Part 11

“Three days later Foch’s famous counter-offensive began—on July 18, at 4:25 in the morning.

“The night before, at ten o’clock, a terrific thunder-storm had broken. Lightning flashed and rain fell in sheets. But in the morning there came a clearing, and when the fated hour approached there was a rosy flush on the morning sky. Commanders wore an anxious look. A surprise had been planned, and a clear day was not to their liking. But just before the time set a heavy mist began to descend. All was well.

“A gun spoke; then the roar from a hundred, a thousand iron-throated messengers of death. The creeping barrage had opened. The infantry was to attack simultaneously.

“The Yanks moved forward on the left, pivoting upon their own right, held by the 101st, in front of Vaux. The 102d came next; but it was the boys of the 103d and 104th, on the left, that did the early fighting.

“‘We are in Torcy,’ was the first message sent back. Then came a delay. A hitch had taken place; but by nine o’clock Bouresches, Belleau, and Givry were in the hands of the Yankees.

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant Dugald E. Ferguson

_32nd Division, 126th Infantry, Machine-Gun Company_

When the infantry on his right was held up by fire from an enemy machine gun at Cierges, northeast of Château-Thierry, August 1, 1918, he seized a rifle, rushed around the flank of the enemy’s position, bayoneted two of the machine-gun crew and shot three of them, enabling the infantry to advance.]

“The first objectives taken, preparations were at once made for a further advance. But the French, to the north, had been held up. On the 19th there was no forward movement until three in the afternoon. Hill 193, above Givry, where the French were held up, was passed on the flank, causing the Germans to fall back. Etrepilly and Etrepilly Woods were reached, taken, and passed. So, too, Genetrie Farm and the woods close by La Halmadière.

“In the night of the 19th there was another halt. Then forward again at daybreak, with the 101st and 102d Infantry getting into action late this day, and sweeping forward, through Vaux and the woods close to Bouresches, they crossed the Soissons-Château-Thierry road, and by the 22d found themselves in front of Epieds and Trugny.

WINNING MORE FRENCH PRAISE

“It was here that the severest fighting of the drive took place. In Epieds the Germans planted machine guns every seven yards. In Trugny and in the woods that lie on the hillsides to the east of both towns they had done likewise.

“The 101st tackled the Trugny proposition. Colonel Logan’s men were in and out of the town twice. But the German artillery had the range just right, and whenever the Yankees went in flooded the place with mustard-gas. On July 23 Colonel Logan borrowed a little ground on his right from the French, encircled Trugny on the south, and started up behind it, through Trugny Wood. It was a terrible fight, but that night the 101st broke through the German defenses and forced a retreat. Meantime, the three other infantry regiments were making constant frontal attacks. The 102d got into Trugny and captured the gun now on Boston Common.

“On the 23d the 103d and 104th Infantry Regiments were relieved; and on the 25th the 101st and 102d were relieved. But the artillery brigade kept on, supporting three other American divisions, until the Vesle River was reached, August 5. It was in this drive particularly that Sherburne’s outfit earned the name of the best field artillery in France. A regular Army officer, watching the guns in action, said: ‘I have been in the Army thirty years and never have seen field artillery until this day.’

“By August 7 the whole division, including the artillery, was back in villages along the Marne, between Château-Thierry and Paris.

“The people of the countryside hailed the men of the 26th as ‘saviors of Paris.’ Those who went into the French capital were greeted with enthusiasm. Men and women embraced them and kissed them.

“General Degoutte, famed commander of the French 6th Army, with which the Americans fought, wrote to General Edwards:

“‘The operations carried out by the 26th American Division from July 18 to July 24 demonstrated the fine soldierly qualities of this unit, and the worth of its fine leader, General Edwards. The 26th Division fought brilliantly ... advancing more than fifteen kilometers in depth in spite of the desperate resistance of the enemy.

“‘I take pleasure in communicating to General Edwards and his valiant division this expression of my esteem, together with my heartiest congratulations for the manner in which they have served the common cause.’”

THE LAST SHOT

And so on until, drawn from temporary reserve at Verdun, the 26th was ordered into the Argonne battle. The _Globe_ chronicler continues:

“On October 15 the 104th was fighting in conjunction with the French and a squadron of fifteen French tanks. What the fighting was like may be judged from the fact that only one of those fifteen tanks came back.

“On the 16th other units went in, and by October 18 command passed to General Edwards. The new position in line was on the east side of the Meuse River, facing generally east. Ahead lay the scrubby woods of Haumont, Chenes, Ormont, Belleau, and the skirt of the Bois de Wavrille, and of Samogneux, the latter to the extreme left, nearer to Verdun.

