Part 10

Fingerless hands are unprofitable in the trenches, and not very useful elsewhere in the activities of war. Getting rid of one’s fingers is a comparatively cheap exchange for release from the dangers and maddening anguish of long periods in the trenches. Houle did not think these men were cowards. “But only men who have lived in the trenches can understand.” Though he makes no claim to heroism for himself, Houle’s record shows that he was a resolute soldier doing valiant things that he sets down in his story quite as matters of routine experience—such as going out under fire to bring in the wounded.

He names Ypres the “graveyard of the old Sixty-first.” They were carried to within six miles of the place in London buses, twenty-five men to a bus. The remaining distance they tramped. At Ypres they first met “the gallant French troops,” and his company of French-Canadians being at the left of the English line acted as interpreters. Here the trenches were but forty yards from the Germans and in bad condition; they were raked terribly by German machine guns on a height. There were dead bodies of Germans and French lying between that had been there three months, neither side having the chance to bury its dead. These were to be seen through the periscopes—but one did not need to see to know they were there. The Battle of Ypres was one of the greatest of the war, one of the most desperate, one of the most deadly in human toll, but out of it all comes the memory of the gas attacks to which the men were then so helplessly exposed.

“There comes a sudden stinging in your nose. Your eyes water. You breathe fire. You suffocate. You burn alive. There are razors and needles in your throat. It is as if you drank boiling hot tea. Your lungs flame. You want to tear your body. You become half wild. Your head aches beyond description. You vomit, you drop exhausted, you die. It is a frightful thing to see your friends like that. Every other man seemed to fall. As I fought I marveled that I was spared. Again and again came to me the belief that my life was charmed. An ecstatic confidence bore me up. I was brave because I was so sure of life, while all my companions seemed groveling in death.”

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Captain Richard T. Smith

_42nd Division, 117th Field Battalion, Signal Corps_

Before daylight on the morning of March 17, 1918, while constructing communication lines in the vicinity of Fort de Manonviller, France, Captain Smith conducted his men to a place of safety, and while the fire was still intense returned and carried a wounded soldier to the dugout, where he fell exhausted.]

They left the trench for a charge, under a withering fire, but they pressed forward, and came to the enemy’s trench and leaped in. He saw four Germans trying to escape on the further side. “I did not fire, intending to make them prisoners. But the only thing I took was a great blow on the side of my head, and away went my prisoners.” That night he was one of twenty of his comrades who volunteered to attempt the recovery of four field guns the English had lost. They joined men from the Tenth and Sixteenth Battalions. They were to storm the wood where the guns were. There were forty yards of open ground to traverse. The Germans worked havoc among them, but the remnant made the wood. In the darkness it was almost impossible to distinguish foe from friend.

“I ran in and out among the trees and asked every one I met who he was. I came upon one big fellow. My mouth opened to ask him who he was, when his fist shot out and took me between the eyes. I went down for the count, but I knew who he was—he was a German. I got up as quickly as I could, you may be sure, and swung my rifle to hit him in the head, but the stock struck a tree and splintered. I thought I had broken all my fingers.

“I found three wounded men, French, I thought they were, in that gloom. So I carried them into our trench. As I brought in the last one, the officer said, ‘You are doing good work, Houle.’ I asked him why he thought so, and he answered: ‘You have brought in three wounded men and when we put the light on them we found they were Germans.’ Well, I am glad I saved them. I would have done so anyhow, had I known their nationality. For we were all trained to give a wounded man help, whether he were friend or foe.

NOT SAFE TO HELP THE HUN

“Yet it is dangerous work, helping a wounded German. I never helped another, after the experience I had. It was one of the two occasions when I knew with certainty that I killed a man. He was a wounded German soldier. We found him suffering and weak. But we knew we could save his life and were dressing his wound. My back was turned. He took a revolver out of his tunic pocket and fired pointblank at me.

“I do not know how I escaped death. Perhaps it was because his hand shook from weakness; perhaps my guardian saint turned aside that death bullet. Anyhow, he had his revolver in his hand. We had to act quickly. My officer spoke a quick word, and I made sure that he would never fire another shot.

“Well, we got our machine guns. But the Germans had blown them up, and all our sacrifice of men was in vain.”

The Battle of Ypres was a twenty-one day affair, and the toll exacted was appalling. Of the 500 boys of Houle’s company who left Canada only 20 survived. Then came other engagements until in May, 1915, he was again in Richebourg, and the next day an assault was made on the German first line trenches. The first two lines of trenches were taken without difficulty, but there was a counter attack at the third and out of Houle’s company (now reinforced to 365 men) 75 were killed, 100 wounded and 20 taken prisoners.

