ST. MIHIEL AND LIMEY SECTOR
The Major was waiting for us up the “road.” He informed us that the
156th Brigade was the alert brigade. We were not to pitch tents nor
unroll packs, but lie on our arms ready to reinforce the front line
division should occasion demand it. The barrage was due to start at 1
A. M.; at 5 A. M. the infantry was to go over the top.
I waded back with this gladsome news, and we lay in the mud and wet
leaves and shivered and wished we could smoke, and waited for the show
to start. Word had passed that there was a big French railroad gun
about 30 yards away, and a pleasant time was anticipated by all.
At 1 A. M. the sullen jar of the usual cannonade was shattered by a
tremendous crash. And that crash lasted solid for four hours. I shall
not try to describe a real A-1 barrage to men who have been there.
The railroad gun came across according to plan too. Every five minutes
her mighty roar and scream would announce the departure of a G. I.
can towards Metz, and then would come the clanking of the cars as the
recoil drove the train back along the track against the logs piled
behind it. After an hour or so we got accustomed to the barrage and the
glare that lit up the sky ahead; but as often as we drowsed off, the
thunder of this mighty gun would shake the earth beneath us, and jar us
into consciousness.
The night wore on, and the gray morning light crept into the woods;
and still the thunder rolled unceasing. I watched the glow of my wrist
watch hand creep to five o’clock. There was a slight lull as the
artillery shifted to their rolling barrage schedule. Then she started
up again with renewed fury. We knew the doughboys were off. The A. E.
F. was starting its first show on its own. The overture was over, the
fiery curtain raised, the act begun; and we were awaiting our cue.
Morning broke, cloudy, but little or no rain, and about 7 o’clock it
quite cleared off. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could, and
prayed for our kitchen.
I went wading through the mud along the road to look for it. There
were several Marines about, belonging to the skeleton organization,
left behind to act as a nucleus in case a whole outfit was wiped out.
I passed a Marine lieutenant whose face looked familiar, and after a
moment recognized “Happy” Mason. He had been a cadet at V. M. I. with
me, and had helped me wind a red silk sash around my middle for many a
dress parade. It was a far cry from the Blue Ridge to the Bois de la
Rappe, and from dress parade to the St. Mihiel drive.
We had a glad reunion there in the mud, and he invited the “B” Co.
officers to share his breakfast. Their rolling kitchen, or “galley”
as they called it, was on hand, and they had hot coffee and peach
turnovers!
Those Marines were regular guys. When they heard our transport wasn’t
up yet, they turned to and fed as many of our men as they could, until
their supply ran out. They had been through the mill before, at Chateau
Thierry and Belleau Wood. As one of them said “Better help the other
fellow now. Tomorrow’s a hell of a way off here.”
The Marines have had an awful lot of joshing, of course, about their
press agent stuff--“Ace high with the Satevepost,” and so on. But
these were certainly a fine bunch, and gave us a lift when we needed
it. Naturally, those of them who did the fighting did the least of the
blowing about it afterward.
The sun came out to look at the battle after awhile, and we got warmed
and partially dried. Also the kitchen arrived, and a hot dinner was in
prospect.
About 11 A. M. bulletins began arriving from the front, and were read
out to us. All objectives were being taken according to schedule, and
the number of prisoners and guns captured mounted by leaps and bounds.
We were not allowed out of the woods, but even from the trees on the
outskirts one couldn’t see much except a great cloud of smoke and dust
slowly rolling up the slope of a range of distant hills.
The wet exposure and irregular eating of half cooked food had already
started to tell on us. Dysentery was appearing; nearly all the company
suffered with constant diarrhoea from this time on.
The afternoon dragged on; still no call for the alert brigade. We were
allowed to pitch pup tents, but no fires were allowed; the wood was too
wet and smoky.
Night fell; we crawled into whatever shelter we had, and
surreptitiously smoked, and talked, and listened to the rumble of the
guns until we got to sleep.
At about 1:30 A. M. a battalion runner fell over my feet and lit on
Lt. Dunn. After a few hasty remarks we stopped for breath, and were
informed that the battalion was to form on the road right away. Stiff
and sleepy, I stumbled out into the dank night, routed out Chiaradio,
my staunch little runner and striker, and broke the glad news to
Robbins and the company runners. The woods were soon in a bustle as we
rolled packs, donned equipment, and filed out by platoons into the mud
of the road.
By 2 A. M. the battalion was standing ankle deep in the slushy mud
in column of squads, the Major at our head. Half an hour passed. Not
a sound except an occasional “su-luck-slosh,” as someone shifted his
heavy pack, or tried in vain to find a less liquid footing. The leaden
minutes dragged by. Three o’clock; no move. Half past four--the company
ahead moved off, and we sloshed along behind, but only to the edge of
the wood. Dawn broke--another gray and misty dawn. Oh, that awful wait
in that awful hole! It was quite light before, at 5 o’clock, we finally
moved out, and, splashing and sliding over a muddy field, finally hit
the road and were off toward the scene of action.
As we were stretching the kinks out of our legs on a fairly good road,
we passed a U. S. Coast Artillery outfit; a 12-inch gun. Some of the
crew came out to the roadside from the emplacement, and Capt. O’Brien
recognized his old outfit, in which he had served as an enlisted man
years before.
On we go toward the distant booming of the guns. We wind around hills,
hike across a valley, over another long hill. Then the road runs along
the bottom of a long, long valley. During the ten-minute rests we
snatch a hasty breakfast from our reserve rations, with growls from
those who don’t get in on the jam.
Now we begin to see traces of the battle--an overturned wagon,
abandoned in the ditch; a train of ammunition trucks crossing the road
ahead of us; a motor truck repair shop, hastily set up in a little
cabin along the road, from which came a smell of hot coffee that
tantalized our cold stomachs. Further on we passed a field hospital;
great white tents pitched in a sheltered dell, with red crosses glaring
on the tent flies.
At the next halt, a Ford ambulance came down the muddy road with a load
of wounded. It stopped by us, and the driver went around behind to see
to one of the occupants. The canvas curtain was pushed aside from the
top, and a head lolled out--a face of ghastly yellow paste, surrounded
by dirty light brown hair. The poor chap was evidently badly gassed. He
retched violently time and again, spat out some blood, stared vacantly
at us with glassy, miserable eyes. The driver put the head inside
with a kindly “All right, buddy; nearly there now;” and the old Henry
started off again with a jerk, and a groan from within.
As we resumed the march, a youngster from the 5th Division overtook us.
He wore an M. P.’s brassard, and no equipment but a .45 and a canteen.
We with our heavy packs and ammunition envied him. He was sleepy
eyed and jaded, but still enthusiastic. Ever since the drive started
he had been on the job escorting prisoners from front line division
headquarters to the pens in the rear.
By 9 o’clock we had done twelve miles under our full pack, ammunition,
and two days’ rations, with a breakfast of a little corned willy and
hard bread and chlorinated water; the whole preceded by three hours’
standing in eight inches of liquid mud. We felt pretty well done in,
for a fact. The auto riflemen were the worst off, having their heavy
Chauchats and several big magazines of ammunition besides. One of them
lightened his load by the ingenious means of “forgetting” his bag of
magazines at a halt. When Lt. Schuyler discovered it, the culprit was
promptly accommodated with a double dose to carry.
But this was the exception. As I shifted about, hiking first with one
platoon and then another, I always found a set of determined grins, and
a cheerful “Oh, we’re all right. How’s the rabble up ahead?”
We had been passing through the rear area of the former Allied sector.
Now and again a trench system--trenches, barbed wire, emplacements,
all complete--stretched away on either hand. Here and there were great
stretches of barbed wire filling gullies and ravines.
At 10 o’clock we crossed a stone bridge and started up a long, long
hill. At the top we found that we were on a ridge that had been the
front line before the attack. Shell holes covered the whole place. To
our left, the ground fell away in a long dip, and we saw the ground
over which the first wave had attacked. The battle was now far away
over the horizon.
For a couple of kilos we hiked along the road on top of the ridge.
It had already been repaired roughly, and all sorts of traffic
was passing over it. Once it had been bordered with trees, set at
regular intervals, like most self respecting French roads. Now only a
shattered, blasted stump stood here and there.
A few men began to straggle from the outfits ahead, but “B” Co. stuck
to it gamely. On that day not a man fell out.
Now we drew near a large barbed wire enclosure filled with men. It was
a P. W. pen, where prisoners were collected on their way to the rear. A
couple of detachments of them were going in as we came by.
We turned off here to the left, toward the front. About a kilo down
this road we hit a traffic jam--a regular one. This road was badly cut
up, and poor road discipline soon did the rest. Some truck or ambulance
had tried to pass another, and both had stalled. Others, arriving from
both directions, instead of lining up behind on the right of the road,
pressed up as far as they could go, until the road was so completely
jammed that even we on foot could not get through. Belts of barbed wire
that ran up to the road on either side prevented us from going around.
So there we were.
It was a most cosmopolitan collection. French 75’s, Ford ambulances,
a general’s Cadillac, rubbed shoulders with lumbering lorries, sturdy
steel ammunition Quads, and limbers. A French transport wagon driver
cracked his long whip and argued volubly with the chauffeur of a tank,
who spat and regarded him contemplatively. Field kitchens, huddled in
the jam, held the food that was so desperately needed up front.
