Immensely imposing by greatness of numbers, three divisions were gathered
in ranks on the field. Presenting a huge sight of restless attention,
they swayed like the waves of a mud-colored sea. Before them an officer
stood on a platform, his hat in his hand, the wind blowing his hair. Not
far off, on the outskirts of a ramshackle village, old Frenchmen, their
wives, and their grandchildren watched. The officer lifted his hand with
a gesture, commanding a silence that none could mistake. He hunched up
his shoulders and frowned disapproval; he fastened his thumbs in the
strap of his belt. His protuberant belly kept him from being an exact
replica of an old turkey-cock. Now, tearing to shreds the phlegm in his
gullet, he opened his mouth:
“Men, no doubt some of you, most of you, believe that you are here by
chance. That any divisions might have been called in place of you. Men,
you are not here by chance. It is because I, personally, requested our
distinguished commanding officer that your divisions make up my army
corps that you are here.”
Here he paused. He was a major-general and he was wondering how much
longer the war would last, hoping that it would continue through the year.
“I have watched you enter the lines, green and unseasoned troops, at
Cantigny and Château-Thierry, and assault the enemy with such force that
you threw back his most valiant troops, the Prussian Guards. You have
shown your sterling mettle at Soissons and Saint Mihiel, advancing far
beyond the objective given you. Jaulny and Thiaucourt and Montfaucon have
fallen under your irresistible onslaught. Now you may be considered, you
are considered, wherever civilization is known, as shock troops, second
in valor to none.”
He paused, wondering irresistibly whether his impending rise to
lieutenant-general would give his wife access into the more imposing
homes of Washington.
“And so you are here, good soldiers who have done your duty and are
willing to do it again.
“Many of you men came over to France with the belief that the war
would soon be over and you would return home again to indulge in your
inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
(“Hooray!” shouted the men.) “You will return home soon, but not as soon
as you expected. Not until we have pierced the enemy lines and brought
them to our feet.” (“Take him out—to hell with you—how does he get that
way”—the muttered comments rose indistinctly from the sea of mud.) “It
depends upon you men right here as to how long you will stay in France.
You can stay until hell freezes over or you can renew your good work
and be home before you know it. Our commanding general has said: ‘Hell,
Heaven, or Hoboken by Christmas,’ and it is up to us to stand by him.”
(“Oh, my God—let’s go home—we’re hungry—chow”—ending in a dull chanting,
“When do we eat?”)
The general was going along famously. He felt his gift of rhetoric as he
never before had felt it. His eyes dimmed and a lump rose in his throat
at the frenzied cheering of the men.
“You men are assembled here to-day to be told of the great offensive in
which you will soon take part. Many of you will not return from it, but
that is war. Some of you will come off non-commissioned officers, and, as
should be the case in a democratic army, others will have a chance to be
officers, made so by an act of Congress.”
(“Pipe down—bunk.”)
He believed that he was being cheered again. He continued his address
for fifteen minutes longer than he intended. When he stepped from the
platform to the ground there were tears in his eyes.
In making the estimates of the divisions before him, the major-general
had only spoken aloud what the men secretly believed—that they were
the “finest flower of chivalry,” the epitome of all good soldierly
qualities. But to hear themselves so praised sounded unethical, made them
embarrassed. Had they been told that they were not shock troops, that
they were not the best soldiers in the known world, they would have been
indignant. Therefore they hid their gratitude and commendation under
a torrent of mordant remarks. The long lines were formed into squads,
demanding food, speculating upon the nearness of the attack, as they
marched back to their respective towns where they were billeted.
Hicks had not recovered from his despondency. His stomach felt as if he
had swallowed a stone every time reference was made to the attack. He had
done about enough in this war, he thought, wondering vaguely whether
there were no chance of escape. The thought of the sound of the guns
depressed him, their monotonous tom-tom beating in memory on his skull
like water dripping slowly on a stone. Disgusting! And no letters from
home, no change of scene, no clean clothing, nothing but the hopelessness
of routine, the bullying of petty officers, the prospect of the front.
He was still brooding when the platoon reached its billets in the town
to which it had come from the last drive. Instead of the unsavory food
steaming under a fire in the field kitchen, there was an issue of corned
beef, and slabs of black bread to be eaten. The field kitchens were
packed, the supply wagons were loaded. The persevering little mules that
hauled the machine-gun carts stood waiting. Orders were passed for the
men to pack up their equipment and be ready to fall into line on the
company street in half an hour. “Shake it up, you men,” the officers
called, walking back and forth past the buildings. “We haven’t got all
night.” Somebody asked where the platoon was going. “To the front,” an
officer answered. “Make it snappy.”