Part 18

“My boys had a sublime faith that they would win. The idea of defeat never entered their heads. No private or officer had any doubt about our ability to break through. One day I found a number of the men buying German money that had been taken from the dead. I asked why they wanted it, and they answered, ‘We’ll be needin’ this here money soon.’ In five months they were spending it in the Rhine towns and talking Harlem German with a Yiddish accent. They were the advance guard of the Allied armies. The French gave them the honor of carrying the Stars and Stripes to the Rhine. And I was the first man to scoop water from the river. Can you beat that for Allied generosity?

“The boys all had a keen sense of humor. When we docked at Hoboken they were eager to get ashore. One of them said to me: ‘Colonel, the Generals is goin’ over the gangplank and the rats is goin’ over the hawsers. We hope you’ll tell us when it’s time for the regiment to go ashore!’

“I remember one little negro on the other side who was carrying shells from an ammunition-dump to a train. He was so loaded down with 3-inch shells that he was sunk ankle-deep in the mud. He said to his officer, ‘How you got my name on dat sheet?’

“‘Your name is Simpson,’ replied the officer.

“‘Yas, sir, dass right; only I thought maybe you had “Sampson” by mistake.’”

He jested about them freely, did Colonel Hayward, but the jests were of a kind to betray the intense pride he felt in the soldierly character and spirited daring of the men under him. The Hun learned to regard with wholesome fear a charge of Hayward’s “bellhops and waiters,” as he styled them.

At the beginning of the war there were only 750 officers, 393 nurses, and 3,619 enlisted men belonging to the Medical Department of the American Army. In November, 1918, the corresponding figures were 39,363 officers, 21,344 nurses, and 245,652 enlisted men.

In the 19 months elapsing from the declaration of the war to the signing of the armistice the American Army created an embarkation service which succeeded in shipping overseas 2,075,834 men, and 5,153,000 tons of cargo.

During the whole period of active hostilities the American Army lost at sea only 200,000 deadweight tons of transports. Of this total, 142,000 tons were sunk by torpedoes. No American transport was lost on its eastward voyage.

GOOD OLD POTTS

One of the Men the British Took to Gallipoli to Show Their Grit

Private Frederick Potts did a V. C. bit at Gallipoli. An attack was being made on a very strongly fortified Turkish position, a sector stretching from Hill 70 to Hill 112. Potts was in the advance on Hill 70. It was a terrible day. The heat was intense. The country was uncommonly difficult, largely sand and scrub, the scrub being so parched that it took fire in many places from the shell fire, and in crossing these patches some of the men who fell wounded were burned to death. Potts’ section was ascending Hill 70 in short spurts, making occasional halts. After taking shelter in a little gulley, it was ordered to charge. Potts rushed forward with his comrades; but he had not gone more than twenty yards when he was shot down, a bullet having entered the left thigh. Potts was then about a quarter of a mile from the top of the hill. He was lucky enough to be lying in a little thicket formed of the scrub, and this gave him some sort of shelter and hid him from view. Not long after he fell there crawled towards him a fellow-townsman, who was badly wounded. Potts recognized him.

“Is that you, Andrews?” he said.

“Yes,” came the feeble answer.

“I’m jolly pleased you’ve come,” said Potts.

Then Andrews dragged himself as close as he could get—he had been shot through the groin—and the two lay perfectly still for some minutes fully expecting that the Turks would find and kill them.

Very soon a third trooper who had been wounded made his way to the thicket. With great difficulty, room was found for him. Andrews had hardly moved his position so that the newcomer could be accommodated when a bullet mortally wounded the stranger. He cried piteously for water, but there was not a drop to be had, and the three wounded soldiers endured the agonies of thirst that whole afternoon of intense heat. The night came bitterly cold, increasing the suffering of the three. Moreover, a full moon made the night as clear as day, and every movement in the thicket was followed by a bullet from the Turks. A bullet grazed Potts’ left ear as he lay flat on the ground, face down. The morning brought death to the stranger. He had kept on murmuring wearily, “Water! Water!”

The whole of the next day the two survivors lay hidden in the hot scrub, not daring to move, tortured by thirst, suffering from their wounds, and trying to get relief by sucking bits of stalks which they managed to pick from the shrubs. That night, as the only hope of salvation was to get away, they began to crawl off, Potts leading and Andrews following. They lay perfectly flat, and literally wriggled. From six at night—when darkness fell—till three in the morning they dragged themselves, dust-choked, a distance of about three hundred yards—as Potts calculated afterwards, thirty-three yards an hour. A bit of burnt scrub near at hand afforded slight protection; this was taken, and the troopers tried to sleep, but the extreme cold made rest impossible. When daylight came, some water was obtainable, but only by crawling to men who had been killed and whose bottles could be reached. This dreadful day passed, Potts doing his best to stanch his comrade’s bleeding wounds. The third night on the hill came.

