The end of the German drive on the western front, as my readers know,
had failed to break the Allied lines. The enemy, however, had succeeded
in driving them back for miles, inflicting and receiving great losses
of men and material. To those who understood the situation, it must
have been disheartening, though we in the ranks, of course, could know
but little beyond that which was taking place before our eyes. The
high officers, who did know, feared that the enemy, by the advantage
of quicker concentration because of holding interior lines, might by
successive drives be able to force their army so near Paris as to
endanger the city, or, on the farther western front, be able to reach
the channel ports and thus divide the Allied armies.
It was while victory was trembling in the balance on the far-flung
battle lines, that our regiment was called to battle.
We removed from ground we occupied to a point west of an ancient city,
not far from a river.
Regiments of French and American soldiers were marching on the roads
to places assigned them. Machine-gun emplacements were being made.
The effective light guns were hurrying into place. Here and there
cavalry was sparsely seen. Engineers, with their sappers and miners
with shovels and picks, moved along with pontoon trains of collapsible
canvas boats and wooden batteaux for bridges. Here and there were
pitiful families of refugees, with wagons high piled with household
goods, escaping from homes about to be swept by the fiery tide of war.
The women with babes in arms, and children hugging rag dolls and toys,
were straggling on in pathetic groups.
To the ordinary eye all seemed confusion, but there was a thread of
order controlling this mass of moving material and men.
“This is going to be a sure enough battle,” remarked Corporal
Sutherland.
“Not for us,” said a lieutenant; “we shall get in the edges of it,
possibly.”
“We have got to do our best today,” said our “Top.” “They,”--making a
gesture toward the French regiments--“are watching us.”
“They will find fighting stuff here,” proudly replied the lieutenant.
And our captain, looking along his halted company with a critical but
satisfied glance, said, “They will do!”
An enemy airplane, hovering high in air, viewed us. Several of our
craft flew upward in circling flight to punish his inquisitiveness.
Near us marched a regiment whose uniforms and long strides showed them
to be Americans. Some horses were passing with the marching column.
Muddy flew out, barking vociferously. One of the horses gave a whinney
of recognition, as the dog jumped and yelped at his head.
“I think it is ‘Jack,’ our colt!” I said to Lieutenant Nickerson.
“I think so too,” he replied. But we had no time to investigate; we had
more serious business, for the uproar of battle had already begun.
With other regiments we moved forward and were halted behind a small
clump of trees. But not for long, for the Boches wanted the ground. Gas
shells came whistling over us and we quickly adjusted our gas masks.
We were so grotesque that again a laugh was heard along the line, and
jokes were exchanged.
“Even the officers,” said Sutherland, “have to hide their glory in
these things.”
“I hate ’em,” said Sam Jenkins; “they interfere with a good aim!”
Then came the thunderous roar of guns from our rear, and the replies
of the enemy, who had not, as yet, got our range. Followed the chatter
of machine-guns and the mingling rifle fire of contending men on our
front. Some of our men upon trees, observing, reported long lines of
German infantry in sight. Then broken French troops appeared, slowly
and doggedly falling back.
The German lines sweeping onward, we open on the mass with our light
guns, machine-guns and rifles. Our gun fire, increasing in intensity
and deadly effect, did not halt them. On they came, their green-gray
uniforms blending with the smoke and mists. All our weapons sharply
spoke, but still the foggy columns advanced their heavy guns from
the rear scarring and pitting the ground on our front. Explosions
threatened our annihilation, while lurid flames sprang up on all
sides. We clung to the ground as though fearing that we might go up in
some of the explosions or be consumed by the flames.
Then the welcome order came to “Charge!” and we went forward in open
formation at quick time. I noticed Chaplain John in line. You could
always reckon on him to care for the wounded, though he carried no
arms. The Boche doesn’t like cold steel and he breaks as we rush upon
him with yells and gleaming bayonets. We had one thought and one
purpose: we must beat and drive the enemy. We were but a small part of
the advancing line that was in the attack. We were near enough to see
shells from our guns explode on their front, and men, and fragments of
men, hurled in the air, leaving gaps in their ranks. Our gun fire was
immense. For an instant the gray mass wavered and then fell back.
A hoarse shout went up from American throats, “We’ve licked them!” But
the French, more experienced in battle, were not so confident. The
enemy have only halted to reform their shattered line. We also halted
and then the order came to fall back to conform to the rest of the line.
