MY COLORED BATTALION

You have done me this honor tonight because you know that I was the

commander of a wonderful fighting Infantry Battalion composed entirely

(myself excepted) of American colored officers and colored men.

You know, too, that for some time, during the Great World War, we

were in the very front lines of that magnificent wave of determined

Allies in France who held and at last swept back the fiendish forces of

autocracy and tyranny and made it possible for liberty loving people to

continue their slow but steady progress toward true Democracy.

You would like to hear a great deal about that battalion from its white

commander because you know it was made up of brave men and backed by

brave women of your own color who did their duty by you and by their

country and did it well. Your presence here and the expression on your

faces proves that you are deeply, hopefully interested in the integrity

and in the advancement of your race.

You would like to know something about me as a soldier too, I suppose,

because you have been told I was the best friend the colored soldier

had. I am afraid that word _best_ makes it unjustly strong, for the

colored soldier has many white friends. Nevertheless, I am glad I had

the privilege and the opportunity to prove that my efforts in the

common cause, the Allies’ cause, were not one bit hampered or lessened

because my officers and men were colored.

One thing is certain, there was no doubt about the Americanism of my

outfit, no question of hyphens, no fear that their love for or their

hatred of some other nation exceeded their love for our own. The

devotion, the patriotism, the loyalty of the American Negro is beyond

question. My only claim is that I treated him justly--that’s all he

needs or asks.

* * * * *

The Second Battalion of the Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth United

States Infantry (the battalion we are considering) was a remarkable

organization, in many ways, in spite of many things, a wonderful

organization. In the battle line and out of the battle line, before

the armistice and after the armistice, there was not a phase of

military art or of the awful game of war at which this battalion did

not excel. At going over the top, attacking enemy positions, resisting

raids and assaults, holding under heavy shell fire, enduring gas of

all kinds, at patrolling no-man’s land, at drill, on hard marches, in

discipline and military courtesy, at conducting itself properly in

camp or in French villages, and in general all around snappiness, it

excelled in all.

Much of this could be seen by going over the battalion and regimental

records. But the greatest thing about that battalion is not a matter

of direct record in the written data and reports. It is a matter

of undying record in the minds and hearts of the men who were that

battalion. I speak of the magnificent _morale_, their mutual pride,

their teamwork, their spirit of earnest, cheerful willingness and their

unsurpassed endurance and bravery in the performance of duty.

It will seem strange to most of you, almost impossible to many who

saw service in other outfits, when I tell you that during my entire

service with the Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth Infantry, which I began

as a Captain in December, 1917, and ended as a battalion commander

when the regiment was broken up at Camp Upton, New York, in March,

1919, _not one_ colored officer under my command was ever placed under

arrest, and _not one_ colored officer was ever threatened with an

efficiency board. And during the many trying months that I commanded

the Second Battalion, both in and out of the front lines, only two

enlisted men were tried by me as summary court--and they were acquitted.

The same is true of the nine hundred officers and men from all units of

the regiment who live in or near Chicago that I brought from Camp Upton

to be mustered out of service at Camp Grant. Those of you who were in

Chicago remember how proudly the Camp Grant Detachment of the Three

Hundred and Sixty-fifth Infantry paraded through the streets on March

10th, 1919, without a hitch or a single breach of discipline.

No doubt that is hard to believe, for it does upset a host of time

honored theories and teachings and honest convictions about military

discipline and efficiency, but the facts as stated can be verified.

Members of that Battalion and Regiment are right among you. Ask them.

These were by no means specially selected or picked outfits. The

officers and men were of all kinds, all conditions, mostly draft men

and from all sections of the United States. They were representative

of their race as a whole, yet in every instance a little company or

military police discipline or, in rare cases, a short conference

with the captain or major did the work. Considering the excellent

service rendered by the units in question and especially by the Second

Battalion of that Regiment, I regard this as a great tribute to our

American Colored Soldiers. There is much, very much that is worthy of

serious consideration about the discipline, the efficiency and the

morale of that organization.

And now at the outset, before I go any further with this lecture, I

wish to tell you, my colored friends, that I am proud to have been the

commander of that battalion. My talk necessarily will be mostly about

that Battalion, for I commanded it during the Regiment’s experience in

the battle lines and during the greater part of my service with the

Division. And now more than ever I believe, as I had ample reason to

believe then, that no battalion of any army whether white or black or

of some other race or color could have done the same things and done

them any better than did the Second Battalion of the Three Hundred

and Sixty-fifth Infantry, One Hundred and Eighty-third Brigade,

Ninety-second Division of the United States Army in France.

It may interest you to know, especially after what I have said about

methods of securing discipline--for results count--that I won my

commission as a major and what was far more, my job as a front line

infantry battalion commander for efficiency under fire. I have a

few citations and letters and one signed testimonial by white and

colored officers who were witnesses, for coolness, bravery and the

like. Thirty-five or forty officers and men were cited for bravery

in Division orders. Medals? No, I have received no medals or special

decorations. Nor has any living member, officer or man, of my

Battalion. In fact, to my knowledge, not one living officer or man of

the entire Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth Infantry has received any

decoration or medal of any sort whatever--American, French, Belgian or

any other kind. This, on the face of it, to anyone who knows the facts,

would seem either a most glaring injustice or mistake.

Many of the members of my Battalion and of the Regiment, especially

those who were with us at the time of the armistice and during all or

part of the awful days and weeks just preceding it, feel and resent

this most keenly. In the army you know everything must go through

“military channels”--from company to battalion to regiment to brigade

to division and on up. I recommended some of my officers and men for

decorations. And if I know anything about meritorious conduct, real

achievement, bravery, valour and the like, they richly deserved them.

These recommendations reached brigade headquarters. It is my opinion

that certain regular army officers saw fit to head them off.

Soon after the armistice we had a succession of strange regimental

commanders, who showed no interest in pressing our case and so

because of a combination of unfortunate circumstances the Regiment is

medal-less. I understand our Brigade has received some recognition. I

do not begrudge any officer or man his medal or medals if he actually

earned them, but I do regret it that my Regiment and my own Battalion

could be thus ignored. You may believe it or not when I say that I care

nothing about medals for myself. What little I did in the cause of

Democracy--by that I mean what I did for my Colored Battalion as well

as in trying to help whip the enemy--is a matter with me and my own

better self.

The citations of which I am incomparably more proud than of the

citations I did get or the medals I didn’t get were not printed with

ink nor stamped on metal. They were written with a point of fire into

the brave, true hearts of my colored soldiers.

And who knows (if I may indulge in a little sentiment)? Who can tell?

Perhaps those who bravely endured the tourtures of hell, because

of the foolishness of vain oppressors in this wicked world and who

uncomplainingly and unselfishly gave all they had, all any one could

give--_gave their lives_--in defense of our great nation and in the

cause of Democracy. Perhaps, I say, some of the spirits of that

Battalion’s dead have already whispered in the glorious Realm beyond

where the great, all-powerful God of justice, of love, of peace reigns

supreme and with Whom man’s character is the only thing that counts.

Perhaps they have whispered or will whisper, “Our Commander not only

braved the fury of the Hun, but he scorned the petty prejudices of a

few white persons and treated _us_ like officers and men.”

* * * * *

Officers designated for service with the Eighty-sixth Division, which

was to be formed at Camp Grant, Illinois, were ordered to report for

duty August, 28th, 1917. I so reported and was assigned to the Three

Hundred and Forty-first Infantry. Being a captain I was selected to

command “G” Company. I received my quota of the first drafted men to

arrive, on the second of September. They continued to arrive and in

a few weeks I had two hundred and ninety-two men in addition to my

five training camp lieutenants. The new organization had just gone

into effect. Arms and equipment arrived slowly. There was more or less

confusion; no one was right sure what to do and a company commander had

a real job on his hands. Day and night I labored--drilled, studied,

taught, did paper work, and then after three months or a little over,

just when I was beginning to pride myself, like all the other captains,

on having the best company in the regiment, and when we were all

seeing visions of entraining for France, they began transferring our

men--thirty or forty from a company at a time--to other divisions, and

our hearts sank.

I tried to get transferred myself, for like many others, I wanted to

soldier in France, not at Camp Grant. Company commanders were not being

transferred to other camps, but just before Christmas I was ordered to

report to the One Hundred and Eighty-third Brigade, a part of which

was attached at Camp Grant. I was then assigned to the Three Hundred

and Sixty-fifth Infantry, a regiment of that Brigade and of the

Ninety-second Division (colored). I felt sure that the Ninety-second

Division, since it was the only complete colored division, and there

was not much danger of its men being transferred, would go to France

long before the Eighty-sixth--and it did.

