Part 4
It was. To begin with, it had been a tangled, rocky wood of a few kilometres, the shooting-preserve of a French family in happier days. Even now you could see where a sort of hunting-lodge had been; they said some Marines had crawled in and bombed a Boche headquarters out of it. The first of June it was rather a pretty place, with great trees and flowery underbrush, all green and new in the full tide of spring. It was a place of no particular military importance other than local. But the chance of war made it a symbol. The German rolled down to it like a flood, driving before him forlorn fragments of wrecked French divisions, all the way from the Chemin des Dames. It was the spearhead of his last great thrust on Paris. The Americans of the 2d Division were new troops, untried in this war, regarded with uneasy hopefulness by the Allies. Their successes came when the Allies very greatly needed a success; for not since 1914 had the Boche appeared so terrible as in this, the spring of 1918. For a space the world watched the Bois de Belleau uneasily, and then with pride and an awakened hope. Men saw in it, foreshadowed, Soissons, and the 8th of August, that Ludendorf was to call “the black day of the war,” and an event in a car on a railroad siding, in the misty November forest of Senlis.
But the men who fought here saw none of these things. Good German troops, with every device of engineering skill, and all their cunning gained in war, poured into the wood. Battalions of Marines threw themselves against it. Day and night for nearly a month men fought in its corpse-choked thickets, killing with bayonet and bomb and machine-gun. It was gassed and shelled and shot into the semblance of nothing earthly. The great trees were all down; the leaves were blasted off, or hung sere and blackened. It was pockmarked with shell craters and shallow dugouts and hasty trenches. It was strewn with all the débris of war, Mauser rifles and Springfields, helmets, German and American, unexploded grenades, letters, knapsacks, packs, blankets, boots; a year later, it is said, they were still finding unburied dead in the depths of it. Finally it was taken, by inches.
[Illustration:
Men fought in its corpse-choked thickets.... ]
Now the battalion turned its backs to the tangle and watched with languid interest the shrapnel that one of the batteries of our 15th Field was showering on the ruined airdrome in front of Torcy. The white puff-balls were tinged pink by the setting sun, and jets of reddish dust went up from the ground under the bursts. A Boche battery was replying, and heavy shells rumbled far above, searching transport lines. Those nights, up in northern France, came late and went early. A man could sit on the edge of his hole, prairie-dog fashion, and write a letter at 10.30; it was not safe to move in the open until after 11.00; it was nearly midnight when the relieving troops came in. The lieutenant’s opposite number reported, chap he hadn’t seen since Quantico, back in another lifetime.—“Well, here we are! Out you go—” “I say, is it you, Bob? Heard you were killed—” “Oh, not at all—heard the same thing about you—not strange; lot of serious accidents have happened around here—” “Well, good luck—” “Sure—bon chance, eh?—so-long——”
[Illustration:
Bringing in German prisoners at St. Mihiel.
Drawn on the field by Captain Thomason. ]
[Illustration:
Ration parties ... always sweated mightily and anticipated exciting incidents.... ]
The platoon left the wood and angled down to the Torcy road. A string of shells howled overhead, 88s by the sound of them, and broke on the road. The lieutenant halted and watched: “Dam’ unusual, shellin’ here this time of night—must know it’s a relief—” It was the conviction of all that the Boche knew everything, down to the movements of the lowest corporal.—“I think we’ll cut a corner, and take a chance of gettin’ through the line over yonder—” He led away from the road, through the trampled wheat to his right, away from the shelling. This was really No Man’s Land, for the line curved back from the wood, and thrust out again along the line of another crest, also wooded. Such intervals were watched by day and patrolled by night, and ration parties, carrying details, and other wretches who had to traverse them always sweated mightily and anticipated exciting incidents. It was full of smells and mysterious horrors in the starlight, that wheat. Once the platoon came upon a pig, feeding unspeakably.... The woods ahead grew plain; the men walked gingerly, straining their eyes at the shadows.... “Eighth machine-gun in there—take it easy, you—risky business, this—wish to God I’d—” The platoon stopped, frozen, as they heard the charging handle of a Hotchkiss snick back. A small, sharp voice barked: “Halt—who’ there?”—“Platoon of the 49th—can we get through here?” “My God, I dam’ near gave you a clip! What the hell, comin’ up here—don’t you know you ain’t supposed to come bustin’ around a machine-gun position you—” “All right—all right!—shellin’ the road down there”—and the platoon scuttled past the Hotchkiss gun, while its crew reviled them. Machine-gunners are a touchy lot, prone to shoot first and inquire afterward; the platoon gave thanks for a man who didn’t scare.
