THE RUSH OF THE RAIDERS--"ZERO AT 2 A. M."
While the First U. S. Division was executing in Picardy a small, planned
operation which resulted in the capture of the German fortified
positions in the town of Cantigny, other American divisions at other
parts along the line were indulging in that most common of frontal
diversions--the raid.
I was a party to one of these affairs on the Toul front. The 26th
Division, composed of National Guard troops from New England, made the
raid. On Memorial Day, I had seen those men of the Yankee Division
decorating the graves of their dead in a little cemetery back of the
line. By the dawning light of the next morning, I saw them come trooping
back across No Man's Land after successfully decorating the enemy
positions with German graves.
It was evening when we dismissed our motor in the ruined village of
Hamondville and came into first contact with the American soldiers that
had been selected for the raid. Their engineers were at work in the
street connecting sections of long dynamite-loaded pipes which were to
be used to blast an ingress through the enemy's wire. In interested
circles about them were men who were to make the dash through the break
even before the smoke cleared and the debris ceased falling. They were
to be distinguished from the village garrison by the fact that the
helmets worn by the raiders were covered with burlap and some of them
had their faces blackened.
In the failing evening light, we walked on through several heaps of
stone and rafters that had once been villages, and were stopped by a
military policeman who inquired in broad Irish brogue for our passes.
These meeting with his satisfaction, he advised us to avoid the road
ahead with its dangerous twist, known as "Dead Man's Curve," for the
reason that the enemy was at that minute placing his evening
contribution of shells in that vicinity. Acting on the policeman's
suggestion, we took a short cut across fields rich with shell holes. Old
craters were grown over with the grass and mustard flowers with which
this country abounds at this time of year. Newer punctures showed as
wounds in the yellow soil and contained pools of evil-smelling water,
green with scum.
Under the protection of a ridge, which at least screened us from direct
enemy observation, we advanced toward the jagged skyline of a ruined
village on the crest. The odour of open graves befouled the sheltered
slope, indicating that enemy shells had penetrated its small protection
and disturbed the final dugouts of the fallen.
Once in the village of Beaumont, we followed the winding duckboards and
were led by small signs painted on wood to the colonel's headquarters.
We descended the stone steps beneath a rickety looking ruin and entered.
"Guests for our party," was the Colonel's greeting. The command post had
a long narrow interior which was well lighted but poorly ventilated, the
walls and floor were of wood and a low beamed ceiling was supported by
timbers. "Well, I think it will be a good show."
"We are sending over a little party of new boys just for practice and a
'look-see' in Hunland. We have two companies in this regiment which feel
they've sorter been left out on most of the fun to date, so this affair
has been arranged for them. We put the plans together last week and
pushed the boys through three days of training for it back of the
lines. They're fit as fiddlers to-night and it looks like there'll be no
interruption to their pleasure.
"No one man in the world, be he correspondent or soldier, could see
every angle of even so small a thing as a little raid like this," the
Colonel explained. "What you can't see you have got to imagine. I'm
suggesting that you stay right in here for the show. That telephone on
my adjutant's desk is the web centre of all things occurring in this
sector to-night and the closer you are to it, the more you can see and
learn. Lieutenant Warren will take you up the road first and give you a
look out of the observatory, so you'll know in what part of Germany our
tourists are going to explore."
Darkness had fallen when we emerged, but there were sufficient stars out
to show up the outline of the gaping walls on either side of our way. We
passed a number of sentries and entered a black hole in the wall of a
ruin. After stumbling over the uneven floor in a darkened passage for
some minutes, we entered a small room where several officers were
gathered around a table on which two burning candles were stuck in
bottles. Our guide, stepping to one end of the room, pulled aside a
blanket curtain and passed through a narrow doorway. We followed.
Up a narrow, steep, wooden stairway between two walls of solid masonry,
not over two feet apart, we passed, and arrived on a none too stable
wooded runway with a guide rail on either side. Looking up through the
ragged remains of the wooden roof frame, now almost nude of tiles, we
could see the starry sky. Proceeding along the runway, we arrived,
somewhere in that cluster of ruins, in a darkened chamber whose
interior blackness was relieved by a lighter slit, an opening facing
the enemy.
