it behooved us to make the most of our time.
Regimental, brigade, and divisional problems began to be all the
rage. Since nobody below majors ever get any information as to what
these are all about, the troops were usually represented by flags.
In good weather these things are just a bore; when it rains, they’re
considerably worse.
On August 3d, the H. L. I. detachment left us, and we completed our
training on our own.
About two weeks after our arrival at St. Michel, the word was passed
that Elsie Janis was coming to visit the division. Of course that
afternoon was marked by a good old Northern France soaker. How it
rained! We hiked about three miles through it, and were packed into a
courtyard with five or six thousand other shoving, soaking doughboys.
Miss Janis had our band to help her out, and a little platform with a
bit of canvas overhead, which kept off a little of the rain. Half of us
couldn’t see her except for occasional glimpses; officers and men were
drenched right through and through. Besides, Miss Janis was physically
about all in from overwork, and had a peach of a cold--a real A. E. F.
cold, not the kind that amateur singers always use for an alibi. The
bunch was sore at being hauled out in this weather for anything short
of going into action.
And yet, from the first moment that girl stepped on the platform, she
had the crowd with her. We were fed up, lonesome in a strange land,
sick of hearing a foreign tongue, longing to see a regular girl again.
And here was a bit of real America before our eyes; pep incarnate--a
snappy, clean cut, clean girl from home, laughing with us, making us
laugh at ourselves and in spite of ourselves, jazzing it up in the
rain. And we sloshed and squnched back to St. Michel, singing:
“Beautiful Elsie, beautiful Elsie,
“You’re the only, only girl that I ado-o-re.”
On August 5th the battalion left St. Michel at 9:00 A. M. in full
marching order. We were going to occupy a trench sector for a practice
tour.
As you all know now, the trench systems of each side during the war
were in triplicate, or maybe quadruplicate. There was the system
actually being occupied against the enemy. A couple of miles back was
another complete system, to be defended in case the first was taken;
and, if time permitted, yet another behind this.
We were to take over a sector of the G. H. Q., or second system, just
behind Arras. While this was partly a regular item on our training
schedule--the last one before actually going into the line--it was also
contemplated that in case the Boche uncorked another drive on Arras, we
should occupy this line and bar the road of the enemy should he break
through, as he had done in the spring further north.
After a long 12 mile hike up the Arras road, we turned off to the
right, past a long train of British motor lorries, of which there
seemed an inexhaustible supply. On through roads ever rougher and
narrower we went, and halted at last in a clearing in a patch of woods.
The officers went out to reconnoitre the sector and have their company
sectors assigned, and the company stacked arms in the wet woods--it was
raining, of course--and wondered if we’d get any chow.
It was dark when we had had supper from our one lunged rolling kitchen
and filed off to take up our position. “B” Co. was battalion support.
The trenches were only dug about waist high; there were no dugouts or
cubby holes to sleep in; not even a firing step to keep you out of the
mud. We splashed and squatted through the pitchy blackness; no lights
were allowed, of course. We reached our post finally, and settled down
in the bottom of the trench in abject misery. The only lights were from
the star shells that the Germans were sending up from their real lines,
only a few kilos away; and the rumble of artillery fire there ahead
reminded us that we were pretty close to the real thing.
While I was making my final inspection, I saw a light come flashing
down the communication trench towards us. This was against all orders,
so I snarled out a peremptory command to put it out. The light didn’t
pay any attention. This was the last straw; I thought that so long as
we had to go through this performance it was going to be done right,
with nobody privileged to cross their fingers and say they weren’t
playing. I wallowed off in the direction of that flash light, wet
through and getting pretty sore. I hailed it; I adopted a false,
feigned politeness; I remarked that this was not puss in the corner,
nor was I talking for my health, and if they couldn’t douse that glim
I had a .45 that could. The light went out abruptly. I asked if he was
simulating a steamboat on the Mississippi. I finally got quite near and
demanded whoin’ell that was anyhow. And it was the Colonel. Yes, of
course.
The best of it was that he had issued the order against lights himself
about two hours before, and couldn’t very well blame me.
An order came round to send a detail after some corrugated iron at
point “G24a7.3.” I stumbled around until I walked on a sergeant, Bill
Reid, and so I made him the goat, and told him to take a detail and
go to it. The place was about 300 yards away over a couple of fields.
Bill and his detail floundered off, and roamed about until 3:00 A. M.,
when they hailed a figure in the darkness as “Hey, buddy.” It was Lt.