For a time I was with the supply company. Then I was transferred to the

headquarters company, a rather uncertain and complicated organization

in those days, with an authorized strength of seven officers and three

hundred and fifteen men. I remained with that company until after our

arrival in France.

In the infantry regiments of the Ninety-second Division the lieutenants

and captains were colored with the exception of the regimental staff

captains and the captains of the headquarters and supply companies. The

majors commanding the battalions and the lieutenant-colonel and the

colonel were old regular army white officers.

We had been in training in France but a short time when I was made

regimental intelligence and operations officer. Here again was

another phase of the actual war game to learn. I was in charge of

a large number of selected and specially trained men who made up

the intelligence and scout sections, and at the same time was the

regimental commander’s assistant in preparing our own movements

and operations. I had direct charge of all that had to do with our

knowledge and information of the enemy. I was also a member of the

highest division court-martial--the one that had power to inflict the

death penalty.

I received orders to take the battalion intelligence and scout officers

and part of the intelligence and scout personnel into the line several

weeks ahead of the Division’s final arrival there, to study and learn

the sub-sector our regiment was later to occupy. I was never sent away

to schools or on special missions and was never on leave or in hospital

but was on duty with fighting troops continuously.

I have mentioned these things to show you that I had had a large and

varied experience under the new army organization and in the new

methods of fighting that had developed during the Great War. It was

just the sort of training and experience to fit one for the hard and

responsible task of commanding an infantry battalion in the front

lines. I had been in direct command of both white and colored officers

and men. I knew the colored enlisted man. And I knew the recently-made

colored officers as well, fully as well, as did any white officer in

our army.

As I just said, I was sent into the lines ahead of the Regiment to

study the sector, learn about the enemy opposite and about conditions

in general. When we arrived within hearing of the big guns and a

little later when our trucks came within range just north of St. Die,

I was all interest and all attention, for at last I was getting into

the sort of place I had been reading and thinking and wondering about

since 1914, and had been working and training for every minute since I

entered the training camp at Fort Sheridan, May 10th, 1917. It’s hard

work getting ready to be killed in a modern war.

The Regular Army Fifth Division, already experienced in the line, was

then holding this sector. For several days I was busy at regimental

headquarters located in what was left of the village of Denipere. Then

with the assistance of guides, I started out to thoroughly cover and

learn the sector. This was by no means a small task: it meant many

miles of walking and hard climbing for many days, to say nothing of

thrills and mental exercise. Our boys had turned a quiet sector into a

very lively one and a few days before the Fifth Division moved out they

reduced and were partly successful in holding the Chapelle salient.

Taken all in all it was somewhat exciting for a novice exploring the

very first lines.

There were three battalion fronts or sectors in the front our regiment

was to occupy. Each of the three battalions had two companies in front,

one in support and one in reserve. The companies were shifted every

nine or ten days. French artillery would be behind us. Ours was in

training near Bordeaux. The center battalion sector was called C. R.

Fontinelle. I soon learned that it got most of the enemy’s fire and

raids because of the nature of the terrain, meaning lay of the land.

This would be held by our Second Battalion, but I had little idea then

that I would soon command it.

The entire front in France was divided into battalion sectors or

centers of resistance, called C. R.’s. The battalion was the infantry

fighting unit in this war. When in the line, it had everything attached

to it to make it a complete organization in itself--machine gun

companies, engineer troops, one pounder and Stokes mortar outfits,

supply equipment, medical personnel and so on. Regimental and brigade

fronts varied in size and in the way they were held. Often a regiment

had but one battalion in front, sometimes two and rarely three, as in

our portion of the St. Die sector.

There were three lines or systems of defense in this sector. First,

the front or first line system of works and trenches, combat groups,

dugouts, communicating ways, machine gun implacements, trench mortars,

wire and, well, it would take a long time to even name them all. An

entire evening easily could be spent telling about any one little phase

of the thing. From two to three miles farther back in this sector was

the secondary lines or system with trenches, wire and everything,

all ready for occupancy. A little to the rear was most of the light

artillery. Several miles farther back was the third line system and

the heavy artillery. The front line system was most interesting and by

far the most dangerous. There was this about it, too: In case of enemy

attack they held. In other words, their occupants stayed and fought to

the last man. Those were standing orders and at that time in my eyes it

added a sort of awful fascination to the front line trenches and men.

One of the things that impressed me during my first days in the line

was the extent, the magnitude of the works, the prodigious amount of

labor that had been required to excavate and build these positions

while under fire, the cutting and tunneling in many places through

solid rock, also the military knowledge that had been brought to

bear in the locating and construction of combat groups, observation

posts, fields of fire and the like and the amount of system and pluck

and energy required to hold them. But one awful, ugly, discouraging

word, from a world standpoint, seemed written all over the

enterprise--Waste--waste of life, waste of time, waste of governments’

money, waste of all those things misguided humanity loves and fights

for. What a shocking, what a saddening lesson from the standpoint of

_waste_ alone!

Then as I became accustomed and somewhat hardened to the idea of

appalling and foolish waste, another thing began to appeal to me more

strongly. The beauty of the scenery and the invigorating air and

sunshine of the mountains. It was summer, radiant, glowing, glorious

summer. All nature vibrating and tingling with life and kindness. The

sky so bright, the air so crisp, so bracing; the trees so green and

fresh. The flowers, the grass, even the weeds and the very moss on the

rocks seemed charged and melodious with joy.

Little rivulets, cold and sparkling, leaped over great boulders through

shaded ravines and joined the hilarious stream away below which farther

on, where the big ravine had widened, calmly wound its way amid the

ruins of the quaint village called Denipere and out through the wide

valley beyond. And what a panorama that valley was from the road on a

mountainside north of the town, especially at evening with the parting

kiss of a great red sun glowing on the winding river between its green

banks and its clumps of willows, and glistening on the tile roofs of

the remaining white stone houses, the various colored fields and the

patches of wood, the white roads and their rows of tall trees, the

hills and shaded depressions, and the gorgeous background of mountains

in the distance. It looked different each time I viewed it, but always

there was the peaceful glow and glory of God’s handiwork. Here, indeed,

was La Belle France.

Many a time, at first, I used to forget myself, lost in buoyant

meditation, as I gazed over that enchanting valley or walked along the

stately mountain roads enveloped in dense foliage, or as I traveled

down some secluded pathway or lover’s lane beside a rippling brook,

inhaling deeply the pungent odor of growing things and cool damp earth.

Then, with a start, I would come back to the realization that those

screaming shells, those metallic cracks, those weird, jarring blasts

were meant to _mangle_ and _kill_! That an enemy bent on destruction

was only a mile or so away; that those glittering airplanes buzzing

high above were on missions of hate and murder; that those little

mounds I saw everywhere with wooden crosses at one end were the graves

of fine young men who had been mangled and slain by their fellow

beings. All the surroundings so inspiring, so beautiful; all nature

so smiling and so harmonious, and poor, deluded, vain man so out of

harmony. Somewhere, somehow, something was wrong--terribly, damnably

wrong.

Then down in the very front lines in the edge of the “abomination of

desolation” called no-man’s land, I watched those fine young men of

our Fifth Division, standing silently by their automatics or rifles,

gazing with ashen faces and staring eyes over that torn dreaded expanse

that separated them from a cunning and deadly foe, and gradually my

feelings changed from happiness due to health, the mountain air and

the charms of nature, to feelings of depression and sadness, and

hatred toward those who advocate and perpetuate in their blind vanity

and self-righteous greed those principles and policies that lead to

strife, to heart-ache and to war.

Here, accentuated by the glories of nature, was the horror of war and

the awful proof of the degradation of humanity--despite its so-called

Christian civilization.

Graves and danger and death. Death over head, death under foot,

death in every direction--suffering, loneliness, longing, agony,

death--_Death!_ But the greedy fiends really responsible were not

there. And a sort of awe came over me and a feeling of tender pity for

those brave, unselfish men, mere boys, many of them, standing silently,

majestically--facing death in those front line trenches.

Time passed quickly, for like all officers of our army who entered the

lines, regardless of previous training, I had very much to learn. There

was so much to wonder and think about, too, for my job took me to all

parts of our sector and necessitated a careful study of the enemy. For

example, I had soon noticed that the men of units occupying the most

dangerous positions and suffering the greatest inconvenience and strain

seemed most care free and calm. There was an expression on their

faces, an atmosphere about them that had not been there during the

training period behind the lines. This opened great fields for thought,

and I’m still thinking.