Against the starry skyline, we could see the black outline of a flat
tableland in the left distance which we knew to be that part of the
heights of Meuse for whose commanding ridge there have been so many
violent contests between the close-locked lines in the forest of
Apremont. More to the centre of the picture, stood Mont Sec, detached
from the range and pushing its summit up through the lowland mist like
the dorsal fin of a porpoise in a calm sea. On the right the lowland
extended to indistinct distances, where it blended with the horizon.
In all that expanse of quiet night, there was not a single flicker of
light, and at that time not a sound to indicate that unmentionable
numbers of our men were facing one another in parallel ditches across
the silent moor.
"See that clump of trees way out there?" said the lieutenant, directing
our vision with his arm. "Now then, hold your hand at arm's length in
front of you, straight along a line from your eyes along the left edge
of your hand to that clump of trees. Now then, look right along the
right edge of your hand and you will be looking at Richecourt. The Boche
hold it. We go in on the right of that to-night."
We looked as per instructions and saw nothing. As far as we were
concerned Richecourt was a daylight view, but these owls of the lookout
knew its location as well as they knew the streets of their native towns
back in New England. We returned to the colonel's command post, where
cots were provided, and we turned in for a few hours' sleep on the
promise of being called in time.
It was 2 A. M. when we were summoned to command post for the colonel's
explanation of the night's plans. The regimental commander, smoking a
long pipe with a curved stem, sat in front of a map on which he
conducted the exposition.
"Here," he said, placing his finger on a section of the line marking the
American trenches, "is the point of departure. That's the jumping off
place. These X marks running between the lines is the enemy wire, and
here, and here, and here are where we blow it up. We reach the German
trenches at these points and clean up. Then the men follow the enemy
communicating trenches, penetrate three hundred metres to the east edge
of Richecourt, and return.
"Zero hour is 2:30. It's now 2:10. Our raiders have left their trenches
already. They are out in No Man's Land now. The engineers are with them
carrying explosives for the wire. There are stretcher bearers in the
party to bring back our wounded and also signal men right behind them
with wire and one telephone. The reports from that wire are relayed here
and we will also be kept informed by runners. The whole party has thirty
minutes in which to crawl forward and place explosives under the wire.
They will have things in readiness by 2:30 and then the show begins."
Five minutes before the hour, I stepped out of the dugout and looked at
the silent sky toward the front. Not even a star shell disturbed the
blue black starlight. The guns were quiet. Five minutes more and all
this was to change into an inferno of sound and light, flash and crash.
There is always that minute of uncertainty before the raiding hour when
the tensity of the situation becomes almost painful. Has the enemy
happened to become aware of the plans? Have our men been deprived of the
needed element of surprise? But for the thousands of metres behind us,
we know that in black battery pits anxious crews are standing beside
their loaded pieces waiting to greet the tick of 2:30 with the jerk of
the lanyard.
Suddenly the earth trembles. Through the dugout window facing back from
the lines, I see the night sky burst livid with light. A second later
and the crash reaches our ears. It is deafening. Now we hear the whine
of shells as they burn the air overhead. The telephone bell rings.
"Yes, this is Boston," the Adjutant speaks into the receiver. We listen
breathlessly. Has something gone wrong at the last minute?
"Right, I have it," said the Adjutant, hanging up the receiver and
turning to the Colonel; "X-4 reports barrage dropped on schedule."
"Good," said the Colonel. "Gentlemen, here's what's happening. Our
shells are this minute falling all along the German front line, in front
of the part selected for the raid and on both flanks. Now then, this
section of the enemy's position is confined in a box barrage which is
pounding in his front and is placing a curtain of fire on his left and
his right and another in his rear. Any German within the confines of
that box trying to get out will have a damn hard time and so will any
who try to come through it to help him."
"Boston talking," the Adjutant is making answer over the telephone. He
repeats the message. "233, all the wire blown up, right."