They turned left now, and went swiftly through the woods northwest of Lucy. They passed a place where the midnight harassing fire had caught a ration party; a shell had hit a pushcart loaded with loaves of the round French war bread which was the main item of the ration on this front; bread was scattered over an acre or so, and a frenzied sergeant was routing his ration party out of several holes and trying to collect it again. Otherwise, an outfit up in the Bois de Belleau wouldn’t eat for another twenty-four hours. The platoon was amused. They took the road to La Voie du Chatelle, stepping out. They’d be well behind the usual shelling, if the Boche was on schedule. Far enough back to talk now, and relax their hunched shoulders.
Down the road they heard a trampling, and the wind brought a smell of unwashed men. “Hi! Relief of Frogs comin’ in—!” “Yeh—Frogs. They smell like camels. We smell like goats.” “Hope this relief carries a bath wit’ it! Me, I’ve got blue mould all up my back.” “Well, next time we come in, we’ll put showers in that goddam place. Been there long enough to, already—” “How long we been there?—Le’s see—this is the 5th of July, ain’t it?—” “Je’s, I don’t keep count of no days! I can’t remember when we was anywhere else—” This was in a tone so mournful that the file’s neighbors laughed. “What you doin’ in this war, anyway? Dam’ replacement, jus’ joined up after Hill 142—” “Man,” said the file very earnestly, “I’ll tell you. So help me Gawd, I wuz dodgin’ the draft!”
The French column came up and passed. Its horizon-blue uniform was invisible in the dark, but the stars glinted a little on its helmets and bayonets. “V’la! Yanquis! B’soir, Americains!” “Dam’ right, Frenchie! Bon chance, huh?” They went on without lagging, well closed up. A man’s feet dragged going in; there are no such things on a battle-field as fresh troops, for you always approach by forced marches, infinitely weary—“but comin’ out—boy, we make knots!—” They reached La Voie du Chatelle, where Regimental was, and there the old Boche always shelled. It was a little farm, pretty well knocked to pieces now, but Regimental was reported to prefer it to a change; they had the Boche’s system down so that they could count on him. His shelling always fell into method when he had long enough, and the superior man could, by watching him a few days, avoid unpleasantness. La Voie du Chatelle, as the world knew, received his attention from 11.45 to 12.10 every night. Then he laid off until 3, when his day-shift came on. You could set your watch by it. The platoon went cheerfully past.
A full kilometre farther they hiked, at a furious pace. Then the lieutenant considered that they might catch a rest; they had come a long way and were in a safe spot. Ten minutes’ rest out of every hour was the rule when possible. He passed the word: “Fall out to the right of the road,” and sat down himself, a little way off, feeling for his chewing-tobacco. You didn’t smoke on the front at night—lights were not safe. And chewin’ was next best. Then he observed that the platoon was not falling out. They stood in groups on the road, and an angry mutter reached him. “What th’ell?—Goin’ out, an’ then he wants to rest!” “Yeh, ‘fall out on the right of the road,’ he says, the goddam fool—” The lieutenant knew his men, as you know men you live in hell with. He got up, chuckling.—“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it—come on, you birds!” and he set them a killing step, at which no man complained.
The dawn was coming when they rendezvoused with the battalion in Bois Gros-Jean—beans for breakfast, and hot coffee, and tins of jam! That afternoon they had off their clothes for the first time in three weeks or so, and swam in the Marne at a place called Croutte. And at formation they heard this order published:
VI Armée État-Major 6930/2
Au QGA le 30 Juin, 1918.
