It was currently reported that the Germans were about to launch a new
attack. Anticipating, in advance, a decisive victory for their arms,
they designated the contemplated attack “a peace storm.”
Whatever may have been the feelings of our allied soldiers regarding
this impending “drive,” the Americans were full of confidence.
“If the Boches,” I heard Captain Cross say, “will only come out and
fight in the open, we will give them something hot to carry back to
Germany.” And this was the confidence expressed on every side by the
American doughboy.
“Shure,” said Pat Quinn, “it’s ourselves that will give them a
belly-full if they will stand up like gintlemen and take what is coming
to them.”
“A fair field and we will account for the rest of it,” was a sentiment
that was often expressed by our soldiers of all ranks.
They were soon to have the desired field and achieve a victory,
fighting side by side with their dauntless French allies who, on many a
field during the most discouraging period of the war, had proved their
constancy and courage.
In order to understand more clearly the battle to be described, let us
step back a few months for a better background for our perspective.
It was five months since the Germans opened their campaign of 1918 by
their successful drive at Cambrai. During these five months, however,
a new contestant had stepped over the threshold of the war’s arena.
Seven hundred and fifty thousand American soldiers had, during that
time, been landed in France, making in all a formidable army of over a
million men, to aid in “making the world safe for democracy.”
In their attack on Monday, May 27, 1918, the German army had
practically destroyed the troops on the French line north of the Aisne
River, and on the Saturday following had reached the Marne between
Dormans and Château Thierry. This brought them within forty-five miles
of Paris, which they planned to capture, and therefrom to dictate a
peace on their own terms.
In a conversation, which several of us younger officers had with our
colonel, he pointed out to us that if General Foch had thrown his
reserves in front of the German advance at that time, it would have
brought them south of the Marne, and by the extension of the enemy’s
lines between the Aisne and the Oise it would have brought his reserves
far from the main battle. So, after the Germans had passed the Aisne
River, he put aside the temptation to halt his enemy north of the
Marne, and put all his available reserves to holding a line from
Soissons to Château Thierry on the west, and from thence on the east
to Rheims. The lines so formed might be likened to an immense letter V
with its two arms each not far from twenty-five miles in length.
It was along these lines that, on the 15th of July, 1918, the tempest
of the peace storm broke.
The allies had survived three great blows with their military
organization unbroken, and it remained to be seen what could be done
with them when used for an offensive battle.
The German concentration of troops was greatest between Dormans and
Rheims,--a front of about twenty-five miles on the eastern arm of the V.
At several points between the places last mentioned, the enemy threw
a score of bridges across the Marne, and while these bridges were
crowded with their soldiers, they were swept by a fire of artillery,
machine-guns, and rifles which checked their advance and killed them in
masses.
Simultaneously with this onset, the Germans attempted another
formidable attack along the western arm of the V and northwest from
Château Thierry. This was met by the French with a deadly barrage, so
that the Germans were unable to debouch from their own positions.
Such was the opening of their attempt to overwhelm the allied forces on
the Marne and march on Paris.
On the morning of the 15th we heard the tempest of battle on every
side, and stood ready to take our part in this great adventure of arms.
I, for one, forgot all else but that a great battle was impending
in which Americans were to have a part, and I had an intense desire
to acquit myself bravely as my forbears always had in the supreme
tests of battle. A war, too, which was to make the world safe for the
principle for which my father had fought in the Civil War and which was
to bring, it was devotedly hoped, a reign of righteousness and peace
for all the world.
While the sound of battle was heard on every side, we waited orders to
move. The order came at midnight, during a heavy downpour of rain; and
it was dark as dark could be when it came, and the march at last began.
But every man knew his place in line and had his equipments ready at
hand.
We silently crossed the river without opposition, and were in the
northern half of the city which for six weeks had been in the hands
of the invaders. Daylight revealed columns of French and American
troops marching through its ruined streets. The men were jubilant with
expectation. On their faces shone the light of youthful enthusiasm. The
sharp report of rifles and the _rat, tat, tat_ of machine-guns, mingled
with the roar of artillery, assailed our ears.
“We’ve caught them on the fly,” said one of our enthusiastic boys, “and
we are after them!”
“It looks to me,” said another, hopefully, “that we have got our
innings, and that we are going to make a home run.”
The city showed signs of a hurried and disorderly departure of the
usually methodical Germans. Here and there in the streets was a German
helmet and, occasionally a dead man whom they could not stop to bury.
There were barricades built up with fragments of masonry, benches,
tables, wheelbarrows, unhinged doors, mattresses and even a cradle
and bird cage. The houses were only shells, with windows broken, holes
gaping in their walls, doors wrenched from their hinges. The beautiful
furnishings had all been destroyed or wantonly ruined.
The cellars showed signs of having been largely occupied as places
of refuge. Mattresses, benches and chairs and cooking utensils were
collected there.
Some of the inhabitants were still there, clinging with French tenacity
to their ruined homes. They were principally old women and men and
children. During the six weeks of German occupancy they had lived on
vegetables dug at night from abandoned gardens, and on goat’s flesh and
one cow that had been killed by our gun fire.
Upon our coming they had begun to gather from the seemingly hopeless
ruins, household goods with which to rebuild some of the comforts of
homes. The German soldiers, they said, had used them fairly well, but
took possession of their cellars for their own use and protection from
our gun fire.
