Part 14
“Much more glorious is the death of this man than is that of the fighting soldier. His was a devotion, not to country and fireside and altar, but to an abstract conception of duty. There can be a selfishness, of a refined kind, to be sure, in even the greatest bravery shown by the soldier who is fighting for the preservation of his native land. Thoughts of his near and dear ones in that land inspire his actions and nerve his body and will for them. To the alien nurse, physician, hospital attendant there is no such inspiration. For them the inspiration must come from the depth of their humanity, and cannot be tinged with the slightest touch of self. German or Hun, Briton or Serb or Frenchman are all the same in their eyes if they are suffering from wounds or disease. Americans have a right to be proud of a fellow countryman like Richard Hall.”
WHERE DENOMINATIONS END
A Christian Priest Who Was a Hero too Found They Vanished at the Front
Though we did not see much about them in the dispatches, those soldiers of the Most High, the army chaplains who went to the front, were often as heroic and self-sacrificing in attending to their duties as were the doughboys themselves. Among the many was Father John J. Brady of New York, the young Catholic chaplain of the 5th Regiment, U. S. Marines, who was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for things he did in the Château-Thierry region in the deadly period of June, 1918. Some of the zealous folk who wish to put a ban on tobacco in all of its forms will hardly understand the quality of heroism that prompted Father Brady to risk his life on several occasions to carry cigarettes to men of the fighting line who could not otherwise have had the “soldier’s solace” after the perils and fatigues of long hours of trench service. Nevertheless, that generous and courageous act was among the valiant things for which his country officially honored him. In the big fight that turned back the Germans, this free-souled chaplain made two complete tours of the front line under severe fire, ministering in unusually trying circumstances to the wounded and dying men of his regiment. Right well the men of that regiment loved him—not because he was their chaplain but because he was the chaplain who understood. A wonderful thing is understanding. We recall that the wise Solomon rated it above all things else.
[Illustration:
_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._
Sergeant Patrick Walsh
_1st Division, 18th Infantry_
He captured a nest of enemy machine gunners who were doing particular damage to his unit and as a result he was decorated with the Croix de Guerre and the Distinguished Service Cross. He is said to be the first American soldier to receive the former decoration.]
The _Stars and Stripes_ in an article about Chaplain Brady has the key to the man in the opening paragraph, which quotes him as saying:
“’Tis all one great church, the front line is. In all Christendom, in all the rest of the world you will not find so much unselfishness, so much Christian charity, so much loving kindness, as you find at the front. There, if anywhere, the men are brothers. We feel it. Denominations or sects are pretty much forgotten. Faith, war makes strange bunkies, and ’tis me and my pal, the Presbyterian minister, have been shelled out of the same quarters together.”
The article continues:
“Father Brady ought to know, for he penetrated the farthermost American position and has crawled beyond the front lines to hear confessions of Marines in the outpost. He was decorated for extraordinary heroism at the battle of Château-Thierry where his unfailing ministrations were a big factor in conserving the morale of the men.
“The true spirit of the Marines is Father Brady’s. He laughs at obstacles and perils, and his indomitable will carries him through the most difficult tasks. Often he has accomplished the seemingly impossible and he is honored by Protestant and Jew as he is by those of his own faith. Regardless of creed, the Devil Dogs of the 5th Regiment are proud of their chaplain.”
HIS LEATHERNECKS
“There was to be an attack the next morning in the gray hours before the sun was up, when Father Brady reached the wooded country between Soissons and Château-Thierry where his Leathernecks crouched under the Hun bombardments. He crawled and stumbled along the lines to hear confessions from his warriors. Hard-bitten old-timers who had not seen the interior of a church in years bared their souls and went light-hearted into the hell that followed the opening barrage.
“Reaching the final outpost, the young priest spied a shallow trench from which a sentry peeped. In spite of warnings he slipped out among the shadows and wormed his way forward and rolled into the ditch. He heard the confession as he and the outpost lay side by side looking up at the stars, and as he crept back to cover he knew that he had never granted absolution in stranger places. He has said mass for the faithful with his altar cloth on the shattered stump of a tree during the last lull before the attack.
“Friend and foe alike received the sacrament from the young Catholic priest. His enmity for the Germans ceased when he went among the young wounded Bavarians left on the field and gave them the last consolation of the church. Often he bent over young Germans, scarcely able to speak as they groped for their rosaries, and left them facing death more bravely.
“One of his most dangerous tasks was the burial of the dead, which must be done at night, and frequently under shell fire. It is work that must be done in the open, for digging is almost impossible where the woods fill the soil with interlacing roots. It was on such a mission that personal tragedy touched him. Making his way to the crest of a hill, where he had been told a man lay dead, he found the face of one of his closest friends turned up to the moonlight.