Col. Myer, at regimental hdq. at Hermaville, a couple of kilos away. He
steered Bill back to the company, where he arrived at dawn--without the
iron.
During the day the sun shone at intervals, and we scraped out cubbies
in the side of the trench, and tried to get a little dry. Barney
O’Rourke, who had been missing since the night before, showed up under
guard, somewhat the worse for wear. He had wandered off to Hermaville,
met an Irish Tommy, found a hospitable estaminet, and subsequently
had severely rebuked an officer from Rgt’l. Hdqrs. who undertook to
reprove him. Regt’l Hdq. was all for having Barney shot at sunrise or
something, and of course I got a call. At the courtmartial, though,
we got him off with a month’s hard labor and a $10.00 blind, which
was really quite all that happy-go-lucky, golden-hearted son of Erin
deserved. He never did the month at that, or rather we all did. But he
dug me a company headquarters when he came back, and it would have been
fine only someone walked through the roof.
We were relieved that night by “E” Co., 24 hours before we expected. We
marched back to the clearing in the woods, had supper at the rolling
kitchen, pitched pup tents and had a comparatively dry night’s sleep.
Jerry came over and tried to drop an ash can on the kitchen, but didn’t
succeed.
They let us sleep late next morning, and we started for our billet at
10:00 A. M., leaving the 2d bn. to the joys of make-believe trench life.
Right here I want to say a word about our experience with
court-martials. There has been much criticism of military justice as
administered in the A. E. F., but the 78th Division was fortunate in
having as Judge Advocate a most capable, honest, experienced, broad
minded man, Major George G. Bogert, formerly Professor of Law at
Cornell, I believe. His assistant, Lt. John J. Kuhn, was an equally
fine type of lawyer and gentleman. I know of no accused man who did not
get an absolutely square deal from them, and from the courts-martial
before which they appeared.
Well, here we are back in St. Michel, rocked to sleep every night by
the free fireworks from our aerial visitors. We had hardly rested from
our trench experience before I was ordered to take details from each
company to the rifle range. Part of “B” company had gone a week before,
and their tales of woe had in some measure prepared us.
We had no guide. As we hiked through Foufflin-Ricametz, I stopped off
and Capt. Wagner showed me our destination on a map. We plodded on
and on, through about 20 villages, all alike, and all with a maze of
crooked little streets that weren’t on any map. We passed by a lot of
Canadian artillery back for a rest. The Canadians had been badly shot
up before we got to France, and were being reorganized and recuperating
that summer. They, the Anzacs, the Australians, the Scotties, and the
Guard regiments were the shock troops of the British Army.
Finally we came upon a welcome sign, “Target Range,” and we bivouacked
in woods behind the slope whereon the targets were. The next day we
plugged away at 200, 300 and 500 yards at four rickety swivel targets.
It rained, of course; but we finished in the afternoon, and hiked back
to St. Michel. It seemed even longer than before, though we took a
short cut by a back road; and we were for once glad to see the lonely
tower of St. Michel rising above the woods outside St. Pol.
I returned to find Major Odom on the eve of departure for another
school. From this time, then, until he returned on August 20th, the
company was commanded by Lt. Schuyler, who carried out his additional
duties with characteristic energy and conscientiousness.
On August 12th, the whole regiment was on the move; and this time
we were leaving St. Michel for good, though a small detail was
left to guard the baggage. Sgt. Haynes, who had hurt his leg in
bayonet practice, was left behind with water on the knee, and never
succeeded in rejoining the company. Our faithful company clerk, too,
Cpl. Jimmy Jones, broke his ankle, and was sent to a hospital in
England. Fortunately for me, we had Cpl. Stiles ready to step into
his shoes. From this time on Stiles handled the company paper work
in a most efficient and conscientious fashion. Most fellows never
have any idea of the long hours, day and night, that a company clerk
puts in, struggling with the labyrinth of forms, records, reports
and correspondence that are vital to the running of the company.
The greater part of the paper work that was done at Camp Dix by the
officers and Co. Cmdrs. was turned over to the Co. clerks in France,
and many a night Stiles and Jones have pored over that field desk, by
the light of a candle, keeping us straight with the authorities. If
records ever went astray, or passes went awry, it was not their fault.
“B” Company was certainly most fortunate in its company clerks.