At last a Colonel of Marines blew in from somewhere, and plunged into
the mess. He got it thinned out enough for us to filter through on the
outskirts. And then--Glory be--we turned off the road into an open
space, with no barbed wire and comparatively few shell holes. Here we
found part of the 312th Inf., and the battalion stacked arms and fell
out.
We slipped off our packs, and fell to on monkey meat and hard bread
with a will. The sun had come out, and we lay around and soon got warm
and dry, and felt nearly human again.
All too soon we fell in, and set off again. We threaded our way across
the jam--now nearly as bad as ever--and spent the afternoon drifting
down a little valley at right angles to the road we had just left.
Nobody seemed to know just where we were going, or why. We heard later
that a jumbled order somewhere between Division and Brigade Hdqs. had
caused us to spend this day in a wild goose chase.
The Colonel and Regt’l Hdq. had not been seen since the morning. We
hiked a few hundred yards, waited awhile, then moved on a bit again. We
passed, and were in turn passed by artillery, supply trains, infantry.
We sweated and chafed under our burdens, and wondered what t’ell, but
supposed it was all part of the game.
At last, about 6 P. M., we came to the head of the valley. There we
spied the Colonel and his car, on a road up on the top of the hill. We
climbed up to the road, pushing a stalled rolling kitchen ahead of us.
We were urged to “Step out,” and showed our military discipline and
Christian forbearance by not saying what we thought of this request.
We got on a good road that led over the hill and up toward the front.
Along this we hiked a little way, then turned off to the left, and up a
lumber road that led straight up the hill into the woods. It was nearly
dark; the road was so steep that I could never understand how six
inches of liquid mud stayed on it. The climb up this road soon put our
feet into their usual muddy and wet condition. We turned off into the
woods, the Bois de Hoquemont, and were told that we would bivouac here
for the night.
Our kitchens pulled up along the main road shortly, and the cooks,
tired as they were, got to work at once. The rations consisted mostly
of dehydrated vegetables. They say they are good if you can soak them
for twenty-four hours. A stew and coffee were soon under way.
I toiled back up the hill and found a message to report at once to
the regt’l commander. On a hunch, I had Schuyler get a detail out and
bring up the chow right away. Sure enough, at the officers’ meeting we
were ordered to make combat packs and be ready to move again in twenty
minutes. We got our coffee and slum, though; and the half cooked stuff
tasted pretty good at that.
Then we again donned our equipment, and plashed down the sloppy road
on weary feet. The night was very dark, and the road, as usual, jammed
with transport, our kitchens among others. As we threaded our way
through, we got mixed up somehow with a company of Marines going in
the same direction. Finally the jam thinned out, and we turned off
on another road, though we had to sort out B company and the Marines
almost man by man. And so we plodded on.
It is remarkable how much a man can do after he thinks he is all in. We
picked ’em up and put ’em down for three hours. At last we drew near
some woods. Our orders were to proceed to Bois d’Euvezin and bivouac,
and show no lights. Well, we couldn’t see a map, and didn’t know where
we were on one anyhow, so this wood looked pretty good. At any rate, we
turned off the road and headed for it.
Easy enough for a staff officer to look at a map and say, “Bivouac in
these woods.” Unfortunately, there was a 30 foot belt of wire fringing
this particular one. Orders are orders, though, so we scrambled through
somehow, and pushed in far enough to hide from any further marching
orders that night. Then we flopped down, any place at all, and dropped
off.
It seemed but a couple of minutes before the sun came prying through
the leaves and under my eyelids. I rolled over, and saw Lt. Col. Budd,
sitting up with his back against a tree, wrapped in his trench coat--no
better off than we were. Right away my morale went up.
An American outfit is never so weary that it doesn’t furnish a few
inquisitive souls. Already curiosity was driving the doughboys out of
the woods, by two’s and three’s, to see what was around. Just over a
knoll they found a little fragment of history. A German machine gun,
cunningly camouflaged; across it the body of a big “Feldwebel,” or
German top sergeant, with a bayonet wound through his body; a couple
of yards away a dead Marine, riddled with machine gun bullets, still
grasping his rifle with the bloody bayonet fixed.
At 9 A. M. the outfit was rounded up, and we were off again. As we
plugged along the road in column of squads we thought with some disgust
of the night marches we had made a hundred kilos behind the lines.
Fortunately this hike was short. In an hour we entered another and
larger wood, the Bois d’Euvezin sure enough, this time. Here we found
the rest of the brigade, and bivouacked in the woods just off the road.
The woods were full of German dugouts, evacuated by the enemy only a
day or so before. Most of these were preempted by various headquarters.
We settled down to make the most of our rest. For a wonder the sun
was out; and despite the mud under foot, we were soon fairly warm and
dry--and oh, how hungry! It was well along in the afternoon before the
water carts pulled in, though, and we got our hot slum and coffee.
The Y. M. C. A. kicked through with a canteen, and after some trouble
in keeping the men from mobbing the place, crackers, chocolate and
tobacco were sold.
That night our gas training blossomed forth again. The Boche dropped a
couple of shells around and our over-anxious sentries promptly bawled
“Gas!” The alarm would be taken up and spread through the brigade, and
by the time things quieted down they were off again. We finally got
some sleep by the primitive but effective expedient of promising to
blow the head off the next guy that raised the cry.
Next day a great bunch of orders were dumped on me to read--all about
the new censorship regulations. After wading through these, the
officers were summoned to go up on a reconnoitering party to look over
the sector which we were to take over that night.
We set out, and after a couple of hours’ stiff hiking arrived at a
very elaborate system of dugouts, in the edge of a wood, the Bois St.
Claude. Here was the Regt’l Hdq. of the 61st Infantry, 5th Division,
which we were to relieve. About five hundred meters north lay the
little village of Vieville-en-Haye. Descriptions of this charming
hamlet are superfluous, as we all had plenty of opportunity to
contemplate it thereafter.
It was early afternoon, and the Boche was behaving rather well; only
occasionally slamming an .88 into the village in a perfunctory sort of
way. From the northeast, however, came an intermittent crackle of rifle
and machine gun firing, where the outposts were snarling and chattering
away at each other.
We sat around for an hour while the regt’l hdq’s made their
arrangements. I found out that the C. O. of the 61st was an old friend
of my father’s--his father had been in my father’s company at V. M. I.
in the Civil War.
At last the dope filtered down to the Co. Cmdrs., and we were given ten
minutes to reconnoiter our positions. We then had to make haste back to
the regiment, so that we could be ready to start again at dark. Packs
were made, the platoons gathered together, and at 7:30 P. M. we filed
out onto the road and were off on the last lap of our journey to the
battle line.
Hardly were we clear of the woods when we halted, for some unknown
reason. We sat and lay on the grass by the roadside, among shell holes,
and listened to the drone of airplanes above us. It was an eerie,
ominous sound; and though we were pretty sure the motors were not the
deep voiced monsters of the enemy, still we were relieved when they
drew off without dropping any H. E. into our midst.
In half an hour we started, this time in earnest. It was rough going,
and blind work at best. We stumbled up a ravine, out onto a road,
skirted a wood lined with artillery, and so drew near our position
south of Vieville-en-Haye.
The 1st battalion was in support, the 2nd holding the front line, and
the 3rd brigade reserve. I never did know where the battalion was that
we were relieving. A and B Cos., however, were to hold the crest of
a slight swell of the ground about 300 meters south of the village.
Trenches there were none; but there were plenty of shell holes, and the
company was posted so as to command the terrain in front with Chauchat
and rifle fire; two or three men to a shell hole. The 4th platoon found
a little stretch of trench which they improved for themselves. A Co.
was on our left; C and D Cos. were posted about 700 meters to our right
rear, behind Regt’l Hdq.
We had gotten pretty well settled, when just before dawn a battalion
runner came up, with the cry that haunted me day and night, “Commanding
Officer, B Co.” Hard on his heels came the Major. Two companies of the
2nd battalion had lost their way and were temporarily missing, and B
Co. was to go up and hold the line of resistance at once.
So B Co. was routed out of its bivvies, and donned packs and
ammunition, and set off in double file. I was to report to the C. O. of
the 61st Inf. front line battalion at Vieville.
We hiked down to the road, and up to where the houses began; then
through a spacious barn, climbing over a dead horse, and arriving
finally at the northern outskirts of the town. Not finding the Bn. Hdq.
I had the company take what cover they could in the road and barn while
the Major and I strolled up to the top of the hill beyond to have a
look ’round.
Near the top of this long hill were two German concrete pillboxes,
nicely turfed over. We found one of these occupied as a first aid post;
in the other we found a machine gun company hdq. Nobody knew any dope
about where we were wanted, but they said that Bn. Hdq. was about a
kilo away to the right.
Just then Heinie started his morning strafe of Vieville-en-Haye. Three
or four whiz bangs came hurtling over our heads, and landed in the east
end of the village, right where B Co. was lying. I saw no necessity of
our doing a Casabianca, and hastily obtained permission from the Major
to take B Co. back to its former position until we knew where to go. As
I shuffled down the hill, hitting the dirt now and then when one landed
close by, I chanced to look back just in time to see a shell hit the
first aid pillbox and pivot it neatly around, so that the door faced
us instead of the enemy. It didn’t take long to start B Co. toward our
bivvies, very much disgusted with the morning’s work, but glad to stop
playing target for a while. Fortunately, no one was hit.
The 2nd Battalion located its wandering sheep later in the day, so we
were not called on for that errand again.
The regiment’s task was now to organize and strengthen our sector of
the line. The main line of resistance, as indicated on the map, was
being held and dug in by three Cos. of the 2nd Battalion, H Co. holding
the outpost line about two kilos in advance.
