Part 16

“HELL SEEMED LET LOOSE”

“Now the wave was only 300 paces from our defenses—from their remnants—now only 200—100—irresistible, seething and roaring—50 paces!—‘Rapid fire!’ I roared, I shrieked, through the swelling cracking of the rifles. A hurricane swallowed my voice! Hell seemed let loose at a single blow, raging, storming, obliterating all understanding! Shoving and stamping, shrieking and shouting, cracking and rattling, hissing and screeching. A heavy veil hung over the wall. In this cloud pieces of earth, smoke spirals, black, red, white, yellow flashes, quivered and flared. Rattling, rapping, pounding, hammering, crackling. And the shots fell unceasingly. Clear and shrill the rifles, heavy and roaring the shells.

“And now came the gruesome, inconceivable horror! A wall of lead and iron suddenly hurled itself upon the attackers and the entanglements just in front of our trenches. A deafening hammering and clattering, cracking and pounding, rattling and crackling, beat everything to earth in ear-splitting, nerve-racking clamor. Our machine guns had flanked the blacks!

“Like an invisible hand they swept over the men and hurled them to earth, mangling and tearing them to pieces! As an autumn storm roars over the fields they swept in full flood over the ranks and snuffed out life! Like hail among the ears of grain, their missiles flew and rattled and broke down the enemy’s will! Singly, in files, in rows and heaps, the blacks fell. Next to each other, behind each other, on top of each other. Hurled in heaps, in mounds, in hillocks. Fresh masses charged and fell back, charged and stumbled, charged and fell. And there were always fresh forces! They seemed to spring from the very earth!

“We had losses; heavy losses. Here a man suddenly put his hand to his forehead and swayed. There another sprang gurgling to one side and fell, as flat and heavy as a block of stone. S-s-s-t—it went above our heads. The French were throwing shrapnel against our trenches, hissing, cracking, and in volleys.

“Hell still rages. The blacks get reinforcements. Finally the whites themselves charge, a jerky, rolling, bluish-green mass! In a powerful drive they get over the first rise in the ground. Now they have disappeared. Now they bob up, as out of a trap door. Here and there the ranks shoot forward in great leaps, the officers ahead of all, with their swords swinging high in the air, just as in the pictures! A splendid sight. Now they reach the bodies of the blacks. They halt for a few seconds, as if in horror, then on they roll over the dead, jumping, wallowing, dozens falling.”

“WE STILL STAND FIRMLY”

“Our nerves are strained to the snapping point, gasping, bleeding, feverish! We dare not waver. ‘Steady, men! Steady!’ We must calmly let them come as far as the wire entanglements, as the blacks did. The blacks? Where are they? Disappeared! Only they left their dead behind. The same thing will happen to the whites. We are waiting for them. The death-spewing machine guns are lying over there. They lie there and wait until their time comes. Steady, steady! They lie there and wait impatiently—but yet they are silent— Now!—No—I am raving! ‘Rapid fire!’—I hiss—My neighbor staggers—I only listen and wait, wait and listen, for only one thing. Something that has to come, must finally come, has to come! Great God, otherwise we are lost! Be calm, be calm! Now they will begin reaping! Now they must begin to rattle, our machine guns, our faithful rescuers—now—at once! What can they be waiting for? Why, they are there in the wires already. Hell and Satan! No man can endure that! They are hesitating too long—the enemy is almost in the trenches! Ah! At last! A rattling—a hoarse crackling—Heaven help us, what is that?

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Private M. B. Ellis

_1st Division, 28th Infantry, Company “C”_

Cited for extraordinary heroism in action. When south of Soissons, July 18-22, 1918, as a member of the 1st Division he showed unusual courage in carrying supplies and in attacking strong points at Breuil, Plaisy, and Berzy-le-Sec.]

“A devilish howling rises hoarsely from over there, lacerating, bestial, shrieking! The blacks, the devils! How did they reach our flank over there? That’s where our machine guns are. It cannot be. There! Hell! They are carrying hand grenades, are in their rear! Heaven help us! And the whites! They are at our breastworks. Already they are in the trenches, fighting like wild beasts. Horror makes them crazy. Help is coming to us from the left. The second company has fallen upon their flank. The French run like hunted animals. A shell bursts in their midst, catches twenty or thirty of them and throws them in the air like toys. They run still further, through the air, bowling along on their heads, gruesomely—and fall in heaps to the ground. Heads, legs, twitching bodies! The French run until back of the bodies. The rest of them are cut to pieces, or made prisoners. But now our men must come back.

“We struggle for breath. Wounded men writhe around and moan and groan heavily. The trench is bathed in blood. Far more than half of the company has been slain. We are only a handful. I assemble the valiant men and distribute them among the trenches. They stand resolutely, breathing hard and gasping.