A SHOVEL TO THE RESCUE

The two men tried once more to get away and reach the British lines. Potts attempted to carry Andrews, but he was too weak and the effort failed. Then, says the London _Times_, when hope itself seemed to be abandoned, an inspiration came, suggested by an ordinary entrenching shovel, one of many which were lying on the hill. Potts wriggled to the shovel, managed to support Andrews on it, stood up, and dragged desperately—all the more so because as soon as he rose the Turks opened fire. Famished and exhausted, he could not do more than pull his burden over the rough ground for about six yards; then he collapsed. Andrews, too, had suffered severely under the strain. But the next night Potts resumed his forlorn hope. He had his comrade on the shovel, lying flat; he supported him as best he could, and Andrews held grimly on to his rescuer’s wrists. For more than three hours, in the bright moonlight, down the scrub-infested, stony, dusty hillside, Private Potts dragged his helpless burden on the shovel; then came a sentry’s challenge, “Halt!” Inexpressibly joyful was the sound of the British voice to the two worn-out troopers; grimly humorous was the sentry’s question:

“What are you doing? Are you burying the dead?”

Potts explained: “I have a chap here wounded, and I’ve dragged him down the hill on a shovel. Could you not give me a hand?”

Give a hand! Many a willing hand was given that night at the foot of that fatal hill, the scene of much tragedy, yet relieved by the bravery and resource of the twenty-two year old trooper, who might easily have saved himself by abandoning his wounded fellow; but he was not of that breed.

IT WAS UP TO BILL

And in Spite of Regulations and Red Tape the Old Sergeant Got to France and Into the Front Lines

Let no one dare deny the heroism of Bill Davidson. His name may not be found among those cited for distinguished service, but that is because distinguished services are not enumerated in the military code. If there is an instance of more determined valor or of more successful triumph over the impossible it does not appear in the chronicles. Nevertheless it is necessary to introduce Bill Davidson, and the greatest distinction that can be conferred upon him in the estimation of Bill Davidson himself is to say he was orderly to Lieutenant Colonel John C. Greenway, First Division, A. E. F. He hailed from out Arizona way. In the days when the United States was engaged with Spain in the discussion of matters more or less serious, Jack Greenway was a Captain of Rough Riders, and Bill was his Sergeant, and by the testimony of that Captain, now Lieutenant-Colonel, Bill was the best first Sergeant in Cuba. There Bill took into his spiritual system an affection of devotion to Greenway that time and circumstances can never diminish.

Therefore, when the United States declared war against Germany, Bill, who was in the employ of the New Cornelia at Ajo, straightway thought of Jack Greenway. He said to himself, “All hell can’t keep Jack Greenway from going to the front, and it’s me for Jack Greenway.” He foresaw a great experience “over there,” the doing of extraordinary things, and he wanted to be with Greenway in the performance.

Greenway, of course, tendered his services to the Government at once and was given a commission as Major of Engineers. Now let the Bisbee _Review_ continue the story as it got it direct from Colonel Greenway in Bisbee town.

One day Bill walked into the Captain’s office in Warren just as he was preparing to close his desk and quit the office.

“Well, Captain, I’ve quit over yonder,” Bill remarked, after the salutations.

“What did you quit for, Bill?”

“I’m going into the army with you.”

“Have you enlisted?”

“Hell, no. I’m no fool. If I enlisted over here I might not go to France for months, perhaps not at all. I’m going with you, and shall enlist in your regiment after I get to France,” was the way Bill figured it out.

[Illustration:

_Courtesy of Munseys._

Lieutenant Arthur McKeogh

He brought relief to a battalion by making a daring journey through the German lines with two other men. On the way to the American lines he killed one German officer, fell into a trench with two others and killed them, and was under fire all the time.]

Greenway couldn’t make Bill see the futility of the idea of getting over to France without enlisting in the service, so there was nothing to do but let Bill come along. They took the train together at Osborn, Bill carrying his bed rolled up in a slicker, and together they made the trip to New York.

Bill met some of his old comrades of the Cuban campaign and confided to them his plans. They told him how impossible it was, and that he could not even get on the dock at Hoboken without a pass. Bill’s urbane confidence may have been a little shaken but not his determination. He went to Washington to see Senator Ashurst, and the Senator tried to get Bill a passport but without success, as there was no way for the War Department to act in the circumstances. Bill came back to New York with more determination than ever.

