“THE AMERICAN SECTOR”
The battalion tumbled off, very greasy as to face and stiff as to legs.
The rolling kitchens were unloaded; the Colonel and Lt. Gibbs appeared
and disappeared. We saw our own supply company hard at work in the
adjacent field. In a few minutes it was “Fall in,” and we hiked across
the railroad and down into the centre of the little town.
At the town square we halted, and lay around for an hour in the shade
waiting for our French guides to take the companies to their billets.
There was a cool fountain splashing in the center of the square, but
it was marked “Non potable,” so we had to wait until we could get some
chlorinated water from our lister bags. Oh, that chlorinated water!
Will we ever get the taste of the stuff out of our mouths?
At last a guide came along, but only to take off “C” Co., which was
billeted at the little village of Rochere, about 4 kilos outside
Passavant. Finally our guide appeared, and “A” and “B” companies hiked
off down a narrow street, skirting the great chateau, then up a long
hill, under the railroad bridge, and into our billeting area, a little
“suburb” of the town across the railroad tracks.
At once we noticed a difference in the people. This town was far behind
the lines. No air raids had visited it; lights could be shown at night.
And the people seemed actually glad to see us. Instead of lowering
brows, grudging admission, furious protests, we met pleasant smiles,
bon jour’s, readiness and willingness to accommodate us. Even when we
swept out the stables and outhouses where we were billeted there was no
objection. Oh, boy, this was something like it!
The rolling kitchen was put to work in a field on the outskirts, and
Wilson, deBruin, Lusier & Co. got busy. Everyone was pretty tired, but
after chow things looked much brighter.
That night occurred an incident which shows how thoughtless soldiers
are. A couple of men, who shall be nameless, patronized the estaminets
far too freely. When they had acquired a skinful of vin rouge apiece,
they went forth and nobly robbed a hen roost, and had a chicken dinner.
Now had this happened a week before, there would have been immediate
and voluble protests to the authorities, and a bill for damages as long
as your arm. And on our side, I fear the matter would have been looked
on as righteous retribution, and the officers would have received very
little assistance in investigating the affair.
But this was different. Wilson and some others found the little girl
at their billet and her mother in tears over their loss. The offenders
were promptly trailed and spotted, and reported to Lt. Schuyler. And
nobody felt more ashamed than they when they woke up in the guardhouse
the next morning. Meanwhile, that same evening a hasty collection had
been taken up in the company, and the French lady reimbursed a good
many times the value of her loss. I understand she wouldn’t take all
they collected; but next day I met a couple of the boys, Wilson and
Weber, I think, coming back from town with the little girl between
them, proudly bearing the finest bonnet that Passavant “epiceries”
could produce, and enough chocolate to satisfy a dozen youngsters.
The days at Passavant were about the brightest spot in our stay in
France. The training schedules were on hand again, of course. Chauchats
were issued to replace the Lewis guns of the English sector; much to
the disgust of the auto riflemen, who had worked so hard learning the
Lewis, and found the Chauchat but a crude affair comparatively. But the
weather was beautiful; there was a stream to wash in, and a lovely lake
about a mile away where you could have a swim--the only time we enjoyed
this luxury that summer. The people were pleasant; we were getting
American rations; all went well.
It was too good to last long. On August 27th we got a march order, and
at 1:00 P. M. the next day we pulled out, down the hill to Passavant,
up hill through the town, and fell in behind the second battalion for
a long, long hike through the summer afternoon and evening.
Six o’clock came, and seven. Still no sign of camp. It was growing
dark. The men were good and tired; but “B” company held to its record
as the best marching company in the outfit, and plodded along doggedly.
I felt uncomfortable every time I looked back at my four platoons; I
felt that I ought to be hiking with them instead of on the Major’s
horse; knowing, however, that I had a couple of hours hard work ahead
of me after we camped, I turned back to the road ahead, and wished the
Major were back.
At last, at 8:00 P. M., when it was quite dark, we turned off to the
left, crossed several fields, and came to a number of frame barracks.
These had bunks within them--about half enough to accommodate the men,
but we were glad to lie down anywhere. After the usual turmoil we got
supper under way, and as fast as chow could be obtained and swallowed,
we hit the hay--some in barracks, others in pup tents in the fields
outside. We had done about 20 kilos that day.
