One of the first things I did on going into rest billet was to send
word to Jonathan by Muddy.
Our friendship had grown stronger since entering the army, and we had
kept it up by frequent intercourse; both by meetings and by exchange of
notes back and forth by Muddy. When I put a note in his collar and told
him to carry it to Jot, he seemed to understand what he must do; and
these notes except, in one or two instances, reached their destination.
There were some jokes about the “Muddy mail,” but most of our comrades
thought it was wonderfully intelligent that the dog understood when
told to carry it.
There had never been any serious misunderstanding between Jot and me.
Ever since coming to France, however, there had been vague insinuations
that Jot was of German parentage and sympathies. There was nothing that
I knew that warranted such a belief; but since I had learned that he
spoke their language, these whispers of suspicion had increased until
they affected me with just a little inner questioning. What was the
reason for his being always so reticent about his father?
I did not, however, for a moment distrust his patriotism or loyalty to
our country. The general distrust and hatred of everything German was
common among all classes. It was but the natural result of the wicked
and cruel policy of the German government and army, since entering upon
this dreadful war, which now seemed to menace civilization and free
government, so dear to Americans.
When Jot came to see me, as requested by my note through the “Muddy
mail,” I told him of these rumors, and said: “Would it not be better to
tell about your family, and stop these sinister rumors, for good?”
“You have confidence in me, haven’t you, Davie?” Jot replied.
“Yes,” I asserted, “I think I would trust you sooner than myself, in
any important matter. But wouldn’t it be better for me to know the
truth, so that I can contradict these insinuations?”
After a moment’s thought, he replied: “Well, possibly it would. But
it is to satisfy you rather than them, that I will say, my father was
born in the United States. He was, in that sense, an American. I have a
half-brother three years older than I, who is said to resemble me, but
we never agreed. And there was a misunderstanding between my father and
mother that was never healed. It was by her request, almost her last
one, that I have taken my present name. That’s all I can tell you, and
that is all there is of consequence to know.”
This had to satisfy me, and with it I hoped to contradict any further
insinuations that I might hear.
Soon after this we were on duty again in the front trenches, and were
at first careful not to stir up needless fighting.
The duties of a soldier call for constant caution and alertness; and
yet he must have a care-free cheerfulness with it all. He must not
borrow either sorrow or trouble. It requires time to nourish either
fear or worry, and the philosophy that does not cultivate them is the
one that produces the most comfort for a soldier. So, during our stay
at the rest billets, we ate and joked and enjoyed more than those
who live in the calm of life. And now, when with a certain confident
jauntiness we again took our places in the trenches we were full of
confidence and courage; and it proved the wisdom of frequent rests in
this nerve-straining duty.
We were, however, not only getting acquainted with our duties and its
dangers, but were making acquaintance with its other discomforts.
We were admonished by our officers to keep clean and cheerful. But I
could not see that we needed the advice more than those who gave it;
for I came upon our captain with his shirt off curiously investigating
the seams of it for certain familiar invaders that were a plague to
most of us. It was shiveringly cold and damp, but these pests were no
respecters of rank. Cooties, as Tommy Atkins calls them, can not be put
out or down with a frown, or even by a general order from headquarters.
“They and the rats are,” said Sutherland, “a providential war creation
intended to keep soldiers so busy as to forget, with scratching and
frequent investigation, all smaller troubles.” However, he used
sulphurous words, common from time immemorial to soldiers, because our
French predecessors had left these pestiferous enemies behind them for
us to fight.
“By Shorge,” said Peter Beaudett, “I dinks dey carries enough de
cooties away to keep dem busy! But de rats! one got’a hold of the ear
of me the las’ night!”
Sutherland, who was something of a reader, declared that he had never
before understood why it was that in “Tristam Shandy,” so much emphasis
was put by Uncle Toby in his assertion that “The army swore terribly in
Flanders;” but that the reason was now revealed: for it surely was the
cooties, that caused this profanity!
No one can understand the discomforts of trench life when simply
depicted in words. No one can describe a trench by word or picture;
he can not introduce any one there by illustration, he must be there
himself, or he can not understand its real discomforts. They did not
seem fit places for civilized men, those who used combs, brushes, soap
and napkins, had clean hands and faces. We were ghosts of the cave men.
Trench life, however, had its phases of good. It drew men together with
a sense of companionship with danger and death, that they had not known
before. While a needful reserve was kept up between officers and men,
there was greater cordiality and a greater feeling of intimacy,--less
harshness.
For some weeks there had been a season of peacefulness between the
lines. The weather had become warmer and more springlike, with
occasionally a sunny day. Then there came a change. We had become
accustomed to trench duties and not a little tired at its sameness.
It was while I was on this duty that the change came. I, with others,
was on detail at a listening post one night, and while intently
listening, young Kepler said in a whisper: “Did you hear that,
Sergeant?”
“I heard a growl,” I whispered, “as though some one was speaking.”
“I think they are going to attack, somewhere,” he said. “There, did you
hear that?”
“No, what is it?”
“Some one giving orders,” he replied. “I can’t hear distinctly, but I
am sure it means an attack.”
We sent back word to the trenches, and they in turn sent back word to
the commandant in his dugout, that there was an unusual stir on the
German front opposite us; though we could tell nothing more definite at
that time.