“We were obliged to leave our wounded in the trench with the dead. I lay until night in the German second line trench among the dead and wounded,” for of course there were no communications and no means of getting medical help for the men “writhing in agony all around us.” At night Highlanders from the 13th and 14th Battalions came to the relief. Three days later there was an attack at a point near Lacouture, where the Germans were entrenched in a hilly vantage. The French Canadians had been reinforced again, this time to 420. The Scots Grays and the Cold Stream Guards engaged in the assault. The artillery cleared the way for the charge. “On the third tussle we got into the German trenches. It was a close fight. We used even our fists. My bayonet was broken, and I used my gun as a club. There we remained until we got reinforcements. Out of 420 men my company was reduced to eighty. No, I could not be killed.”

Then the French Canadians fought at Cuinchy and at La Basse—repetitions of the same story. He had fought in the front lines from almost the very opening of the war, “until all the bed I knew was wet earth, and all the rest I knew was snatches of sleep obtained during lulls in the roaring tumult. And long since I had had my fill of the fighting.”

Then Jan. 10, 1916, he was summoned to headquarters to receive his discharge. He frankly rejoiced in the fact that he was free, free from the trenches, their fevers, their wounded and dead, their noxious odors, their deadly gases, their man-eating rats; free to go home to relatives and friends neither maimed nor wounded. Not that he had gone unscathed. There was a dent in his skull made by a spent bullet, and a very bad bruise on the leg made by a piece of shell, but these were trifles.

NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT

“I take no credit for any special courage in the field. If I was brave it was because I had to be so. We were all brave who kept our senses. We became accustomed to a large degree to the incessant intimacy with dangers and death. We could look at frightful things without wincing.”

He knows no word with which to describe war as he saw it. Hell is far too weak a word. “It is more horrible than the slaughter house, because the forms of death planned are more cruel, more mad, more devilish. We fight underground and under sea. We fight with fire, with steel, with lead, with poison, with burning oil, with gases. We are lower than the brutes, lower than the most degraded forms of life.... I am only Roméo Houle, a barber. But I have lived—God! I have lived. All the slaughter of heroes by the Meuse and on the Belgian border and in Northern France has passed before my eyes. And I, Roméo Houle, am forced to write this: ‘We cannot make ourselves better nor the world more worth while by killing each other like beasts gone mad.... I hope never to fight again.’”

And here is a final reflection of the soldier who confesses “I do not know why we fought.”

“No Archduke’s little life was worth the titanic butchery of the world war. The beginning was petty and small. And I, looking back at horror, horror, horror, cannot forget the extraordinary friendships we made with the men in the enemy’s trenches. We were both only human beings, after all, Fritz and I. We had no wish to kill each other. We had much rather sit at the same table, with our wives and children around us, and talk of gardens, of fair pictures, and of great books. But for our officers and the nations which they represented peace would have been declared right there in the trenches—and that by the soldiers themselves.”

O’LEARY STEPPED IN

And Faith, Never a Dumas Hero was a Marker to This Sergeant of the Irish Guards

He got the habit and trick of it early they say. He played outside the home cottage in Macroom, about forty miles from the city of Cork, charging imaginary foes, stick in hand, with so much vigor that the plump hens scuttled to cover. His mother at the door of the cottage demanded,

“An’ what is it ye are doin’ now, Mike?”

And the curly-haired youngster replied:

“I’m a sodger.”

Twenty years later the same mother stood outside the same cottage door in Macroom listening to the almost unbelievable story of a messenger who had dashed from Cork city by motor-car. Her son—her Mike—had won the great war medal. She heard how the world was ringing with the immortal exploit of Sergeant Michael O’Leary, V.C. Poems were being written about him. He had received an ovation in London such as kings might envy. And all this was no more than the brave Irish Guardsman deserved, for with his unaided strong right arm he captured an enemy position, and of ten Germans who stood in his path he killed eight and took the remaining two prisoners....

O’Leary was sent to the front in November, 1914. Mr. Leask has told the story.

All around the La Bassée district fierce fighting had raged since October. The 1st Battalion of the Irish Guards, in common with other regiments, now experienced the severities of trench warfare. At the end of January they were stationed near the La Bassée brickfield, and the Germans were subjecting them to a withering fire.

[Illustration:

_Copyrighted in U. S. A. by New York Herald._

How Sergeant O’Leary of the Irish Guards Won the Victoria Cross

“He rushed on like one possessed, never looking behind to see if his comrades were following. A railway bank rose in front of him. He cleared it, and went on, heedless of risks....”]