“In spite of the horrors he has witnessed and the sorrows he has shared, those who have met Father Brady recently say he is unchanged. Many men would have shrunk from his work, much of which was done alone with no comrade to speak a steadying word. Yet his spirit is still buoyant and his mind is unoppressed.”
A BIT OF A MISTAKE
“Many of his stories deal with the changes in spirit and practice that have followed the sharing of hardships. All the Marines were ‘his boys.’
“‘What a pother they’d have made in the old days of peace back home if they had caught me at a mistake I made the other night,’ he said. ‘In the confusion just before the attack I heard the confession of one old sinner of a sergeant. He got half-way through before I discovered that he was not a Catholic.’
[Illustration:
_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._
First-Class Sergeant George Burr
_32nd Division, 107th Field Signal Battalion, Company C_
Sergeant Burr, in charge of a detachment near Cierges, France, August 2, 1918, strung wire far in advance of the front lines, working through heavy artillery fire to the point where the regimental post of command was to be situated. When ordered to leave one man at the instrument, he himself remained.]
“‘Why, you’re no Catholic!’ I told him.
“‘No, Padre, I’m a Presbyterian,’ said he, ‘but they say confession is good for the soul. Believe me, mine feels none the worse now.’
“Once Father Brady received $2,000 from America to buy himself an automobile. He spent it on a club for the boys in his regiment. Later they found that the young priest could box and wrestle, and that he was the best referee that could be got for their fights. He built up trust and affection for himself during the weary months at the front.
“He has been day and night with his regiment during the long period when they were in the midst of things. For a month at a time he has snatched what sleep he could wherever he might throw himself down, under hedges, in roadside barns and even in shell holes. But he has always had a word of cheer for the men, and in the most terrible days he has made both living and dying more bearable for the 5th Marines.”
“BUCKEYES” OR “SPEARHEADS”
How the Ohio Doughboys Managed to Pick Up a New Nickname in France
The “Buckeye Division,” the 37th Ohio, got a new nickname for itself at Montfaucon in September, 1917. It was called “Spearheads” because of its ability to start a drive and carry on until its objectives were reached and captured. In a history of the Division Jack Koons (of the Cincinnati _Inquirer_), who was one of the Spearheads, tells in a breezily entertaining manner of the first experience of the boys going “over the top.”
Montfaucon had been held for over three years by the Germans, and was one of the so-called “invulnerables.”
The division historian says:
“Just before dusk on the night of September 25 the men began to enter the trenches. Blankets, overcoats, packs, and all unnecessary equipment were piled in large salvage heaps. Behind the lines, crouched beneath leafy screens of camouflage, was the artillery. At 10.25 o’clock the first gun spoke and all along the line great splotches of red seared the sky and the boom, screech, and crack of the gigantic pieces echoed and reëchoed through the hills. Far across the landscape, rising from the plain and standing out upon the horizon, was Montfaucon. The white walls of the city could be seen distinctly in the daytime. A church steeple, long ago deserted by worshipers, stood, a vacant monument to the ravages of the foe. In the advance against Montfaucon it was necessary to advance approximately twelve kilometers, through two dense woods, a marshy land, up a sharp slope, another plain, and then a sharp ascent into the town. It was later learned that a German Division Headquarters was located in the town.”
[Illustration:
© _Committee Public Information._
Machine Gun in Action]
AT THE ZERO HOUR
“Patrols advanced into No Man’s Land as the artillery cut away barbed-wire entanglements. The great guns rose into a rumble and death rode through the night on shells—bound toward Germany. At 2.25 o’clock in the morning of September 26 the barrage rose and thundered in volume. Like the roll of a mighty drum the sound could be heard for more than a hundred miles. At 5.05 o’clock the barrage rested on the German front lines—rested there for twenty-five minutes, cutting forests to the ground and demoralizing the enemy who fled into the deepest dugouts. At 5.30 o’clock, the zero hour, the boys from Ohio went over the top. Every county and village in the State was represented in that attack.
“On and on they went. Machine-gun nests, carefully camouflaged with the hellishness shown only by the German, were discovered and destroyed. Here and there in the woodland Hun snipers were busy—but not for long. Men fell by the wayside in agony, refused assistance from comrades, and urged the men to go forward. That was the true Ohio spirit. The spirit that drove the Germans back mile after mile, that resulted in the capture of not only Montfaucon, twenty-four hours later, but Cierges and Ivoiry. These towns had been held by the Germans for four long years and were wrested away and liberated by Ohioans in forty-eight hours. In the prisoner cage were huddled approximately 1,100 prisoners, many officers among them.
“Relief came to the tired, fighting crew on September 30. Back they came a laughing, joking, dirty, sleepy division of fighting men—no longer boys. Behind them, buried in the fields of eastern France, slept those sons of Ohio who had given their lives, their all.”