Our kitchens were established in the woods behind Regt’l Hdq., and
started work on the old standby, slum. The rough roads leading into
these woods were all ankle deep in mud, and the ration detail wasn’t
any bed of roses.
The day we spent in deepening our bivvies as best we could, though our
intrenching tools made little impression on the hard and stony ground.
Whoever salvaged a man-sized pick or shovel was lucky. While it was
light, we kept down under cover as much as possible, for the German
observation balloons were peeping sinisterly over the horizon, and we
didn’t care about drawing attention to our position.
On Wednesday, September 18th, at about 1 P. M., A and B Cos. received
orders to report to the Engineer Dump at 368.3-240.3, as a working
party. Several enemy observation balloons were up, and it was a clear
afternoon; but orders were orders, and off we filed.
At the dump we met an Engineer Lieutenant--very stout, very bullheaded
and very incompetent. I asked where we were to work, and he replied he
didn’t know--over there somewhere--pointing in the general direction of
Germany. Having had enough of that sort of business in the morning, I
told him to toddle right off and find out where he was to take us. He
got quite huffy at this, but finally set out, and returned with some
definite information. We drew picks and shovels, and hiked away after
him; I being forced to hurt his importance again by refusing to march
the company along in single file on the sky line.
Our task was to dig a communication trench, already taped out, from
the point where the line of resistance entered the Bois Gerard back
over the brow of the hill. The first platoon was in plain view of the
enemy’s observation balloon, the other three were just behind the rise.
We posted sentinels, and set to work, absolutely out in the open, no
cover save a few shell holes. For ten minutes we dug. Then it came. A
whistle, scream and slam, just over the hill; another; then a fierce,
deadly whir, right in our ears. We hit the dirt, and a second later Lt.
Dunn called to me “Captain, there’s a man killed here and I don’t know
how many wounded.”
For an instant of horror the company gazed at the spot. I sent Sgt.
Hill to the first aid pillbox for stretchers, put the others to work
again, and hastened up to see the situation. The shell had landed just
between the 1st and 2nd platoons. Lt. Schuyler was already having the
wounded carried into the edge of the woods near by, and had the rest
of the 1st platoon take cover there. Poor O’Hara was lying dead right
by the shell hole. It had burst nearly underneath him, and a fragment
of shell had torn its way through his temple and right out through his
steel helmet. His brains were oozing out through the hole.
Seeing that nothing could be done for him, I went over to the woods.
Lester Farry, our mechanic, as fine a man as ever walked, was sitting
up between Lt. Schuyler and Sgt. Reid, with a big hole in the side of
his head. He never uttered a word of complaint; just sat still while
they bandaged it; and the stretchers came up and took him off. He died
in hospital six days later.
Curcio had a great hole in the upper part of his leg. Donohue had an
ugly bit of shell in his back, and Bogucki, Fielding, and Hauber were
wounded, but less seriously.
This was a nasty introduction to shell fire, because the whole company
saw the thing happen. Their behaviour, however, was excellent. Doggedly
the men continued at the work, and soon we had enough cover to at least
be in while the shells burst near by.
Our gallant friend, the Engineer Lieutenant, had promptly vanished, and
I never saw him again. I withdrew the first and second platoons behind
the hill, and we kept on the job until 6 P. M., as ordered. At about
5:30, A Co. came along over the hill, and the Heinies sped them on
their way with a few gas shells, which made them scamper.
As we turned in our shovels at the dump, every man mustered up a grin
as he passed by; and though it had been one hell of a party, the old
morale was still on deck.
On the top of the knoll where our position was, the Germans had had an
anti-aircraft gun, gaudily camouflaged. Some cooks from an artillery
outfit had found a lot of ammunition belonging to it, and, dragging
it into Vieville, had amused themselves during the day by shooting
Fritz’s own H. E. in his general direction. This apparently annoyed
Fritz; and just as I got back to our bivvies at the tail of B Co., two
ash cans--whoppers--arrived at the gun’s former position, right in the
midst of A Co. Our comrades promptly departed to the woods until the
next morning.
The cooks sent up a good chow--steaks and coffee--and we got to sleep
in our holes as best we could.
The next day--Thursday, September 19th--was rainy. We dug our shelters
a little deeper, and wished this war thing were over. I found a German
translation of one of De Maupassant’s novels, which I read through, but
for the life of me I can’t remember a bit of the story.
In the afternoon the chaplain, Lt. Cressman, came around, and O’Hara’s
platoon was allowed to attend his burial service in the little cemetery
in the edge of the Bois St. Claude, east of Vieville.
In the meantime I had been called to Btn. Hdq., where Mr. Morse, our
faithful old “Y” man, had brought up some chocolate and cigarettes. He
was supposed by the regulations of the “Y” to sell them, but he refused
to take any money from the Co. Cmdrs. at first, intending to account
for them out of his own small pay. When we understood this, we insisted
on paying for the stuff out of the company funds. The news got out
that the “Y” was charging for chocolate and tobacco, and caused some
bitterness, under the circumstances. But thereafter Mr. Morse made some
arrangement whereby the stuff was issued free.
As for Mr. Morse himself, I think we should here express something of
our appreciation of his faithful and unselfish devotion to the men
of the battalion. A man well past the prime of life, he shared our
hardships, hiked with us--not sticking like grim death to a Ford as
some of his confreres were prone to do--; slept in mud and rain with
us. Right under shell fire he would come plugging on up with his little
bag of smokes and chocolate. The Red Cross, the Salvation Army, were
only names to us. But the “Y,” which we cussed out so frequently,
surely did us proud when they gave us Mr. Morse.
That night the 1st, 3rd and 4th platoons went out as separate working
parties. Apparently the deaths of O’Hara and Farry had demonstrated
even to our friends the Engineers that sporting about in sight of Hun
balloons in the daytime was magnificent, but not war.
The Boche had the range, though, and shelled the area all night. The
1st platoon ran on an average schedule of dig two minutes and duck
five. The 3rd was in no better case, and Barney O’Rourke got an ugly
little piece of shell through his foot. He hobbled off between Hill
and Weber, adjuring me as he left “Don’t let th’ byes get up too soon
afther they bor-r-rst, sor-r-r.” And thereafter we didn’t.
Rifle bullets were cracking by over our heads now and then, and the
rumor got about that snipers were concealed in the nearby woods. The
whole sector had of course been in German hands five days before, and
all sorts of tales were current about death traps found in dugouts, and
lurking snipers, lying close in the daytime in cunning shelters, well
provisioned, who came out at night to pot a few of us and eventually
escape by underground passages.
Most of these tales I recognized as old friends originally met with
in the Sat. Eve. Post. But digging was quite unpleasant enough as it
was, and the source of the impression was not so important as the fact
that it existed. So Osterweis, Woolley and I went forth to bag the
franctireurs. We waded through a vast deal of mud, but couldn’t flush
anything except a disgusted runner looking for Brigade Hdq.; so I sent
the corporals back, and set out myself for the 4th platoon, which was
stringing wire over on the left of the sector.
On the way I stumbled over the body of a 5th Division soldier. He had
a red runner’s brassard on his arm, and was all ticketed for burial.
His face seemed to be in shadow. There was a plug of chewing tobacco
sticking out of his pocket and this seemed to be in the shadow too.
Then I realized that his face had turned black--it was just the color
of that plug of tobacco. The vicious shriek of a shell approached,
and I hit the dirt. A bit of the shell hit the dead man by me, and he
jumped as if alive. I got up and was on my way.
The majority of the 4th platoon had taken individual leases on shell
holes; Sgt. Rogers and a few others were making valiant efforts to make
some headway with the wire. The shelling quieted down after awhile,
however, and we got down to business. Then I started back to see how
the others were faring.
On the way I heard Capt. Fleischmann’s voice from the darkness; his
men also were worried about the stray bullets overhead. As I came up,
a couple of his sentinels thought they had spotted the snipers, and
cracked down on some figures moving past a clump of bushes to their
left. A few remarks in choice American made it clear that they were
potting away at my 3rd platoon, which had decided that it was time to
quit for the night. Privately I was heartily in sympathy with this
view; but officially I had to lead the way back to the trench and
set the boys to work again. Meanwhile the C. O. of the 4th platoon,
laboring under a similar delusion, had taken his wiring party back to
their bivvies. Sgt. Rogers, Slim Price and one or two others were still
on deck, very much disgusted. So we had a good long trudge back, routed
the lads out, and all hands returned to the hill.
At last 3 o’clock came, and we turned in tools and quit for the night.
As Rogers, Hayden and I were crossing the belt of wire north of the
Vieville road, four or five gas shells landed quite near by. We all got
a pretty good snootful before we got our masks on; and Rogers, the Co.
gas N. C. O., was so busy cussing the wire that he didn’t notice the
gas soon enough, and got enough to put him in the hospital.
My shell hole looked pretty luxurious to me; Chiaradio had swiped a
piece of corrugated iron for a roof, and it wasn’t as wet as it might
have been. I was glad to crawl in between him and Robbins and go to
sleep.
At about 9 A. M. Heinie set to work to blow us out. His range was fifty
meters short, fortunately, and he shelled away on a line between us and
Vieville with characteristic diligence and thoroughness. The flying
fragments made promenading unhealthy. Lt. Schuyler came over to my
bivvy with a rumor that the Austrians had quit. Two minutes after he
left, a long jagged piece came whistling along and half buried itself
just where he had been sitting, and six inches above my foot. Cheery-O
used it to hang his mess kit on thereafter.
