The next morning, when we resumed our march on the heels of the
retreating enemy, I was unaccountably depressed. I felt that I was
standing on the verge of calamity. I will acknowledge that I am
superstitious. Ever since I can remember I have had warnings when
unusual trouble was impending. I did not, however, allow this feeling
of coming misfortune to impair my work as an officer; for I had no time
to consider such minor things as personal feelings, when the interests
of my country were looming large ahead of me in battles about to be
fought.
The tendencies of a soldier’s life are to make him a fatalist. He gets
to feeling and thinking that what is to be will happen, and that he has
only to do his duty faithfully as his part in it. And he is confirmed
in that belief by the everyday happenings of his adventurous life; so
why borrow trouble about that which you can’t help?
This, though not often put in words by them, is a very common
feeling--or I may call it belief--among soldiers who are constantly
offering their lives to the hazards of battle.
When I speak of the retreating enemy, I do not mean that we had an
easy time of it always, or that they were running away. They had
been forced into such a position by the strategy of Foch, and the
hard fighting of the Allies, that it was essential to their safety to
retreat. But to do this they must fight at certain points for the
protection of their divisions and the vast munitions of war which they
were removing to another line.
We soon came upon a detachment of the enemy on our immediate front
strongly posted and defended by their light artillery, machine-guns,
and infantry. When we attempted in our over-confidence to rush them and
drive them back we were checked by a bitter fire.
Then our heavy guns from the rear opened on them. And as shell and
shrapnel, with loud-mouthed defiance, went screaming over our heads,
hissing as though saying to the foe, “Get outtt offf thattttt!” it was
comforting to us, who had met with the check.
“I tell _you_,” said Hen. Goodwin approvingly, “them gunners are
hustlers, and that Boche bunch will have to climb down or get out
pretty soon!” But they didn’t!
Then information came--how, I do not know--that the enemy lines were
so formed that we could get at them by a flank approach. A plan was
accordingly made to strike their flank and front simultaneously and
capture or drive them back.
The land was rolling ground, like that of my native Massachusetts; and
the enemy at this place was posted on a ridge with their right flank
imperfectly protected by their machine-guns. The plan was to strike
this exposed flank and at the same time attack in front.
I was put in command of about a hundred men, besides my platoon, which
I had for some time been commanding, to make the contemplated flank
attack.
The night was as dark as “a stack of black cats,” when we silently
marched to the position assigned for assault on the enemy’s flank, and
where we were to await the signal to charge.
We got there all right and in the darkness were ambushed ready for our
part, when the enemy in some unaccountable way discovered our approach.
This upset the plan we had formed, and I was, naturally, undecided what
to do; whether to retreat--which I had no inclination for--or assault;
when the Boche forced my hand by a furious onset.
I did not stop to argue the question of fight or retreat then, with
myself or any one else. The time had come to fight; and all questions
of strategy must yield to this simple fact. We had four of the new
machine-guns which had lately come to us, and which could be carried
like an ordinary rifle on the shoulder, and I had a good deal of
confidence in them.
My orders were for every man to go forward, protecting himself by the
ground, when he could, and fight with all the fight that was in him!
The sun was up when I gave the order, “Forward!” The men answered with
a cheer, and rushed in quick time to a place about twenty yards from us
to the front. Every man was ordered to reserve his fire until he could
make sure of downing an enemy, or for dangerous emergencies--which,
heaven knows, were more likely to occur than not. Then we made another
rush, relying upon our courage and our bayonets to drive out the
foe. We were successful at first in rolling up Fritz’s flank, by our
audacious and unexpected tactics. I gave the order for the line again
to go forward at a jump and, as Sam sometimes expressed it, for every
man to “holler his head off,” hoping by this means to shake the nerve
of the enemy and, at the same time, let our main force know that we
were fighting, and guess that we were in need of help.
For personal defence I had my revolver and an old German cavalry sword
which I had picked up, and though without great confidence in the
outcome, I could see no other way than, as Hen. Goodwin said, “to get a
good run for my money.”
My men, without exception, fought like wildcats and, if noise counted,
the Boche must have thought that there was an army of us, and those new
guns must have helped them think so. Hen. Goodwin had one of them, Sam
and Sutherland one and I have forgotten who had the others.
We were in the midst of the fracas, when we heard a long, wild
heartening cheer from our lines. That encouraged us. We were then
sheltering ourselves as best we could, picking off the enemy at every
chance, hoping to hold them back until rescue came. The new guns were
_great_, and were worked to the utmost by the men who had them.
We were trying to make a cautious fight; but the enemy would not let
us. They outnumbered us three to one. But we didn’t mind that so much
as we did that they could better protect themselves than we could,
and attack, while we found it hard to get at them over the rough
intervening ground.