Then one day, before I realized that it was time, I saw little groups

of blue-clad soldiers--the soldiers of France, standing about in

Denipere, and on the roads I saw more little groups; next day there

were more, and the following morning, as though it had happened by

magic, I found the entire position, front lines and all, occupied and

held by those quiet, tired-faced, sturdy heroes of France. The boys of

our Fifth Division had moved out during the night. The following night

my regiment moved in. The French infantry left several days later when

we had become established in our position. A short time after that

I was placed in command of our Second Battalion, holding the center

sector called C. R. Fontinelle.

* * * * *

The day I took command the enemy put over one of his famous raids.

For two and one-half hours he laid a heavy concentrated fire on the

Second Battalion’s front line system, then changed it into an almost

perfect box barrage around the two front companies and jumped us

through our left flank. The raiding was done by one of their notorious,

specially-trained shock battalions sent to the sector for that purpose.

By excellent work on the part of the two front companies and the

support company assisted by a company of engineers, they were soon

driven out. They managed to drag most of their dead and wounded with

them, but left considerable equipment including several machine guns

they had brought over and set up in our trenches.

It would take all evening to tell about that one action, or Fontinelle

Raid, alone. There is so much I could tell you about my Battalion,

funny things, as well as serious, to say nothing of our Division or the

French soldiers and people and what not, that I hardly know what to

tell.

But I do know we haven’t much time so I think we’ll make a long jump,

skipping things equally interesting, the bombardments, the patrols,

the raids, the experiences and trials at Fontinelle, then the hard

marches, the sleepless, shelterless nights in cold rain and mud, the

hardships of the Argonne and our part during the early days of that

famous American drive, our tiresome movement from that front and our

taking over from the French on the night of October 6th and 7th of C.

R. Musson, an important section of the Marbache sector’s front, on the

east bank of the Moselle River just south and a little west of Metz.

I’ll pass over the many interesting and trying happenings and

experiences of the thirty-one straight days--intense, nerve-racking

days and nights that we occupied that position, and take it up a

few days before the armistice, or just before the preliminary to

the long-talked of drive for Metz. I’ll only have time to tell you

briefly of a small part of that, but perhaps you may gain some faint

realization of how the boys fought and suffered and won.

First, just a few words to show you the way in which the Ninety-second

Division had taken over and held the Marbace sector. At three o’clock

on the morning of October 6th, after marching all night, the Second

Battalion of the Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth Infantry arrived at

Aton, a village about three miles behind the front lines. All that day

I spent at the front with the commander of the French battalion then

holding the C. R. During the afternoon my officers and part of the

non-coms. came up and went over the positions assigned them. That night

we stealthily moved in and the French moved out.

This was a key position. Through it, varying from two to five hundred

yards from the bank of the river, ran what was known as the Great

Metz Road. We held a front of about a mile and a half. I wish I had

a big map or a blackboard and time to show you. I can see it all now

as plainly as if I were there. Across the Moselle adjoining us on our

left at that time was a white division. About two weeks before the

armistice the C. R. next to us and adjoining the river, was taken over

and occupied by a battalion of the Three Hundred and Sixty-seventh

Infantry of our Division. The C. R. on our right was taken over the

night following our arrival by the First Battalion of our Regiment. The

First and Third Battalions took turns holding that C. R. The Three

hundred and Sixty-sixth Infantry kept one battalion in line on their

right. Adjoining it were the French. Our own division artillery got

into position behind us only a few days before the end. At first our

Division had three battalions, and during the last two weeks, four

battalions in the front line. We held a front line section several

times as long as did any other battalion of the Division, in the

Marbache sector. Thirty-one straight days was a long, hard stretch for

a battalion in an important and far from quiet front or first line

position.

Finally, on the night of November 6th-7th we were at last moved back

about five miles to the second line of defense. The officers and men

were almost completely worn out, many of them bordering on nervous

collapse. But even now the Battalion was to get no rest. On the 7th,

in compliance with orders from the Commanding General, we put over an

operation in which “H” Company and half of “E” went over the top, and

on the 8th I was up in front again on very short notice in command of

a daylight contact patrol in which I used all of “F” Company, half of

“G” and part of the regimental machine gun company.

So during those two days in the second line, instead of resting, almost

the entire Battalion had been all the way back up to the front, over

the top, and back again. These were small but extremely trying--tired

as we were--and also rather costly operations. I say small--I mean

comparatively small as to the numbers of officers and men engaged, but

to the individual engaged they were large, quite large. A number were

killed and many wounded, including two captains, Mills, commanding “F”

Company, and Cranson, commander of “G.”

This Battalion had caught most of the hell in the St. Die sector, had

done its full share in the Argonne, though, due to the fortunes of war,

I suppose, little if any mention is made of it, and in the Marbache

sector had held the most important C. R. continuously up to the night

of the 6th and 7th, and after the operations of the 7th and 8th just

mentioned, you can judge what condition my outfit was in on the morning

of November 9th.

Nevertheless, on the morning of November 9th, I received word that

the Commanding General had just arrived at Regimental Headquarters

in Loisey and wished to see me at once. So, dog-tired, aching all

over and dead for sleep, I got into a sidecar and went back. Just

as I expected, he handed me an order, Brigade order, that had been

sanctioned by Division Headquarters, G. H. Q., and the High Allied

Command covering our Brigade’s part in the inauguration or preliminary

to the Metz drive. It started something like this: “Major Warner A.

Ross, commanding the Second Battalion, Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth

Infantry, will at five o’clock on the morning of November 10th, attack

enemy positions--named them--to the east of the Moselle River, will

advance to the northern edge of Bois Frehaut and to such and such a

point on the river bank and hold until further orders,” etc. That

evening I received a similar order, changed somewhat from the first

one, but what it all meant was that it was up to us--the Battalion--to

capture and above all to hold this strong key position just up the

river from Metz.

In so far as we were concerned it was a frontal attack on the general

position of Metz. How far the Allies intended or expected to drive

straight on toward Metz I do not know. The long advance was to be

southeast of us with the idea of eventually isolating Metz. Judging by

what happened to us and to the attackers on our flanks during the tenth

and eleventh, it would have been foolish, if not impossible, to advance

further along the Moselle. That is why the capturing and holding of

Bois Frehaut was especially glorious.

The generals commanding our Division and Brigade seemed very anxious

that this operation prove a success. Up to this time the Division had

not accomplished anything very startling in the way of capturing German

strongholds, but here, before the expected armistice went into effect,

was an opportunity to prove the Division’s ability and worth and refute

any whisperings that might be in the air. In other words, to quote one

of my high ranking superiors, full and real success here would forever

give the division a leg to stand on.

Mine, then, was the honor of being in direct command of the main

operation which started the long discussed Allied move to capture

Metz, said to be the most impregnable German stronghold. Mine, too, was

the opportunity to give a colored battalion a chance to prove its worth

beyond all peradventure, to help them disprove the widely circulated

report that colored troops could not advance and hold under real and

prolonged heavy fire, to help them dispel the impression so many had

that colored officers--platoon leaders and company commanders--could

not successfully handle colored soldiers. In short, to give them a

chance to win a victory that will stand out more clearly as the years

go by, a victory requiring all the virtues that soldiers, individually

and collectively should possess--a victory clear cut, unaided, complete

and unquestionable, where others had failed and against a stronghold, a

part of and guarding a strategic position that at all hazards the enemy

meant to hold.

The Second Battalion of the Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth Infantry

was chosen, despite its long and continuous work in the front lines,

its greatly depleted ranks and shortness of officers. Reinforced by

other units, other men and other officers of the Three Hundred and

Sixty-fifth Infantry, the Second Battalion at last met its supreme

test--its golden opportunity. I shall try briefly to tell you what it

did, for “Bois Frehaut,” under the guns of Metz, will remain a memorial

to the discipline, the efficiency, the bravery, and devotion to duty of

an American colored battalion.

The Three Hundred and Sixty-seventh Infantry, as previously mentioned,

had recently taken over one battalion sector or C. R. just across the

river. They, too, had orders to advance. A battalion of the white

division on their left also was to advance. On our right a small part

of a battalion (to be exact, two platoons--about half of one company)

of the Three Hundred and Sixty-sixth Infantry was to advance through

our Third Battalion, then occupying that C. R.

I may as well tell you, what many people know, that although this was

the beginning of the great Allied movement to reduce the strategic

stronghold of Metz, with division after division massing behind us

and to our right, the battalion of the white division to the left of

the Three Hundred and Sixty-seventh rushed ahead at zero hour on the

morning of the 10th, lost one hundred and fifty-six men in less than

five minutes and withdrew to their trenches. The attack battalion of

the Three Sixty-seventh sized up the situation and barely left their

trenches so withering was the fire.