“I got my sailing orders,” said Greenway, “and with my sister, sister-in-law and Bill went to the Hoboken pier and found that I was to sail on the _Agamemnon_, which was formerly the German steamship _Kaiser Wilhelm II_. I went aboard and found that I had a large and comfortable stateroom and came ashore and told Bill.

“Bill declared that he was going to get aboard of that boat, although I pointed out the guards to him and told him how impossible it was. Bill was not disconcerted in the least. After sizing up the situation to his own satisfaction he said:

“‘Just you get somebody to talk to that guard over there to distract his attention while you are going through the gate.’

“I got an officer friend of mine to talk to the guard, and Bill picked up my bags and followed me. To my surprise he got through the gate without being seen by the guard, and we proceeded to the gangplank. There we ran into a snag. The captain called out to stop that civilian, and Bill was held up. It was only momentarily, however. I stepped up and told the captain that he was a friend of mine, carrying my bags aboard for me, and the captain permitted him to pass.

“When Bill got into that stateroom of mine he was the happiest man I ever saw. ‘If you get me off this boat they will have to throw me and hog-tie me and carry me off,’ was the way Bill put it as he sank into a chair and wiped his forehead.

“We sailed that night at high tide, and Bill stayed secreted in my room. I would smuggle food from the dining-room to him, but after two days of this Bill rebelled at having to live on cold food and declared that he intended having regular meals like the others on board. I told him that if he were discovered the chances were that he would find himself in the brig, but he said he would risk it, and out of my stateroom he went.

ON THE WAY TO FRANCE

“Bill had just one chance. There were 150 civilians on board, going over for employment on government work in France. It was possible, but not at all probable, for Bill to mingle with them and get by. I went on to dinner in the first cabin, and after dinner concluded that I would look about for Bill. I expected to find him in the brig, but he was not there. I made my way to the dining-saloon where the civilian passengers had their meals and looked in.

“At the extreme end of a very long table I saw Bill. He was engrossed in a menu and was ordering the most delectable things to be found on it. Everybody on the vessel got to know Bill and he was in his element. He needed no further guidance by me while on board. Arguments were referred to Bill for settlement and he was looked to among the civilian passengers as a general source of information, being consulted as to when we would arrive in the submarine zone, when we would land, and about everything else that came up.

“How to get Bill ashore at Brest was a problem that loomed large before me, but it did not worry Bill to any great extent. Power Conway was on board and I enlisted his services, and between us we managed to smuggle Bill aboard the tug and get him ashore. Now the question was to get Bill to Paris, and in this I was assisted by General Harbord, U. S. M. C.

BILL ACCEPTED FOR SERVICE

“We arrived in Paris, where I was kept for several weeks at headquarters. One night I returned home in Paris and informed Bill that I had been assigned to the First Division and ordered up to the front. Bill was delighted and ready to put off at once, and, although it seemed impossible to me, it never feazed him.

“It never occurred to Bill that he was a civilian in France, with no military connection whatever, and that it would be impossible for a civilian to accompany me to the front. In this dilemma I placed the situation before Colonel Malin Craig. He is a general now, and it made a strong appeal to him. He wanted to make Bill a captain of military police, but Bill would have none of that. He wanted to get to the front, and to the front we started.

“Together we arrived within seven miles of the front line before Bill was finally held up. He had come 7,000 miles on his own responsibility, without one line of authority from any one, and was now actually at the front and in the face of the enemy, and was still a civilian. And it was there in the Toul sector that Bill enlisted and became officially what he had been at heart and in fact for many weeks—one of the American Expeditionary Force.

“From then on Bill and I were together without danger of being separated by army regulations. He became my orderly and remained so throughout. The only time we were separated was when Bill was in the hospital recovering from shell-wounds. We came back together and Bill went with me to Hot Springs, Ark., where we both took baths. We separated at Fort Worth, Bill going on to Ajo by another route, while I came on to Bisbee.”

And that is the story of Bill Davidson, whose devotion to his chief is unlimited. It causes him to “do the impossible” and to override all of the regulations of the War Department. It is a story in the telling of which Colonel Greenway takes the greatest pride and in which a spirit of affection is dominant.

Bill quit his job to go to war with Jack Greenway, and he did.

The original Selective Service Law of May 18, 1917, with its subsequent amendments, mobilized the man-power of the United States, between the ages of 18 and 45 inclusive. Under the original and later acts, approximately 23,709,000 men were registered and slightly over 2,800,000 were inducted into the military service.