In one place we found a machine-gun nest that had not been ousted. Our
men surrounded it, and soon the German soldiers came out with uplifted
hands, crying “Kamerad!” and were made prisoners of war and marched to
the rear. By their expressive looks I thought that they expected to be
killed rather than fed. We learned afterwards that many of the Boches
called “Kamerad!” when they had no intention of surrendering--but used
it as a trick.
We did not tarry long in this ruined city. On our right and left we
could hear the crackling of musketry and the steady roar of artillery;
and at times I fancied I could faintly hear American cheers.
Our force of French and Americans was commanded by a French officer who
had been trained in French colonial armies and was notably brave and
skillful. His soldiers loved him, for he asked no exposure or danger
that he was not willing to share.
The clouds had cleared away and the sun had come out as if in promise
of victory, as we marched forward encountering surprisingly little
opposition.
“What does it mean?” queried Sutherland; “are the Boches all dead?”
“No,” said Corporal Quinn, for he had won that rank, “Shure I think the
divils are thrying to get away wid themsilves. Don’t ye’s hear the guns
on both sides of us?”
“Gee!” ejaculated Hen. Goodwin, “them chumps knows when they’s licked.
And you’s can bet that they’s can run!”
All reports that reached us showed that the Germans were getting out of
the claws of the V as fast as circumstances would admit, and before the
mouth of it “snapped shut,” as Shaw said.
The sounds of battle were calling us young Americans as we marched on.
We felt that we had a task before us that must speedily be performed.
The battle called us, trumpet-tongued, for energy and action. We glowed
and were consumed with eagerness to be in at the death; for we felt
that it was a crisis in the campaign for American soldiers.
“Why don’t you stop and get some hot chow?” said one of the sweaty
cooks to our men.
“Aw! we ain’t got time,” answered Goodwin; “hard-tack is good enough
when you’s are gettin’ after the Dutchies.”
“It’s a regular rabbit hunt,” said Sam Jenkins, “an’ we are out
a-gunning and can’t stop, or the rabbit’ll get away.”
We were in sight of the red roofs of a village, when from a wooden hill
there came the _rat, tat, tat_ of machine-guns.
“They’ve got a nest there,” was the cry from our men. “Let’s rout ’em
out!”
Twenty of our best marksmen took advantageous positions to pick off
their men, while our light arms and machine-guns sprayed them with an
intense fire.
It was but a little time before they had enough of it; and those who
could do so got away, while others came out with uplifted hands crying
“Kamerad!” They had been told that the Americans were savage, and would
shoot them without mercy, and some of them believed it.
During our morning’s march, Muddy, who had been following closely at my
heels, flew out after the Boches that were hustling to get away and,
without a yelp or bark, ran so that we couldn’t see his tail for the
dust. I did not see him again until afternoon, when he came crouching
in apology with his tail at half-mast. I had whistled to call him back,
but he either would not hear or would not heed. What did it mean?
As I was in command of the platoon I had other duties and could give
little thought to a dog.
Twice later that afternoon we met with fitful opposition from the
enemy, and it was late before we reached the village whose red-tiled
houses, as we have before mentioned, we had seen in the distance.
“That looks good,” said our captain. “Possibly we can halt there for
the night, unless we have to fight for it.”
As we approached the village there burst forth from in front and on
both sides of us the chatter of machine-guns and rifle fire, as if to
say, “Stand off! we are here!”
Some of us took shelter behind a rise in the land and fired upon
them, while others circled around the village. Then their fire began
gradually to die away.
“Gee!” said Goodwin, “you’s can just bet your bottom dollar they’s
litin’ out.”
“No chance to bag your rabbits, Sam,” said Sutherland sarcastically.
“They won’t stop to say good-bye.” And they didn’t.
We had opened a hot fire and then by making sudden rushes and throwing
ourselves on our faces and firing had driven them out. It was an old
method, used by the regulars in fighting Indians; but it answered.
“I have no respect for the Boches any more,” said Sam, “except as
runners.” But therein he was wrong. They were fighting a rear-guard
fight, and were not only acting in a prudent way, but also under orders.
A few people, old men, women, and children, who had been sheltering
themselves as best they could in cellars and behind thick walls, came
out and greeted us with French enthusiasm.
It was quite embarrassing for Sutherland when one sweet-faced old woman
threw her arms around his neck in a fervent embrace. He was awkward in
receiving her hug, but at last recovering from surprise, he patted her
and told her not to cry. When one attempted to hug and kiss the doughty
Sam Jenkins, instead of bravely standing fire he turned and ran.
Peter Beaudett, more educated in French ways than the rest of us,
returned, as Pat Quinn afterwards declared, “blarney for blarney,” and
kissed one of the younger women effusively. I thought it a shame that
we had not been educated up to the point of receiving such grateful
demonstrations as they were meant. But, New England people check,
rather than give way to, their emotions. Do they gain, or lose by it?
Though Peter Beaudett could not speak Parisian French he could
partially understand and be understood.
“What are they saying?” I asked the French interpreter.
“They say, ‘May God and his holy angels have you all in his keeping!’”
he replied. Thus it was that we awkwardly received the blessings of the
good, suffering women of France; and I trust in part appreciated them.
“Not all the Germans were bad,” said one old woman; “one young officer
helped us, and gave us part of his small piece of bread, and assisted
us in getting together things to make us more comfortable.”
This description somehow reminded me of Jot, and his helpful ways.
The clouds had cleared away and, under a star-lit sky, we lay down to
the sleep of tired men, with the camp sentinels walking their posts
protectingly around us.