The troops of a part of a battalion of the Three Hundred and

Sixty-sixth on our right rushed out to take a small wood that laid

east of the positions we were to take, got almost to their objectives

and rushed back owing to the accuracy and intensity of enemy fire. But

it didn’t matter much outside of leaving my battalion’s right flank

entirely wide open, for Bois de la tete d’Or and Bois Frehaut of our

position far outflanked it and made it untenable for the Germans. A

map of the positions involved tells the story. I tell you this not to

discredit or belittle units on our right and left, but to prove that

what the Second Battalion of the Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth Infantry

there accomplished was far from easy and that when it came to defending

Metz the enemy was decidedly on the job.

Bois Frehaut is a hilly, dense wood about five hundred yards east of

the Moselle River, rising from low, flat, boggy land. This low ground

extends around and eastward south of the wood, between it and the

northern edge of East Pont-a-Musson, in the form of a broad swale

gradually narrowing and rising from a point south of the center of the

wood. This broad swale was no-man’s land. Behind Bois Frehaut to the

north enemy ground continued to rise, culminating in a very high hill

or mountain overlooking the wood, no-man’s land, Pont-a-Musson and the

entire country for miles around. Near its summit was an exceptionally

fine observation post, reached by a long tunnel.

In speaking of the action of Bois Frehaut or the capture of Bois

Frehaut the places called Belle Aire Farm, Bois de la Tete d’Or and

Ferme de Pence are included. They are parts of and join Bois Frehaut.

This position was a separate and distinct place entirely surrounded

by clear ground and most ideally situated for the enemy for defense

purposes. My knowledge of what was done by units on our right and left

was gained during the action through my efforts to keep in touch with

and to establish liaison with those units on our flanks.

On three separate occasions during the preceding four months Allied

troops had attempted to capture this Bois Frehaut. Once a French

outfit, after considerable artillery preparation, got into the edge of

it by a turning movement and stayed about ten minutes. Later French

Senegalese troops penetrated its east flank a short distance and stayed

less than one hour. At the time American troops reduced the St. Mihiel

Salient they made a frontal attack on Bois Frehaut and Ferme de Belle

Aire, an outpost position in front of and about half as wide as the

wood proper. This advance or pinch was supposed to start east of Bois

Frehaut and take it with the big salient, but it had to pivot on Bois

Frehaut instead of straightening the line from Momeny, for this was

near Metz and one of the strong outlying centers defending it, so the

attackers never got through the outside systems of wire. As a result of

this the Allied first line on the west side of the river was several

kilometers in advance of our line on the east bank before we took Bois

Frehaut and straightened it. I remember that as we went through the

Ferme de Belle Aire wire I counted twenty-six American bodies or parts

of bodies in one small section. They had been lying or hanging there

since about September 13th.

Such, then, was the position the Second Battalion of the Three Hundred

and Sixty-fifth Infantry, short two captains and nine lieutenants, its

ranks badly thinned and the whole outfit dead tired, was ordered to

capture and to hold. This was the morning of the ninth, the companies

were widely separated, we were almost five miles behind our front line

and we were to attack at five o’clock the next morning.

There was not a minute to lose. Early in the afternoon we were up

in East Pont-a-Musson. We would spend the night completing our

preparations there. Our first lines at the point where I had decided

to leave them were just north of the edge of the town. From there, for

several kilometers, they ran in a north-easterly direction, but my

orders called for a _head-on_ attack along the entire enemy front.

Prospective casualties for us seemed not to concern those of my

superiors and their assistants who had laid down the general outline

for this affair and for several previous affairs. I haven’t time here

to go into details as to that statement, but I assure you I am not

telling anything imaginative or that I can not substantiate. I am

saying little or nothing of any battalion or organization other than

my own. What I say of it and things pertaining to it are not meant to

apply to anything else. They are the result of personal knowledge and

experience.

The commanding General had wished me luck and departed. The Lieutenant

Colonel practically had put the regiment at my disposal and gone to

Loisey. The whole thing was now up to us. There were a thousand things

to think of and do and very little time in which to do them. I called

the officers together and gave instructions about equipment of all

sorts--ammunition, gas masks, sag paste, rations--things that had to be

sent back for, and so on.

I sent for certain units of the Headquarters Company, and annexed a

part of the officers and men of the First Battalion. By the way, its

Major had been killed by the Germans a few days before. I also sent for

the Regimental Machine Gun Company, for I had a foreboding that the

company of the Brigade Machine Gun Battalion designated to report to me

in the orders would not arrive in time. So I played safe. Then I spent

about two hours inspecting and watching the preparations go forward.

At six P. M. I sat down to study in detail and to systematize our plan

of attack. Everything must be thought out and arranged in advance. All

contingencies must, if possible, be foreseen and provided for. The foe

we were going against was highly organized and knew his position. He

was experienced, efficient and crafty in the art of war.

Promptly at eight-thirty, as ordered, the officers assembled at the

house we were using as temporary Battalion Headquarters. The company

from the Machine Gun Battalion had not arrived and for what we were

about to undertake, machine guns were important. So I called Captain

Allen and his lieutenants of our Regimental Machine Gun Company into

the conference. Had the other company arrived, Captain Allen of the

company I had sent for on my own initiative, probably would not now

be lying buried in France. So works fate, as some call it. It’s a sad

thing to have to order officers and men on missions of almost certain

death, especially when they are so willing, even anxious to go, and

when you know them as well as I knew mine, but such is war.

For hours in a dimly candle-lighted room we worked. Studied charts

and blue prints, planned each move of each detachment and platoon in

detail. Company and platoon commanders laid their courses, drew maps

and studied them carefully, for they would have to travel independently

and by compass after entering enemy wire. We carefully rehearsed our

plans of liaison. In short, every detail was gone over; all emergencies

we could conceive of were discussed, so that each captain and each

platoon leader (some were non-coms.) knew his part and its relation to

the whole. Each one explained aloud just what he was to do and when and

how, and how such and such developments were to affect his actions.

For you must know that nothing but well-nigh faultless team work would

enable us to accomplish our mission.

To capture and to hold this strong and seemingly impregnable key

position under the big guns of the world renowned fortress of Metz,

to say nothing of its other means of defense, with but one battalion

and but five minutes’ artillery preparation, did not mean to rush out

with a whoop and sweep all before us. It required a thorough, practical

knowledge gained by experience of all the complicated phases of trench

and open warfare. It required officers and non-commissioned officers

of iron nerve and cool judgment under fire, and brave troops of

exceptional discipline and the finest training. Whether those higher up

expected us to succeed or could have expected any battalion to succeed,

I doubted. So I had made up my mind we would succeed.

At one thirty-five A. M. I received word by telephone from the Brigade

Adjutant that Zero hour would be seven o’clock instead of five. At

three A. M. I said, “I’m going to lead you over and into that place.

I’ll be with you and I’m going to _stick_. I’ll never come back except

on orders from proper authority unless carried back unconscious or

dead. This meeting is adjourned.” For fully a minute they remained

perfectly still--not one moved. Then one at a time they got up, shook

my hand and filed out into the cold and darkness--the vast, ominous

outdoors. And I knew then by the look on each leader’s face that we

would be annihilated or win.

They roused their men, for they had been ordered to get what rest they

could, and there in the chill and dead of night, explained to them just

what was to be done; explained each man’s part, for each man has a part

in a job like that. Certain things had arrived during the night. These

were distributed, final inspections were made and by five o’clock all

was in readiness for the start. The four companies of infantry, “H,”

“G,” “E” and “F,” the Regimental Machine Gun Company, the One-Pounder

and Stokes Mortar Platoons, the Pioneer Platoon and Signal outfits from

the Headquarters Company, the specialty detachments from Division

Headquarters, the Doctors and Stretcher Bearers--all were there lined

up in battalion front, at increased intervals, along the great Metz

road.

For a moment I paused, feeling or sensing, as it were, my Battalion,

for I could see only the shadowy forms of a few who were nearest. I

wondered if those at home knew or could have any realization of what

these men were doing and suffering for them. All through that awful

night I had heard not one word of complaint. Not a grumble had reached

my ears, and I smiled as I remembered the many times before, even away

back in the Argonne or St. Die (it seemed ages ago then), how, when I

had approached within hearing of disconsolate looking groups of men,

shivering all night long, perhaps in deep mud and cold rain, because of

mistakes higher up or for unavoidable causes, some old fellow in the

group had started to sing or said some silly thing intended to be funny

and how all the others had _laughed_--for my benefit. And these were

the men I was about to lead out there where it looked to all of us like

sure annihilation. These were the remnant of that Battalion, and I--,

but the hour had come.