“A furious rattling and buzzing and hissing calls us again to our posts. They are charging anew. Now the whites again, in front, on the side. They are on our flank! Back of them the blacks in frightful clusters. ‘Bring the sandbags!’ The sandbags fly from hand to hand. A wall rises in the midst of the trench. The other half was overrun long ago and is a knot of struggling men. A piece of wood hits me on the shoulder—crack—I cry out! A shot lands in the midst of our ammunition—it was our last. This way with the hand grenades! We have got to smoke them out!

“A roaring hurrah! Heaven help us, aid is at hand! The Fourth, and the Fifth—I know the men—and some of the First, too—all mixed up—dispersed troops rallied again. Now, up and at them! The French defend themselves furiously. They hold the trench. The dead are heaped up before their ramparts—but keep it up! A wild passion takes possession of me. My revolver and my dagger have been lost in the fighting. I seize a bottle. Hell sends it to me at the right moment. Like an animal mad with hate I rush forward. My bottle lands, crashing and splintering, on a wooly skull, with a distorted grimace. A hot shock rushes through my shoulder—a shock—a wrench—I grasp at the air—grasp something convulsively—throw myself in the air—and fall in a heap. A confused mist dances before my eyes.”

On November 11, 1918. the American Army had 80 fully equipped hospitals in the United States with a capacity of 120,000 patients.

There were 104 base hospitals and 31 evacuation hospitals in the American Expeditionary Force, and one evacuation hospital in Siberia.

Army hospitals in the United States cared for 1,407,191 patients during the war; those with the American Expeditionary Force cared for 755,354—a total of 2,162,545.

Up to the end of July about 15 per cent, of the entire civilian medical profession of the United States went into active duty as medical officers of the army.

HUBBELL BAGGED ’EM

A Lone Corporal Captures 31 of the Enemy in a Morning Frolic

One of the most spectacular of the valorous deeds in the Champagne engagement was the single-handed performance of Corporal Fred D. Hubbell, a Marine, from Toledo, Ohio. He captured and brought in for delivery nine German officers and twenty-two privates as the result of a morning’s pastime. It was during the attack on Blanc Mont, and in some way Hubbell got separated from his company, and in casting about to recover ground he saw the head of a German soldier pop from a dugout entrance and promptly duck down again. Hubbell felt a keen interest and determined to explore. But let him tell his own story, as he did in an interview reproduced by the _Marine’s Magazine_.

“It was in the morning that the —th Company went forward and had almost obtained their objective when they ran into a series of dugouts occupied by German artillery officers. A few prisoners were taken from one of the dugouts and one of them said that there were no more there. About half an hour later, the company having been under machine-gun fire from our left, I happened to be crouching alone behind the entrance to a dugout waiting for a counter-attack that was reported to be coming, when I saw a Heinie stick his head out of a dugout.

“I immediately told him to put up his hands, but he jumped back down the doorway and I heard him speak a few words of English and so called to him to come out, which he did. He said that there were at least thirty men in the dugout beside himself, whom he thought would surrender also, and a couple of officers. I told him that there were plenty of Americans around and that they might as well surrender because there was no chance for them to get away, and for them to leave their firearms all in the dugout and come out at once and they would not be harmed. He returned to the dugout and said he would go down and get them to come out. He went down but did not return.

“After a considerable length of time I yelled down and threatened to throw a hand grenade and waited for them to come up but none came. As there were several entrances to the series of dugouts I was afraid that they would catch me from behind, so I moved off to the left under some shelter where I could get a different view of the entrance and I had only been there a short time when another Heinie stuck his head up and I yelled at him, thinking they were all coming out. After waiting several minutes I became leary that I would be caught from behind and started for help.

“While on the way I passed another entrance to the series of dugouts and came upon one of the officers with his pistol in his hand evidently coming out looking for me. I yelled at him to throw up his hands, but he did not, instead, fell backward down the stairs in his haste to get away. Then I ran to the dugout entrance with a grenade in my hand and ordered them to come out or I would throw it down, and they came up at once. The German private who spoke English, whom I first caught showing his head out of the doorway, came up and stood by and passed on the orders to the officers and men to leave their firearms below and hold up their hands. Then they all filed out and gave themselves up. There was one major, one captain and seven lieutenants and twenty-two men in the party.

“The private told me on the way to the rear that when he told the officers there was only one American outside they were furious and refused to surrender, and therefore would not come up, and ordered the private to sneak out of one of the dugouts and shoot me, but the private refused. All the privates were willing to give up, but the officers were not so anxious. They evidently had been caught in their dugout by the barrage and could not get away without a great deal of risk.”