"Fine," says the Colonel. "Now they are advancing and right in front of
them is another rolling barrage of shells which is creeping forward on
the German lines at the same pace our men are walking. They are walking
in extended order behind it. At the same time our artillery has taken
care of the enemy's guns by this time so that no German barrage will be
able to come down on our raiders. Our guns for the last three minutes
have been dumping gas and high explosives on every battery position
behind the German lines. That's called 'Neutralisation.'"
"Boston talking." The room grows quiet again as the Adjutant takes the
message.
"2:36. Y-1 reports O. K."
"Everything fine and dandy," the Colonel observes, smiling.
"Boston talking." There is a pause.
"2:39. G-7 reports sending up three red rockets east of A-19. The
operator thinks it's a signal for outposts to withdraw and also for
counter barrage."
"Too late," snaps the Colonel. "There's a reception committee in Hades
waiting for 'em right now."
At 2:40 the dugout door opens and in walks Doc Comfort from the Red
Cross First Aid Station across the road.
"Certainly is a pretty sight, Colonel. Fritzies' front door is lit up
like a cathedral at high mass."
At 2:41. "A very good beginning," remarks a short, fat French Major who
sits beside the Colonel. He represents the French army corps.
2:43. "Boston talking,--Lieutenant Kernan reports everything quiet in
his sector."
2:45. "Boston talking," the Adjutant turns to the Colonel and repeats,
"Pittsburgh wants to know if there's much coming in here."
"Tell them nothing to amount to anything," replies the Colonel and the
Adjutant repeats the message over the wire. As he finished, one German
shell did land so close to the dugout that the door blew open. The
officer stepped to the opening and called out into the darkness.
"Gas guard. Smell anything?"
"Nothing, sir. Think they are only high explosives."
2:47. "Boston talking--enemy sent up one red, one green rocket and then
three green rockets from B-14," the Adjutant repeats.
"Where is that report from?" asks the Colonel.
"The operator at Jamestown, sir," replies the Adjutant.
"Be ready for some gas, gentlemen," says the Colonel. "I think that's
Fritzie's order for the stink. Orderly, put down gas covers on the doors
and windows."
I watched the man unroll the chemically dampened blankets over the doors
and windows.
2:49. "Boston talking--23 calls for barrage."
The Colonel and Major turn immediately to the wall map, placing a finger
on 23 position.
"Hum," says the Colonel. "Counter attack, hey? Well, the barrage will
take care of them, but get me Watson on the line."
"Connect me with Nantucket," the Adjutant asks the operator. "Hello,
Watson, just a minute," turning to Colonel, "here's Watson, sir."
"Hello, Watson," the Colonel says, taking the receiver. "This is Yellow
Jacket. Watch out for counter attack against 23. Place your men in
readiness and be prepared to support Michel on your right. That's all,"
returning 'phone to the Adjutant, "Get me Mr. Lake."
While the Adjutant made the connection, the Colonel explained quickly
the planned flanking movement on the map. "If they come over there," he
said to the French Major, "not a God-damn one of them will ever get back
alive."
The French Major made a note in his report book.
"Hello, Lake," the Colonel says, taking the 'phone. "This is Yellow
Jacket. Keep your runners in close touch with Michel and Watson. Call me
if anything happens. That's all."
3:00. "Boston talking--G-2 reports all O.K. Still waiting for the
message from Worth."
3:02. "Storming party reports unhindered progress. No enemy encountered
yet."
This was the first message back from the raiders. It had been sent over
the wire and the instruments they carried with them and then relayed to
the Colonel's command post.
"_Magnifique_," says the French Major.
3:04. "Boston talking. X-10 reports gas in Bois des Seicheprey."
3:05. "Boston talking. Hello, yes, nothing coming in here to amount to
anything. Just had a gas warning but none arrived yet."
3:07. "Boston talking,----Yes, all right" (turning to Colonel),
"operator just received message from storming party 'so far so good.'"
"Not so bad for thirty-seven minutes after opening of the operation,"
remarks the Colonel.
"What is 'so far so good'?" inquires the French Major, whose knowledge
of English did not extend to idioms. Some one explained.