The last night of January the enemy’s fire was particularly hot. It was decided that the trenches were too expensive to hold. But before evacuating them the men were ordered to storm the enemy’s position.

In order to prepare the way for the assault, the artillery commenced one of the fiercest bombardments of the war up till then. The boom of the big pieces and the detonation of their shells were audible twenty miles away. The guns fired with such intensity in order to demolish what had become a regular bastion in the German lines, also to break down the barbed wire entanglements in front of the German trenches, and thoroughly to demoralize the enemy before the men stormed the positions.

No. 2 Company of the Irish Guards was ordered to keep up a hot rifle fire. This was to make the Germans keep under cover, no matter how much they wished to escape from the artillery. The diversion also caused the enemy to expect an attack from this direction, with the result that he concentrated his fire on the trench occupied by No. 2 Company.

Then No. 1, O’Leary’s Company, which was on the left of No. 2 Company’s trench, was ordered to charge. The Irish dashed over the parapet with a yell, their bayonets fixed, and rushed at the enemy in fine style. The distance they had to cover to reach the German positions was from 100 to 150 yards. The men were very eager to be at the enemy after their long spell in the trenches, and went for their foe at racing speed.

O’Leary soon outstripped his comrades. His Irish blood was up. “You would laugh if you saw us chasing the Huns and mowing them down,” he wrote to his parents.

CHARGE OF THE “MAD IRISHMAN”

He rushed on like one possessed, never looking behind to see if his comrades were following. A railway bank rose in front of him. He cleared it, and went on, heedless of risks, toward a strong barricade held by the Germans.

O’Leary paused at a little mound and looked around. In front of him was a deadly machine gun, trained on the trench occupied by the second company of Irish Guards. As already explained, their work was to deceive the enemy and the maneuver had proved successful. Their rifle fire had prevented the Germans from showing their faces, and they had not seen that the British were racing toward them.

When O’Leary reached the mound the Germans became aware of their danger and immediately prepared to turn the machine gun upon the advancing First company. It was a critical moment. O’Leary did not hesitate; he took deliberate aim with his rifle at the gun’s crew, five in number, and one by one they dropped as his unerring finger pressed the trigger. His bold move in a supremely dangerous situation had been successful. The machine gun was his. The lives of his comrades were saved. For an ordinary man this brave deed would have sufficed. But what O’Leary had just performed whetted his appetite for more.

Another barricade farther on had caught his eye. With daredevil audacity, he bounded toward it. The Germans then were prepared for him, but he “got his blows in first,” and killed three more Germans. The two remaining had no stomach for the “mad Irishman.” They promptly raised their hands, and O’Leary secured them as his prisoners.

He confessed afterward that his second exploit was a hazardous one. He had no bayonet at the time and had to trust solely to his marksmanship. His rifle was loaded with ten rounds, and eight of the bullets found a human billet. When the last two Germans surrendered he had no ammunition left, and had they not been demoralized by his sudden and audacious attack single-handed, the issue would have been different.

Sergeant O’Leary had killed eight Germans, captured a machine gun, taken two Germans prisoner, and carried two strong positions, from which the rest of the attacking party would have been heavily fired upon. Some one has said that this exploit was thoroughly Irish in method and execution, and that O’Leary deserves to rank as one of the greatest heroes of modern warfare.

Describing what happened afterward, Company-Quartermaster-Sergeant J. G. Lowry, of the Irish Guards, says:

“O’Leary came back from his killing as cool as if he had been for a walk in the park, accompanied by two prisoners he had taken. He probably saved the lives of the whole company. Had that machine gun got slewed round, No. 1 Company might have been nearly wiped out. We all quickly appreciated the value of O’Leary’s sprinting and crack shooting, and when we were relieved that night, dog-tired as we were, O’Leary had his arm nearly shaken off by his comrades.”

When on furlough O’Leary was fêted and cheered as no V.C. hero has been. He received a splendid welcome in Cork and in his native village. The greatest day in his life, however, was June 26, 1915, when Londoners turned out in tens of thousands to acclaim him in the streets. To honor him the London Irish organized a demonstration in Hyde Park, at which over 60,000 persons were present. O’Leary drove from the Strand to the Park in an open carriage, cheered all along the route by an admiring throng. O’Leary was a proud man but, as he afterward protested, he “didn’t know what all this fuss was about. Faith, a bit of a shindy is no great matter at all, at all!”