In view of the brilliant conduct of the 4th Brigade of the 2nd U. S. Division, which in a spirited fight took Bouresches and the important strong point of Bois de Belleau, stubbornly defended by a large enemy force, the General commanding the VIth Army orders that, henceforth, in all official papers, the Bois de Belleau shall be named “Bois de la Brigade de Marine.”
The General of Division Degoutte Commanding VIth Army (Signed) DEGOUTTE.
“Yeh,” said the battalion. “Now, about this liberty in Paris—” But they didn’t go to Paris. They took a road that led through Soissons, and St. Mihiel, and Blanc Mont, and the Argonne-Meuse, to Nieuwied, on the far side of the Rhine.
SONGS ONE “BANG AWAY, LULU”
The Marines have a very noble song: the Marine Corps Hymn. It is taught, along with close order drill and things like that, to recruits at Parris Island and on the West Coast. It begins:
“_From the Halls of Montezuma To the shores of Tripoli, We have fought our country’s battles On the land and on the sea_....”
and it closes, gloriously:
“_If the Army and the Navy Ever look on heaven’s scenes, They will find the streets are guarded By United States Marines_....”
This platoon, however, led by a brazen-throated gunnery sergeant, is roaring out:
“_Bang away, Lulu_....”
[Illustration: [Soldiers]]
II
[Illustration: [Soldiers]]
In the town of Villers-Nancy, where the battalion billeted, they published this order to the troops:
No. 862’3 Ordre Général No. 318
Xe Armée État-Major 3e Bureau
AuQG_A_ 30 July 18
_Officers, Non-Commissioned Officers and Soldiers of the Third United States Army Corps_:
Shoulder to shoulder with your French comrades you were thrown into the counter-offensive battle which commenced on the 18th of July. You rushed to the attack as to a festival. Your magnificent courage completely routed a surprised enemy and your indomitable tenacity checked the counter-attacks of his fresh divisions. You have shown yourselves worthy sons of your great country, and you were admired by your comrades-in-arms.
Ninety-one guns, 7,200 prisoners, immense booty, 10 kilomètres of country liberated; this is your portion of the spoil of this victory. Furthermore, you have demonstrated your superiority over the barbarian enemy of all mankind. To attack him is to vanquish him.
American comrades! I am grateful to you for the blood so generously spilled on the soil of my country. I am proud to have commanded you during such days, and to have fought with you for the deliverance of the world.
(Signed) MANGIN.
II THE CHARGE AT SOISSONS
The 1st Battalion lay in Croutte-sur-Marne. It drank deep of the golden July weather, and swam noisily in the Marne, which swung a blue and shining loop below the town. The battalion took but little interest in the war, which could be heard growling and muttering intermittently to the north and east. Indeed, the unpleasant Bois-de-Belleau-Bouresches area was only a few hours’ march distant, and Château-Thierry was just up the river. The guns were loud and continuous in that direction.
But the 2d American Division—Marines and troops of the Regular Army—had just finished a hitch of some thirty-eight days attacking and holding and attacking again, from Hill 142, on the left, through that ghastly wood which the French now called the “Bois de la Brigade de Marine,” to Vaux, on the right; and in this battalion, as in the other units of the division, such men as had survived were quite willing to think about something else.
Division Headquarters were over Montreuil way, and thither certain distinguished individuals were ordered, to return with crosses on their faded blouses. This furnished pleasant food for gossip and speculation. Then, vin rouge and vin blanc were to be had, as well as fresh milk for the less carnally minded, and such supplements to the ration were always matters of interest. Also, there were certain buxom mademoiselles among the few civilian families who lingered here in the teeth of the war, and although every girl was watched by lynx-eyed elders early and late, their very presence was stimulating and they were all inclined to be friendly.