I started at the right of the line, which would be the rear when they

swung into column, followed by my Adjutant, Lieutenant Pritchard. It

was just before dawn, that most spookey and shivery of all hours--a

few degrees above freezing, but the cold, fleecy mist that enveloped

us seemed to penetrate our very bones. Just enough light was filtering

through for me to recognize each officer and man as I walked slowly

close to the line. Not a word was spoken--not a sound, save the never

tearing _screech_ of an occasional shell with its ugly blast, or

the rattling, echoing _tat, tat, tat-a-tat!_ of a machine gun or an

automatic rifle in the distance.

Along the whole wide front I moved--sadly, looking into the face of

each man, each so busy with his thoughts. How pinched, how tired--how

worn they looked. Many cheeks were wet with tears. Each man made an

effort to smile. Many chins and lips trembled. The very chill and the

darkness seemed charged and potent with _death_. But every head was

high. Every form was rigidly erect. “They are just great children,” I

thought, “so proud in their sacrifice, so brave, so true in this awful

preliminary hour--great trusting, innocent boys suffering for the sins

and for the sakes of others, and mine the sad, oh, _unspeakably sad_,

duty of leading them to death, or to horrors and suffering even worse.”

Had I not been going _with_ them I could not have faced them then. I

reached the end of the line. My staff and runners fell in behind me.

The Captain of the leading company gave a signal, repeated down the

line. They swung--“_Squads left!_” And the Death March had begun.

No band was playing, no colors flying, no loved ones and friends

admiring, cheering--just on through the ghastly night--and I could feel

the very heart beat of those twelve hundred and fifty brave men behind

me as plainly as I could hear the muffled tread of their hob-nailed

shoes. For I loved that Battalion. It was the pride of my life. And

there was not one among all those hundreds of big, black heroes of mine

that would not have gone through _hell_ for his Major. And no one knew

it better than I.

On, on, thump, thump, thump, up the familiar road, under the great bare

trees, past the deserted, shell marked houses, and damp, tomb-like

ruins that had once been happy homes. Then we were in the outskirts of

the town. On the left was the arch, the big iron gate and the ruined

house under which were the dugouts of the battalion infirmary. Soon we

were passing the Battalion graveyard to our right, with its rows of

mounds and wooden crosses barely discernible.

And strangely enough, at a time like this, I thought of one very dark

night, much darker than this, with flares and star shells and colored

rockets lighting no-man’s land, not far away, and the flash and roar

of big guns and screaming shells, when we buried our first man there,

killed the night we first moved into the sector. And I remembered how

helpless and small he seemed as they gently laid him in his shallow

grave, and then when we bent near to conceal the brief glare of a

pocket flashlight, how _proud_ he looked, with a great hole through his

chest torn by a flying chunk of jagged steel, and only a blanket for a

coffin, and the expression of peace on the young black face, for he

had stuck and died at his post. And then when the little, muddy grave

was filled, how pitiful and how lonely he seemed, as we left him to

darkness in that blood soaked foreign soil--so far from his loved ones

and home.

Like thousands in that hellish war, he had made the supreme sacrifice,

had unflinchingly laid down his life to save others. He was a true

American soldier. I hope they still keep flowers on his grave.

I could see the very mound there on the end as we passed, for already a

faint, cold brightness was breaking through the mist. On we marched, up

and off the road, through the labyrinth of grave-like trenches, till at

last we reached the broad maze of our most advance wire. New paths or

openings had just been cut and men of the Battalion Scout Platoon were

waiting to guide us through.

* * * * *

It was still impossible to see more than twenty-five or thirty yards

through the fog, so with compass in hand I led the column through

no-man’s land like a skipper would pilot a ship, among shell holes,

through small gulleys, clumps of scrubby brush and patches of dead

weeds, and as we neared and entered enemy wire, past ghastly, stinking

objects that reminded us most keenly of the attempts our predecessors

had made to do what we had to do. I also reflected, when I saw the head

drop off of one as a man jarred the wire it hung over, that my own

carcass or the carcasses of a king or even a queen, or of some wealthy

notable, would look no better if it had been lying or hanging out in

the weather for about two months with these horrible objects that had

once been fine young American soldiers. (During the time we occupied

the sector patrols had brought in and we had buried a number of these

bodies.)

There was almost a mile of no-man’s land at the point where we had

crossed it, for we traveled on the lowest ground because the mist was

denser there. But at last we had come to the acres of wire before the

enemy outpost position called Belle Aire Farm, in French “Ferme de

Belle Aire.” This was several hundred yards in advance of Bois Frehaut,

the main position, which occupied higher and rising ground. Part of

the battalion, led by Captain Green of “H” Company, which was to lead

on the right, moved around to the east to take their places ready for

the attack. The rest cut through the Belle Aire wire, one detachment

cutting in on the flank to _bayonet_ machine gunners, for we worked

quietly at this stage, and we worked fast, taking advantage of the

now rapidly thinning mist. This whole thing had been planned by us to

outguess the enemy and in so far as possible to avoid casualties, for

dead and wounded men can not take and hold positions such as that.

It was at this point that I saw two of my men knocked over by machine

gun fire, the first to fall in this affair, and as we hugged the ground

waiting for our flanking party to reward those machine gunners, I could

have dictated quite a story, had there been any one to take it down,

on the subject of Militarism and War in general. I wondered how many

wars there’d be and how long they’d last if the people who profit by

them or hope to profit by them had to be up there with us. I was in a

nasty mood, as I usually was, when I thought of most any phase of the

war except of the glorious men who personally faced the _real_ danger

and who did the actual fighting. I doubt whether that story, as I would

have dictated it then, would be very popular with people who didn’t

honestly and actually suffer in or because of the war, or with those

who think they believe in militarism and war.

We were not delayed long. Then with Belle Aire Farm behind us, we

rapidly deployed and took up our formation in platoon and half platoon

columns facing and about one hundred yards from the wire of the main

position. The entire command took cover in shell holes, in depressions,

behind mounds or clusters of dead weeds ready to spring forward in

force at the proper moment. I had time to make sure that all was in

readiness as planned and get back to the center. The mist had lifted

and enemy machine gunners near the edge of the wood, especially those

with nests in trees, were blazing away recklessly.

Promptly at six fifty-five (all watches had been synchronized) our

big guns, miles behind us, almost simultaneously began to bark and

boom. Then came the shells, a low moaning roar at first, the sound

rising in pitch something like a slowly operated steam siren whistle,

then increasing in volume and shrillness till it seemed like a mighty

tornado coming right at us. The noise was so great and so sudden that

it was almost unbearable. Then they began to explode all along, most of

them just in front of us. Words are utterly inadequate to describe this

awful cataclysm as it felt and seemed to us.

We had figured that the enemy would drop his barrage first in front

of Belle Aire Farm. That’s why we had gotten through that position so

hastily and it was fortunate that we advanced as far as we did even at

the risk of being too close to our own barrage, for almost immediately

the dirt and rocks began to fly behind us--not in front of the Belle

Aire wire, but right on the position itself. Some one had been

telephoning. We were too close to our own barrage, but I knew it would

advance in a few minutes, and the enemy barrage was entirely too close

behind us. Talk about being between two fires. A curtain of fire from

our own artillery just ahead of us and a wall of the most intense and

concentrated fire from batteries guarding Metz falling immediately in

our rear, the shells passing each other not far above our heads. A few

from each side fell short.

To be killed or rendered unconscious is easy, but to have to live

through a situation like that right out in the open is beyond all power

to describe. Our chances for survival and success hung in the balance,

the suspense was maddening. The enemy barrage would soon be lowered

in front of the main wire--right where we were. It might be lowered

any second. I decided that if he lowered it we would rush into our own

barrage rather than stay where we were, for as many of us as possible

must get through that wire.

I kept looking at my watch, ready to give the signal that would be

relayed along our line. It was six fifty-eight, then finally six

fifty-eight and a half; at last it got to be six fifty-nine. If that

enemy barrage lowered then, our casualties would be enormous and our

chances for success almost gone. It was bad enough as it was. That was

the longest minute I ever spent.

Promptly at seven, as scheduled, our barrage jumped and in a few

seconds practically all of our shells were falling beyond the wire.

This was our time to get through and quickly, if ever. All along

the front our boys went for those entanglements. Talk about wire

entanglements. They had recently been repaired and strengthened.

Most of the wire was the heavy new German type, with barbs an inch

and a half long and less than an inch apart. It required heavy

two-handed cutters with handles two and a half feet long to cut it.

Small cutters were useless for cutting here. The wide belts were not

only criss-crossed back and forth in all directions on stakes and on

chevaux-de-frise, but woven in every conceivable way as high as a man’s

head back among the trees.