3:09. "Boston talking--Watson reports all quiet around 23 now."
"Guess that barrage changed their minds," remarks the Colonel.
With gas mask at alert, I walked out for a breath of fresh air. The
atmosphere in a crowded dugout is stifling. From guns still roaring in
the rear and from in front came the trampling sound of shells arriving
on German positions. The first hints of dawn were in the sky. I
returned in time to note the hour and hear:
3:18. "Boston talking--O-P reports enemy dropping line of shells from
B-4 to B-8."
"Trying to get the boys coming back, hey?" remarks the Colonel. "A fat
chance. They're not coming back that way."
3:21. "Boston talking--23 reports that the barrage called for in their
sector was because the enemy had advanced within two hundred yards of
his first position. Evidently they wanted to start something, but the
barrage nipped them and they fell back fast."
"Perfect," says the French Major.
3:25. "Boston talking--two green and two red rockets were sent up by the
enemy from behind Richecourt."
"Hell with 'em, now," the Colonel remarks.
3:28. "Boston talking--all O. K. in Z-2. Still waiting to hear from
Michel."
"I rather wish they had developed their counter attack," says the
Colonel. "I have a reserve that would certainly give them an awful
wallop."
3:30. "Boston talking--more gas in Bois des Seicheprey."
3:33. "Boston talking--white stars reported from Richecourt."
"They must be on their way back by this time," says the Colonel, looking
at his watch.
3:37. "Boston talking,--enemy now shelling on the north edge of the
town. A little gas."
3:40. "Boston talking--X-1 reports some enemy long range retaliation on
our right.
"They'd better come back the other way," says the Colonel.
"That was the intention, sir," the lieutenant reported from across the
room.
3:42. "Boston talking--signalman with the party reports everything O.
K."
"We don't know yet whether they have had any losses or got any
prisoners," the Colonel remarks. "But the mechanism seems to have
functioned just as well as it did in the last raid. We didn't get a
prisoner that time, but I sorter feel that the boys will bring back a
couple with them to-night."
3:49. "Boston talking--G-9 reports some of the raiding party has
returned and passed that point."
"Came back pretty quick, don't you think so, Major?" said the Colonel
with some pride. "Must have returned over the top."
It is 3:55 when we hear fast footsteps on the stone stairs leading down
to the dugout entrance. There is a sharp rap on the door followed by the
Colonel's command, "Come in."
A medium height private of stocky build, with shoulders heaving from
laboured breathing and face wet with sweat, enters. He removes his
helmet, revealing disordered blonde hair. He faces the Colonel and
salutes.
"Sir, Sergeant Ransom reports with message from Liaison officer. All
groups reached the objectives. No enemy encountered on the right, but a
party on the left is believed to be returning with prisoners. We blew up
their dugouts and left their front line in flames."
"Good work, boy," says the Colonel, rising and shaking the runner's
hand. "You got here damn quick. Did you come by the Lincoln trench?"
"No, sir, I came over the top from the battalion post. Would have been
here quicker, but two of us had to carry back one boy to that point
before I could get relieved."
"Wounded?"
"No, sir,--dead."
"Who was it?" asks the young lieutenant.
"Private Kater, sir, my squad mate."
As the sergeant raised his hand in parting salute, all of us saw
suspended from his right wrist a most formidable weapon, apparently of
his own construction. It was a pick handle with a heavy iron knob on one
end and the same end cushioned with a mass of barbed wire rolled up like
a ball of yarn. He smiled as he noticed our gaze.
"It's the persuader, sir," he said. "We all carried them."
He had hardly quitted the door when another heavily breathing figure
with shirt half torn off by barbed wire appeared.
"K Company got there, sir; beg pardon, sir. I mean sir, Sergeant Wiltur
reports, sir, with message from Liaison officer. All groups reached the
objectives. They left their dugouts blazing and brought back one machine
gun and three prisoners."
"Very good, Sergeant," said the Colonel. "Orderly, get some coffee for
these runners."
"I'd like to see the doctor first, sir," said the runner with the torn
shirt. "Got my hand and arm cut in the wire."