The next morning we pulled out at 9 o’clock, hiked into Fresnes, the
village near by, and then out on a good wide road, heading generally
west. The Colonel, who was making the hike in an automobile, had a
theory that no man needed more than a pint of water on any march,
and the march discipline was to be very strict. The everlasting rain
started again; it was hike, hike, hike. Who that hasn’t done it can
ever understand the awful, soul tearing grind of a long hike with
full pack? After the first hour, the pack gets heavy on the back and
shoulders. You see the feet of the fellow ahead--up and down, up and
down, remorselessly, steadily--doesn’t he ever get tired? If he can
make it, you can. Some buckle or piece of equipment gets loose, and
goes jingle, jingle, jingle, and slap, slap, slap against your leg. It
gets irritating. You are sweating and hot and dirty and uncomfortable.
“Close up!” You mentally damn the officers, who haven’t any rifles;
the ones who ride horses, doubly damned; and as for those birds in
the autos--ahem! How long to the 10 minutes rest? Then it starts to
rain. It beats into your face. You damn the boob who wished upon the
Americans that prize inanity of equipment, the overseas cap. It is
ingeniously designed to give the eyes and face no protection from sun,
wind or rain, and at the same time efficiently to direct water down the
back of your neck. On, on, on, plod, plash, squnchy, sqush. The Major
looks at his watch. You eye the side of the road for a likely looking
place. At last: “Fall out t’ right th’ road.” You stumble over and
plump down on the ground. Oh, blessed moment! you ease the load on your
shoulders; your feet are tingling with happiness at being off duty;
after a few breaths you fish out a cigarette or the old pipe, and light
up for a few puffs. You lean back--
“Fall in!”
Oh, murder! You know it hasn’t been four minutes, let alone ten.
Toward noon we passed through Bourbonne-les-Bains, quite a sizable
town; and as we went plugging along by the railroad station there was
Major Odom. He was carried off by the Colonel in his car, but took
command of the battalion that night, and I was glad to get back to “B”
Co.
Up that long, long, steep street we plugged along, rested, then pushed
on well clear of the town, and halted beside a pretty green meadow in
the woods for lunch. After we finished our hard bread, corned willy
and jam, and were lying about in heavenly idleness for a few minutes,
Roy Schuyler’s eye fell upon the bn. adjutant’s horse; a dignified and
rotund, rather elderly mare, indulging in a roll while her saddle and
bridle were off. In a minute Roy was on the astonished beast’s back.
Encouraged by a couple of hearty thwacks from a club, Mary started on
a very creditable imitation of youthful gamboling. It was a gallant
sight for a summer afternoon. Often since, the picture has come back to
me--the prancing horse, the laughing young rider with one hand in her
mane, the other brandished aloft. But our time is up; Mary must resume
her saddle, and we our packs, and off we go.
The shadows lengthened; the sun dropped down behind the hills, and the
long French twilight set in. Still no sign of our guides to indicate
our billet was near. Village after village came into view, raised our
hopes, and dashed them again as we plodded on. At last, at about 6:00
P. M., we slogged into Merrey. There the Colonel was waiting, in his
car. He remarked cheerfully that he had had quite a hunt for billets,
but had found a splendid spot. We hiked through the village, and turned
off the road into the splendid spot--a pine grove, very wet and rooty
as to floor, and no water around. We were satisfied to get off our
feet, however. After the usual procedure of getting kicked out of X
company’s area, and kicking Y company out of ours, we rigged up shelter
tents or sleeping bags. Of course the water carts weren’t on hand, and
dinner was held up. There are two recurrent occasions in a soldier’s
life when the seconds drag most fearsomely; the interval between a
shell’s landing and bursting; and the interval between the end of a
hike and chow.
Some of the boys went off to wash their feet in a pretty little pond a
couple of fields away. That pond concealed some dark secret beneath its
placid bosom. Whew! Didn’t it stink when disturbed?
At reveille we rolled out of our blankets, pretty stiff and cold, but
rested. Packs were rolled again, and we fell in at 9:00 A. M., Major
Odom again commanding the battalion, and were off on the last lap. This
was to be a short one, only about five miles. We passed a large field
with a number of Boche prisoners at work, and at about 11:00 A. M.
crossed a railroad, turned off the road to the right, and came upon a
cantonment just outside of Breuvannes, where the battalion was billeted.