That night we only furnished two small working parties, and the rest of
us had a cushy sleep.
On Friday, the 20th, the Co. Cmdrs. were assembled at Bn. Hdq., and
were told that we were to relieve the 2nd Battalion on the night of the
21st. That afternoon we went up to reconnoiter the position we were to
take over. The guides took us up past the Engineer dump, through the
woods to the 2nd Bn. Hdq. Here we found Major Adee and his staff taking
advantage of a quiet hour to have lunch above ground. They were using a
couple of German dugouts as headquarters--very good ones, about 20 feet
under ground and well timbered.
Major Adee seemed to have aged twenty years. His face was lined and
haggard with care and responsibility. His runner had been killed at the
entrance to the dugout that morning by a shell.
Fleischmann and I with two runners apiece, our officers and top
sergeants, were furnished with a guide to take us to the outpost line.
B and D Cos. were to relieve H Co.; A and C were to hold the line of
resistance.
It was a long two kilos up to the outpost line, especially as we had
to keep under cover of the woods all the way. We crossed and recrossed
one of the little narrow gauge railways that the Germans had running
everywhere. My right ankle, which I had broken the previous fall
playing football at Camp Dix, had a touch of rheumatism, and the
nagging pain from it made a background for all the rest of my time in
the line. Even now when I think about the Limey sector, the old ankle
comes through with a reminiscent twinge. I suppose each of you had
some corresponding petty aggravation which worried you absurdly out of
proportion to its intrinsic importance.
We toiled up the little wooded hill at the edge of the Bois Hanido, and
passed a gun pit, the ground around strewn with German arms, equipment,
and clothing, and several dead Germans lying about. Just on the other
side of the hill was a German rest camp, with several bunk houses, a
movie theatre, and a little open air Catholic chapel, with a wooden
cross.
At the bottom of the hill we came to the narrow gauge railway again,
followed it up a little way, and then turned down one of the straight
paths that the Boche cut through the woods, barring all other
approaches with barbed wire, and commanding these with machine guns. It
was a good stunt, too, as we found out later. After you’ve struggled in
barbed wire for a while you’ll take a chance on machine gun bullets to
get on a path.
It was not far to H Co.’s headquarters. There we found Capt. Ressiguie,
commanding the company--a most cool-headed, courageous and efficient
officer. Lt. Col. Budd was also there, inspecting the outpost. The
company headquarters was a shelter half stretched over a two foot
ditch. Earlier in the afternoon, the left flank platoon had had a
skirmish with an enemy machine gun patrol, losing two men killed and
a couple wounded, including Lt. Stern. We made our reconnaissance and
started back, arriving at our own Bn. Hdq. by nightfall. There we were
issued battle maps of the sector and the relief order, which makes the
arrangements down to the last detail on paper.
Two platoons went out as working parties that night, and got off with
comparatively little shelling. The next morning Capt. Fleischmann and I
were issued an assortment of pyrotechnic signals--rockets, Very lights,
etc.,--with lengthy directions as to their use.
In the afternoon a division order postponed the relief for twenty-four
hours. Working parties had been called off on account of the relief,
and we all got a night off.
As soon as dusk fell on Sunday, September 22nd, the platoons were
assembled under full equipment, and we started. The guides didn’t
appear, and it was fortunate we had been up before. Several times I
thought I had lost my way, and was leading the two companies into
the German lines. Trying to keep in touch with the man ahead while
blundering through those woods, laden down with rifle and equipment,
tripping over logs, roots and barbed wire, slipping in the mud;
occasional shells bursting to remind us that any noise would be
disastrous, and, of course, a nice rain falling--I’ve been on lots of
pleasanter walks.
At last we came to the old German rest camp, and I knew where we were.
Soon we met Capt. Ressiguie, and the sgt. commanding his left platoon
took us in tow.
The first and third platoons furnished the line of outguards, along
the line 368.8-242.4: 368.3-242.8; the first platoon on the right. The
second and fourth platoons were the support, and were to organize a
strong point at the north of the little strip of woods at 368.1-242.5.
Co. Hdq. was established at 368.6-242.4, just off the path through the
woods.
Only a small part of our sector had been held by H Co., and we had to
dig our own bivvies. Our intrenching tools made little headway in the
rocky ground, laced with tree roots; and even those who found German
picks and shovels made little better progress. The support was somewhat
better off, as they had one or two good dugouts and gun pits.
By the time all the dispositions were made and inspected it was
beginning to get light. There was plenty of German clothing and
equipment lying around, and in ten minutes you could have collected
enough souvenirs to satisfy even a Paris Q. M. sergeant. The heavy
fleeceskin German coats came in especially handy, and the other stuff
was good to line our bivvies, though it was soaking wet and smelt most
damnably. Hun machine gun ammunition in long canvas belts was scattered
around in abundance; and down in the corner of the field on our left
was an abandoned field kitchen.
Raymond Harris and a couple of battalion runners were running a field
telephone up from B. H. Q. to the Co. Hdq. We had crawled into our
holes for some sleep, when about 1 P. M. a nasty, shrill little whir
like a giant mosquito heralded the arrival of a small one-pounder shell
about a hundred meters down the line. It was repeated rapidly, dropping
shells right along that path which ran parallel to the outpost line at
about twenty-five yard intervals. And to our dismay, we realized that
the shells were coming from behind us.
Cheery-O had carefully cleaned and oiled his rifle and leaned it up
against a sapling at the edge of our hole. The vicious whir came again
directly at us, and, as our muscles grew taut against the shock of the
explosion, the butt of the rifle suddenly vanished. A moment later
Cheery-O scrambled out and returned with a rueful face, bearing his
precious rifle, bent neatly at the breech into a right angle.
Just then one of the battalion runners came up, with a bleeding hand,
saying that his mate had just been killed down the path. I took the
two first aid men attached to the company and we went down and found
Harris, my own runner, lying by the coil of telephone wire he had been
laying, with a great hole in the side of his head--a horrible thing to
look at.
I stopped only long enough to see a dressing applied and a stretcher
brought, and then hastened down the path to D Cos. headquarters, where
a phone had been installed. I found Fleischmann shooting off all the
fireworks that would go off--about one in ten--and his first sergeant
grinding the bell handle of the field phone like mad. To make things
pleasanter, our artillery dropped a couple of shells neatly among our
outguards. We sent back runners to B. H. Q., and the shells stopped.
We never found out who was responsible for that one-pounder. Our own
was far in the rear, and the outfits on either side--the 90th Division
on the right, the 312th Inf. on the left--disclaimed any knowledge of
it. So headquarters solved the problem, as usual, by telling us we were
green at this game and didn’t know what we were talking about.
It seemed so pitifully unnecessary about Harris. He was such a
handsome, bright, intelligent and cheery little chap, a favorite with
all the company; and we carried him off with half his face torn away,
moaning and unconscious. I never dreamed he could live. But somehow
they pulled him through and I have just had a card from him today, from
Walter Reed Hospital, where he is yet.
The nearest first aid post was at Bn. Hdq., and we had to carry all our
wounded back those two long kilometers through the woods, with only
the rough dressings that we could apply on the spot. For our rations
we had to go back another two kilos, to Rgt’l Hdq., making four kilos
each way, nearly all the way through woods and under shell fire. The
continual wetness, exposure and loss of sleep made us easy prey to
dysentery, and this weakened us a great deal. Under these conditions,
to have to carry a stretcher or a can of stew several kilos in the dark
was--well, it was just hell. I think the ration parties had the worst
job, though their loads were not so heavy as the stretcher bearers’
were. The latter were held up by sympathy for the poor devil on the
stretcher. There isn’t much inspiration in a can of slum or a bag of
bread.
Joe Levy had charge of the ration parties, and a thankless job it was.
The Major arranged to have the chow brought as far as the line of
resistance in a limber; but when shells were banging about--which was
pretty generally the case--either the limber didn’t get up that far,
or the chow was dumped down and abandoned. Worst of all, we only had
enough thermos cans to carry one ration for the company; so the ration
detail had to go back, get the chow, bring it up and distribute it,
collect the cans, lug them back to the kitchens, and then return to
the outpost line. It did seem absolutely inexcusable that this had to
be done, all for lack of a few cans. It cost us several unnecessary
losses in killed and wounded, and after all had done their turn at this
detail, weakened from diarrhoea and exposure as we were, it made us
very low physically.
The night of the 23rd passed comparatively quietly for the outpost
line, though the line of resistance was well bucketed, and the ration
party had a hard time. Shells landing near the kitchen transformed
several thermos cans into sieves, and made the shortage worse than
ever. Besides, Regt’l Hdq. decided that the kitchens were attracting
enemy shell fire in their direction, and ordered them moved another
kilo back, to the brigade reserve.
Our orders were to do no patrolling in front of the line of outguards,
as this was to be done by the battalion scouts under Lt. Drake. I
believe this was a mistake, and if I had it to do over again I should
send out patrols every night. It makes all the difference in one’s
confidence and peace of mind, and no information can equal that gained
at first hand.
At about 3 P. M. on the 24th, as I was dozing in our bivvy, Lt.
Col. Budd’s face peeped in. He and a Major from Division Hdq. were
inspecting the outpost line. I was glad to see someone higher up than
myself dodging shells. It might have been wrong in theory for him to be
up there, but I surely appreciated it. I did the honors for our sector,
asked for more thermos cans, and got a couple of cigars from the Lt.