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Corporal Sidney E. Manning

_42nd Division, 167th Infantry, Company “G”_

While in charge of an automatic rifle squad near Croix Rouge Farm, northeast of Château-Thierry, July 27, 1918, he was wounded nine times before he rejoined his platoon. He prevented the enemy from closing in and continued to advance in the face of the most terrific fire by enemy machine guns.]

OTHER DOUGHTY CHAPS

But there were numerous single-handed exploits in that thrilling Champagne campaign, and among them are the following instances of the courage and initiative that characterized the American boys on the front.

Private John J. Kelley, of Chicago, Illinois, during the same attack as that in which Hubbell took part, crossed through the barrage of his own artillery, killed the operator of a machine gun which was firing into his line, wounded another with his pistol and took eight prisoners. Private Samuel S. Simmons, of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, with Private Lambert Bos, of Granite, Idaho, and Private Joe N. Viera, of New Bedford, Massachusetts, volunteered and attacked a machine-gun nest in advance of their front line. They killed the crew, then descended into an enemy dugout and captured forty prisoners.

Another instance is that of Corporal Horace P. Frye, of San Francisco, California. The position of his company on the hill east of St. Etienne was being continually swept by enemy machine-gun fire at apparently close range. Acting entirely upon his own initiative he determined to locate the source of the enemy fire and accordingly crawled forward unnoticed through 150 yards of open field, located the enemy guns and after throwing several hand grenades into their position he charged them and captured two machine guns and eleven men, with which he returned to his own lines through machine-gun fire.

WAS HE A COWARD?

The Singular Confessions of a Hollander Who Gave His Life for France

What is a coward? Is there any such thing as absolute bravery or absolute cowardice? When we characterize a particular person as a coward for failing to do, or refraining from doing, some specific thing are we quite sure that in the circumstances we would have acted differently? These are questions that suggest themselves when one reads what purport to be excerpts from the diary and letters of a confessed—or rather self-stigmatized coward, one Jan R——, a Hollander. He had lived in France some years, and soon after the outbreak of war became a naturalized citizen in order that he might join the French Army as a volunteer—not because he wanted to, but because he was ashamed to stay out.

The _Atlantic Monthly_ published all that was suitable of the available material in a long and intensely interesting article which is a curious record of psychological study and introspection. It is highly probable that the experience was by no means unique. A candid statement by the most daring of our heroes possibly would contain the admission that there were moments when the reflections of the Hollander were similar to his own.

Jan R—— tells of morning awakenings from troubled sleep with “the oppression that something horrible was about to enter into his existence.” He felt a pang in his breast that he “should have to take part in the fighting. There was no escape.” He suffered a fear, a shifting fear that he “could sometimes suppress but never drive out.” The life in the training camp somewhat eased his emotions as he mingled with so many others, and at times he even got “flickerings of a desire to fight,” but it was not the real thing, he assumed; it was “more in the nature of artistic imagination.” In the distance was the rumbling and thudding of heavy gun fire, and as he heard it he felt “a strange respect and admiration, mingled with fear for the men in the first line of trenches.”

[Illustration:

© _Kadel & Herbert._

American and French Aviation Officers at an American Hangar

American aviators were among the first from the United States to do their part in the great war. There were a great many things that the French could tell our boys, and the men of the two countries coöperated in this as well as many other branches of the service.]

“Before long our turn for the trenches will come. Most of the fellows are wishing for the time to come. At least that is what they say. I am dreading it. I am in earnest when I say that my life is of little value, even to myself. Yet I fear the trenches. Yesterday evening transports of wounded soldiers came past us repeatedly. Hearing the wailing and the groaning, seeing all the bloodiness made me sick.... The fear of the front suddenly overtook me. I violently reproached myself for having been so stupid as to enlist. There I was in the midst of this insane murder! And by my own free will!”

HE GOES TO THE FRONT

Finally his turn came for the front. One of his comrades was a youth named Gaston.

“The dear boy has become very much attached to me. He believes that I am a strong support for him! Must I weep at this, or laugh? Gaston has told me in great confidence that he gets occasional attacks of cowardice. And he asked me whether I did not despise him. He is terribly afraid that the fellows will notice it, but he did not mind confiding in me. Why in me? He says it is because he admires my imperturbable calmness so much. What could I reply? It seemed best not to tell him how things stood with me. Apart from the difficulties such a confession would cause me, I concluded that it would also be better for him to believe in my courage.”