“The attack on these positions began on the 23d and continued until the 27th. The woods, so far as trees went, consisted of a few dead, blasted stumps, standing out like skeletons, in the midst of thick, deadly underbrush. The whole ground had been fought over recently. Bodies of dead French and Germans lay there. And in one place was a valley full of skeletons of the Crown Prince’s men who had made the desperate attack on the forts of Verdun.

“These woods were taken and lost again, taken and lost, taken and lost. Four times did the 101st battle through Belleau, only to be blasted back by artillery. The enemy had sworn to stick it out, for an attack here threatened the lines of communication. And stick they did.

“Of those last days a volume might well be written: of the desperate charges, the hell of shell-fire, the deluges of gas, the hum of millions of machine-gun death-messengers—death-messengers that brought their messages home. And through it all, partly over ground they had won before, they plunged in the dull desperation of despair. In the previous days they had been robbed of the officers they knew and loved. Edwards had been relieved October 25. Others had preceded him, and others followed—Cole, Logan, Hume.

“Desperately these boys fought and paid the price. On the 9th the line was drawn back a little, the accompanying units couldn’t keep pace. And still the battle raged—a bloody, maddening, disheartening battle—raged despite reports that an armistice had been agreed upon. Even at ten in the morning of November 11, one hour before the fighting was to stop, the 26th was ordered forward again ‘to straighten out the line.’ In that hour hundreds were lost.

“The Yankee division fought up to the last shot. That shot fired, the division remained a wreck. Gen. Frank E. Bamford, the new commander, reported that the division was in no condition to go to the Rhine. That day, the 11th, 1,200 replacements were received, and more were on their way. When the last hour’s fight began one regiment, normally 3,000 strong, had only 240 rifles.”

HUMOR AND HEROISM

Glimpses of the Sunnier Side of the Men Who Played with Death

After relating many pitiful, tear-compelling incidents of wounded and dying soldiers in trench and in the temporary hospitals back of the front, an English Chaplain turned from the saddening episodes to some of the humorous phases of his experience among the men—humorous by contrast, that is, for some of the touches are more than prods to laughter; this for example:

“Once, in a hospital train, where a crowd of helpless men were being loaded in at a siding, I saw one man, groaning in agony from rheumatism, carried in. ‘Where are you wounded, old chap?’ asked the orderly. ‘Hoots!’ he replied, ‘I’m na wounded at a’; fling me onywhere, an’ luk after the rest.’” The Chaplain continues:

“There are countless streaks of humor and gleams of laughter even amid the sorrow-clouds of war. The mysterious diseases from which the soldier thinks he suffers sometimes puzzle you. He will proudly, and with a majestic solemnity, tell you that his illness has developed into ‘gasteria’—perhaps a more accurately descriptive name than science recognizes. More than one is sorry for his wife, who is distracted and harrowed by the ‘insinuendoes’ of her neighbors, a word almost worthy of a place in the dictionary. And many will tell you of chums who have broken down, and who were not really fit to serve, having been always of a ‘historical’ tendency. One almost feels a plea for heredity there.

“How grateful we were when we found occasions like these! For, though we were not downhearted, we were often war-weary. And frequently the good cheer of those whom we were there to comfort and strengthen really strengthened and comforted us.

MICKY FREE REVIVED

“I remember an Irishman, quite of the type of Micky Free in Lever’s novel, a rollicking, jolly child of the Emerald Isle, pretty badly battered, but with a sparkle in his eye at which you could have lit a candle. He was from Dublin. I thought I should speak cheerfully to him, so I said, ‘Well, now, aren’t you lucky to be here, instead of home yonder, getting your head broken in a riot?’ ‘Troth, I am, sir,’ said he. ‘Lucky to be here, anyway. And lucky is anny man if he’ll only get a grave to lie in, let alone a comfortable bed like this. Glory be! it’s myself that’s been the lucky one all the time.’ Near him lay another. ‘Don’t spake to him, your honor,’ said the first man with a laugh. ‘Sure, he’s a Sinn Feiner.’ But both of them were of opinion that the loyalty of the rebels might be awakened by contact with German shells. ‘Bring them out here, sir,’ said they, ‘and they won’t be Irishmen if they don’t get their dander riz with a whiz-bang flung at them. That would settle their German philandering. Sure, isn’t it too bad what we’ve been enduring to enable the spalpeens to stay at home, upsetting the State, flinging Home Rule back maybe a generation, with their foolishness, and we as good Irishmen as themselves can be?’

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Private Albert Fritz

_1st Division, 16th Infantry, Company “I”_

Cited for extraordinary heroism in action south of Soissons, France, July 18-23, 1918. While attached to a machine-gun company as an ammunition carrier, he was wounded twice, but continued to carry ammunition while exposed to heavy shell fire.]