Colonel. He brought the news that the 90th Division on our right was
pulling off a battalion raid that night, covered by a barrage, and to
lie close.
About three times a day I would go down to chew the rag and swap dope
with Capt. Fleischmann. It was funny that I nearly always met him on
the way, coming over to do the same with me. The idea always struck us
at the same moment. Somehow it seemed to help share the responsibility,
and cheered us up a lot.
The barrage started about 11 P. M. The Boche replied with a counter
barrage, and he had a very fair range on our outpost line. In five
minutes the shells were ripping the tops off the trees all around, and
the air grew acrid from the bursting lyddite. He was just about 50
meters too high, and it was his shorts that did the damage to us.
In about fifteen minutes, when the din was at its height, Cole, a
runner from the 3rd platoon, came up, out of breath and shaken. A shell
had hit directly on platoon hdq.; Lt. Merrill and Sgt. Hill were both
wounded, and several men killed.
I left Sgt. Robbins in charge at Co. Hdq., and with Cole, Winemiller,
Chiaradio and our two medical detachment men went out to see the
situation.
We pushed through the thick underbrush to the shallow hole that Merrill
was occupying. It was raining a little; the only light came from the
flashes of the bursting shells and the guns on the horizon. Merrill
and Hill had been lying in their bivvy, with the other platoon runner,
Laurencell, sitting on their feet. A shell had hit Laurencell right at
the shoulders, carrying all his head, neck and shoulders and arms away.
His bleeding trunk and legs, an awful corpse, was lying across Hill and
Merrill, who were both badly wounded in the feet and legs, and could
not remove the body.
We took up poor Laurencell’s remains and laid them to one side, and
then got Merrill on a stretcher, and Cheery-O and Cole carried him off.
Sgt. Hill’s feet, however, were so mangled and mixed up with the bottom
of the hole that our attempts to raise him out of it caused him intense
agony. He said, “Captain, there’s a German razor in my coat pocket.
Please cut my foot off, and then I can stand it.”
I couldn’t see, but I could feel with my hands that this was about the
only way to extricate him. So I took the razor, and cut away his shoe
and the mangled part of his foot, which was all mixed up with a German
overcoat they had been lying on. Then we were able to lift him on to
the stretcher; but he wouldn’t be carried away until we took all his
cigarettes out of his pocket and gave them to him.
Then I went down toward the line of outguards. When I got out on the
road by the German kitchen, I was challenged by Cpl. McGarrity. It did
my heart good to hear his stern, cool voice coming out of that night
of blackness and horror. He reported that several men in the outguards
were killed and wounded, and that he and Corp. Welsh were arranging
for the wounded. Sgt. Schelter had gone to Co. Hdq. for stretchers,
and hadn’t been heard of since. We never saw him again. His body was
found in the woods several hundred meters away several days later; he
evidently lost his way, and while wandering about in search of Co. Hdq.
was killed by shell fire.
Welsh and McGarrity took hold of the situation like veterans.
I designated them first and second in command of the platoon,
respectively, and told them they would be relieved before morning.
On returning to Co. Hdq. I found the wounded beginning to stream in.
Nearly all were from the 3rd platoon; the 1st platoon, strangely,
suffered very little. All the Co. runners and buglers were soon
carrying stretchers, and I again left Sgt. Robbins in charge while I
went over to the support to see to bringing up more stretcher bearers
and relief for the 3rd platoon.
That walk across the fields to the support’s position was certainly a
thriller. As I came out of the woods and started across the open, the
shells were going just overhead and bursting in the field to my left,
along a line about 50 meters away. After I doped this out it was easy
enough to plan my route so as to avoid them.
I found the platoon commanders and their sergeants in their
dugout--quite luxurious it looked, lighted with a candle and
comparatively dry. They thought I was wounded, as my hands, arms,
trousers and gas mask were all spotted and spattered with blood. I
ordered a detail from the 2nd platoon to report to me at once for
ration and stretcher carrying parties, and the 4th platoon to report as
soon as the barrage lifted to relieve the 3rd on the line of outguards.
As soon as the carrying parties were ready, I started back with them.
Sgt. Levy was placed in charge of the carrying parties, and they
were soon on their way. The men knew nothing of the country; it
was pitchy black, the shelling was still heavy, and they were wet,
weak and miserable. It was very hard to make orders understood, and
everything was wrong at once. Besides, there was the possibility of a
counter-attack or raid by the Boche.
In about half an hour the shelling died down and the 4th platoon came
up. When they were posted, while inspecting the outguards, I stumbled
over a body. As I could not see the face, I cut off the front of his
gas mask pouch where the name of the owner was printed. Next morning I
saw it was Kindt, of the 3rd platoon. He had been killed instantly by a
small piece of shell through the heart.
As I got back to Co. Hdq. it was getting light. I crawled into our
hole, which had a shelter half over it, and lit my pipe--the old black
briar I have in my face now as I write. Before I had taken three puffs
I fell off to sleep. A few minutes later Sgt. Robbins woke me with the
news that the ration detail had returned. I had been breathing through
my pipe which made me very sick and dizzy for awhile.
It was too light then to get the rations out to the outguards. The
ration detail was lying about on the ground, dead beat, among the pots
and cans. Sgt. Wilson and his cooks had worked all the day before to
make up a good chow, and Wilson had come up with it himself, though
that was no part of his duty. It almost broke his heart to be too late.
I tried to eat some, but everything tasted like blood.
Someone in the rear--not Sgt. Wilson--had the idea that we needed
coffee worse than water and so while we had plenty of strong, thick,
cold black coffee, we only had water that was left in our canteens. Our
upset stomachs refused the coffee; I used mine to wash the blood off my
hands and wrists. Robbins shaved in his.
Just then Capt. Fleischmann came striding along the path. He greeted
me with “Hello Daddy. Isn’t this awful?” D Co. had suffered even worse
than we, and they had not enough men to carry in the wounded, though
they had stripped the outguards as much as they dared. He asked me for
men to carry in four wounded that were still at his Co. Hdq.
I looked at the men lying on the ground asleep--the only ones
available. They had been carrying all that awful night under the heavy
shell fire, and I had not the heart to order them to make the trip
again. But I woke them up and told them that D Co. had some men lying
wounded, and asked for volunteers to take them in.
They stared dully for a moment, too tired to understand. Then Joe Levy,
who had been on the go all night, dragged himself to his feet, and said
“Hell, I’ll go. Come on, fellows.” Nobody wanted to go, and nobody
pretended to. But they went. It was one of the finest things I ever
saw, and every man that went should have had a D. S. C. No excitement
to it though; nothing to thrill the penny-a-liners, so they didn’t get
it.
When night fell, a detail went out to bring in the bodies of Weidman,
Kindt and Laurencell. Cpl. Weidman had been hit right in the waist by
a shell; his legs were lying several yards away from his body. It was
a gruesome task bringing him and Laurencell in. We laid the bodies,
covered with a blanket, near the graves of two H Co. men who had
been killed, just off the path at the place when it crossed the good
road--about point 368.8-242.3.
The night passed comparatively quietly; we got the rations issued, and
some water came up too late. Holly, one of the company runners, had
twisted his knee badly, and could not walk; so Cole was made runner in
his place; and a faithful, fearless lad he was, too.
Wednesday, September 25th, dawned a bright fall day. About 10 A. M.
Lt. Cressman, the regimental chaplain, came up. Winemiller, Cole,
Cheery-O, and Slover went with us to bury our three comrades. We turned
over their personal belongings to the chaplain, wrapped each poor
mangled body in a blanket, and laid them side by side in the shallow
graves--the best we had been able to dig. The chaplain read the burial
service, while an occasional shell tore through the air far overhead.
Then we filled in the graves. It was hard on our over-strained nerves,
and when we got through most of us were crying more or less. We hadn’t
as yet seen so much as one of the enemy to shoot at; it was all such a
hopeless, dreadful, ghastly business. Winemiller and Cole made three
little crosses and set them up at the head of the graves.
At 2:30 P. M. a message came up for Capt. Fleischmann and myself to
report at once to Btn. Hdq. We set out together wondering what was up;
leaving Lts. Hultzen and Schuyler in command.
We reported to Major Odom, who was studying his battle map by the
light of a couple of candles. Louis Foulkes greeted us on the side and
slipped me a couple of cigars.
After a few minutes, the Major took out his Bull Durham and started
rolling a cigarette, saying:
“I have a little problem for your companies to do tomorrow morning,”
quite as he had been saying any afternoon for the past year. Then he
went on to explain.
The great Argonne drive was to begin the next morning. It was to be
a surprise attack, preceded by only a couple of hours’ artillery
preparation. We were to make a demonstration, a sham attack, with the
object of keeping the enemy guessing for a few hours as to where the
real blow was to fall, and so to delay his concentration of troops to
meet the main drive.
The 312th Inf. on our left, and the 90th Div. on our right, were
to advance several kilos. We were to advance about half a kilo, to
approximately the line 368.3-243.4; 369.5-242.3. This line we were
to hold, and the units on our flanks were gradually to fall back and
re-establish the outpost line on us as a guide. We would have no
barrage, but there would be an hour of concentration fire--that is,
our artillery would shell points in the sector of the advance like
crossroads, probable strong points, battery positions, etc.
Zero hour was 5:30 A. M. At that moment we were to cut loose with all
our small arms fire. The battalion scouts had reported that there were
no Germans for 500 meters to the front, but this Fourth of July stuff
was to get the enemy’s wind up.
