and finding himself plainly behind the enemy's fire, was putting the men,
in squad columns, into the wood to search them out. We climbed the wire
fence and followed through the densest undergrowth, where poor Corder,
stumbling behind and having to protect his glasses, often found himself
quite out of sight of the man in front. But we were too late. We heard
shouts ahead, the firing ceased, and when we desperately broke through
the last of the thicket and found ourselves in the open, there stood a
line of men with white bands on their hats (the sign of the opposing
forces) quietly regarding us. Rumor said that they were captured, and
Squad 9, being first on the ground, was feeling proud of their work. Then
the rumor ran that not only was the enemy not captured, but we were
killed. Squad 9 was cursing, "not loud but deep," when the captain came
along and was passionately appealed to. "We got them," he assured us.
"They were firing away from us when we broke through the wood. A single
picket on that flank, firing a single shot on seeing us, would have saved
them. And besides, we have their horses. Sergeant Barker has just come in
reporting that he has the bunch." Satisfied, we marched out to our
present resting-place.
The cavalry has just emerged from their unsuccessful ambush, with the two
machine guns, and have started northward in a hurry, an umpire warning
them, "You have only five minutes before we start after you." The men
around me are laughing and talking, well content, and I have just seen
the major congratulating the captain on a brisk piece of work.
(In camp again, and settled for the night at our old tents, the weather
having cleared.)
A cavalryman (by the way, there was pointed out to me today the fellow
with the broken jaw, jouncing along with the rest, and looking neither
thin nor pale) a cavalryman has just settled down to discuss the skirmish
with us. "We got some beautiful shots at you fellows. In our first
position we let the point of I company walk by, and then fired into them
at about fifty yards. I company drove us, and then we settled in that
little wood, with the machine guns. I company's flanking patrol came
right up to the edge of the woods without seeing us. We let them go by
and then fired into you. Didn't you duck into the ditches quick!" He is
talking now of a cavalryman's work. "Here you fellows are grumbling
because you have a gun to clean. I wish I got off as easily. I have my
gun and my equipment; it takes a lot of time, and today I had to clean
and water two horses, another fellow's and mine. The other man got hurt,
one of the regulars. His horse fell on him."
The major, at conference, told us that he and Captain Kirby had been
expecting an attack at that point, as the lay of the land was right for
it. They were surprised when the flanking patrol found nothing.
Our next work was quite different, and illustrates the fact that the man
in the ranks can only tell what he sees, and often cannot understand
that. On our fresh advance northward our company was the advance guard, I
company falling to our rear. The first platoon marched ahead as the
"point," with communicating files, and we watched its operations for a
while as we followed along.
The work of the "point," my dear mother, when you are advancing to engage
the enemy, is one of the most dangerous in warfare. When the Germans sent
out their advance guards as they overran Belgium, they considered that
the men in each point had been given their death warrants. The object of
the point, as it proceeds along the road, is to hunt for the enemy and
engage him. The men of the detail march at intervals of about twenty-five
yards on alternate sides of the road, the corporal about halfway of the
squad, and the rearmost, or "get-away man," having the task of falling
back as soon as any serious obstacle is encountered, in order to
communicate with the support. As in enemy's country the roads are likely
to be waylaid, patrols are sent out to investigate any flanking hill, or
wood, or group of buildings, behind which a party could be hiding. You
can imagine the grim interest in trying to walk into an ambuscade. I
company's patrols having failed to locate the enemy in his last
concealment, we were particularly anxious to make no such error.
As we marched up each rise in ground I could see the point ahead of us,
and the patrols working their way through the country to the right and
left of the road. As the point naturally went faster than the patrols it
would gradually leave them behind, the corporal or sergeant commanding
would send back for more men, the message would come through the
communicating files, and men would be sent ahead for the work. Patrols
outdistanced, and still finding nothing, would drop back to the road and
rejoin their command as soon as they could.