It was a long, hot march that sunny August day up toward the front, and
the company pulled into Lattre St. Quentin pretty well tuckered. I had
been taken up in a British staff car as we passed through Regt’l Hdq.,
and, with the other two battalion commanders, was taken to reconnoiter
the sectors of the front line which we were to take over. Each
battalion was to be brigaded with an English regiment, and to hold the
front lines for a regular tour of duty as the last step in the training
schedule.
The 1st Bn. was to go in with the 1st London regiment. The officers
of this brigade and regiment received me very cordially. Our proposed
battalion sector was just outside Arras. The town itself was within
the English lines, which ran along the eastern outskirts. The position
was well organized, and the trenches were in good shape, as this part
of the line had been practically stationary for a year. The outfit we
were to relieve were in high glee, as they had been in the trenches for
8 months straight. It was a “quiet” sector, but Jerry buzzed a few
shells quite unpleasantly close while I was roaming about.
I rode back in luxury in the staff car to find the battalion billeted
and asleep. We had arranged for officers and platoon sergeants to go up
in a couple of days to reconnoiter their respective positions.
Lattre St. Quentin was a village of some sixty houses, about 20 kilos
from Arras. “B” Co. was billeted in the barn behind the house where Bn.
Hdq. was located, and in the house next to it down the road.
During the next few days we had a platoon competition in the battalion.
“B” Co. was represented by the 4th platoon. The event was won by the
“C” Co. 3d platoon, but all the contestants did well.
There was a nice “vacant lot” by the billet, and we had some good fun
kicking a football and staging several baseball matches there. The
weather was fine, and we were in great fettle.
On August 14th orders arrived promoting Lt. Col. Myer to Colonel and
putting him in command of the 129th Infantry. This was a great loss to
the regiment. Myer was the best officer we had, thoroughly efficient,
devoted to his profession, always on the job, an excellent judge of
men, and an adept at picking out the essential things that counted. He
placed the good of the service first, and himself last, and he had the
trust and respect of every officer and man in the outfit.
The officers and platoon sgts. left on the evening of the 15th for
the front line via a little narrow gauge railway, returning the next
morning. All was now in readiness.
But at noon on the 16th, orders arrived postponing the relief. On the
17th, rumors began to fly that we were to go to another part of the
front. Then we were ordered to turn in the Lewis guns, with which we
had become quite familiar. Somehow it leaked out that we were to go
South to the American sector. This rumor became a certainty when we
turned in all our British rifles and ammunition, receiving instead
American Enfields. Our overcoats and other supplies that we had left at
St. Michel were brought over in motor trucks. The details guarding them
said that Jerry had bombed the old billet to a fare-you-well the night
after we left it.
Our joy at moving was heartfelt and unbounded. Those who had been south
to schools or on other duties told us what a “bon secteur” it was.
And the prospect of drawing American rations and being with American
troops and transport again was welcomed with acclaim. To tell the
truth, we were rather fed up with being under the wing of our British
Allies. Their ways were not our ways; we would feel better when with
our own kind. Theoretically, we were brothers in the great cause.
Practically, in the mud and sweat and thousand petty aggravations and
misunderstandings, we had undoubtedly gotten upon each other’s nerves.
The average Tommy looked upon us as a bunch of greenhorn Yankees, who
had all made fortunes during the first three years of the war and were
now over in France three years late spending them and raising the
price of vin rouge and “oofs.” We looked upon the average Tommy as a
degenerate, tea drinking, saluting bellyacher. The Australians and
Canadians were our sworn buddies, however, and we liked the Scotties.
Maybe this was because the only British combat troops we had been in
touch with were these organizations. To me, the few English combat
troops that I encountered seemed a fairly decent bunch.
[Illustration: 2d Platoon, Flavigny, France, 1919.]
It was with light hearts, then, that we pulled out of Lattre St.
Quentin on a beautiful summer morning, at 10 o’clock, August 20th. It
was only an 8 mile hike to Tinques, a rail head on the Arras road. We
turned into a big held and I halted the battalion while I went to find
the R. T. O. in charge of entraining.
All was bustle and hurry. Things were being rushed through in the
American fashion. Nobody knew where the R. T. O. was; everybody was too
busy to know anything. At last I saw Lt. Gibbs on top of a flat car
loading wagons. He shouted that our train was across the platform and
was due to leave in 20 minutes. I dashed back to the battalion, hurried
it across the tracks, entrained them and sure enough the train pulled
out just as I got the outfit aboard. As I was finishing, a dapper U. S.