The arrangements for supplies and liaison were soon made. We had had no
chance to use any ammunition, and about all we asked for was water and
food.
Foulkes said that orders had arrived at Regtl. Hdq. detailing me to
report to the Army School of the Line at Langres on Oct. 1st. I thought
of the men we had buried that morning, and reflected grimly that I
should probably not matriculate.
When the Major finished his instructions, we sat quiet for a moment.
Then Fleischmann said “Well, come on, Daddy; we’ve got a lot to do
before dark,” and we set out.
As we climbed Dead Man’s Hill, the Boche balloon saw us, and they
amused themselves by sniping at us with a couple of 88’s. We kept
about 20 yards apart, so that if one was potted the other could see to
the attack. It was rather like playing “Going to Jerusalem.” We would
linger by a good shell hole and then hustle for the next one; and of
course the shells would always catch us between two holes, and we would
have to flop into some six inch puddle.
On arriving at Co. Hdq. I sent for the platoon commanders and
sergeants. Welch and McGarrity were left in command of the 3rd platoon;
I had perfect confidence in their ability to handle it after their
showing two nights before.
I knew that the moment we opened fire the German barrage would drop.
If he hadn’t shortened his range since Monday night we would have it
behind us. If he had, we would have to go through it anyhow, and the
sooner the better.
B Co. was attacking over a full kilometer front, which in a regular
supported attack would be the sector for at least a battalion. If we
met any serious opposition, we could not hope to push through to our
objective on this frontage. I therefore made my main objective the edge
of the open field along the line 369.0-243.0 to 368.6-243.2. This line
was along the top of a rather steep reverse slope, which would give us
protection from frontal fire, and from this as a base we could throw
out combat patrols to the flanks, and eventually get in touch with the
units on either side.
The company was to advance with the 1st, 4th and 2nd platoons in the
first wave, in above order from right to left; all in line of combat
groups. The 3rd platoon was to follow at 50 meters, and would act
as support and mopping up party. All would jump off from the line
of outguards, so that all would get clear of the enemy’s barrage as
quickly as possible. The 1st Plt. already had a common post with D Co.,
which was to move down the road on our right flank as a combat patrol.
Our left flank post was to arrange with the visiting patrol of the
312th Inf. to advance similarly along the left flank of our sector.
By the time these orders were issued and the ground reconnoitered,
it was nearly dark. Our rations were to be brought up that night by
details from the rear; but they lost their way--or their ambition--and
the chow never got beyond the foot of Dead Man’s Hill.
About midnight Capt. Fleischmann came over for a last consultation, and
we explained our plans to each other. Then we shook hands hard, wished
each other “Cheery-O” after the manner of the Scotties; and the night
closed behind his tall figure as he strode off down the path.
Various details of the arrangements kept me busy until the 2nd and 3rd
platoons came up at 5 A. M. to take their posts for the attack. Things
were comparatively quiet; only the usual shells going overhead. There
was just time to see the platoons properly disposed and to get my
headquarters platoon into position between the 1st and 4th platoons.
Then I watched my wrist watch tick off the last five minutes, as the
first tinge of dawn crept into the sky on our right. I ran everything
over in my mind hastily, to be sure nothing was forgotten. And then the
minute hand pointed the half hour.
Nothing happened.
The seconds ticked away. I listened and listened for ages--twenty
seconds by the watch--and nothing happened.
Finally I heard Schuyler’s voice over to the right, calling cautiously
“Hey, Cap, isn’t it time yet?”
“Sure it is,” I replied irritably. “Turn ’em loose. It’s after the time
now.”
The words were not out of my mouth before his rifle cracked and his
voice rang out “First platoon, Fire.”
The shots began to ring out, singly, then a rattle as the other
platoons took it up, each man firing a clip; then the rackety-split of
the Chauchats. An instant’s lull as we reloaded, and then the command
was “Forward!”
Then Hell broke loose.
The Germans had shortened their range. Their barrage dropped right on
us. The company runners were behind me in single file, Slover at the
rear. A shell burst behind us, killing him in his tracks before he
took a step. We knew nothing of it at the time. We pushed across the
field to our front, a field studded with stumps and full of underbrush.
Shells were bursting all around; the air filled as if by magic with the
stifling acrid smoke of high explosive. Several times the concussion of
a close one nearly knocked me off my feet, and the fumes blew against
my face like the blast from a furnace door. I wondered vaguely when
I’d get it, and shouted “Come on, B Company,” until I was hoarse.
Occasionally I heard Schuyler cheering on his men. You couldn’t see ten
feet for the smoke.
At the far edge of the field we ran into a broad belt of barbed wire.
We spread out, looking for a passage. Joe Levy called “Here’s a place,
Captain,” and we struggled through; I was dragging a long French VB
rifle after me. The wire was about 20 feet across.
We found ourselves at the bottom of a wooded slope, on a rough wagon
track. Lt. Schuyler, with Sgt. Reid and a couple of men, had gotten
through further along, and we started up the hill, sheltered somewhat
from the shells, though they were bursting in the treetops overhead.
I dumped my pack and V. B. rifle by a tree and christened the place
company headquarters. Then we went on up the hill. I got out my map and
pencil to be sure this was our objective.
It was quite light now; a beautiful September morning. Schuyler and I
gained the top of the ridge together. The woods ended there, giving
way to a little open plateau, about 250 meters across, with woods on
the other side again. I verified the position on my map, and ordered
Schuyler to post his men along the ridge under cover of the trees and
underbrush, while I did the same further to the left, where men from
the 4th platoon were coming up the slope in groups of two and three as
they got through the wire.
I had not gone twenty paces when Sgt. Reid came running after me and
said “Lieut. Schuyler’s been hit, Captain.” I answered mechanically
“All right; bring him behind the ridge, take charge of the platoon and
post the men as they come up.”
Rifle bullets were beginning to snap overhead, coming apparently from
the woods across the field, which was held in some force by the enemy,
as we soon realized. Our only chance of meeting a counter-attack was to
build up a firing line to sweep the plateau in front, and as fast as
men from the 4th platoon came up I posted them to command our front and
left flank.
Slim Price, in a German’s black fur coat that came about to his hips,
came stalking up the hill with his Chauchat, and disappeared over the
crest, subsiding in a little clump of bushes out on the left of the
plateau. He was telling the world that he was a “fighting ---- of a
----.” A moment later I heard the rattle of his gun as he spotted a
Heinie machine gun squad advancing down the gully on our left. I guess
Slim was right, at that.
The C. O., 4th Plt., came up by this time. He was badly shaken, but
I put him in charge of the left flank until the 2nd platoon should
arrive, and went back to the right.
They had brought Lt. Schuyler a little way down the slope, and laid
him down until a stretcher came up. A shell had burst right beside
him, between him and Reid. He was still breathing, but very heavily,
and was quite unconscious; his eyes were nearly closed. I bound up his
head as best I could with his first aid packet, but my heart sank--the
concussion had been near the base of the skull. Oddly enough, he was
not at all disfigured; but it had been a terrible blow, and only his
magnificent vitality was keeping him breathing. That was a bitter
moment, with my best officer and best friend in the outfit dying, the
company shattered; and not a German had I seen.
Sgt. Levy came up with a couple of stretchers and the news that both
the Medical Detachment men attached to the company were killed. Hoping
against hope I had him put Roy on the first stretcher, and they bore
him away to the rear, though the shells were still bursting behind us.
It was no use; that gallant spirit breathed its last before they had
gone a kilometer. The bearers wanted to take him on to the surgeon
anyhow, but there were many others desperately wounded, and stretchers
were pitifully few.
In the meantime I had sent out patrols to the flanks to try and get in
touch with D Co. and the 312th Inf. A patrol of 6 men from D Co. came
in on our right, but they were separated from their outfit and didn’t
know what had happened. Brisk machine gun firing to our right rear made
us fear things were not going well there.
On our left, a party of the Boche under an officer had advanced down
the ravine toward the end of our ridge, and had driven in our advanced
riflemen; but had been checked, largely by the doughty Price from his
clump of bushes. Three runners sent to the left to find the 2nd platoon
did not return, and I feared the latter had lost its direction and was
in trouble.
During a temporary lull, I strolled out to the left, map in hand, and
crossing the ravine started up the next ridge to find them. About a
hundred yards ahead I caught a glimpse of a man walking through the
trees, and thought I recognized one of our runners. I shouted “Hey.”
He turned around. I asked “What platoon are you in?” Then I noticed
how nicely his helmet came down around his neck. He unlimbered a rifle
that looked about eight feet long, and cracked a bullet past my ear. I
reached for my .45, remembered my last target score with that weapon,
and promptly betook myself off to our own ridge.
There I took a dead man’s rifle and ammunition, and called for
volunteers to go on a combat patrol to find the 2nd platoon. We needed
them badly, for if the enemy got in on our left flank they could
enfilade our ridge and shoot us down at pleasure.
I took Martocci and four other men--their names I can’t recall, though
their faces stand out sharply in my memory. We advanced up the ridge
on our left in skirmishing order. My Boche friend was waiting for us,
and before we had gone fifty yards he cracked down on us from the woods
above. We answered, firing by ear at the sound of his rifle. It was
blind work; we couldn’t see fifty yards through the woods.
We worked up to the top of the ridge, and then along it toward the
west. Two of the patrol were missing; lost or killed, I never knew
which. We pushed on cautiously, a few yards at a time, stopping to look
and listen. Now and again the enemy would spot us, and his bullets
would snap past us viciously. The German rifle has a high, whip-like
crack, easily distinguishable from that of our Enfield or Springfield;
but the noise of the bullet passing by is much the same.