The most delightful diversion of all was discussion of the rumor that rose up and ran through the companies: “Got it hot from a bird that was talkin’ to a dog-robber at Brigade H. Q.—the division is gonna be sent back to St. Denis for a month’s rest, an’ leaves, an’ everything!” “Yeh! we gonna parade in Paris, too.” It was ascertained that St. Denis was right near Paris. Platoon commanders were respectfully approached: “Beggin’ the lootenant’s pardon, but does the lootenant think that we—” The lieutenants looked wise and answered vaguely and asked the captains. All ranks hung upon the idea.
July 14 came. “Sort o’ Frog Fourth o’ July,” explained a learned corporal, standing in line for morning chow.
“In Paris, they’s parades, an’ music, an’ fireworks, an’ all that kinder thing. Speakin’ an’ barbecues, like back home. Celebratin’ the time the Frogs rose agin ’em an’ tore down some noted brig or other they had. Now, if I wuz in Paree now, sittin’ in front of the Caffey de Pay——!”
“Don’t try to go there, Corp. J’seen the cellar they’s got fer a brig here?— If you——”
“Don’t see no flag-wavin’ or such celebrations here. Seen one little Frog kid with his gas-mask an’ a Frog flag down the street—no more. Why back home, even in tank towns like this, on the Fourth——”
As a matter of fact, Croutte took on this day no especial joy in the far-off fall of the Bastille. Croutte was in range of the Boche heavy artillery; one could perceive, at the end of this street where, in effect, the house of M’sieu’ le Maire had been! An obus of two hundred and twenty centimètres. And others, regard you, near the bridge. Some descended into the river, the naughty ones, and killed many fish. Also, the avions——
Did it not appear to Messieurs les Officiers that the cannon were louder this day, especially toward Rheims? And as the day went on, it did appear so. In the afternoon a Boche came out of a cloud and shot down in flames the fat observation balloon that lived just up the river from Croutte. The rumor of St. Denis and fourteen-day leaves waned somewhat. Certainly there grew to be a feeling in the air....
About one o’clock the morning of the 15th the Boche dropped nine-inch shells into the town. The battalion was turned out, and stood under arms in the dark while the battalion gas officer sniffed around busily to see if the shells were the gas variety. They were not, but the battalion, after the shelling stopped and the casualties were attended to, observed that in the east a light not of the dawn was putting out the stars. The eastern sky was all aflame with gun-flashes, and a growing thunder shook the still air.
The files remarked that they were glad not to be where all that stuff was lightin’, and after breakfast projected the usual swimming parties. Aquatic sports were then vetoed by regretful platoon commanders, since it appeared that Battalion H. Q. had directed the companies to hold themselves in readiness for instant movement to an unspecified place. Thereupon the guns eastward took on a more than professional interest. The civilians looked and listened also. Their faces were anxious. They had heard that noise before. The hot July hours passed; the battalion continued to be held in readiness, and got practically no sleep in consequence. There was further shelling, and the guns were undoubtedly louder—and nearer.
Breakfast on the 16th was scant, and the cooks held out little encouragement for lunch. Lunch was an hour early, and consisted of beans. “Boys, we’re goin’ somewhere. We always gets beans to make a hike on.” “Yeh! an’ you always gets more than two-men rates—standin’ in line for fourths, now!”—“What’s that sergeant yellin’ about—fill yo’ canteens? Gonna get ving blonk in mine!”
At noon, the rolling kitchens packed up and moved off, nobody knew where. The battalion regarded their departure soberly. “Wish I hadn’t et my reserve rations....” The shadows were lengthening when the bugles blew “assembly” and the companies fell in, taking the broad white road that led down the river. At the next town—towns were thick along the Marne from Château-Thierry to Meaux—they passed through the other battalions of the 5th Marines, jeeringly at ease beside the road. Greetings were tossed about, and the files gibed at each other. “Where you bums goin’?” “Dunno—don’ care— But you see the ole 1st Battalion is leadin’, as usual!” “Aw—.... Close up! close up!”