“The infinite variety of classes that make up our present army is astonishing. I told once of a Gordon Highlander landing in Havre with a copy of the Hebrew Psalms in the pocket of his khaki apron to read in the trenches. I saw, among our own Gordons, an Aberdeen divinity student, as a private reading in the mud the Greek Testament and the Sixth Book of Homer’s _Iliad_. Anything, from that to the _Daily Mail_, represents the reading of our men. This variety is also very noticeable among our officers. We had the lumberman from the vast forests of the West beside the accountant from San Francisco; the tea-planter from Bengal; the lawyer from the quiet Fife town beside the Forth; the artist; the architect; and the journalist. And it was this mixture that made possible episodes of irresistible comicality.

GLAD TO MEET HAIG

“For instance, to prevent waste of petrol in ‘joy-riding,’ a French barrier at one place near us had guards set upon it under a British officer. One day a young northern subaltern, entirely fresh to military work, was in charge; and the tale goes that he stopped Sir Douglas Haig’s car, asking him to show his permit and declare his business. When the general did tell who he was, the boy was so taken aback that he is said to have stammered, ‘So pleased to meet you!’

“Again, a young officer told me that he was leading a well-known general around some trenches in the dark. They came to a traverse. ‘We’ll go round here,’ said the general, and the young fellow led the way. But a watchful Gordon leaped up suddenly with fixed bayonet, and, ‘Who goes there?’ The youth replied, ‘General Blank.’ ‘Ay, lad,’ whimsically replied the Scot, ‘ye’d better try again. That cock ’ll no fecht wi’ the Cock o’ the North.’

“Another, a verdantly green soldier of the King, almost freshly off the ploughed haughs of home, met an officer of high rank. He was carrying his rifle, but he huddled it under his arm, and awkwardly saluted with the open hand as though he had it not. The officer said, very kindly, ‘Here, my man, is the way to salute your superior with your rifle’; and he went through the proper regulation field-officer’s salute. But Jock, after coolly watching him, as coolly replied, ‘Ay, ay; maybe that’s your way o’t; but I hae my ain way, and I’m no jist sure yet whilk’s the richt gait o’t.’

“It would be worth while seeing this man after a few months’ training has brought him into the ‘richt gait o’t.’ In fact, the way in which the men have fallen into the habit of discipline is as wonderful as the way they leaped into the line of service for their country’s sake when they were not forced to go. I recall one, who was only a type of many. Up in the mouth of a West Highland glen is a little cottage on a croft. And the man there was the last of his race. When others passed out to the world-wide conflict, his mother, who was very old, opposed his going. But she died. And then he drew his door to, locked it, and went to share the battle for liberty which to-day is shaking the earth. There are far more men of peace than men of quarrel fighting for the soul-compelling things that are of value beyond this dying world, and these are made of the true victory stuff.

THEY ARE NOT TALKERS

“None are less given to talk of what they have done than the very men whose deeds thrill others. They just saw the thing that was needed; they seized the flying moment, and did the deed that makes men’s hearts stand still. They came out of it with something akin to the elation of the sportsman who has scored a goal. They saved their side in the game. That was what they aimed at, and they were satisfied.

“In my last battalion were two men who, working together, did breathless things without themselves being breathless. They enjoyed them. After one ‘stunt’ our people in the trench observed a man hanging on the enemy’s wire. His hand was slowly moving to and fro. They watched carefully, and saw clearly that he was signaling to them. A little group of officers gathered and considered the matter. But it was entirely impossible, they thought, to dream of attempting a rescue before darkness. So they resolved to get together a rescue party in the night and save. Meanwhile, however, these two worthies slipped away, crawled over No Man’s Land, and brought the poor fellow in. Rebuked for their temerity, their reply was, ‘We couldna thole the sicht o’ a chum oot yonder like that.’ Another time, after a bitter struggle in a patch of woodland between our line and the enemy’s, they came and reported that a man in khaki was to be seen moving from tree-stump to tree-stump, evidently in distress. ‘I think he’s daft,’ said one. And in the gloaming over they went, found him, and brought him in to safety. He had been wounded in the head and side, and left behind. The first day he had kept himself alive by drinking from the water-bottles of the dead; but he had lost his reason and his bearings, and was in despair when our brave fellows got him. And these men were killed later on by a slight accident down behind the lines.

“It was difficult to get away from the touch of one’s environment and to overcome that unwelcome realization of the grim surroundings. One morning we had a weird reminder. When we opened the door of our hut, there, on the threshold, lay an unexploded ‘dud’ shell which had fallen in the night. Had it done what had been intended, we should have been very suddenly off somewhere among the stars. It made one think a little of solemn and strange things, and feel more than a little thankful to behold again the light of the sun.