Major of the Division Inspector’s Dept. toddled up and said it was the
worst entraining he had ever seen, and why weren’t the men marched up
to the cars in column of squads? I saluted the boob wearily and swung
aboard just as the train pulled out.
Now came our longest rail journey in France. For two days we bowled
along pretty steadily. We swung around by St. Pol, with a farewell
glimpse of our old billet, and then south, through Amiens, up to the
outskirts of Paris. Hearts beat high, and had the train stopped for
five minutes at a likely looking place, I was prepared to see the
battalion make a break for la vie Parisienne. The only stop, however,
was for a few minutes to get routing orders from a business-like
French R. T. O. From these orders I learned that our destination was
Passavant. It might as well have been Timbuctoo for all that meant to
me; but I had learned by this time that these French trains, with all
their misery and sin, did get you to the proper place at last, so I
didn’t worry.
The houses of Paris fell behind, and we rolled east along the famous
Marne river. At Haute Creuse and St. Pol we had read in the Paris
editions of the “New York Herald” and “Daily Mail” of the desperate
fighting along here in July, in which the mettle of our American
regulars and marines had been put to so stern a test; and the next
morning, a beautiful, bright day it was, too, we began to pass through
towns whose names were yet ringing all over the world. The familiar
signs of nearing the front began to appear--the roofless houses, shell
holes, and so on. Then we began to see debris lying about--discarded
bits of equipment and uniform, empty bandoliers, then here and there a
new grave, marked by a helmet, and sometimes a little cross. Presently
we went right through Chateau Thierry--one of the first trains since
the battle. From our cars we saw the little firing posts that the
Americans had scratched out in the side of the railroad embankment.
Here and there a grave showed where one had died where he fought. Some
German helmets over graves on the south side of the river showed where
perhaps some of the enemy had gotten across before they fell under the
fire of the Springfields.
But the most impressive and inspiring sight of all to Americans were
the hills that stretched up to the North of the river. A long steep,
smooth, stretch broken only enough to allow of cover for reserves and
machine guns--a position that looked absolutely impregnable if defended
by modern weapons. And up these heights, defended by the flower of the
German army, flushed with recent success, our countrymen had swept
forward, carried the position, and hurled the foe back. It must have
been some scrap.
The Marne here is about as large as a good-sized American creek. There
were quite a few dead horses and men still bobbing around in it. The
countryside had not been under fire for very long, compared to the
Arras section; some crops were still standing, and a few people at
work reaping them already. I am sorry to say that one of our men was
thoughtless enough to grab a pile of new cut hay from a field during
a stop. I happened to see him and of course he put it back, and got a
summary out of it. I mention this to remind you that in most of our
trouble with the French peasants we were at fault to some extent. Of
course, it isn’t pleasant to sleep for several nights on the floor of a
jolting cattle car. But neither is it enjoyable for poor Jacques to see
his hay miraculously preserved from the H. E.’s, laboriously gathered,
and then have a doughboy coolly annex it and roll away in a train.
We rolled on through the sunny August day, east to Chalons-sur-Marne,
then southeast, away from the battle front. Night came on, and dragged
along toward dawn. At about 2:00 A. M. we stopped at a little way
station for hot coffee, ready for us in great G. I. boilers. The French
corporal in charge of the station gave me a cup out of his own private
pot, cooking over a smelly little oil stove, thick as mud, black as
night, reeking with cognac, altogether very satisfactory. I wished
every man could have had such a shot.
Early in the morning we passed the walled heights of Chaumont, A. E. F.
headquarters. On past the picturesque battlements of Langres, centre
of the Army Schools; then east again. The country was more rugged and
less highly cultivated. Here was a place where one might get off the
road without stepping on Jacques’ garden. It looked more like home.
The woods were sure enough ones, not little, severely confined, neatly
trimmed groves such as they had in the north, with every tree numbered
and recorded.
Best of all, we were in the American sector. The M. P.’s at the
stations were doughboys instead of Tommies or poilus. Here an American
ambulance hustled along the road; there a good old 3-ton Q. M. truck
lumbered along. Overseas caps were sprinkled about the stations. No
more now of “What is the name of this bally station, old top?,” and
“Kesky eessy, Mossure.” We could yell: “Say, buddy, what t’ell burg’s
this?” like civilized persons.
Off on a branch line, around hills, over a long, white stone bridge,
and the train slid up to the long platform at Passavant station.