We reformed our line, disordered by the advance; stretcher bearers
gathered the wounded. Others limped to the rear with reversed rifle for
crutches, or were helped by comrades.
Soon the enemy opened fire again with violence. Muddy, despite his
fear, came barking and nipping at my puttees. “What’s the matter?” I
heard some one inquire. “Where is the Sky pilot?” He had been left
behind helping a wounded or dying man. Muddy pulled at my coat. A look
from Jot, and I followed the dog through the screen of sulphur-white
smoke that hung over the field. I advanced cautiously and the dog,
as though understanding the necessity for silence, did not bark. I
followed, slowly peering into every shell hole and depression as I
cautiously went forward, with bullets humming on every side and an
occasional exploding shell. Then I saw a prostrate form beside a dead
man stir.
Up to that time I had been careful; but then, forgetful of everything
but that my friend, our loved Chaplain, was lying there unsheltered,
I threw off caution and hurried to him. He was alive but apparently
desperately wounded. His head, legs and arms seemed unhurt, but I saw a
gaping hole in his coat through the right side. Tearing away the coat,
with my stock of first aid lint and bandages I stopped the bleeding as
best I could. The smoke was clearing, and I must act quickly.
Lying down, I got him on my back, and on hands and knees backed away
towards a shell hole a few yards distant. I made it. Then, believing
that the enemy would conclude that I would remain there, I gathered him
in my arms and ran to another shell hole still nearer our lines. Before
reaching it the bullets hummed around me like angry hornets. There I
rested a little, and then ran on to another more distant depression in
the ground.
Up to this time I did not know that I had been hit, though I had felt
something like a sharp blow strike my hip. Now I felt a warm trickle
of blood down my leg, and knew that I was wounded and that I must reach
our sheltering lines in one desperate run, if at all. If my strength
would only last!
With a full breath and with desperate resolution, I ran with my burden,
the hum of bullets from snipers saluting. I gripped my nerve and shut
my teeth. Could I reach a place of safety? I had made good progress,
but my eyes blurred and I began to waver in spite of all my will. At
last as I swayed and fell, I heard the welcoming shout of comrades.
Then I fainted.
When I recovered consciousness I found a surgeon fishing around in my
hip for bullets.
“How is the chaplain?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” said the surgeon laconically; “another surgeon has his
case.”
“I must see,” I said, trying to get to my feet; for I felt, as wounded
men often do, that my wound was not a serious one.
Next it occurred to me that I was again under a surgeon, and that
another starvation time was before me; and it made me mad.
“Let me alone!” I cried, “I want you to understand that I am not dead
yet. I want to find out about the Sky Pilot!”
“Be calm,” said the surgeon, “and I will send around and see.”
I must have become unconscious again; for the next I knew I was in a
white bed, with other white cots, and a white-dressed nurse attending.
I was in a hospital.
“How came I here?”
“You were brought in a minute ago,” said the nurse, “and you are to be
kept quiet. Here, take this drink.”
“No,” I said, smelling of it. “It will put me to sleep. I want to see
how the chaplain is!
“He is all right,” answered the nurse. “I was told to tell you so.”
“All right,” I said, pushing away the drink. “Then I shan’t need that
stuff to keep me quiet.”
This surgeon did not turn out so bad, after all. He at least gave me
enough to eat; and I was told that I would be all right in a few months!
“I guess I will!” I said. “I am not hurt very bad, and I will be up
sooner than that. I know it by my feelings.” And I was!
I was pretty cross for a while because they would not let me get up and
walk around.
“It is a clean wound,” said the doctor, “and you are an uncommonly
healthy boy.”
“Boy!” I said, “I am a man, and I feel fit to go now.”
But that surgeon was of another opinion. “A friend of yours,” said
he, “a lieutenant, and another officer from the chaplain, have been
inquiring for you.”
“Why didn’t you let Lieutenant Nickerson in here with the dog?” I
asked--for I knew Muddy would stick with Jot--“I want to see them.”
Next day Muddy was actually admitted with Jot, and both of them made a
lot of fuss over me.
“All of our men say that it was the bravest thing they ever saw,”
praised Jot.
“Nonsense!” I said, “to tell the truth, Jot, I was so busy thinking how
to get the chaplain back that I absolutely forgot to be scared.”
Jot laughed and said, “Colonel Burbank sends his compliments, and
regrets for your wound, and says ‘like father like son.’”
And that to me was the best praise of all.