While these frame barracks were not so picturesque as other billets we
had had, they were infinitely better adapted to our uses. There were
bunks for all, mess halls, a parade ground large enough to form the
battalion, and a fine level drill field near by, along the railroad
track. A good-sized creek ran close by, and Breuvannes was only 5
minutes walk away. A pretty enough little village, with five or six
stores and estaminets. Also there was a Y hut, where you could see
movies at night if you got there soon enough.
The 42d Division had been here until the day before, resting and
replacing their losses from the fighting in July. A bn. of the 5th
Marines had preceded them, and that evening I ran across a Marine
lieutenant who was following up his outfit. My own alma mater, the
Virginia Military Institute, furnished a number of officers to the
Marines, and I was particularly interested in news from them. This
officer told me of the death of several of my old school fellows at
Belleau Woods. When he said that only one in ten had come through out
of his own company, however, I thought he was pulling a long bow.
The next morning, August 31, we resumed the familiar drill schedules.
Every effort was made to teach the use and mechanism of the new
Chauchats. Special training went on as usual, and we practiced the
formations of the O. C. S. U. (Offensive Combat of Small Units) on all
the bushes and trees in the vicinity.
Barney O’Rourke and I spent one day on a pilgrimage to Bourmont, where
the courtmartial heretofore referred to took place; Barney quite
prepared to be shot at sunrise, and I suspect a little disappointed at
the affair ending so undramatically.
The drill field furnished a very fair baseball diamond, and several
inter-company contests were staged. We played one ten-inning thriller
with “A” Co., in which Joe Fahey finally pitched us to victory,
supported by an able cast. We had the makings of a good football team
under way, too, and I remember I had most of the skin off my right arm.
But more serious business was on hand, and our athletic activities had
to be temporarily laid aside.
On Sept. 4, we prepared to move. The battalion was formed at dusk, and
at 9:00 P. M. we filed off for our first night march in France. It
started raining promptly, of course. Wasn’t it dark! In an hour you
literally could not see your hand an inch before your nose. No lights
or smoking were allowed; and even a chew was risky, as you never knew
who you’d hit when you let fly. Now and then a glimmer of light from
some cottage fire would show the shadowy forms of the last squad of “C”
Co. in front, hastening on into the darkness. I walked into an ungainly
quadruped and requested the rider to get his damned mule out of the
road; and was immediately and discourteously informed that I had better
keep my mouth shut and drive on. I recognized Major Odom’s voice and
drove on.
Rain, hike, rain, slog, mud, mud, sweat, damn. Halt and fall out and
sit in the mud for ten minutes and feel the rain percolate. Fall in,
and hike again, your cold, wet clothes clinging to you.
Eight weary hours of this. At last, just before daybreak, we turned
off the road through the gateway of a once palatial estate, and hiked
across a park to a grove where we were billeted. The fifteen miles we
had covered seemed like 30. We were done in enough to fall asleep,
many without unrolling their packs. The rain, however, found us out,
trickled in at every corner, and morning found us miserable enough.
No word was vouchsafed to us as to when we should move again; and this
playing at secrecy cost “D” and “C” Cos. their meal. It was more luck
than good management that gave me the hunch to rout out our weary cooks
and have chow at 11:00 o’clock. At 12:00 o’clock orders came in a great
hurry that we were to clear the crossroads at 2:30. We did it at 3:00.
Our new lieutenant-colonel, Arthur Budd, had joined us the night
before. During the first halt Lt. Foulkes came galloping up on old
Mary, and his former platoon--the first--chortled with glee every
time daylight showed between Louis and the saddle. Col. Budd promptly
treated me to a cold and fishy stare, and inquired if it was the custom
for “B” Co. to yell at officers when they passed. I hastily delivered
a brief resume of Louis’ career with the company and the estimation in
which we held him, intimating that he was regarded as one helofa good
fellow, and that no mutiny was breaking out. Meanwhile I had hastily
sized up our new acquisition as a goof. I had reason to revise this
estimate, and that shortly.
The rain let up this evening, for a wonder, and the march wasn’t half
bad, except for the mud under foot, which we were pretty well used to.
We passed by a sizeable cantonment of Chinese labor troops, and Diskin
wanted to fall out and leave his laundry. We had only the most vague
idea of where we were; in fact, our notions of French geography were
of the crudest anyhow. Bill Reid, from his six-foot eyrie, solemnly
announced that he saw the Alps ahead, and had the 1st platoon craning
its respective necks for an hour.
