HISTORY
OF THE 305th Infantry
by
Frank Tiebout
Chapter4
LORRAINE
CHAPTER IV
LORRAINE
WHEN the tired troops were dumped with all their baggage
out of the cattle cars at Charmes and Portieux on June
13th they were not thrilled. No crowd, no hurry and
bustle, no transport, no cannon. No war. The country was
beautiful - but one is scarcely in a frame of mind to
appreciate the landscape when for two days and nights he
has been jammed in so tight with his fellow men and all
their worldly goods that he has had to stand erect half
the night to make room for his sleeping brother. Someone
had sense enough to send the train bearing the First
Battalion through to a point somewhat nearer the
rendezvous; but these men had only the prospect of
another infernal hike. They were unhappy, ninety-five per
cent. having lost their bet that we were headed for
Italy. They were hungry and just beginning to realize
that all the money they had so generously given to the
Red Cross a few stations back had virtually paid for the
food handed out to the 306th Infantry on the preceding
train.
like they did toward
Baccarat as a result of the vague, tissue paper orders
which the train commanders somehow acquired. Had the
billeting officers who were sent down beforehand, to
pedal all over the countryside upon decrepit bicycles,
requisitioning the most palatial cow-stables in Lorraine,
been given some really sane instructions, there might
have been a place designated for each and every company.
Regimental Headquarters at Moyemont were soon advised by
Division that the towns selected by the billeting
officers -according to instructions-were not even in the
correct regimental sector. In consequence, after rolling
around in the grass for a good str-r-retch while the
battalion transports with a bit of food were unloaded,
the troops set off into the night, with inadequate maps
to be studied at cross-roads by the light of a match,
finally making bivouac in the fields and grumbling,
" To Hell with it all."
By three o'clock on
the following afternoon, it was the joyous privilege of
the Second Battalion, after marching an untold number of
kilometers out of their way-again, according to
instructions-to land in the beautiful city of
Hallianville, which had not yet deemed it necessary to
legislate against the construction of sky-scrapers and
whose two streets-one leading in, the other out-were
flanked on either side by venerable manure piles, those
stately monuments so characteristic of aesthetic rural
France.
The men are hungry,
but there is no food in the kitchens wherewith to feed
'em. Having tucked away fifteen in this barn, thirty in
that, ten some-where else, the headquarters platoon near
the proposed orderly room, the officers repair to the
billets indicated upon the chart in the Mairie. H
Company's officers advance upon a humble doorway which
has long since retired in modest self-effacement behind
the most gigantic manure heap in town.
Ha! The size of the pile is doubtless an index to wealth
and standing in the community. The biggest pile, the
biggest citizen. Correct. He is the genial Mayor, who is
honored to place at Captain Dodge's disposal his best
bedroom, the windows of which give immediately upon that
prized monument resting so near the doorstep. He is proud
to sell one of his poor pigs for a mere fifteen hundred
francs to the brave Americans hastening to the rescue of
France; he opens up a bottle of one dollar champagne in
their honor and declaims grandly, "The Americans and
the French are brothers; ten francs please."
Since the ban was
only on alcohol, many a case of French 2.75 went
forthwith out under the trees; a Polish wedding bad
nothing on some of those parties. Chlorinated water was
enough to drive a man to drink, anyhow-, but after
sampling the beer and light wines ladled out to the
soldiers, one could readily understand why drunkards are
so uncommon in France. There was no more temptation to
become a wine drunkard there than to become a castor oil
drunkard in America. Still, it relieved the tension-a
little nippy now and then. "Our money was all
exhausted," wrote one of the advocates of
moderation, "but there were a few of the boys who
still had some. Jack was in one of the cafes playing
cards and won bokoo francs; as fast as he could win them,
I would spend them. 'By' was also in the corner; when
retreat sounded, he and I were drinking champagne like
water, out of beer glasses. I said to him, 'What do you
say, Jack?' He said, 'To Hell with it. When they're ready
to go up into the line we'll be on deck.' Then we started
on the champagne again, and I drank so much that I
thought I saw the Boches, and began blazing my rifle,
when who came around the corner under the barrage but the
honorable captain, who walked into the cafe and wanted to
know who done the shooting. Finally he looked at me and
just guessed right. While we were walking up Main Street,
I dared him to transfer me into a fighting outfit. The
lieutenant took me toward the guardhouse, when be heard
sounds inside one of the billets. He opened the door,
poked his head inside and sounded off, 'Stop this noise!'