Suddenly I felt a sharp blow on my shoulder; one of the gentlemen had
pinked me neatly. Down the ridge the bushes rustled; all four of us let
drive at the sound. There was a shrill scream, and then silence. One of
us had found a mark.
This was all very interesting, but my business was to find that 2nd
platoon. My mind was working away industriously at that problem, with
a peculiar detachment. I only remember feeling vaguely annoyed at our
patrol’s unpleasant situation, and did my share of the shooting almost
mechanically.
Of course, as we found out later, the 312th Inf. outpost made no
advance at all that morning, and our patrol had pushed in behind the
German line of outguards; to our mutual bewilderment and disgust. The
Boche began to fall back through the woods, not stealthily as we were
moving, but clumping and crashing along, and shouting to one another to
know what in donner und blitzen was up.
We were now well beyond the left of our own regimental sector, and a
long half kilo from the company. The withdrawing outguards of the enemy
were passing all around us. For twenty minutes we played a desperate
game of blind man’s buff with them. Occasionally we would catch a
glimpse of a gray form or a green helmet through the trees, and our
little messengers of death would speed him on his way. Then bullets
would sing over our heads from all directions, and we would hug the
ground until we could push on again, to repeat the performance from
another position.
Finally I gave up hope of finding the 2nd platoon, and got out my
compass to steer our course back to B Co. Cautiously we stole through
the woods to the southeast. We could still hear the Boche trampling the
bushes all around us.
Suddenly from the bushes ahead came a challenge, in the mechanical,
drill-book German that means bullets are coming. We hit the dirt, just
as a brisk rapid fire opened on us, cutting the twigs overhead. We
let drive into the bushes in front, firing low. As I slipped a fresh
clip into my magazine, I glanced at Martocci, his olive cheek white
with excitement, but firing quite steadily and coolly from a kneeling
position.
I signalled “Cease firing.” All was still, except for a trampling
receding off to the right. Warily we circled round the bushes, and came
upon a road--one of those straight German roads, with a 2-inch pipe
line running along the side.
One of the men crossed, while the rest stood ready to cover him. I
crossed next, with Martocci. As I glanced down the road, I saw two
Germans lying at the side of it, about ten yards away. Nice looking,
fair-haired lads they were. One of them just then stretched out his
hand towards his rifle, which lay beside him. It may have been only a
convulsive movement, but we weren’t taking chances. I put a bullet into
him, squeezing the trigger carefully. He jumped and rolled out into the
middle of the road, where he lay still enough. Then I did the same for
the other, mechanically, with a cold disgust at the whole business. My
mind seemed to stand aloof and watch the proceeding for a moment; then
it went on thinking, planning, weighing carefully our next move.
After this, the enemy seemed to steer rather clear of us, though we
passed near several other groups. One fellow was shouting for “Emil;”
and I reflected grimly that Emil’s military career was probably
blighted, anyhow. So we came at last to the foot of the ridge again,
and about 200 meters along the road at its foot we found our left
flank post. And there at last we found the 2nd platoon--Lt. Dunn, Sgt.
Sweeney and four men. The rest were lying back in the field where the
barrage had struck them, or were on that long, long trip back to the
first aid post.
At this time--about 8 A. M.--a German plane appeared, coming at us with
a rush, low over the treetops, almost head on. We could see the aviator
looking over the side of the car. He spotted someone moving, and flew
low along our line, firing his machine gun, but more as a signal than
at us particularly, I think. We cracked away at him, but had no luck.
With superb nerve he flew slowly the length of our line, returned,
and then banked lazily and disappeared toward his own lines. Ten
minutes later shells were bursting about us with devilish precision,
and machine gun squads pushed up on either flank, until stopped by
our Chauchats. They were still somewhat leery of us, though, possibly
suspecting a trap, and the attack was not pressed home. The German
snipers in the woods across the little plateau in front were reinforced
by machine guns, and both sides greeted every shaking bush or exposed
head with a vicious crackle of bullets.
Corporal Apicelli’s squad, lying out in the advanced posts where they
had been stationed by Schuyler and Reid, were especially exposed,
Apicelli and two other men being killed during the morning. At least
one of the enemy was using dumdum bullets, as I saw one of our men
shot in the hip, and where the bullet came out you could have put your
fist in the hole.
Levy and Winemiller were set to cutting two lanes in the wire behind
us, so that we would not be hopelessly in a cul-de-sac.
At about 9 A. M. Lt. Wolcott of D Co. appeared with his platoon,
reduced to some 20 men. He was out of touch with the rest of his
company, and did not know how it had fared. He was posted on our right
flank, and sent out a patrol to get in contact with D Co.
The firing died down to incessant sniping, and I set about completing
my situation report for the Major, having given up hope for the present
of establishing contact on the flanks. As I was finishing, Lt. Drake
came up with a squad of the battalion scouts, among them the honest
face of our own Sgt. DeGrote. I explained the situation, and gave him
the report to take back. I shall never forget “Ducky’s” eyes, sick with
seeing horrors, as he turned to go.
As he disappeared, a tall figure came striding along from the
right--Capt. Fleischmann, with dark circles under his eyes, blackened
and stained from head to foot with blood and powder. We greeted each
other as risen from the dead, and compared notes. He had run into the
enemy in force strongly established in concrete pillboxes and machine
gun posts; and while scattered groups of his company had won through to
the company objective, they were unable to hold it without machine guns
against the enemy’s enfilading fire. The remnant had retired to their
old line of outguards, after suffering heavy losses.
Since I still thought the 312th Inf. might be far out to our left
front, and depending on us to cover their ultimate withdrawal, we
decided that B Co. should hold on where we were, while D Co. would
string scattered Cossack posts along their old line until relief or
further orders came up.
The morning wore on; still no news from our left flank. I kept on the
move up and down the line, assuming a confidence that I did not feel;
for of course if the enemy advanced in any force we were done for.
Still we had our orders, and there was nothing for it but to put up the
best scrap we could.
Some things were funny, even then. I remember the company barber, that
sterling son of Italy, after a Boche sniper put a bullet past each
ear. He wriggled back from his unpleasant position on the crest of the
ridge, and retaliated by holding up his rifle at arm’s length over his
head, pointed northeast, and executing rapid fire, pulling the trigger
with his thumb, while he regarded my approach with the complacence
of conscious ingenuity. I think the Boche must have laughed too; for
the branches of a tree across the field began to shake, and a bullet
brought a gray body tumbling down from branch to branch.
We had some food--hard bread, corned willy and goldfish--but very
little water. It was pitiful to see the wounded, who wouldn’t take
any from the others, because they were going back when the stretcher
bearers got around to them. Levy and his detail worked like Trojans,
but it was a long trip, and every time they returned there was a fresh
batch of wounded to be carried.
There was one man--I wish I could remember his name, but though every
event stands out clearly in my mind, I cannot remember the names
connected with them. He was sitting with his back against a tree,
wounded by a shell in the legs and stomach. When I asked him if I
could do anything for him, he said “If I could have a little water.”
I gave him my canteen, which had a couple of swallows left in it. He
shook it, and grinned and shook his head. “Not your last, Cap’n.” I
told him that Levy had just brought up a can, and hurried off to the
left, where the firing was getting heavy. When I passed that way again,
the man was dead. And the water was still in my canteen, and he had
screwed the stopper back on; so he must have thought I was lying about
Levy.
Three o’clock came, and shortly after a platoon from A Co. under Lt.
Bigler came up to reinforce us. They were posted on our left flank to
hold the ravine up which the enemy had been trying to advance and flank
our position. I couldn’t understand why the Germans in front of D Co.
had not come in on our right flank yet.
At 3:30 a patrol of two officers and six men came up the road on the
left, and as they drew near I recognized Capt. Gray, of the 312th Inf.,
who I knew commanded their outpost line. His news was not encouraging.
His company had received no orders to advance; they were still on their
old line to our left rear. We arranged that he should run a line of
Cossack posts along the road up to join us, so that we would have at
least a continuous line of outguards on the brigade front. On the way
over the ridge from his right flank post, his patrol had had several
skirmishes with German outposts or patrols; so the enemy was apparently
venturing back to the positions where our patrol had flushed them
earlier in the day.
Just after he left--about 5.30--Lt. Col. Budd came up with several men.
I was certainly glad to see him, and even more glad to see Levy with
a can of water, which he doled out, a swallow to each man. Col. Budd
looked over the situation, and decided that we should hold the ridge
until nightfall, when we would be relieved. While he was there, three
German snipers managed to get into a rifle pit on the plateau about a
hundred yards in front of us, and made things very hot on the right
flank. Sgt. Lehy took our last two rifle grenades, and dropped the
second one plumb into the pit, which discouraged those three for the
day.
Col. Budd departed to arrange for sending up water, ammunition and the
relief.
At 5:30 the enemy’s artillery started in on us again, sweeping the top
of the ridge with shell and shrapnel, and dropping time shells into
the ravine behind it. For twenty minutes he poured in a heavy barrage,
while we hugged the ground and gripped our rifles. If this meant a
counter-attack in force we were up against it, because our ammunition
was running low; but if we could beat them off once more we might hold
out until night brought the relief.