NOW THE FINAL EPISODES
“At 5.25 o’clock on the morning of October 31 ‘Fritzie’ on watch along the Lys River was rudely awakened from his dreams of German beer and sauerkraut to face a typical go-get-’em barrage. It was a typical American barrage. Five minutes of drumfire. Five minutes of hell, fire, and damnation. Five minutes of terror. Across the Lys River scurried the Ohioans. Paddling in the icy water on logs and planks, the ‘doughboys’ went over, carrying rifles and machine guns. Engineers began to build bridges. For a few minutes the Germans hesitated, but it didn’t take them long to decide. Back they went to previously arranged positions. Here they planned to stop the infantry, but they were mistaken. In twenty minutes the Ohioans had reached their first objective. Three hours later they passed their second objective and dug in for the night. As they dug in the Germans dug out and started for the Escaut River. On the second day members of the 37th Division drove on through Cruyshautem and Huysse to the banks of the Scheldt (Escaut) River. Here, under a veritable rain of shrapnel and machine-gun fire, they established and held the only bridgeheads to be erected over this river during the war.”
THEIR LAST OVER
“In this drive through the fertile fields and populated country which had grown dormant under the four years of iron-hand rule of the Hohenzollern, more than twenty towns were liberated. Hundreds of men, women, and children, laughing, crying, cheering, greeted the men as they advanced and entered towns. The yellow, red, and black flags of Belgium appeared mysteriously from hiding places and swayed in the breeze. Apples and bottles of wine were resurrected and slipped down the throats of the boys in olive drab. Up ahead at Heurne, near Audenarde, the Americans were raising Cain with the Germans, who were falling back along the river.
[Illustration:
_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._
Sergeants Eggers and Latham
_27th Division, 107th Infantry, Machine-Gun Company_
In action against the enemy near La Catelet, France, on September 29, 1918, Eggers and Latham separated from their platoon in a smoke barrage, and took shelter in a shell-hole within the enemy’s line where an American tank was disabled with three men inside; it was in a heavy fire from enemy guns; but the two sergeants rescued the men in the tank, one, an officer, was wounded, and conveyed them all to a nearby trench—returned to the abandoned tank which was in a violent rain of artillery fire—dismounted the Hotchkiss gun and returned with it to the trench, where the wounded men were and there effectively protected themselves from the enemy until night time, when they were able to take the wounded officer and tank crew to their own trenches.]
“On November 4, 1918, the Division was relieved by a French division and hiked thirty kilometers to Thielt, the largest town they had been in since leaving Montgomery, Ala. Here they brushed away the dirt and dust, waxed and grew fat until November 9. On that date the Division advanced again past Deynze to Synghem. With peace rumors flashing through the air, on the morning of November 10, the 37th Division went over the top again, crossing the Escaut River north of their first sector, and drove the Prussian Guards before them. It was here that news of the armistice arrived on the morning of November 11. Orders had been received to suspend hostilities at eleven o’clock. At ten o’clock the men were prepared to follow another barrage.
“Squatting in ‘funk’ holes, the men carelessly rolled cigarettes and waited for the hour to tick around. The announcement was made. ‘Hostilities had ceased.’ Calmly, confidently they clambered to the ground. Across the fields the Germans were moving away. There was no exchange of shots. Another cigarette. The war was over.”
CORPORAL HOLMES’S WAY
And a Right Good Way to Win the V.C. and the Hearts of Men
Fred Holmes, corporal in the Yorkshire Light Infantry, was awarded France’s chief military decoration, the _Médaille Militaire_, for gallantry during the fight on the Aisne. The official account of the exploit is quite brief: Holmes saw a platoon of French struggling against heavy odds, whereupon he dashed over the river for a machine gun, carried it to the platoon, and turned it on the enemy, with such effect that the German pressure was immediately relieved. However, when Corporal Holmes’ name is mentioned men usually think of the thrilling record at Le Cateau which brought him the V.C.
The Yorkshire Light Infantry were in the very thickest of the fighting at Mons. At the little colliery town at Warmb they received a severe shaking from the enemy, but gave as good as they got. It was after the engagement at this place that the brave fellows, footsore and tired, but still cheerful, tramped many weary miles to the famous battlefield of Le Cateau.
It is not necessary to describe the stand made there, but only to mention a few facts, as recorded by G. A. Leask in his _Heroes of the Great War_, without knowledge of which Holmes’s feat would be unintelligible.
Orders were given to entrench, and the men set to work with zest, glad of the change from the continuous retreating. The task accomplished, the regiment lay down in the trenches, while the booming of the German guns grew ever louder.