Someone hollered, 'Who in Hell are you?' He said, very
dignified, 'Officer of the day,' and the doughboy said,
'Then what the Hell are you doing out this hour of the
night?' I guess he had had some champagne, to
When the loot got me in the mill, he wanted to know why I
done the shooting. I said, 'To celebrate the Fourth of
July, for I never had a chance to, on the Fourth.' Next
day & old captain called me down something terrible,
but still he released me without trial, and T never heard
any more about it."
Leaving our earlier
habitations, Rehaincourt, Orton-court, St. Genest,
Hallianville and Moyemont, the billeting officers of the
battalions and the billeting N. C. O.'s of each company
had their fill of marching on ahead of their companions
to list and apportion the available cowsheds and other
roofs. The Supply Company, which soon took up its abode
in Azerailles, into which the railroad trains crept now
and then and from which they could readily distribute
supplies, was decidedly envied by the rest of the
Regiment, even though Azerailles was a good target for
aerial bombs. And not merely a good target, but the
subject of a number of harrowing attacks. The Supply
Company suffered there more casualties than all the rest
of the Regiment, in Lorraine. Through Domptail, Fontenoy
la Joute, Glonville, Gelacourt and other villages, our
billeting experiences ran.
Our experiences
hiked, rather; for the Infantry generally travels afoot.
This entire period stands out in our minds as one of
countless night marches, moving ever nearer and nearer
the front, drilling the while, hoping and praying for the
time to come when we could at last feel safe " in
the trenches. " Well how is the Major feeling?"
one doughboy would ask another. "Looks
worried," might be the reply. "Then let's start
getting our packs ready, for there's a hike on,
tonight."
All this territory
had once been in the hands of the Cermans; they had
advanced rapidly during the first days of the war. Stark
and staring now, gaunt ruins reared their tottering heads
into the moonlight, the churches shattered, the stars
peeping through great gaping holes in their crumbling
towers, the houses gutted and unfit for habitation.
Pathetically, a few old men, women and ragged children
would gather in the moonlit squares to call, "Bonne
chance, mes enfants. Vive I'Amerique!" as the troops
filed through. On and on through the countryside, past an
endless stream of motor trucks and transports into the
next diminutive stone village, each one a bit poorer than
the last and exactly as the retreating Germans had left
it in 1914. One came to dread these marches, the
consuming fatigues, the sore feet, the suddenly
discovered illnesses probably induced by too much vin
rouge, the commandings, the drivings, urgings which are
an inseparable part of every long journey afoot and which
eat the heart out of a man. On the other hand, there was
the encouraging tramp, tramp, tramp of the faithful, the
ten-minute rest on the right of the road, and then the
fifty-minute back-breaker. "I've tramped over every
road in France but one," wailed an eloquent letter
writer, and I expect to cover that one tomorrow. A week
or so ago, after we had been walking nearly all one
night, Jack and 'Sauerkraut' shouted 'Rest!' from their
place in ranks, and were given 'arrest' by the old
captain; but they both preferred court martial to company
punishment. Poor 'Sauerkrauk" was transferred to the
Q. M. and in Azerailles was fatally wounded in an air
raid. He should have taken company punishment in the
first place."
Each new town
visited meant a cleaning of both town and man; no sooner
would the streets be swept, the civilian garbage buried
and the men scrubbing their clothes at the public
"lavoir" than off we'd go to another cleaning.
The French never could comprehend the apparent eagerness
with which the American shaved, plied the toothbrush or
rushed to the nearest swimmin' hole. But the French did
wash their clothes now and then; and tremendously amusing
was the sight of an old woman at the public fountain,
lambasting the wash with a weighty paddle. Some of the
boys reckoned that cooties could not survive such
manhandling, and tried it out, ineffectually.