After a while this work of the point had used up the first platoon, and
began to eat into ours. It was then recalled and our platoon took its
place, with Squad 6 as point, Squad 7 providing the patrols and
communicating files, and our squad as immediate reserve. Word coming for
more men, Clay and Reardon were sent forward, and I saw them despatched
off to the right, Clay toward a nearby sugar-bush, a little grove with
its sugar house at its edge, and Reardon further forward, toward a
suspicious hollow behind which was a railroad embankment which might
conceal a regiment. I was plainly among the next to go, and waited
impatiently. Then we halted, and remained so for some time.
The men grumbled. Why stop? Why wasn't the support following more
closely? Where was the enemy, anyway? Hoping to be right in the middle of
the next scrap, we were disappointed at any delay. Meanwhile Clay, having
found nothing in his sugar-bush, returned, and attention was fixed on our
flanking patrol to the left, who having discovered that we had stopped,
likewise became stationary, and leaving un-rummaged the thick little
growth of birch ahead of him, sat himself down in the midst of an apple
orchard, and visibly regaled himself on something red.
This was exasperating, we having already had to leave untouched so many
trees laden with fruit. Roars from the sergeant failing to dislodge our
resting patrol, a man was starting out to order him on, when he was
observed to start, crouch behind a tree, make ready to shoot, and then to
fall back from cover to cover, continually presenting his gun at an
unseen enemy. He rejoined us out of breath, and feverishly reported
having heard men in the scrub, and a voice ordering him to surrender. The
sergeant was hastily sending out our squad to investigate the birches,
when a bunch of men were seen to break cover from them. As they wore no
white hat-bands we knew they must be our men; and when they came nearer
we saw them to be Squad 9, which a quarter hour before the captain had
despatched on special flanking duty, and which, being full of energy, had
done their work and more too, coming back after a practical joke on our
patrol.
And then we were ordered to return! Instead of the support marching to
fill the gap between us, we were to go back to it. Bannister objected
that a man was missing, Reardon through excess of zeal having vanished in
the distance along the railroad. "Send out a man after him," said the
sergeant. All the squad offered to go; Corder was a little the slowest,
being leg-weary, but who do you think was first? David! So he was
despatched, and went very eagerly, while we turned our backs and went
south.
When the company had joined the battalion there was much rearranging of
disjointed commands, squads continually coming in from detail duty, so
that it was plain that between us we had pretty well investigated the
whole landscape. David and Reardon were missing still, even after we had
rested for some time. We started south again, and it was not till after
another march that the lost men rejoined us, David triumphant, but
Reardon very hot and weary. Said the poor fellow, "I have thought before
now that I was pretty tired, but this beats everything."
There was no rest for him, however. We turned north again, having J
company in front, and after a mile heard the familiar firing. The captain
sent us headlong into the field on the right, where soon we were part of
a skirmish line, and for a minute were blazing away at a fence in front
of us, behind which I glimpsed a single white hat-band. But Kirby was not
to be caught as the cavalry had allowed themselves to be. Squad 8 was
sent off at the double to the end of the line, and there at wide
intervals we made a flank guard extending to the rear, where poor Reardon
was allowed to rest at last, as we waited hidden behind what cover we
could find, gazing across some pasture land with scattered bushes at a
belt of pine in front.
As we waited we heard the voice of an umpire; I snatched a glimpse of him
as he stood behind us watching. "Any enemy you see represents twenty-five
men." A cool statement that made our task perplexing, for while with one
bullet I might slay so many men, conversely if one shot at us first he
could wipe out the squad. But though we lay very low and watched very
keenly, while the battalion banged away at our left, no one appeared in
front of us. To my left was Reardon, and to my right David, very intent
on spotting the first foe. It is a pleasure to see how seriously he takes
the work. Pickle, beyond him, was constantly chewing gum and whispering
slang, the sort of city clerk one reads about in Civil War memoirs, tough
physically and mentally.
(I have thrown my chewing gum away. Too much swallowing of saliva makes
you (me!) hungry. Me for a pebble from the next brook!)