Just as darkness fell, we ran into an ammunition train, the tail end of
the 42d Division. We pushed on behind them up a hill into the village
of Viocourt, where our old dependable of the advance party, Sgt. Hill,
met us and pointed out our billets, in lofts and stables on both sides
of the “street.”
We all knew pretty well by now that we must be in for action soon.
The St. Mihiel salient meant nothing more to us than it did to folks
at home then. The general impression was that it was to be a drive on
Metz; and this wasn’t so far out of the way, at that.
By this time it didn’t take us long to make ourselves at home in a
strange place. We had bagged a good place for the rolling kitchen, and
the billets weren’t so bad. Between showers we got in some drilling,
and a couple of hours on an extemporized 30-yard range that Lt.
Schuyler put up one morning before breakfast. Everyone tried his hand
at the Chauchat for a magazine full. This was the only chance we had to
fire this gun before we had to meet the enemy with it. The men armed
with pistols punctured a few tin cans after a vast expenditure of lead.
There was a beautiful meadow below town, and on Sunday, the 8th, we
staged a couple of good ball games. On Monday we had a company problem
through the woods beyond the meadow, and Tuesday we got in the target
practice.
Wednesday morning the Major assembled the Co. cmdrs. and ordered us to
be ready to march at 1:30. After the usual bustle all was ready for
the road, two days’ rations being carried. Our kitchen and cooks were
attached to the regt’l supply train.
It had been raining all the morning, but old J. Pluvius had only been
practising for the real show. We started off in a steady downpour,
which speedily became a regular deluge. The wind rose to a gale, which
drove the sheets of water directly at us, penetrating right through
slickers and clothing. In 15 minutes we were all wet to the skin.
It was only an hour’s march this time. At 3:00 P. M., we came to a
crossroads just outside Chatenois. There stood a long line of motor
trucks, stretching away in either direction as far as the eye could
see. The embussing was well handled, and in 20 minutes we were packed
in, 20 or more to a truck, jammed as tight as they could be, every man
wet through and chilled. Even our incorrigibly optimistic regimental
history says, “We shall never forget this day because of its miserable
and nasty weather.”
These busses were driven by Chinese in the French service. With their
impassive Oriental faces looking out over their great sheepskin coats,
they looked fitting agents of destiny; grave Charons, bearing us on
the last lap of our progress toward our fate.
At 4:00 o’clock we were off, with a jerk and a clank of gears and a
steady rumble. On and on, over the long French road, rolling on through
rain and wind, steadily, inevitably; each lorry nearly touching the one
in front. Darkness fell; the long gray train rolled on, not a light,
not a sound save the rumble of the trucks. We got colder and colder;
more and more cramped. Capt. Fleischmann and I spent most of the night
each cherishing the other’s icy feet in his bosom. On and on, through
gray, silent towns, past the ghostly figure of a lonely M. P. at a
crossroads; through fields, woods, villages, all wet and quiet in the
falling rain.
Just as the daylight began to thin the inky mist, the train halted, and
the word was passed along the line to debus. Wet, shivering, miserable,
“B” Co. struggled hastily into clammy shoes and slung their heavy,
soggy packs. As we formed on the side of the road, the busses started
again, and rolled swiftly off into the shadows ahead, leaving us on the
road, with heavy woods on either side.
We marched down the road to an open field on the left. Here a railroad
track entered the corner of the wood. We turned off up the track, and
about 300 yards along we came upon the 2nd battalion bivouacking. We
went on just beyond them, and were allotted our own share of squishy
ground and drenched underbrush.
A limited number of fires were allowed, and we made ourselves as
comfortable as we could under the circumstances. I was detailed on
O. D. and spent a busy day dissuading the regiment from straggling
all over the road and open fields. All knew that a big attack was in
preparation, and that it was important that the concentration be kept
under cover from the enemy’s aircraft. But some men apparently couldn’t
compree that we weren’t roosting in that bally old dysentery generator
of a wood for sheer sport.
Showers fell intermittently during the day, but nothing like the
previous day’s deluge. At about 4 P. M. there was an officers’ call,
and we were warned to march at 7 P. M. Co. Commanders were issued maps,
and we learned that our present bivouac was in the Bois de la Cote en
Haye, east of Tremblecourt.
About 5 P. M., six French tanks came clanking down the road, did a
Squads Left, waddled across the fields and disappeared over the brow
of the hill, toward the rumble of intermittent artillery fire in the
distance that meant the front.