THE RENDEZVOUS

One of America’s Young Poets Keeps a Tryst While Fighting for France

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

* * * * *

And I to my pledged word am true— I shall not fail that rendezvous.

—_Alan Seeger._

The poem from which the above opening and closing lines are taken was read for the first time by the majority of those who knew it after the poet had kept the rendezvous—only a little late of the appointed time, like a traveler who has missed a train.

Alan Seeger loved France, and when he saw her in peril and his own America not likely to be brought into the conflict he went to France as a volunteer. Being an alien he was not eligible to the regular army, but the Foreign Legion welcomed him to fight for France under its flag. Among the men of the Legion was Rif Bear, a brilliant and traveled young Egyptian, and he became the close, the intimate friend of the poet with whom he found himself entirely in sympathy.

Seeger was under fire in a series of engagements without suffering hurt, but he seems to have foreboded the end that came in the Champagne campaign. He was a fatalist as well as a dreamer—and there are those who believe that we bring to ourselves the fruit of our thoughts.

After Seeger’s death Rif Bear wrote the facts and an appreciation in a personal letter to a lady in Boston. The letter was in French, but a translation of it has been published. There is a melancholy interest in the circumstances that a clerical error in the date of a temporary leave of absence cheated Seeger of one of the chief joys that could have come to him as a poet. The letter tells us that he ran one day to his friend in the triumph of happiness to show him a telegram which asked him to compose a poem to be read in public at a French-American demonstration—the memorial day ceremony. He was to have 48 hours leave in which to write the poem and attend the ceremony. But the promised leave did not come.

[Illustration:

_Courtesy of Century Company._

Alan Seeger

The young and gifted American poet who fought in the Foreign Legion. He was killed in action in the Champagne campaign.]

“The eve of the ceremony arrived—I can not recall the date—but no leave came. We were in the trenches and chance had placed me near Seeger in _petit poste_ (the small outlook-post, some yards in advance of the first line trench). He confessed that he had lost all hope of going, and I tried to find all sorts of arguments to encourage him, that his leave might come at dawn, and that by taking the train at Ressons at 7 a. m. he could still reach Paris by noon and would have plenty of time, as the ceremony was at two.

“The morning came, and instead of bringing the much-desired permission to leave, it brought a terrible downpour of rain, and the day passed sadly. He found consolation in the thought that it was only a postponement and that July 4 would soon arrive, when the Americans with the Foreign Legion might hope for forty-eight hours’ leave, as last year.”

The explanation came later. It was a clerical error that cheated him; the forty-eight hours’ leave granted for the event was made out for June 30, instead of for May 30. Continuing the letter:

A MARCHING ORDEAL

“On June 21, we left the sector of the Thiescourt Woods for an unknown destination, which proved to be the Somme. We took the train at Estrées St. Denis, and on June 22 about 10 a. m. reached Boves. Under a blazing sun, in heat that seemed to have escaped from the furnace of hell, we started for Bayonviller. We had undergone no such march since the war began.

“Weighed down by their sacks, prostrated by the heat, men fell by hundreds along the road. Hardly twenty of the two hundred forming the company arrived without having left the column. Seeger was one of these few. He told me afterward of the terrible effort that he had to make not to give up. At every halt he drank a drop of _tafia_ (rum and coffee) to ‘give himself heart,’ and when he reached the end of the march he was worn out, but proud—he had not left the ranks.

“We passed the eight days of repose at Bayonviller, almost always together, seeking the greatest possible enjoyment in our life at the moment and making dreams for the future after the war. Alan confided to me that ‘after the war’ caused him fear—that he could not tell what destiny reserved for him, but that if the fates smiled on him it was toward the Orient that he would make. He loved the Orient—Constantinople, Cairo, Damascus, Beirut had a powerful fascination for him; their names would plunge him into profound reverie.

“‘It is in the mysterious frame of the Orient,’ he used to say, ‘in its dazzling light, in its blue, blue nights, among the perfumes of incense and hashish, that I would live, love, and die.’

“And then the talk would turn again on the war and he would say: ‘My only wish now is to make a bayonet charge. After that I shall see. Death may surprise me, but it shall not frighten me. It is my destiny. “_Mektoub_”’ (it is written). He was a real fatalist and drew courage and resignation from his fatalism.

“During the night of June 30-July 1 we left Bayonviller to move nearer the firing-line. We went to Proyart as reserves.

“At 8 o’clock on the morning of July 1 there was roll-call for the day’s orders and we were told that the general offensive would begin at nine without us, as we were in reserve, and that we would be notified of the day and hour that we were to go into action.