We were at last called back by a whistle, and the distant cry, "Assemble
on the left!" Once more we marched south, and presently were resting
again at West Sciota. As we lolled there, buying apples from native
buzzards, who take to the extortion of the professional without any
coaching, some trucks came to the crossroads, and men began to climb into
them. Watching one group, I was surprised to recognize a man of A
company, at the same time that Corder exclaimed, "Those men are from the
first battalion!" whose firing, you remember, we had already heard at
least a couple of miles away. We did not get the explanation until
battalion conference, some hours later. It seems that the umpires, during
our northward march, had reinforced the cavalry with an imaginary
battalion of infantry, before which we had been obliged to retreat. By
motorcycle messenger a call for help was sent to the first battalion
commander, who was now four miles away on the road to Altona. Having
sixteen empty motor-trucks, in four minutes he had filled them with two
companies, and seventeen minutes later they were behind our lines,
forming for our support. As we saw or guessed none of this, it only
illustrates the remark with which I began, that the private soldier knows
but a little of what is going on.
I would not write this to you in such detail, except that I think it will
interest you to see that the hike is more than a mere march, and that it
is making every one of us advance in his department of the war game. We
squads, I hope, are learning to do as we are told, though you see how
blind everything is to us. The intricate problems of the officers come
out in conference. There the men sit on the ground in a great
three-quarter-circle, grouping themselves whenever possible around the
men with maps. The major likewise has hisn, and the officers theirn. The
major makes a general statement of the work of the day, and the captains
then report on their particular operations. When you see what exact notes
they have taken of every operation: the precise moment of sending out
parties and of receiving reports, the minuteness with which they locate
every action, the science with which they carry out the work that falls
to them, and the team-play that animates them, you see that this is no
old-style cut-and-dried "sham battle," but an actual study, of course on
a small scale, of fighting seriously carried out by well-trained
officers. It has deeply impressed me with the long and hard work
necessary to make an officer; and then, turning to the man's side of it,
it becomes plainer and plainer that it takes time, much time, to train a
private or a corporal into a reliable man on patrol.
One hard thing for us amateurs to learn is the proper writing of messages
containing military information. It is hard to decide what is important
enough to send, and then how to word the despatch. Tradition from an
earlier camp has handed down this model: "The enemy are in sight and are
about to do something." Where, when, how many, some notion, however
vague, of the enemy's disposition--all forgotten between excitement and
too great responsibility.
The march home was the hardest part of the day. The interest of the
skirmish kept us going; but the three miles back to camp at a quick pace
took it out of us all. I had not known I was so tired; the strain wore
hard on me; it seemed ages before we sighted camp, and then ages and ages
before we reached it. But this experience was the same as on Monday, for
though the very vigorous ones were able to whistle and sing, to the help
of us all, again I began to hear grumbling all about me. We reached camp
at last, and poor Reardon when we broke ranks dropped on the ground at
his tent door, without the energy to unbutton the flaps, and in a minute
was fast asleep there.
We had our dinner, which I put in my meat-can under the hay to keep hot
while I rested, then ate and felt refreshed. Then the afternoon we had to
ourselves, if you can so consider it when we have to clean our guns,
clean ourselves, come to conference, and come to Retreat. For my own
part, having yesterday sampled the slimy brook and having no taste for it
again, I washed my face and hands (after cleaning my gun) in a little
water from the canteen. Thus I am staying dirty. It is no more than I
have done before, in the deep woods.
"That was some hike we had this morning," calls Bannister to a friend
across the street. Such is the general opinion, especially Reardon's, who
slept till he had to be roused for conference. And I want especially to
chronicle that it was David who, declaring that Reardon would get
rheumatism from the bare ground, roused him enough to get him onto his
blankets in the tent; it was David who sat by him and prevented anyone
from waking him; and it was David who after cleaning his own gun, which
work the lad does not enjoy, cleaned Reardon's.
The story goes now that the stolen clip of ball cartridges has been found
and confiscated. Its location is ascribed to every company in the
regiment, including ours. Our blanks we use very freely, being supplied
every morning with any number from fifty up. And wherever we shoot them
in any quantity, buzzards still flock together to rummage in the
underbrush.