“People speak a good deal about the lust for blood and the fever-passion of battle. But our boys are not bloodthirsty.

NOT THE HUN TYPE

“A friend of mine, after a ‘scrap,’ saw a proof of this which almost cost him his life, as he had to resist the tendency to laugh, for he had been shot through the lungs. A big Scotsman, in a muddy kilt, and with fixed bayonet, had in his charge a German prisoner, who was very unwilling to get a move on. And Sandy shouted out to a companion on ahead, ‘Hey, Jock, he winna steer. What’ll I dae wi’ him?’ But Jock, busy driving his own man forward, just answered over his shoulder, ‘Bring him wi’ ye.’ Both of these men had the sweat of conflict not dry upon them. But they never for a moment thought of driving the bayonet into that reluctant foe, as the German would have done most readily. Of course, one does occasionally find the old grim warrior still, quite contented under hard circumstances, finding indeed the conditions a kind of real relief after the rust of peaceful days.

“This same friend, going one night along the trenches, almost thigh-deep in mud, came upon a grizzled Irishman, O’Hara, cowering in the rain. ‘Isn’t this a damnable war, O’Hara?’ said he. ‘Thrue for you, sir,’ was the unexpected reply. ‘But, sure, isn’t it better than having no war at all?’

“A campaign like this brings one into touch with strange bedfellows. A man I know told me, ‘In one place, during the early terrible days, we crept into a cellar, and I lay down to try to sleep. But I soon found this to be impossible, for I became aware of somebody that kept running to and fro in the dark, driving all the rest away. I went out, and spoke to the doctor, whom I met. “Oh,” he replied, “that’s only our lunatic.” It was, indeed, a poor fellow who had gone mad in the retreat; and they could meanwhile do nothing but carry him along with them.’ Perhaps the weirdest of all the strange mixtures whom I met out at the front was a young fellow at a mechanical transport camp. His father was a Russian Jew, his mother was English, his grandfather Dutch, and he himself was born in London and brought up in Glasgow. In a world of such widely international disturbance you almost expected him to go off into effervescence, like a seidlitz powder.

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Major Henry E. Bunch

_42nd, Division, 168th Infantry, M. C._

On October 13-16, 1918, he went out in advance of the front line near the Bois de Chatillon, France, to reconnoiter a site for an aid station and an ambulance route. Seeing a wounded officer lying about 300 meters from the enemy’s line, he went to his rescue and carried him through terrific machine-gun and rifle fire to a shell hole, where he administered first-aid.]

DID NOT MERIT MERCY

“Amid the sorrows and the weariness of the times out there it was remarkable how closely laughter followed at the heels of tears. We had great fun over a colonel—not in our division—who was very unpopular. He did not know the depths of his unpopularity, but, deeming himself the best-beloved among his contemporaries, he was perfectly happy. One day, while he was sitting in front of his dugout reading an old newspaper, a sniper’s bullet passed quite close, and went ‘pip’ into the parados. He paid no attention, of course, for that was only a bit of the day’s work. But when another came, he thought it was an attention which carried civility a little too far. So he called a Scotsman to him, and said, ‘Go out, Jock, and nail that beggar.’ Jock crawled out, glad of the diversion, stalked the enemy, ‘winged’ him, and was running up to ‘feenish’ him, when the German held up his hands and cried, ‘Mercy, Englishman!’ But Jock replied, ‘Mercy? Ye dinna deserve nae mercy. Ye’ve missed oor colonel twice!’ I often wonder if Jock told the colonel how he had put it! Or is he still as happy as ever?

“It is told of Jock that, on another occasion, when a German held up his hands, after a good deal of dirty work with them, and said, ‘Mercy, Englishman. I’ll go to England with you!’ Jock replied, grimly and coolly, ‘Ay, maybe. But, ye see, that’s no exactly whaur I was gaun to send ye.’

“I was always much impressed by the Wesleyans, whom I often met in painful circumstances. I had never had anything to do with them till I came in contact with them wounded and suffering, but always most brave, patient, and truly religious. They bore their distresses without a murmur, and they died without fear. For they knew what they believed in. They had the gift of religion and the secret of a faith stronger than death. They were true mystics. I remember one day standing beside one of them who had been very dangerously stricken. His eyes were closed, and he was whispering continuously. I stooped down and listened. He was saying, over and over again, ‘Oh, God, remember me, and help me to get well, for the sake of those I love at home.’

SPEAKING TO GOD

“I was turning to slip away quietly, when he opened his eyes and said, ‘Whoever you are, don’t go, sir, I was only speaking to God.’ His religion was so intimate a possession that he did not need to apologize for knocking at the door of love with his prayer.