There were pits and trenches with wire thrown in loose and in coils

covered with light limbs and leaves for men to fall into. We had no

tanks. They set off mines, many of which blew holes sixty to seventy

feet in diameter. Grenades and bombs were suspended from limbs and in

the brush in such a way that stepping on or touching a certain stick or

wire would explode them. Machine guns were placed at varying distances

back in the wood, some on little camouflaged platforms in trees, some

in trenches and some in cement “pill boxes” located so as to sweep and

enfilade every section of the wire.

High ranking officers from the rear as well as low ranking ones who

swarmed up to visit the place after the armistice were amazed at the

strength of the position, and when they saw it at close range the

predominant question was, “How did they ever get through?” And they

only saw it from the outside edge, for no one was allowed into the

wood. It was saturated with gas for days.

The entire Bois Frehaut, which means Frehaut Woods, was wired every

few hundred yards in front of trench systems and enfilading machine

guns. There were deep rocky ravines, steep hills, large patches of

heavy undergrowth filled with wire, traps, mines and pitfalls of every

description, also magnificent dugouts and a most complete system of

’phone and signal lines.

The platoons and half platoons went through in single file, strong men

in front taking turns at cutting wire and those behind bending back

or securing the loose ends as well as possible with the small cutters.

There was from a hundred and fifty to two hundred yards interval

between detachments. It was impossible for them to see each other after

entering the wood, so that until their objectives were reached each

outfit to all intents and purposes was an independent command.

Practically every one had penetrated the first or outer entanglements

when the enemy laid his barrage right on us. The first men through

were going after the machine guns and snipers that were bothering them

most, crawling around behind or flanking them, using hand grenades and

bayonets, firing with automatic rifles and taking pot shots at those in

trees. Being through the first system of wire we could scatter somewhat

and take advantage of shell holes, trenches, even hollows.

But how any one lived under that fire is still a mystery to me. Enemy

artillery had gotten word by telephone or airplane, probably both,

that we were into the wood, and had decided to end us right there.

Stones, dirt, shrapnel, limbs and whole trees filled the air. The

noise and concussion alone were enough to kill one. Talk about shell

shock. The earth swayed and shook and fairly bounced with the awful

impact. Flashes of fire, the metallic crack of high explosives, the

awful explosions that dug holes fifteen and twenty feet in diameter,

the utter and complete pandemonium and the stench of hell, your friends

blown to bits, the pieces dropping near--even striking you. If anything

can be more terrifying, more nerve-breaking in this world than a

concentrated fire from heavies such as that, I am unable to conceive

of it. It’s many times worse than the worst thing one can imagine.

It can’t be described because there is nothing you have experienced,

unless the thing itself, with which to compare it.

There were many guns defending Metz and this was a concentration of

heavy caliber fire--we were the only ones advancing just then. After

what seemed a lifetime he lowered it still more to the point where our

barrage was dropping ahead of us, then it slowly crept back over us to

the Belle Aire wire. Several times it passed over us, rather on us, in

this combing process, before we reached our goal. Other batteries were

shelling our back areas and still others were shelling us promiscuously.

But the boys kept on, taking advantage of any available cover at times,

but resuming, silencing machine guns that still were active, bombing

dugouts and bayoneting or shooting all the enemy that had lingered too

long. Only by special effort did I secure three live Huns.

By nine thirty-five all platoons assigned to the first line, but two,

were represented on the line of our objectives. As prearranged this

word reached me through runners. The two outfits had been delayed by

machine gun nests, but they soon came up. By ten o’clock liaison was

fully established, combat groups had been located and were digging in,

machine guns and trench mortars were being placed, and in other ways we

were getting ready to withstand counter attacks as well as artillery

fire, which, if we held, soon would include more gas. I had sent two

platoons of the support company to help protect our right flank, which

was the eastern edge of the wood.

So I wrote a message, put it into the small aluminum shell on the leg

of a pigeon. The man released him and we watched him rise and circle,

then head southward with word for the Commanding General fifteen

miles back at Division Headquarters in Marbache that Bois Frehaut was

ours--all objectives reached, were holding and would continue to hold.

Then I took my staff and Artillery Liaison officers and my runners

and went back to a prearranged locality in the edge of the wood and

established my permanent headquarters or P. C. in an open shell hole. A

few men set to work with spades and picks to shape it up and give it a

little level floor space.

A Bosch airplane appeared over the edge of the wood flying low and saw

us. He circled a few times and dropped out some signals. In just four

minutes by my watch we heard two big shells, one just behind the other,

coming right at us. After a few months’ experience you get so you can

tell from the sound just about where a shell is going to hit. One of

these struck twenty-five yards beyond us, the other almost the same

distance to our left. In less than a minute we heard two more coming

the same route. One struck twenty yards short, the other not quite so

short, but a little to the right. They had the range. The guns were

five and a half or six miles away.

After the sixth shot had just missed I ordered everybody out of the

hole. They occupied others a short distance away. The airplane, so

low that the men were shooting at it with their rifles, noted this

scattering, but he evidently noted, too, that I had remained, so

the firing continued. I felt a sort of pride about sticking to my

headquarters. The thirty-sixth shell fired at it struck right near the

edge and covered me up. Oh, yes, I was given energetic assistance in

getting out. We cleaned out the hole and resumed business. Now that the

airplane had signaled “a hit” and gone, it was as safe as any other

place in that locality.

People said it seemed miraculous that with so many big shells fired at

it and hitting on all sides in such a small area, each one had failed

to hit directly in that big hole. But I was not conceited enough to

think that the Huns were firing shells that curved by magic for my

special benefit. I had estimated during the “Death March” just before

dawn that I had one chance in three of coming through that operation

alive and one in twelve of escaping serious wounds or gassing. I

believed in God all right, but I did not think then and do not now

believe that He was down there taking an active part in that horrible

orgy of suffering and destruction. I felt that if anything other than

vain humanity was fighting on or with either side it must be his

Satanic Majesty. I was not trying to palm off on God the things that be

Caesar’s. However--well, that calls for another lecture. But don’t any

of you get an idea that I’m trying to belittle true religion. I think

it’s the greatest thing by far in the world or accessible to the world

today.

This little digression about something besides the battle, I suppose,

is the result of a habit I got into in the front lines of thinking when

things were unusually dangerous and there was nothing to do but let it

work for the time being, of something pleasant and wholly unassociated

with the nasty business in hand.

I remember how Lieutenant Stuart, my Battalion Scout Officer (he

was half Indian) when we had finished discussing the details of a

patrolling expedition he was going to lead in a few minutes--and it

took a lot of nerve to prowl around no-man’s land in the dead of

night--would pause, then with a broad smile and chuckling, a little,

would tell me some trifling story, usually about something that

occurred when he was a small child away back in Arizona. Then, still

grinning and chuckling, he’d get up and say: “Well, Major, it’s time to

pull out. The boys are waiting. See you as soon as I get back.” I never

felt right sure he’d come back.

My Adjutant, too, when we’d be waiting for some terrible thing to

happen during the night, expecting an assault, shells dropping

promiscuously and perhaps a bombing plane buzzing overhead, used to

tell some of the most outlandish stories of his experiences while a

regular in Hawaii or the Philippines or some place. I suppose all men

exposed to real danger had some way of “kidding” themselves along under

most any conditions. If they didn’t have they were in a bad way.

Soon after I was resurrected from the shell hole a runner from the

right front company (by the way, he was sighted in Division orders

and should have had a medal for the way he got to me) stumbled in

exhausted, with a note from Green (who, under machine gun fire, had

climbed a tree to get a better view) advising me that the enemy was

preparing in force to rush our right flank. Two platoons, one from

the support, the other from the Reserve Company, and my two remaining

reserve machine guns had barely time to reach the spot to which they

were ordered when the assault started. By flanking our would-be

flankers as they came over a ridge, they saved the day. Several attacks

against our front failed to succeed because of well directed fire.

And still the bombardment continued without a pause. It seemed to

me that almost all the big guns that side of Metz were firing on

Bois Frehaut and the old no-man’s land just behind it. And I learned

afterward that they were, for we were the only ones that had taken and

were holding any special territory. They had been expecting a drive on

Metz for some time and their artillery especially was well prepared.

Shrapnel and high explosive contact shells of all sizes fell on all

parts of the area. They knew more about the armistice than we did and

his artillery seemed to want to do all the damage it could while the

war lasted. Just before dark on the tenth he began throwing over great

quantities of gas and continued to mix it in all night long. They

seemed determined to run us out or exterminate us.