"Very well," said the Colonel, turning to the rest of the party, "I knew
my boys would bring back bacon."
More footsteps on the entrance stairway and two men entered carrying
something between them. Sweat had streaked through the charcoal coating
on their faces leaving striped zebra-like countenances.
"Lieutenant Burlon's compliments, sir," said the first man. "Here's one
of their machine guns."
"Who got it?" inquired the Colonel.
"Me and him, sir."
"How did you get it?"
"We just rolled 'em off it and took it."
"Rolled who off of it?"
"Two Germans, sir."
"What were they doing all that time?"
"Why, sir, they weren't doing anything. They were dead."
"Oh, very well, then," said the Colonel. "How did you happen to find the
machine gun?"
"We knew where it was before we went over, sir," said the man simply.
"We were assigned to get it and bring it back. We expected we'd have to
fight for it, but I guess our barrage laid out the crew. Anyhow we
rushed to the position and found them dead."
"All right," said the Colonel, "return to your platoon. Leave the gun
here. It will be returned to you later and will be your property."
I went out with the machine gun captors and walked with them to the
road. There was the hum of motors high overhead and we knew that
American planes were above, going forward to observe and photograph
German positions before the effects of our bombardments could be
repaired. A line of flame and smoke pouring up from the enemy's front
line showed where their dugouts and shelters were still burning.
Daylight was pouring down on a ruined village street, up which marched
the returning raiders without thought of order. They were a happy,
gleeful party, with helmets tipped back from their young faces wet and
dirty, with rifles swung over their shoulders and the persuaders
dangling from their wrists. Most of them were up to their knees and
their wrap puttees were mostly in tatters from the contact with the
entanglements through which they had penetrated.
As they approached, I saw the cause for some of the jocularity. It was a
chubby, little, boyish figure, who sat perched up on the right shoulder
of a tall, husky Irish sergeant. The figure steadied itself by grasping
the sergeant's helmet with his left hand. The sergeant steadied him by
holding one right arm around his legs.
But there was no smile on the face of the thus transformed object. His
chubby countenance was one of easily understood concern. He was not a
day over sixteen years and this was quite some experience for him. He
was one of the German prisoners and these happy youngsters from across
the seas were bringing him in almost with as much importance as though
he had been a football hero. He was unhurt and it was unnecessary to
carry him, but this tribute was voluntarily added, not only as an
indication of extreme interest, but to reassure the juvenile captive of
the kindly intentions of his captors.
"Jiggers, here's the Colonel's dugout," one voice shouted. "Put him down
to walk, now."
The big sergeant acted on the suggestion and the little Fritz was
lowered to the ground. He immediately caught step with the big sergeant
and took up the latter's long stride with his short legs and feet
encased in clumsy German boots. His soiled uniform had been the German
field grey green. His helmet was gone but he wore well back on his head
the flat round cloth cap. With his fat cheeks he looked like a typical
baker's boy, and one almost expected to see him carrying a tray of rolls
on his head.
"For the luva Mike, Tim," shouted an ambulance man, "do you call that a
prisoner?"
"Sure he does look like a half portion," replied Sergeant Tim with a
smile. "We got two hundred francs for a whole one. I don't know what we
can cash this one in for."
"He ought to be worth more," some one said; "that barrage cost a million
dollars. He's the million dollar baby of the raid."
"Sergeant, I'm not kidding," came one serious voice. "Why turn him in as
a prisoner? I like the kid's looks. Why can't we keep him for the
company mascot?"
The discussion ended when the Sergeant and his small charge disappeared
in the Colonel's quarters for the inevitable questioning that all
prisoners must go through. Several wounded were lying on the stretchers
in front of the first aid dugout waiting for returning ambulances and
passing the time meanwhile by smoking cigarettes and explaining how
close each of them had been to the shell that exploded and "got 'em."
But little of the talk was devoted to themselves. They were all praise
for the little chaplain from New England who, without arms, went over
the top with "his boys" and came back with them. It was their opinion
that their regiment had some sky pilot. And it was mine, also.