You ask the meaning of Retreat. It is the last ceremony of the military
day, when the colors are furled. The companies are called together, each
at the end of its street, so that they are in order one behind the other.
Sometimes we are drilled in the manual, sometimes we have rifle
inspection; but as soon as the bugle sounds the warning call we come to
parade rest. Then the band plays the Star Spangled Banner, after which we
stand at attention while the bugler plays the beautiful "To the Colors."
The flag is furled, and everyone not in line, cooks, orderlies, all
except the buzzards, likewise stand at attention during the call, and at
the end salute. Then promptly we are dismissed and allowed to hope for
supper.
Our diet is the same monotony of wholesome, plentiful food. I am
flourishing on it; Corder is proud of requiring nothing else. On the
other hand some complain, and Pickle, having a sweet tooth, at the end of
a meal will often go out and feed himself with boughten pies and
doughnuts. For you must understand that not only do the buzzards follow
us from camp to camp, but every farmer's wife along the line of march or
near our camp bakes a batch of her favorites and puts out a sign. Those
along the road must be disappointed; none of us ever fall out. But they
make a good sale outside the camp. David, who has become very strict with
himself, is trying to save Pickle from his indulgences, but so far
without success except that Pickle has become very sly about slipping
away.
A long letter, and I am cramped and stiff from sitting on the ground.
When shall I sit in a chair again?
DICK.
PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Thursday morning at West Sciota,
waiting to start.
DEAR MOTHER:--
The camp has been policed down to the last cigarette stub and gun patch,
or anything else that the captain's keen eye might light on. The call has
gone out, "Platoon leaders to the head of the street," and the day's work
is to be laid out for them. We privates have been studying our maps. For
we expect to march to Altona, where last night the first battalion
camped, and we suspect that they will march out and oppose us. It is only
seven miles by road, but no one knows how long if skirmishing is added.
After mailing my letter last night I sat among others at the captain's
fire, listening to his ready answers to the questions which we fired at
him. We went over points of strategy, and discussed the day's work. It
has become plain to me that there is a great advantage in so small a camp
as ours, a regiment of but six companies. We can be in or pretty close to
every scrap that happens, and all the real military problems are fairly
plain to us. Besides, this hike is to be the longest yet. When further
you consider that a month of Plattsburg has as many hours of service as a
militiaman gets in two years and a half at home, that our continuous
service is naturally much more valuable than the militiaman's weekly
drill in his armory, and finally that we are under West Pointers who each
day explain and discuss the problem, you can see that a man in the Tenth
Regiment has a chance to learn a good deal.
Little absurdities are taking place around me. Says Corder, struggling
with his pack, "Bann, will you help me into my corset." Pickle says to
Reardon (out of David's hearing) "Ten cents for a bum piece of pie that
you have to eat with your hands! That gets my goat." And just now has
come a hoot from every part of the camp when from I company, in line to
start and loading guns for a skirmish, sounded the pop of an accidental
discharge. But the men of I company look sour and glum.
Nevertheless I will admit that I discovered yesterday from personal
experience, but luckily in the rattle and banging of a fight, how the gun
is accidentally discharged. You draw back the bolt and push it forward
again, thus putting a cartridge in the barrel. Then you turn the bolt
down. Now if in so doing your third or fourth finger strays inside the
trigger guard and presses the trigger (and it is very easily done)
then--! But no one could hear my mistake in all the firing.
(_Resting after battle, near Altona._)
We marched for some miles unmolested along our westward road, and the
amateur strategists among us scanned each rise of ground ahead,
predicting fights. But when the row finally began we were too far in the
rear to see just what kind of position the enemy had decided to hold. As
often happens, we were ordered into the ditch to wait, while the officers
consulted briefly, and all the time the rattle of the guns kept up. Half
the cavalry, by the way, were with us, and we saw them sent off by a
woodroad to the left, supposedly to flank the enemy. Then for our platoon
occurred one of our occasional bawlings out. As we waited, having loaded,
we saw the 4th, 3d, and 1st platoons ordered over the fence into the
field on our right. Being used to seeing the company split into its
detachments for different purposes, and hearing no orders, we remained
placidly in the ditch--for we are now old soldiers, and are learning not
to hunt trouble. But the lieutenant came running, and with a few sharp
words deftly removed the scalp of our leader, and retired with it at his
belt. So over we scrabbled, and took our place in the column. Then we
wandered miles through pastures, woods, and bogs, at first in _column of
squads_, which means four men abreast, and then, as the going became
difficult, in _squad columns_, which means eight men following each other
in single file. Note this difference--I wish we had! At one time, for
nearly a mile, the whole company was in Indian file, winding through the
underbrush.