For twenty-eight long hours we advanced and _held_ under a bombardment

that in my opinion had not been surpassed if equalled on a similar area

held by American troops during a similar length of time. The enemy

had allowed the Allies some time before to get as close to Metz as he

intended they should get--that was the outside wire of Bois Frehaut. We

were not attacking in great force after hours of artillery preparation

with almost innumerable big guns supporting us, though what artillery

was in action behind us did excellent work. Neither was the enemy

fighting a rear guard action while his main forces beat a hasty retreat.

At ten o’clock the night of the tenth I received a copy of orders

indicating that a battalion was to enter the western part of the

wood during the night and advance on the enemy through my left front

company, “G,” at five o’clock next morning. I smiled in my gas mask,

for I had watched the efforts of a certain battalion backed by another

battalion, to come up into the woods during the afternoon. They got

as far as Ferme de Belle Aire--part of them--and at dark withdrew.

Very early the morning of the eleventh the “attacking” battalion got

within the outer wire of Bois Frehaut. By five A. M. two officers and

a handful of men had worked their way as far as the headquarters of a

certain “G” Company platoon. Our barrage started on the dot. The two

officers, followed by the handful of men, advanced beyond our front

line and looked about. One of the officers was promptly wounded,

and--well there was no attack.

During that entire twenty-eight hours Signal Outfits from Division

Headquarters were trying to get a telephone line up to my P. C. But the

wire was always either shot in two or the men were and I had no ’phone

until after the armistice. It was almost impossible for runners to get

between me and our old front lines behind us, and still more difficult

for my runners to get between me and my own Company and Platoon leaders

in the woods. But they did it.

All day, all night and up to eleven o’clock next morning it lasted. By

midnight the entire wood fairly reeked with gas. No one dared eat or

drink because of it. Despite all our precautions and efforts, we were

rapidly being wiped out. I have heard of officers and of men and of

units--large ones and small ones, white and also colored, that became

panic stricken and useless under fire that was feeble and light both in

intensity and duration compared to this, but I am ready at any time to

testify that twelve hundred and fifty officers and men (colored) _did_

advance and that the command did hold _without showing the faintest

symptoms of panic or retreat_.

All of you who were with the Three Hundred and Sixty-fifth Infantry

prior to September twenty-third, 1918, know Colonel Vernon A. Caldwell

of West Point and the Regular Army. He organized and commanded the

Regiment until he was made a Brigadier General and left us on the date

named. To him I attribute much of the credit for our success in taking

and holding Bois Frehaut. He had taught us “simple and direct means

and methods” and had taught us to “think tactics” in a way that proved

of inestimable value under the supreme test. For Colonel Caldwell

was one of our professional officers who did not have to pose as a

“disciplinarian” to get by.

You might like to know about that action from the standpoint of tactics

and how it was that many of us survived without permanent injury. It is

very interesting. I wish I might explain it in detail. To me it is more

interesting from the standpoint of courage, efficiency and unswerving

devotion to duty displayed by both officers and men. It was a fitting

climax to an enviable battalion record of front line service, and an

accomplishment most creditable to the American Army and to its colored

soldiers.

I wish I had time to tell you of the many especially glorious deeds of

heroism performed by officers and men. I use the word _glorious_, for

to me, even that is a weak word to use in describing the heroic actions

of a man utterly and deliberately, premeditatedly indifferent to his

personal safety and bent solely on duty plus a desire to help and save

others. And to me, too, that is the only thing about war, unless it is

the fortitude of those left at home in suspense and unselfishly doing

all in their power to help, that comes any way near being _glorious_.

If they’d only kill them outright instead of leaving them to suffer and

die in agony perhaps hours (even months) later. To see them suffering

and be powerless to help them, and to know that many might be saved if

it were possible to stop the slaughter long enough to give them proper

medical attention. Many men died in Bois Frehaut or afterward who might

have been saved, could they have been promptly and properly attended.

What a hell of a game for _Christian_ nations to be playing and getting

ready to play again, in the Twentieth Century A. D.

One little scene has bobbed up in my memory--the death of an “E”

Company Runner. Late on the afternoon of the tenth I left my P. C.

to get a view of a certain position. I had gone but a short distance

when I stepped on something that attracted by attention. It was a

human hand! Near it was a large spot of blood and a trail as though

something had been dragged in the general direction of where our First

Aid Dressing Station had been before it was blown up. My course lay a

little to the right, but I followed the gruesome marks for about fifty

yards and there huddled up in a little gulley laid the “E” Company

Runner I had sent out with a message for Captain Sanders about two

hours before.

Not only was his right arm off at the elbow, but his right side and leg

were badly mangled. I thought he was dead, but bent over and put my

hand on his forehead. His eyes opened. In them was a wistful, faraway

look. I spoke, and with an apparent effort he got them focused, they

brightened with recognition, and immediately, almost to my undoing, his

body straightened! His right shoulder and the stub of an arm jerked!

Utterly helpless, trembling on the very brink of eternity, he had come

to “Attention” and had _saluted_ his Major!

Then I noticed he was making a pitiful effort to talk, and in some

way, I can’t explain just how, I got the impression that there was

something in his pocket he wished to see. I took out a wallet and found

what I knew he wanted. It was a post-card photo of a pretty colored

girl holding in her arms a dark, smiling baby. Shells were screeching

over. Just then one tore the earth nearby and sprinkled us with dirt.

I propped his head against my knee and held the picture close to his

eyes. A proud, satisfied look came into them, then a calm, tired smile.

He seemed looking farther and farther away. Another terrific, bouncing

jar and the bloody, mud smeared form relaxed. Another brave comrade had

“gone west.”

A little farther on I saw a big private leaning against the splintered

trunk of a tree, his bowels all hanging out. No one else was near. He

seemed to be in delirium and was crying pitifully like a little child

for “Mamma.” When he saw me he stared for an instant, then jumped

up and yelled, “Major Ross is with us! Go to it, boys!” and fell

over--dead. Then I thought about all I had heard to the effect that

you have to treat soldiers like dogs--especially colored ones--to gain

discipline and inspire respect. I thanked God I didn’t have to.

I might tell you how that morning during the advance, I happened to

be looking at a non-com. section leader a little way to my left when

there was a wicked crack and a blinding flash just above and in front

of him, and how I saw his headless body--the blood gushing--actually

step and lunge forward against a rock. I could tell you about strong

men who went raving mad (and were still insane when I last heard) in

that horrible turmoil. I could tell for hours about awful things in

Bois Frehaut--let alone previous experiences in other places--the

days were bad but the long weird nights. They are too gruesome, too

sickening to talk about long at a time even here where we’re all safe,

rested and well. No wonder the men who actually, personally underwent

such suffering won’t talk about it much. But the memory of those awful

things, pass it off as they may, is seared deep into their very souls

and will haunt them at times until their dying day.

There were people in America and also in France who wore officers’

uniforms and had the time of their lives and there were some who,

if there is justice to come, will surely pay for their ridiculous

arrogance during and following the war. Militarism is one of the

disgusting institutions I fought to help eliminate. Yes, it will be

eliminated--and prevented. At a glance just now on the surface, in most

nations, things look much as before. The same old gang is in control,

but lying and allying, brow beating, scheming a little more than was

necessary heretofore. Since the World War (the result of worldly

success and money worship) started in 1914, things have happened. For

instance, the acceleration of the change in woman’s status. Votes are

merely a result of that change. This phase alone, and what goes with

it--the new state of sex affairs--_necessitates_ and will help bring

about a changing of human viewpoint.

Whether or not certain persons and classes of persons like it,

Democracy is in the world to stay, and staying will increase and

flourish as the people learn. Reversion for the masses to ignorance,

feudalism, slavery is unthinkable--impossible. Is the Almighty God

a human fool? Has humanity ever or will it ever get away with the

assumption that He is? Think of those fine young victims I mentioned

lying in and hanging on the wire in front of Belle Aire Farm.

More important than militarism and war, or than politics, or than how

to acquire fortunes, or than anything else is the learning--not just

about it--but _how to attain_ righteousness, peace, contentment, true

happiness. I put righteousness first for there’ll be none of those

things humanity longs for without it. There’ll be plenty of hypocrisy,

but not much genuine righteousness until more of us get our minds, our

hearts, our aspirations set on something higher than materialism and

worldliness. You can not _legislate_ righteousness into the hearts of

humanity.

A host of thinking people are beginning to suspicion this to such

an extent that they are interested in finding out the truth--the

_remedy_. Now there are persons rushing about, others lying in wait

to tell you the “truth.” Or they will hand you a pamphlet or sell you

a book or refer you to one written by some person who makes great

claims or insinuations about having “inside information.” There may

be enough truth to it to fool the thoughtless or credulous and it may

be insidious enough to worry even the wise. There are several that

make startling claims, but none have _yet_ overcome any material laws.