In other ways, the civilian customs provided
entertainment. The Headquarters Company at Moyemont were
daily aroused by the shrill blasts of the community
stockherder's trumpet. At the first peep of dawn, when
all good doughboys were pounding the blanket hard, he
would sound off, shambling down street in motley
garb-perhaps the regalia of his high office -a'dragging
his wooden shoes with difficulty over the cobbles. The
first blast usually produced the desired result. Out of
barns and yards tumbled sundry sheep, goats, cows and
pigs, to fall in behind him. Returning from the fields at
dusk, the animals would instinctively fall out and retire
to their respective habitations. Two members of the
Regimental Band yearned for trouble. The machinations of
their fertile brains sent the loudest and strongest First
Comet down street one morning long ere Reveille, blowing
a Call to Arms. The Pied Piper of Hamlin boasted no such
array. With stately tread, he conducted his unique
platoon around the town. Whither he went, they followed.
He stopped playing, but still they hung on. The thing was
revealing complications. Showing signs of deep concern,
the cornetist attempted the soothing strains of "Go
to Sleep, My Baby," without result. Far be it from
such loyal adherents to desert their leader in the midst
of drill. But hark! What is that old familiar sound? The
shrill call of the herder's old fish-horn resounding
through the village! With tails erect, or flying, or
kinked or not showing at all, as the case might be, the
animals dashed off in all directions. Pandemonium
reigned, during which the First Cornet made good his
escape.
At last, from the
heights above Fontenoy, a somnolent village of several
hundred souls and a few bodies, one could look off into
Germany. There, in the distant haze, were the Vosges
Mountains. Down in the hollow, where the little puff s of
smoke appeared, were the front lines, where the 42d
Division were getting what we were pleased in those days
to call a "strafing." Overhead, the aeroplanes
wheeled and ducked, the " Archies " planting
their shrapnel bursts carefully around them, while a
bugler stationed under a tree on the hilltop blew the
warning Attention, his call being relayed to points
wherever troops might be drilling. How we rejoiced
whenever the call came which sent us flat into the grass,
there to loaf and sleep until the birds disappeared and
Recall sounded. Anything, to escape drill! And how we
detested getting back again to that "Line of Half
Platoons, Automatics on the Right Flank," as so
beautifully and so uselessly charted in the red pamphlet,
Offensive Combat of Small Units!
Whether to train
some more, or to go on hiking for the rest of our lives,
was the question. Perhaps to relieve them of this
soul-consuming anxiety, eight officers and about
twenty-five men, mostly from the Third Battalion, were
about this time sent down into southern France for two
months of horse-buying. Think of the frightful worries
they had down there-sleeping in a bed every night,
knowing where their next meal was coming from, real towns
to play in! It must have been terrible!
Units of the
Rainbow Division were now streaming to the rear, nights,
through our town. It was evident that a relief would soon
be accomplished. The warnings, taunts and gibes which
those veterans of ninety days in the
front lines threw
at us were not at all commensurate with the reports of
our officers. "What they won't do to you ain't worth
mentioning!" "Yeah!" is the fabled retort,
" all the Germans we've seen have been singin', 'I'm
always chasing Rainbows."' Those who had gone up
into the front lines to reconnoitre brought back
harrowing tales. The men were actually billeted, not
living night and day in the trenches. The officers could
with difficulty be pried out of their hammocks under the
trees. The Germans would stroll into town now and then,
inviting someone at the point of a gun to journey back
with them; but as a war, it was a good picnic.
To learn how
inexact these stories were we again took up the march
about June twenty-third, this time with the steel helmets
where they belonged, the little "go to Hell
caps" tucked into the packs. Into a luxurious
reserve position in Glonville went the Third Battalion,
the Second into support at Pettonville and Vaxainville,
the First into the front line at Migneville and
Herberviller, Regimental Headquarters at Hablainville.
French guides had met the relieving units some distance
in rear of the positions, cautioning silence and an
absence of lights. Would the Germans shell during the
relief? The strain was terrible. " Our first night
in the Lorraine Sector, I was posted with a small detail
on the edge of a wood; the open field beyond was No Man's
Land. I was very cautious and worried all night lest the
enemy advance and annihilate our gallant little band. But
with the dawn's early light I beheld in the middle of our
No Man's Land a French peasant cutting bay with a
horse-drawn mower."