And as we went thus there came a curious little test of character and
discipline. For to us as we halted at one charming bit of stony hillside,
cedar grown, came one of the amazing persistent buzzards carrying his
whole stock in trade, a box of chocolate bars. We were hungry, and some
men bought; even David began fumbling in his pocket as the man came near.
But he looked at Knudsen, and the Swede frowned, so when the fellow
offered his wares David waved him away. Having shown weakness, he did not
attempt to influence Pickle; but that worthy, with a sigh, put up his
money. "War is hell," said he, and cursed the buzzard. None in our squad
bought; in fact, though the captain was not in sight, I think the buzzard
was disappointed in F company.
Firing was all the time very noisy to our left, and as we moved on it was
plain that we were skirting the centre of the scrimmage in an attempt to
take the enemy in flank. Now our squad columns were sent forward
parallel, eight yards apart, ready at command to spring out in one long
line, the men side by side. Through a cedar swamp we now made our way
among huge old trees, the firing very hot and close in front, until we
were halted at the edge of the thicket, with an open space in front
across which was a snake fence some thirty yards away. As we waited the
order to advance, we being on the extreme right, a railroad embankment
just beyond us, we saw a platoon rush forward from the left, cross the
open diagonally, and line the fence in front of us. With objurgations the
captain and lieutenant coaxed them again to the left. Other platoons, and
perhaps single squads, rushed from cover and occupied the fence, the
whole line beginning to fire.
We felt sure that it was our turn next, and were saying so, when
apparently the order came. The platoon leader sprang out in front, I made
up my mind where I was to go, we all surged forward, crossed the open
space, and I presently found myself in the line, firing across the fence
at a distant wall, the range of which I calculated to be but a hundred
yards, and therefore used "battle sight," firing low. But here came the
lieutenant again, scalped our leader a second time, and ordered us back.
So I trailed back across the open ground and meekly took my place with
the others again in squad column. We asked each other, "Weren't we
ordered forward?" Some declared that the platoon leader had ordered the
advance, others that the lieutenant had sent us out. I knew I had heard
his voice, but really I had merely followed on like a sheep. That was
proper. But at any rate here was a time when the platoon-leader had made
a mistake in keeping us with the rest of the company.
While the platoon, thirty-four men of us, was huddled in its special
bunch of trees, all talking and explaining, along in haste came the
major, dismounted, demanding if we were in column of squads. With one
voice we maintained that we were, but he or his aide knew better, and by
the help of our two sergeants bringing the corporals to their senses and
silencing the men, we were finally got out of our squad columns, in which
formation we had been so long that we had forgotten that there was any
other. In column of squads we were swung to the right, put in skirmish
line, and halted below the railway embankment, where the major, with
great patience and the most painstaking English, explained to our limited
intelligences the exact manoeuvre that he contemplated. Then at the word
we rushed the embankment, plunged into a ditch, swung to the left, some
of us across a wire fence, and prepared to advance and annihilate a bunch
of the enemy that we saw before us. But they sending out a messenger,
explained that they were dead, which saved us the trouble, not really to
our pleasure, for having made fools of ourselves we were anxious to take
it out on somebody. And then the bugle blew Recall.
Green troops in battle would cause just such confusion and delay. It was
very evident that we had spoiled some plan. The need of a soldier's
training would be plain to anyone that heard the babble of our voices in
that corner, conjecturing, advising, urging this and that. We are still
very far from the state in which we could be trusted to go into battle
and obey every order just as it came. The reasons for this I figure out
to be two.