It was not long before we learned the meaning of what we had heard at
the listening post.
A tremendous explosion of artillery, about two o’clock, broke the
stillness of the damp gray morning. Gas shells came whistling over us.
We put on our gas masks, and were thankful that the shells were mostly
going over us instead of striking near. Our heads with these masks
looked queer, and laughter-provoking.
“This means an attack,” was passed down the lines.
“I don’t think they know any more about it than we do,” some one
growled.
“It’s meself,” said Pat Quinn, “that wishes it would come along
dacently soon, if it’s coming.”
This expressed the feeling often felt among soldiers,--to know the
worst and have it over with quickly.
“They fire all along the line,” said our lieutenant, “so that we can
not tell where the real attack is coming.”
The continuous whistling of gas shells and the sickening fumes that
partially reached us, the explosions over and near us, and our answers
in like kind made it even then seem like a hell on earth.
Then the enemy seemed to get a more perfect aim, and their shells swept
away our wire barricades clean to the ground, as though they were
cobwebs, until not even a post was left standing.
Our men, cowered under the earth embankments, waiting, waiting, with
high-strung, impatient and nervous suspense, until, at last, they were
warned that the attack was at hand.
Then our artillery quickened in sharp explosions, while the _rat,
tat, tat_ of the machine-guns, like a stick being drawn over a slat
fence, filled the air with a demoniac clamor impossible to describe.
The air was full of hoarsely shrieking shells and shot that made the
air vibrate, and the ground rock, as though the demons themselves had
broken loose!
Then the nerves that were shaken stiffened, and we were ready for the
attack.
The Boche came on in two waves, one behind the other, and were met by
the deadly, coolly-directed machine-gun fire and the well-aimed rifles
of our sharpshooters. Still they came on, got possession of one small
part of our entrenchment between two traverses, and tried to drive our
men down the trenches by enfilading them with machine-gun fire. But
they were driven back again with losses in dead, wounded, and prisoners.
The dark clouds that had hung over the scene during the fight cleared.
The sun came out and as it neared the horizon, like a great disk of
blood, the dark smoke drifted away, revealing the scene in our front.
There a score of mortally wounded and dead lay.
When we took stock of our losses, we found them slight. One of our
first lieutenants was wounded, two privates killed, and five wounded,
two of them but slightly, and two missing.
I was so fortunate as to receive praise from my captain for what he
called my “coolness and courage.” But, I must confess the truth, I was
at first woefully frightened but tried not to show it.
I have since learned that though big gun fire makes an alarming sound,
it also makes a good many holes in the air without touching a head; and
that the most fatal effects in battle are more often from well-aimed
machine-gun fire and rifles.
After a battle, when the enemy has been successfully met, there comes
a feeling of exaltation among its defenders. The French officers were
generous in praise of us, while our captain said, “You made a good
fight, and I am proud of every one of you.”
Colonel Burbank also was generous in his praise. “It is your baptism
of fire as soldiers that you will never forget, and can remember with
pride,” he stated.
When I remembered my trembling knees and the sick feeling at the pit
of my stomach, I doubted if any of the praise belonged to me, but
concluded not to mention it.
Peter Beaudett, who was wounded severely in the arm and had first aid,
said, with a wink at Quinn, as though he had good fortune instead of a
wound, “By gar! It means to me a bed and much clean sheets.”
“Shure,” replied our ever disputing Quinn, “and it may mane a doctor’s
saw,” and then seeing by his wounded comrade’s face that his remark was
cutting deeper than he intended, added more softly, “a pretty Red Cross
nurse and a vacation. An’ I almost wish it was meself that was in your
place.”
Our lieutenant was more severely wounded than was at first thought and
we learned that it was the opinion of the surgeons that it would be a
long time, if ever, before he was able to resume his duties with the
company.
Here let me, unwillingly, record the fact that Muddy did not prove
to be a hero. When the racket began, he tucked his tail between his
legs and with a whine and an apologetic look at me over his shoulder,
scampered off in a most unheroic manner.
“This means promotion to some one,” said our men, when it was known
that our first lieutenant, Reese, was not likely to resume duty on
account of the severity of his wounds.
In spite of hardships and battle, to which, however, we were becoming
reconciled, we professed ourselves enthusiastically ready for another
“bout” with the Boches, and didn’t care who knew it!
I was very proud, for my friend Jonathan gained the good opinion of his
officers and men, by his soldierly coolness and courage.
“Say,” said Sutherland confidentially, “them German chaps don’t take a
back seat in fighting, I guess.”
“It is no use to dispute the fact that they are brave men,” I answered.
“Aw!” said Pat, “of course, or they wouldn’t be holdin’ on here in
France by their teeth like so many divils. An’ I haven’t a doubt that
ould Satan himsilf is a brave one too.”
Thus ended our first real fight in France, the memory of which gave
us courage for the fighting before us. One of the results was seen
a few weeks after, when First Sergeant Nickerson was promoted to be
second lieutenant of my company, in place of Lieutenant Reese, who was
mustered out of the service with honors on account of wounds. I was
also promoted to be a second sergeant, and no one but myself knew how
undeserved was my advancement; though there came a time soon when I
thought I deserved it better.