The 312th Inf. was bivouacked on the other side of the railroad track,
and the rest of the division was hidden in the woods near by. Across
the main road was a great artillery ammunition dump, big enough to blow
up ten divisions if a bomb ever hit it. But I kept this to myself, and
what a soldier doesn’t know doesn’t worry him. He has enough to worry
about anyhow.
The kitchens came up late in the afternoon, and we got outside of a
ration of hot slum before dark.
By 6:45 P. M. we had rolled packs, and were ready to hit the road
again. I went to sleep on the ground, with my pack on my back, and was
awakened by Dunn to find it nearly dark, and the battalion ready to
move off.
It seemed hours before we got out of the wood into the open field.
We would go forward a few steps along the track, and then stand and
wait for ten or fifteen minutes. The road by which we had arrived
was crowded with transport and artillery, and we turned off on a
bypath through the woods. It was now quite dark, and blind work it
was blundering along, touching the man ahead to keep from losing him,
slipping and tripping in the wet underbrush. It is remarkable how
exasperating a pack and rifle become under such circumstances. However,
the excitement of anticipation buoyed us up, and “B” Co. wallowed
through the wood, across a mushy field, and scrambled up a slippery
embankment on to a strange road, much more cheerfully than now seems
possible.
Once re-formed on said road, we hiked along briskly in column of
squads. Soon we overtook a long column of transport wagons, trucks and
artillery. Road discipline was something apparently unknown; every
vehicle seemed to be trying to pass every other one. The consequence
was of course wondrous confusion, and here and there a total jam,
through which we had to thread our way in single or double file as best
we could.
When we got clear of the last jam, the company ahead had gained about
15 yards, and was consequently as completely out of sight as if they
had been in Timbuctoo. We passed through a village in hot pursuit of
them. At the crossroads, by sheer good luck I turned off up the right
one. After a long hour’s stern chase we were relieved to see the
bobbing forms of Headquarters Co. show through the gloom ahead.
At about 10:30 we came upon Sgt. Hill waiting for us by the roadside,
with the welcome news that our temporary destination was only a couple
of kilos off. We toiled up a long hill, and turned off the macadam into
a rough road that was a series of four inch ponds. We plashed along to
the edge of a large wood, and Hill showed us a pile of empty bandoliers
and boxes, where the Marines had been issued ammunition and grenades
about an hour before. They had just pulled out, and were going over the
top at dawn.
A hundred yards or so, and we turned into the woods, on a road which
was from ankle to knee deep in all varieties of mud, from sticky to
liquid. We moved on, stumbled over a railroad track, and finally Hill
said we were at our bivouac. The trees and underbrush grew so thick
along the road that we blundered about a bit before we found a couple
of places where we could force our way through. As each man reached a
place where he could sit or lie down, down he flopped, and the rest of
the company walked over him. The woods already had some occupants, and
more and more poured in every minute.
At last “B” Co. had distributed itself on the ground, and was preparing
for a dismal wallow until morning. In spite of wet, mud and chill some
were already asleep. We were just within the artillery zone, and the
jar and grumble of the guns ahead was occasionally punctuated by the
roar and scream of one of the heavies nearer by. This, however, was
only normal artillery fire, such as we had been accustomed to at St.
Pol and Lattre St. Quentin, and we settled down to wait for the big
show. Some of the more energetic started to pitch their pup tents.
Just as I dozed off, some idiot shouted “Gas!” Our long hours of gas
drill, and many vivid and gruesome lectures on the subject, promptly
bore fruit. In fact, the good seed shot up like Jack’s beanstalk.
The cry was re-echoed by a dozen, then a score of startled voices.
Everyone reached into the familiar canvas satchel that he cherished
on his bosom, donned his mask more or less expeditiously, and sat
expectantly awaiting developments.
In the midst of the rumpus I heard Lt. Foulkes’ voice from the road
bawling for the company commanders. I thought sadly that the lad had
probably lost his mask, or the gas had caught him suddenly and he was
raving. However, for sake of auld lang syne, I took a long breath,
and shouted, “Whatsmatterwhydontyouputonyourmask?” I replaced my
mouthpiece, and started blundering toward Louis’ voice, hoping I might
be in time at least to view his remains.
During the next two minutes I walked on every man in “B” Co. at least
once, and probably on most of “A” and “C” Cos. Then Foulkes roared my
name within five yards of me.
“Where’s the gas?” I demanded.
There wasn’t any gas.