Such was our situation when we heard the bugle from our lines sounding
the retreat.
We were losing men fast it is true; and it was not likely to be a
winning fight if we got no help. But I could see no good in retreating,
when I could save more men by fighting. And I had no stomach for
running away from the rascally Huns, so long as I _could_ fight. The
advantage was with the enemy both in superior numbers and in knowing
the ground. It was plain, then, that we _must_ fight or--do worse.
I gave a little talk to the men, during a momentary lull. “It is going
to be some fight, men! And possibly we may get the worst of it. But it
will be better for our pride and our skins to fight it out, than to
turn tail. So let us trust to luck and our American grit and possible
help, to lick them before they get us. Now fight like devils!”
An amen of cheers was the response, and we continued to make short
dashes over the rough ground, firing at every head we saw; for it was
agreed we must thin the Boche off all we could, before the final tussle
came.
We got as near the enemy as was prudent by these short dashes, and then
dug in; that is, we threw up with our knives and bayonets a little
ridge of earth in front of us. We were on a slight rise in the ground
which gave us a good view of the enemy, and a chance to pick them off.
I had at that time about ninety-five men. I had lost in killed and
wounded about thirty. But several of the wounded, including Goodwin and
Sam, could still fight. None of my men had been made prisoners; but
several--to put it mildly--were absent without leave.
There was one friend that had stuck to me like wax, and that was my
dog. Then a thought came to me. I scribbled a short note and addressed
it to my captain, saying: “I am fighting in a tight place; Help!”
Then fastening it in the dog’s collar, I headed him towards our lines
saying: “Go!” He answered by running like the wind, and I knew that it
would not be long before the captain got that message.
[Illustration: “HE ANSWERED BY RUNNING LIKE THE WIND, AND I KNEW THAT
IT WOULD NOT BE LONG BEFORE THE CAPTAIN GOT THAT MESSAGE.”--Page 166.]
We were in a tight corner, almost surrounded, but fighting for all we
were worth. Several of our best men were wounded or dead and the enemy
shots came fast and thick. Hen. Goodwin, wounded in the arm and head,
being no longer able to use his Browning machine-gun, I had taken it.
I was firing fast, when I heard a prodigious cheer from our lines. My
message had reached them.
“Help is coming, men!” I said. “I have sent word by the dog, and that
is the answer. Cheer up! We’ll get ’em yet!”
Our group of fighters at this time was in pitiful plight. I had lost in
killed and wounded over one third of my men since taking refuge behind
that rise of ground. Sam was wounded but still fighting. Pat Quinn
was bleeding from a wound in the head, but still firing--and making
sulphurous talks to his comrades. It looked so discouraging that, but
for the undaunted courage I saw in the faces of my men, I could almost
have given up the fight in despair.
“Hold on a little longer!” I cried. “Our men are coming!” But minutes
seemed hours, as one after another of my men fell or cried out in
anguish from their hurts.
Strange to say, I thought of other things than the fight I was making;
of my mother, of Jot and--some one else. One minute had passed--so my
watch said--since hearing those reassuring cheers, but it seemed hours.
I thought that Joshua must have been in the same kind of a fix when he
thought the sun had stood still to give him victory.
Another moment passed, then we heard a cheer still nearer.
“Hear that!” I cried. “They are almost here! Help is coming!”
But the Germans had heard it too. That which had encouraged us warned
them. They were gathering for a final rush upon us. Why they had not
rushed us before was a mystery to me (for I had been expecting it)
unless they thought to fight safely--and in the end were confident they
would get us.
“Pick them off!” I cried. “Don’t let one of them get away!” It was a
foolish command, perhaps, for there was a big band of them. _Crack!
Crack! Crack!_ and every rifle and machine-gun did its work, until they
were dangerously near. Just then I felt a sharp blow on my left arm,
which made me drop the Browning gun.
We fell back a few yards to get time, but it wouldn’t do! “Stand up,
men!” I cried. “Go for them with your bayonets!”
In another instant, volley after volley from our rescuers sent the
Boche staggering back. We were rescued.
I had turned my head to see our comrades who had delivered us, when my
foot caught between two stones. In trying to liberate it, I wrenched
my ankle sadly. Before I could get away I was seized by two Boches and
absolutely carried away as a prisoner of war.
My only consolation was that I had made a good fight. And that _was_ a
consolation; though being a prisoner to the Boche was not.
The result of the fight, as I learned later, was that a small part
of the German line was driven back from their strong position, many
killed, and many prisoners taken. We had made good.
Still I was far from being reconciled. A prisoner seldom is.