There are numerous courses of study and “systems,” not claiming to be

Christian or religious, that guarantee to, and no doubt do, help you in

business, add to your success, cure your ailments--some of them--and

benefit your health.

Almost innumerable panaceas for all ills are advanced. Some of those

religionists and uplifters with the “inside information” and “special

revelations,” etc., may be sincere and many people may believe

whatever it is. The same is true of the Turks and the South Sea Island

Head-Hunters.

But in so far as I can find out there never lived on this earth

but _one Man_ who taught the things we need to and want to know

about--who absolutely lived up to them Himself and who proved them and

demonstrated them beyond all peradventure. You will find by honest,

careful study, experiment and thought that these things and these

alone are _practical_. That Man was born in a stable, died on a cross

and left an estate consisting of the clothes He wore. He’s the man

who said, “Love your enemies.” “Lay up your treasures in Heaven.” “My

Kingdom is not of this world.” “If you love me, keep my commandments or

sayings.” “Except a man be born again....” “By their fruits shall ye

know them,” etc., etc. And He’s the One Christendom claims to follow.

Fortunately certain men who knew Him personally and others who knew

His Apostles personally wrote about Him--what He said and what He

_did_. Some of those writings were gotten together and compiled into

a book. That book is called “The New Testament.” Now with all due

respect and consideration for the motives and intentions of many of

those who have since written, some of whom claim or infer “special”

or “inside” information, I humbly suggest that the logical, safe,

reliable place for each of us to learn about Christ is in the New

Testament. Let’s find out whether He really said anything applicable

and worth while _now_, whether He meant it, whether He lived it and

proved it, and, above all, let us stick to it until we find out _what

it was and is_. The world needs it badly--needs it pure and undiluted,

unadulterated--needs to know what it is without concessions and without

reservations. If the people are smart enough to govern themselves (and

I think they are and that they’re improving in that ability right

along) they are now at last smart enough to study the New Testament

itself by themselves and for themselves. How can any Christian

logically object to that?

The only solution for humanity’s problems and difficulties lies in a

_correct_ understanding of the teachings of Christ--not some vanity

tickling subterfuge. Some persons think they know all about it now.

No human is raising the dead or stilling the tempest these days and

that “know it all” attitude is the result of fleshly vanity--not

knowledge. So let’s start or review, beginning in the primary grade

or the kindergarten. Many seem to have started in the post-graduate

courses or at least in the senior class. I have a suspicion that

selfishness, vanity, swell headedness, worldly pride, material ambition

(whether called material or not), and so on, are the direct opposite to

Christianity.

I thought I knew a lot about religion, but after they led me out of

Bois Frehaut I started in in the primary grade to try to learn about

Christianity--so to speak. The world must learn _what it is_, then

begin learning to apply it or live it. It will be done. The churches

will help. They’ll help or quit. Many of them are about through now.

But Christianity as Christ taught it won’t quit. It will soon be

the paramount subject of conversation and consideration. The world

has reached a stage of material advancement. The people are awake,

enlightened and organized to such an extent that things will become

unbearable--impossible without it.

I couldn’t very well leave out all mention of Christianity in this

lecture, for the things my Battalion fought to help make possible

and to bring about in the world are in one sense closely allied

to Christianity. There couldn’t be much real Christianity without

Democracy and there can’t be any real Democracy without Christianity.

I don’t claim to be much of a Christian, but I wish I had time to tell

you what I think it is, and why I think so and what _makes_ me think

so, and so on. You look into it yourselves. And now we must get out of

Bois Frehaut.

Not until ten-thirty o’clock on the morning of November eleventh did I

receive orders relative to an armistice. The third runner sent out got

through to me with a Division order. I was in direct command of the

principal advancing done in attempts on the tenth and eleventh toward

Metz and this was the first definite word I had about the armistice.

We had heard that such a thing was expected but I supposed it would be

several days, maybe weeks, before it went into effect. We knew that

German officers had gone through the lines under a flag of truce to

meet representatives of the High Allied Command, but we did not know

what the result of those parleys had been. Some thought hostilities

would not cease for months.

Therefore, imagine our joy in that unbearable shellhole, when we found

the war had but _thirty minutes_ to last. Of those with me at the

time some shouted for happiness and some stared in amazement fearing

it was too good to be true. I sent the word out to my leaders and sat

looking at my watch. Artillery fire increased in intensity if any

difference and enemy machine gunners elevated their pieces and were

spraying the wood with bullets. It would have been hard luck to get hit

then. Promptly at eleven o’clock all fire began to lessen and in a few

minutes had ceased. The World War had stopped.

Not only our men but the Germans also seemed overjoyed. Soon after

the buglers had sounded “cease firing” the Huns rushed out of their

positions and our men met them between the lines. They actually shook

hands and slapped each others’ backs. They traded trinkets and were

holding a veritable reception until our officers succeeded in getting

the men back into the lines. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it.

During the afternoon I received word that our Lieutenant-Colonel,

commanding the Regiment, together with some members of his staff, had

been badly gassed in a dugout at Regimental Headquarters and forced

to go to the hospital and that I, being next in rank, was temporarily

in command of the Regiment. My face was so swollen that I could see a

little only with one eye. My ears had been bleeding and I had to be

yelled at to hear. I was scratched and bruised and my voice refused to

work. A sort of reaction had set in and I felt weak and sick. We passed

a row of dead and pieces of dead and some more dead and finally reached

the limousine that had been sent for me.

We were proceeding slowly because of shell holes in the road when one

of the men with me said, “There’s a man ahead singing and waving his

arms like he’s crazy.” I could see that he was rared back and singing

or yelling and every few steps he stopped and waved his arms and

executed some strange dance movements. When we overtook him I stopped

the car and asked him what was the matter. “Sir--Major,” he said, his

eyes beaming, “I--I just can’t praise God enough for letting me come

out of that woods alive.”

The outfit was too tired to move far that day. But the next morning

the regimental band came to me in a body and asked permission to march

up the road a mile or so to meet the Second Battalion, which under my

orders was coming to Loisey, where there were comfortable billets, to

rest. I walked out into the village square, as Regimental Commander, to

welcome my heroic battalion--the battalion that had _earned_ undying

fame for itself, its regiment, its brigade, its division and for the

American colored race.

Soon I heard the band playing as it never played before and they came

into view marching up the main street of the town. There at the head,

limping and dirty, was my big senior captain, Sanders. Farther back

I could recognize Green, captain of “H,” stocky and ragged, marching

abreast of his company guide. Others I noticed, and the absence of

others, and many thoughts flashed through my mind as I watched them

marching toward me.

Sanders saw me and knew what to do. I never gave many fancy orders,

it wasn’t necessary in that outfit. When the middle of the column was

opposite he bawled in a hoarse voice--but they, too, knew what to

do--“Squads left--March! Battalion--Halt!” Those heels clicked. Their

rifles, like one piece, in three clear-cut movements, snapped down

to the “order.” Again he yelled, or tried to yell, “Present, arms!”

Again two distinct and snappy movements. Sanders faced about standing

at salute and there before me at “present arms”--not much larger than

one company should be, stood all that was left of my wonderful Second

Battalion!--My heroes of Bois Frehaut!

Note: Many were wholly incapacitated for many days, whose names were

not turned in in final reports of “casualties.”

I brought them to the “order” and stood spell bound. It was by far the

most touching, the most thrilling, the most awe-inspiring ceremony I

ever experienced or witnessed. There they stood--covered with mud,

stained and spattered with blood, their clothes, what was left of them,

torn and ripped to shreds. They looked emaciated--haggard, but about

those erect, motionless figures, those big steady eyes, about their

whole proud, manly bearing was something of that true nobility of

unselfishness and sacrifice that is beyond description.

These men had suffered the tortures of the damned. They had faced all

the engines of terror and destruction that fiendish man could invent.

They had endured the shriek, the smash, the roar and pandemonium of

hell. They had seen their comrades blown to bits or torn and mangled,

and choked by gas. They had listened, powerless to help, through long,

ghastly hours, to the pitiful, heart-breaking moans of the wounded and

dying.

Yes, they had been tried, they had been tested, they had been weighed

in the balance, they had been through a fiery crucible--and they were

true gold. For many hard, long, weary weeks they had suffered and

endured, and all for what they believed to be the preservation of our

country, the advancement of Democracy and the betterment of mankind.

I stood there looking, thinking--torn and choked by emotion--thrilled

with admiration, and a feeling rapidly growing that I would make my

soldiers a speech--an oration. But _what_ could I say? How could I say

it? What could anyone in my place _say_? After several attempts I moved

closer and whispered as loudly as I could, “Officers and men, your

Major is proud of his Battalion!”