Today, our war on
the Baccarat Front (so called because the Division
Headquarters were at Baccarat) seems like a period of
unalloyed happiness. Seemingly, by mutual consent, the
forces on both sides indulged in the merest sort of
aggressive tactics, sending thither for rest and
recuperation such units as had exhausted their strength
on other fronts. Though regiments of the Division
suffered appreciably from spasmodic aggressive tactics by
the Germans, to which they retaliated in kind, the Three
Hundred and Fifth never had any nasty tricks played upon
it. The French who so ably chaperoned oar first few weeks
on this front, before withdrawing from their intimate
association with us, were terror stricken lest our
artillery should fire on towns held by the enemy, or that
any pronounced offensive should be precipitated. Yet,
however luxurious those days appear to us now, however
much we longed to get back to them once more during the
bitter, heart-breaking days which overtook us on other
fronts, the worries of the Lorraine Sector were all very
real, at the time. Major Metcalf's battalion, the first
unit of America's National Army to enter the battle line,
probably did not sleep at all the first few days, what
with the newness of it all, the minute reports of enemy
activity to be made at unearthly hours, the stand-to at
dawn, the question of feeding.
It took five hours for a ration-carrying party to fetch
to all the P. P.'s on the Herberviller section-through
which the Boches could have driven in four -horse
chariots, had they willed. Rifles blazed away all night
at imaginary raiding parties; every bush furtively
glimpsed over the parapet of the P. P. was without doubt
a skulking German. The planning of a Defense in Depth,
the arranging of G. C.'s or Groupes de Combat, the
locating of P. P.'s or Petites Postes, the placing of the
P. C.'s or Postes de Commandement, were brain-fatiguing
tasks. just what should be done "en cas
d'attaque?"
Who will forget the
first shell that came over, or the sudden barking of a
battery of 75's seemingly right behind one's left ear?
Who will forget the German aeroplane landing signal
which, with indefatigable precision, mounted the sky at
periodic intervals during the night? Who will ever forget
the first ghostly glare of Very lights rocketing skyward
from numerous points of the German line, or the fable of
the old, one-legged German on the motorcycle dashing
madly from one end of the sector to the other, setting
off a bunch of sky-rockets now and then to fool us into
thinking there were large bodies of troops opposed to us?
Will years obliterate the terrors of a gas attack, which
never occurred?
It was here that we
had been warned to have our weather eyes open for the
Hindenburg Circus, which had shortly before been sprung
by the Germans with considerable success. The old
"gas wave" was thought to be well nigh
obsolete, dependent as it was upon favorable winds,
terrain and barometric conditions. Gas was now projected
chiefly by shells or cylinders filled with volatile
poisons which burst on landing with a slight detonation
somewhat like a pistol shot, just enough to crack the
cylinder or spray the liquid within a short radius. The
Hindenburg Circus was thought to be an indefinite number
of simple dischargers, like sections of gas pipe easily
and quickly set up in a trench, all discharged
simultaneously by means of an electric current, appearing
in effect as a brilliant and sudden roar of flame and a
smothering blanket of gas before masks could be adjusted.
The result was that
gas alarms, false alarms, were frequent. Down the line
from right to left, and sweeping on into the back areas,
would sound the beating of empty shell casings, the
clanging of bells, the ominous whir of rattles and
klaxons, and the frantically hurried adjusting of masks.
Doubtless the klaxon to many will yet mean, not the
warning of an automobile's approach, but Gas! Corporal
Humphreys of A Company likes to tell of the balmy days
down in the G. C. "Chauviret" where little
Marcus Heim would hang his mask on an old apple free
before going in swimming with the boys. "Morg and
Carl resolved to show him the terrible consequences of
being without his mask, letting out a yell 'GAS!' that
started Marcus on a mad rush for his mask. We all had
ours on, and it was some time before we 'discovered' his,
threw him on his back and forced it on his face. Poor
Marcus lay on his back gasping for breath while we made
believe look up a doctor to come and pronounce him a
victim. We found that our yells had been relayed back for
miles. A ration carrying detail came up just about that
time. 'What's the matter with you,' we said. 'Don't you
hear the alarm of Gas?' 'Oh, that's all right,' they
replied, 'we don't belong to this platoon."'