Beyond them was the 6th Regiment of Marines, arms stacked in the fields by the river. Each battalion took the road in turn, and presently the whole Marine Brigade was swinging down the Marne in the slanting sunlight. Very solid and businesslike the brigade was, keen-faced and gaunt and hard from the great fight behind them, and fit and competent for greater battles yet to come. The companies were under strength, but they had the quality of veterans. They had met the Boche and broken him, and they knew they could do it again. The rumble of the guns was behind them, and the rumor of the leave area still ran strong enough to maintain a slow volubility among the squads. They talked and laughed, but they did not sing. Veterans do not sing a great deal.
It was getting dusk when the 1st Battalion of the 5th, leading, rounded a turn in the road and came upon an endless column of camions, drawn up along the river road as far as one could see. The companies became silent.
“Camions! They rode us to Chatto-Terry in them busses—” “Yeh! an’ it was a one-way trip for a hell of a lot of us, too!” “Close up! Close up an’ keep to the right of the road.”
“Camions! That’s a sign they want us bad, somewhere on the line,” commented the lean first lieutenant who hiked at the head of the 49th Company. “Walter”—to the officer beside him—“I wonder what happened yesterday an’ to-day, with all that shooting.” “Don’t know—but this Château-Thierry salient is mighty deep an’ narrow, unless the Boche spread himself yesterday.... If we were to break into it, up near one of the corners....” “Yes! Well, we’re right on the tip of it here—can jump either way—Lord there’s a lot of these conveyances.”
Later the battalion knew what had happened on July 15, when the Boche made his final cast across the Champagne country toward Rheims and Épernay; and his storm divisions surged to the Marne, and stayed, and lapped around the foot of the gray Mountain of Rheims, and stayed. Just now the battalion cared for none of these things. It had no supper; it faced a crowded trip of uncertain duration, and was assured of various discomforts after that.
Well accustomed to the ways of war, the men growled horribly as they crammed into their appointed chariots, while the officers inexorably loaded the best part of a platoon into each camion, the dusk hiding their grins of sympathy. “Get aboard! get aboard! Where’ll you put yo’ pack? Now what the hell do I know about yo’ pack—want a special stateroom an’ a coon vallay, do yuh, yuh—!” The sergeants didn’t grin. They swore, and the men swore, and they raged altogether. But, in much less time than it took to tell about it afterward, the men were loaded on. The officers were skilled and prompt in such matters.
Wizened Annamites from the colonies of France drove the camions. Presently, with clangor and much dust, they started their engines, and the camion train jolted off down the river road. A red moon shone wanly through the haze. The Marne was a silver thread through the valley of a dream, infinitely aloof from the gasoline-smelling tumult.... “Valley of the Marne! ... the Marne ... some of us will not see you again....”
[Illustration:
The automatic-rifle men. ]
A camion, as understood by the French, is a motor-vehicle with small wheels and no springs to speak of. It finds every hole in the road, and makes an unholy racket; but it covers ground, the roadbed being of no consequence, as the suffering files bore witness. To the lieutenant of the 49th, nursing his cane on the driver’s seat of a lurching camion, beside two Annamitish heathen who smelt like camels and chattered like monkeys, came scraps of conversation from the compressed platoon behind him. “Sardines is comfortable to what we is!...” “Chevawz forty—hommes eight! Lord forgive me, I uster kick about them noble box cars. They say it wuz taxicabs an’ motor-trucks that won the first battle of the Marne—yeh! If they rushed them Frogs up packed like this, you know they felt like fightin’ when they got out!”... “I feel like fightin’ now!—take yo’ laigs outer my shortribs, you big embus-kay.”
“Night before last they shelled us, an’ we stood by last night—when do we sleep?—that’s what I wanna know—” But sleeping isn’t done in camions. The dust on the road rose thick and white around the train, and rode with it through the night. The face of the moon, very old and wise, peered down through the dust. They left the river, and by the testimony of the stars it seemed to the lieutenant that they were hurrying north. Always, on the right, the far horizon glowed with the fires of war—flares, signal-lights, gun-flashes from hidden batteries; the route paralleled the line. The lieutenant visualized his map: “Followin’ the salient around—to the north—the north—Soissons way, or Montdidier.... The Boche took Soissons....”