But this time the enemy was starting the real thing. He knew the ground
like a book, of course; and I must say that his attack was ably planned
and bravely executed. While his artillery shelled us, machine guns
worked around behind both our flanks. At 5:50 men from D Co’s outguards
came running in and reported that the enemy had advanced in force,
broken their skeleton line, and was coming in on our right flank with
machine guns. Even while they spoke, the “Tap-tap-tap” of the machine
gun broke out on the right to confirm them, and our Chauchats spat back
in answer.
In those woods, it was merely a question of who could throw enough lead
to keep the other fellow’s head down; and at this game our Chauchats
had the chance of the proverbial snowball. With Sgts. Reid, Lehy, Fahey
and Levy, the right flank, which had been disorganized and driven in
with the D Co. outposts, was re-formed, and a firing line built up at
right angles to our front to face our new foes. The enemy in front was
pouring in a hot fire; we could not encircle the enemy machine guns to
the right because of that belt of wire behind us. Meanwhile those same
machine guns were enfilading our main line along the ridge.
Our only chance was a frontal attack on them. First we tried a
series of rushes. I realized then exactly what was meant by “fire
superiority,” and the enemy certainly had it. One Chauchat ran out of
ammunition. The other was in Cocker’s hands, and he used it well until
it jammed. He worked at it desperately for several minutes, as he
advanced with the line; then he threw it up against a tree in disgust,
crying bitterly “That’s a hell of a thing to give a man to fight with.”
From then on we had only our rifle fire against their leaden hailstorm.
Neither side could aim their shots, but they were shooting twenty
bullets to our one, and our hastily formed line was driven back.
As they retired, Sgt. Fahey and I, with two other men, tried to sneak
up along the top of the ridge and get close enough to bomb one of
the machine guns. We were lucky at first, the enemy being busy with
his bullets further down the slope. We saw four Germans, carrying
ammunition ahead of us, but held our fire, hoping they would lead on
to their gun. Fahey slipped me a bomb, and I pulled the pin, ready
to throw. Just then a new devil’s tattoo broke out about fifty yards
away to our left, and the bullets came showering about our ears. They
must have caught sight of us through some opening in the trees, and
were probably waiting for just such an attempt. One of our patrol was
riddled through the stomach and back, and started crawling back on one
hand and his knees, with strange, shrill moans like a wounded animal.
The other was killed instantly. Fahey and I looked in each other’s eyes
for a startled moment; each, I think, wondering why the other was not
killed. A bullet went through the tube of my gas mask, as I noticed
later. Fahey lifted his eyebrows and pointed at the new gun. I nodded,
and we started for it. But the first gun’s crew heard the cries of
the wounded man, and traversed back and forth by us. Fahey staggered,
shot through the chest. We could not see to throw a bomb, and it would
probably hit a branch and light on us anyhow. Our slender chance
vanished, and we slipped back through the trees.
As we returned, I saw our left flank retiring in some disorder, further
confusing our hard pressed right. The enemy had driven back the
post holding the head of the ravine on our left, and we were in the
desperate position of being enfiladed from both flanks. Our losses were
heavy, and ammunition was very low.
I glanced at my watch--only 6:20. No chance for the Lt. Col. to have
gotten a counter-attack under way. The position had become untenable,
and at any moment might develop into a complete cul-de-sac. It was time
to pull out.
I gave the order to withdraw by squads and fall back to the old outpost
line; 4th platoon to go first, covered by the 1st and 3rd; then the 4th
platoon to cover our withdrawal from the other side of the wire.
As the first squad from the 4th platoon started through the wire, a
machine gun opened on the wire and the road before it, killing two
and driving the rest back. The platoon leader reported that it was
impossible to get across.
To remain, however, meant almost certain death for all, with very
little chance of inflicting compensating losses on the enemy. So as a
last resort I took the 1st platoon, and during a momentary lull in the
firing we made a rush for it in two or three groups at different places.
The wire clawed and tore at us as though it were alive. My group
scrambled through, somehow, anyhow, marvelling that the bullets did not
come. When half way through I noticed that I was still mechanically
holding Fahey’s bomb, with the pin out. I went a bit carefully after
that, so was the last one through. As I ripped my puttee free from the
last strand of wire, the machine guns started up again, and I hugged
the dirt while bullets cracked viciously overhead. The grass and green
leaves felt cool and smelled fresh and green, and a little green bug
went scrambling along a creeper, two inches from my nose.
Presently another lull came, and I proceeded to worm my way through the
underbrush, looking for my half platoon. Not a sign of them. They had
gotten clear of the last burst of fire, and then made a break for it.
The machine guns were still firing intermittently, but I heard no reply
from our rifles, and hoped that the others had followed us through the
wire. Most of them had, as I found out later.
Then came the hardest moment of the war for me. A group of about 20 men
had remained on the hill, apparently despairing of crossing the wire
alive. An officer was with them, and upon him lies the responsibility
of what happened. The men themselves had done brave service before that
time. But, as I understand by permission if not under orders, they
raised the cry of “Kamerad.”
When I realized that this had really happened, I tried desperately to
cross the wire to them again. But I was in too big a hurry, and made
too much noise. The machine guns spotted me promptly, and streams of
bullets made the sparks fly from the wire six feet ahead of me. Before
I could work around to another place, I heard the sound of their
withdrawal toward the German lines, and knew I was too late.
My next job was to get back to the old outpost line and take charge
there. The enemy machine gunners had penetrated well to our rear, and
I had to go very cautiously, hearing their voices all around. They
were withdrawing, however, and in ten minutes I found out why. Their
artillery completed the day’s work by shelling the ravine and vicinity
in their usual methodical manner. Not to be outdone, our own artillery
did the same. This was the last straw; I was too dead tired to dodge
American shells as well as German. So I crawled under a bush and waited
for whatever was on the cards. In two minutes I dozed off, with the
shells banging all around.
I must have slept for about twenty minutes. Waking with a start, I
found dusk setting in. I took off my tattered slicker and wound it
around my tin hat, to keep the twigs from playing an anvil chorus on
it. The shelling had stopped. My short rest had revived some interest
in life, and I slowly retraced our advance of that morning. I didn’t
think the enemy had left any outposts behind, but in any case was too
tired to care, and went clumping along like any Heine. I arrived at our
old outpost line, which we had held long, long ago, it seemed. It was
absolutely deserted. I went along the path, past D Co.’s headquarters,
and noticed that a shell had landed there and set off those pyrotechnic
signals which had been quite fireproof two days before.
Apparently the war had been called off around here. I pottered about
for quite a bit, but could find no one. Somehow my principal feeling
was an immense relief that for the present I had no responsibility, no
one to look out for but myself. Presently, however, it was evident that
as I had not even a runner, I had to go back to Bn. Hdq. myself and
report on the situation.
Wearily I plodded off, back over Dead Man’s Hill. It was quite dark,
about 11 P. M., and I was making very slow time. As I drew near the
main line of resistance, I came upon two D Co. men, lying where they
had been hit by a shell. One was dead; the other had a leg shot off.
He said he had been lying there for about three hours. His comrade had
helped him tie up his leg before he died. I left my blouse over him,
as it was chilly, and went on to the firing trench, which had wire in
front of it by this time. I had some trouble convincing the occupants
of my identity. In truth, with no blouse, my ragged slicker draped
about my helmet, the shoulder of my shirt all torn and bloody, and my
breeches and puttees in tatters, I didn’t look much like an officer,
and not at all like a gentleman.
I stumbled down the ramp into Bn. Hdqrs., where I found Maj. Odom,
Foulkes, Strawbridge and Lt. Col. Budd, to whom I reported. Capts.
Markewick and Laing, of “I” and “L” Cos., were also there. Thinking the
position in front was strongly held by the enemy, the idea was to send
these companies up at dawn behind a rolling barrage to re-establish
the outpost line. I was glad to tell them that this was unnecessary,
and they later strolled on up in single file and occupied our old line
without a single casualty.
Major Odom in turn told me that Lt. Dunn with most of the 1st and 2nd
platoons had already come in, and had been sent to the kitchen for
chow. Louis Foulkes gave me some water and a couple of doughnuts, which
I was nearly too sleepy to eat.
I had to report to Regimental Hdq. then, and rehash the day’s
operations; but all I remember is that Capt. Brennan gave me some grape
jam and bread and water, and the regimental surgeon swabbed my shoulder
with iodine. I have some hazy recollection of the Colonel himself
pulling a blanket over me, though this may not be correct.
Late next morning I woke up to be greeted by Strawbridge with the
news that our travel orders had come, and we--he, Capt. Brennan, and
myself--were directed to be at Langres--wherever that was--by October
1st.
As soon as possible I rejoined the company, which had been stationed at
Brigade Reserve with the remnants of D Co. We had about 50 men left,
not counting 20 who were on various special details. Sgt. Wilson and
the cooks fed us like lords, and we made up for the past week. Big
shells landed around occasionally, but it was a Philadelphia Sunday
compared to what we had just left.
The company was reorganized as a platoon, with Lt. Dunn in command and
Reid as top sergeant. We slept in pillboxes or gun emplacements, or
anywhere else where there was a bit of shelter.
The next day I said goodby to the company for six weeks, as I thought.
There were rumors that the Bulgarians were nearly done, and the
Austrians weakening; but I don’t think that anyone dreamed that the
armistice was only six weeks off. I stopped off one night with Sgt.
Stiles to write up the company records, and finally boarded a motor
truck for Toul.
From this point the history is taken up by Lt. Gardenier, Sgt. Stiles,
Sgt. Peter and Sgt. Tracy White.