At dawn of August 26 there was suddenly a fierce bombardment from the enemy’s artillery. According to Holmes, “We could feel the breath from their guns. It was awful.” The Yorks stuck to their trenches, firing incessantly. They had been told that French troops would reinforce them, but as the day dragged on no French appeared. The British artillery kept up a hot fire from behind Holmes’s trench, which suffered the proverbial discomfort of the unlucky victim between two fires.
Late in the afternoon the Yorks received orders to retire; to have remained longer would have meant annihilation. The troops retired in small sections, Holmes remaining with five men to the last to cover the retreat of the others.
Holmes was actually the last man to leave the trench. No sooner had he climbed over the parapet than he met the full brunt of the enemy’s fire, which by this time had become fiercer than ever. He had seen many of his comrades drop to earth, but his heart was undaunted. Suddenly, when he had proceeded a few yards from the trench, he felt his boot clutched and heard his name called.
“For God’s sake, save me, Fred!” said a feeble voice.
[Illustration:
© _New York Herald._
Firing at Close Range
A British fieldpiece, in an exposed position and without cover of camouflage, firing point blank at the enemy.]
TAKES UP HIS FRIEND
Holmes paused. There at his feet, unable to move, was one of his chums, his knees shattered by shrapnel. Holmes had only a brief moment for reflection. To delay meant certain death. The problem was how best to help the poor fellow. To take him back into the trench was the quickest way out of the difficulty, and the easiest. Had he done this, the Germans would soon have discovered the wounded man, and in all probability would have put an end to him. Holmes quickly dismissed this plan and decided upon the nobler and more dangerous course. He determined to make a dash with the wounded man, trusting to Providence to reach his lines in safety.
He took the poor fellow in his stalwart arms, no light task, as his chum weighed twelve stone. Exerting his full strength, Holmes slung the man across his back. His only thought now was how to escape the bullets. All around him were the British dead and dying, heroes who had done their bit in the great battle.
A slight drizzling rain was falling; it made the ground slippery, so that when Holmes resumed his dangerous journey he had the utmost difficulty in avoiding treading on the men who were at his feet. With infinite care he succeeded in reaching more open ground.
After proceeding about one hundred yards he paused to take breath, for the burden on his back was a heavy load. At this stage his companion began to complain that Holmes’s equipment hurt him. Holmes laid the man down and removed the equipment. Knowing that he might have to make a long journey before he could reach assistance, he decided at the same time to drop his pack and rifle.
The next few hundred yards were the most difficult, for a hailstorm of bullets and shells raged around. Holmes could hear them whistling as he staggered painfully along. Had he not been possessed of a splendid constitution he must have given in, but he was determined at all costs not to give in. So he continued on and went doggedly forward, with clenched teeth and grim countenance.
On the way he came upon a wounded officer seated on the ground, his head between his hands. The officer looked up as he heard Holmes approach, and when he saw what the hero was doing suggested to him to leave the man with him and look after himself. This Holmes could not bring himself to do. Yard by yard he plodded steadily along. The poor fellow he was carrying began to lose heart. Holmes, although in terrible mental anguish himself, had to cheer him all the weary and dangerous way.
Slowly but surely he made progress. Half a mile, then a mile was passed. Holmes took another rest. Then on again, until he came to a church flying the Red Cross. The Germans were shelling this, so he picked up his chum once more and proceeded to another village, where at length he was able to deposit his charge in the careful keeping of the British Red Cross.
In all, Holmes carried his chum three miles, and every inch of the way was attended by danger from the enemy’s fire. It was certainly one of the most unselfish of the many courageous deeds which it is the purpose of this book to record.
In order to rejoin his battalion Holmes had now to make another dangerous journey across a fire-swept zone. His road lay past a hill, at the bottom of which was a British 18-pounder quick-firing gun. The horses were quietly grazing; the gunners and drivers lay around dead. Nearby was a trumpeter, a lad of seventeen, who was wounded. This lad shouted that the Germans were coming. Holmes looked round and saw that the enemy were surrounding the gun. Now, the true soldier has ever had a fondness for guns, and will die rather than let one fall into the enemy’s hands. It was in this spirit that Holmes now performed his second act of heroism.
Placing the trumpeter on one of the horses, he hitched the team to the gun, then thwacked them with a bayonet he had picked up, and swung into the saddle. The Germans were all around; some actually grasped at the reins. Holmes shouted to the horses, and they rushed madly forward. One after another he bayoneted the nearest Germans, while bullets whistled by his ears. The horse Holmes rode had its right ear shot off. For eight miles the ride went on until the rear of a British column was reached and all danger passed. The poor trumpeter had fallen off in the furious rush.
NOT DEAD BUT FIGHTING
Jim Gardener Quit the Trolley to Do His Bit and Did It Thoroughly
“When we went to war,” said James C. Gardener, “I figured it out this way: ‘I’m single and healthy and lots of other fellows are going over, and doggone me if I don’t go along and do my bit.’”