THE BOY REGARDED HIM AS A HERO

“A hero! But there are real heroes and make-believe heroes; and they are not always easily distinguishable. I do not hide from myself that I belong to the make-believes. And yet, it is remarkable that I did not find the second week at the front as terrible as the first. It is not as bad there as it seems. When once you get accustomed to the idea that you may be dead in a day, or in an hour, or in a minute, and when you are clear as to your future, your mood is relieved from constant depression. Involuntarily you become kind and helpful to those about you, you do not get vexed over trifles, you are ready to make all sorts of sacrifices. Of course, if, in the midst of such a condition, a grenade suddenly drops into your trench, if you see three or four of your comrades getting killed, your misery returns, no matter how good an outward appearance you may keep up. At least, for a while. But then again the thought comes that getting wounded means rest and safety, and good care. And death? that is still less terrible. One boasts of reaching one’s destination along the shortest road! Is not death every one’s final destination?...

“It is peculiar that one can get so accustomed to danger.

“I have tried to account for it, and it appears to be like this: at first our thoughts are almost incessantly occupied with the frightful things that are about to happen. Then moments come—only a single one at first—in which our thoughts wander away, involuntarily, and dwell on something else. Suddenly fear returns. But the periods of repose become more frequent and of longer duration. And when they are disturbed by fear the painful shock becomes gradually less violent. Neither does fear itself ache so hard. And then the time approaches when one is conscious of fear only on occasions when there is a violent fire, or when men fall. That is my present condition. There seems to be a further stage in which one is rid of fear for good. So far I shall not get.”

One day he got a wound in the hip and was sent to the hospital. The nurses have gotten the idea that he is a hero. He accounts for it thus:

“A friend of Gaston’s is a distant cousin of one of the nurses. Gaston inquired after me, and apparently used that occasion to do a good deal of boasting. At any rate, some greatly embellished stories of my _sangfroid_ have been going the rounds here. Without having to lie, I could say that all this was invented, or at least highly exaggerated. The consequence was that I was looked upon, not only as a hero, but as a giant of modesty as well. It is very annoying. However, to be honest, I must confess that now and then this undeserved praise gives me a feeling of satisfaction; I have always known that I was weak-minded.”

HE IS PROMOTED

“Back to the trenches and made a Corporal. A small thing, eh? Just the same, it made me happy. I was touched by the friendly spirit of the fellows. Gaston shook my hand at least six times, muttering, ‘Ah, _mon vieux_, _mon vieux_, how I have missed you!’ This does one good. And I had better not get lost in the question as to how much of all this attachment I deserve.”

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant Charles S. Hoover

_32nd Division, 158th Field Artillery Brigade_

During the offensive action near Brabant-sur-Meuse, Sergeant Hoover was in charge of two trench mortars. Wounded by shrapnel and knocked down by the explosion of bombs, he fired the one mortar that was undamaged until it was destroyed.]

Finally comes the touchstone of character. Jan R—— wrote:

“In the early morning of the 13th the cannonading was resumed, and again we had hours of exhausting expectation. Toward noon we noticed that an unusual event was coming. The captain shouted something. I could not understand a word. Gaston understood: the wire entanglements in front of the first line of trenches had been shot to pieces. We had to hold ourselves ready. There was incessant telephoning.

“‘They are coming!’ some one yelled.

“I could not restrain myself any longer and looked over the edge of the trench.

“They were coming indeed; I saw them. In broad, irregular rows they were running toward us. Straight toward me, it seemed. And behind them, there came others, and still others, evermore. The German guns were silent now. And then suddenly ours began to roar with redoubled vigor.

“Holes, narrow clefts, and fissures were torn in the massive gray billows that came rolling toward us.

“‘Not a single one will get through!’ I heard some one shout.

“But behind the first wave came a second one, and a third one behind that. I saw them approach, losing in vigor, yet remaining strong.

“We were ready. In that moment I felt no fear! Like the others, I was burning to fly out of the trenches. Suddenly a strange silence came, and then the call: ‘_Attaquez! Attaquez!_’

“We clambered up, jumped over the edge of the trench, and ran forward. In front, to the left, to the right, everywhere there were French soldiers, storming forward.

“I saw the Germans coming nearer, in their dirty gray uniforms, in rows, in heaps, and in smaller groups, some even singly. I saw the glistening and flickering of their bayonets. I heard them yell and shout. My heart thumped so hard that I had difficulty in breathing. Around me our men were shouting loudly. I was shouting too, and felt relieved when I heard my own voice, however indistinctly. Now and then a rifle-shot could be heard. We were running fast. ‘_En avant! En avant!_’

“Suddenly I became aware of a desire to hold back a little, and thereby to postpone, if only for a single second, the terrible moment of the clash. I happened to be pushed by a comrade behind me and I flew forward again.

“At last we had reached the Germans. Six steps in front of me I saw Gaston bayoneting an officer. Not a second later the poor chap fell himself—hit by a rifle shot, as I learned later.”

“BRAVO, CAPORAL”