WHEN THE “YANKS” WENT IN

The Story of the First American Soldiers to Go It Alone in Banging the Huns

Because they were recruited in the New England States, the boys of the 26th Division were known as “Yankees” or the “Yankee Division” and they set up pretty good claim to the distinction by acts of unit heroism not excelled for dash, daring and effective service by any troops opposed to the Huns. The “Yankee Division” was the first of the A.E.F. to take part in a great offensive in France. It was organized under the command of Maj. Gen. C. R. Edwards, Aug. 13, 1917; arrived in France in September, and in January, 1918, was undergoing special training on the Chemin des Dames front. It was assigned to the Toul sector and was in position by the end of March. Ten days later the enemy struck its first serious blow at the line, “a blow which turned out to be far more serious to the Germans than to the New Englanders.” It was the beginning of the five days fight known as the battle of Apremont, though it really was the battle of Bois Brulé, the worst of the fight being in the “burned wood” on the hill top where the 104th Regiment was stationed. In an article in the Boston _Globe_ devoted to the 26th, Willard F. De Lue says:

“From the very first day there had been artillery-action; in fact, the Boche set up a row while the Yankees were coming into the line, before they got their packs off. Now, at five o’clock in the morning of April 10, the Germans sent over a body of seven hundred or eight hundred picked shock-troops against Colonel Shelton’s boys.

“But the Yankee artillery got the jump on them, and opened up with a barrage that couldn’t have been better. It smashed the Germans’ attack so badly that it broke down, and for the rest of that day, and for two more, the Boches were content to throw over a heavy artillery fire.

“On the 13th, however, they were at it again. This time they planned a little better. The center of the assault was directed against the French units on the left of the 104th, and it wasn’t long before they sent over a hurry call for a counter-attack by the Yanks. The 104th responded handsomely. They swept through Bois Brulé right on to the German flank, and relieved the pressure on the French line. But by that time their own flank was threatened. So the Yanks suddenly changed direction, and attacked by their own flank—a difficult maneuver, but beautifully executed.

[Illustration:

_Courtesy World’s Work._

Cantigny—The First American Offensive

Here it was that our soldiers confirmed the confidence placed in them and won the admiration of the Allied High Command. Two days later Americans were ordered to hold the road to Paris and the crossing of the Marne at Château-Thierry.]

“The fighting kept up stubbornly. By one o’clock in the afternoon the Germans had broken through and grabbed some of the advanced points held by the 104th, and were filtering in through communication trenches. It was apparent this was no mere raid. So the reserves were ordered up. But before they arrived the enemy had been hurled back again, and by six that night the heaviest of the fighting was over. On the 14th there was further action; but the Boche had been licked, and he knew it. His losses were tremendous; ours comparatively light.

“Many an act of heroism took place that day. The flags of the 104th Infantry were later decorated by the French for the gallantry displayed by its men. And the individual awards of American and French decorations are eloquent.

“That was the first battle fought by Americans—any Americans—in France in which they were not supported by French infantry.”

IN EVERY AFTER BATTLE

Having been inducted into the firing line, the 26th had no surcease, but took part in every subsequent battle up to the signing of the armistice, missing the promised rest, time after time, owing to the exigencies of the campaigns. And according to the complaint of a captured German lieutenant, they did not always play the game right. On one occasion the moment an enemy barrage was lifted, a body of Yankees darted ahead and actually nabbed some of the advancing Huns, the lieutenant included. He sputteringly said in reproach of these tactics, “They should not have been where they were. They were coming right through our own barrage, and might have been wiped out.”

That the Americans were so apt to be “where they shouldn’t have been” was greatly disconcerting to the Huns more than once. They did things in such an unconventional way, acting so much on individual initiative that they frequently spoiled the precise calculations of the German machine. The French had greater appreciation of the Yankee method. The commanding officer of the 32nd French said this of the 26th:

“I salute its colors and thank it for the splendid services it has rendered here to the common cause. Under the distinguished command of their chief, General Edwards, the high-spirited soldiers of the Yankee Division have taught the enemy some bitter lessons at Bois Brulé, at Seicheprey, at Xivray Marvoisin; they have taught him to realize the staunch vigor of the sons of the great republic fighting for the world’s freedom.”

The division was also in the Château-Thierry battle. Mr. Le Due writes:

“On the 9th the fighting on this new field began. The Boche, in the early morning, swept down into Vaux and established machine-gun posts.

“‘You’ve got to drive those (censored) out of there or we’ll be the laughing-stock of the division,’ was the word sent out by Colonel Logan. And so the driving began.

“That fight for Vaux will be long remembered—a picturesque fight, with groups of men rushing here and there, cleaning up snipers and machine-gunners, rushing hostile positions; overhead the roar of the American barrage, below the hum of countless machine guns. The clean-up was thorough.