Company A, with its
P. C. in the crumbling Chateau de la Noy, a relic of
olden days, staged a war of its own. Why the Boches
didn't loft a package of high explosive into its
crumbling towers, no one could guess; it was in full
observation, and full of troops. Feeling sure that the
"entente cordiale " would be respected, the
French and American officers took life there casually
enough, dining in style, altogether too far above ground
for safety. It was after several of our own unwieldy and
noisy patrols had skulked about No Man's Land for several
nights-"kill or capture" patrols, as they were
desperately termed-neither killing nor being killed, that
noises were heard in the moat one black night. A German
patrol, without a doubt, coming to blow up the chateau!
From the battlements, a squad of bombers listened. Again,
a sound of footsteps "squnching" in the mud.
Rockets were fired into the darkness, from a Very pistol,
without revealing a Boche. More stealthy foot noises,
until at last a brave and bold bunch of bombers
floundered down into the slime, only to scare out a flock
of old herons.
Sergeant
Fortenbacker of Company A tells of another harrowing
battle staged by his company.
" Second
Lieut. Morgan Harris was on the 16th day of July in the
historic year of 1918 in full command of the old fighting
fourth platoon in which I'm proud to say I was a
corporal. We were at the same time stationed in the
support position in front of the town of Vaxainville, in
the Baccarat Sector.
"Lieut. Harris
had just received his commission with four other
sergeants of the company. His first trouble as a
commissioned officer was that we enlisted men would
forget the salute, which means so much to the newly made
officer. He therefore placed his favorite runner, Private
McPartland, in a place where all could see him and then
passed up and down the line a few times so we would get
the idea as McPartland did.
"This just
reminds me of the great feeling that existed between
Lieut. Harris and his runner. Platoon headquarters was
occupied by Lieut. Harris and Sgt. Lathrop. On the
above-mentioned morning, runner McPartland saw Sgt.
Lathrop "reading" his only undershirt in an
attempt to rid himself of the cooties which were always
doing squads cast and left on his chest and back. The
runner, fearing his lieutenant would also catch these
terrible shirt rats, informed him of his great peril. For
this brave act Lieut. Harris made Sgt. Lathrop move to
another dugout and allowed runner McPartland the great
honor of sleeping in his dugout.
"On the
afternoon of this eventful day the newly appointed
lieutenants attended a farewell dinner given in their
honor by our old company officers. It seems, in the case
of Lieut. Harris, that the French wine brought out his
great fighting qualities; he was sure the Germans were
about to make an attack on us. He was so sure of the
Dutchmen breaking through the front lines we held, that
he got right on the job to make our position impregnable.
"His first
move was to send for a detail of nearly the entire
platoon to get rifle and hand grenades. After getting all
the bombs available he instructed the men, saving to his
detail, 'For your own safety I wish you ammunition
carriers would keep two hundred yards in front of me
while going through the woods'
"His second move was to call a meeting of the
non-coms to get together and plan a defense so that our
Fighting Fourth would go down in history for holding the
entire German army at bay. The non-coms assembled and the
lieutenant called the meeting to order, and started as
follows: 'Now men, give me your attention. You may smoke
if you wish-who's got a cigarette?' As nobody was lucky
enough to have a 'cig' our platoon leader had to be
satisfied with the makings. 'Now then, men, tonight of
all nights I want you all to stick to me. We have had our
ins and outs, but let bygones be bygones, because by
morning some of us may be gone forever. We will stand-to
all night. If something happens to me Sgt. Lathrop is
second in command. I also want you all to put your heart
and soul in this coining battle.' just then Sgt. Lathrop
walked up with tears running down his cheeks and shook
Lieut. Harris' hand, saying, 'Morg, I want to be the
first to sav good-by to you.' just at this point there
was a snicker from the corporals, for they knew the only
time they were good friends was only when one or the
other got away with a can of the platoon's jam. Now the
meeting broke up and we got set for the big battle which
would mean Kaiser Bill's Waterloo.
" Well, to
make a long story short, when Lieut. Mooers inspected our
position he found all the men unnecessarily standing-to,
ready for action, the platoon leader himself studying a
map and preparing for the greatest battle ever caused by
a bottle of vin blanc."
Having spent their
brief period in the front line, it was the First
Battalion's turn to retire for rest, while others took up
the arduous duties of maintaining control of No Man's
Land. "It was our fifth day; the sun was shining
brightly and the boys were gracefully draped over the
green grass. In front of them was about forty feet of
strong barbed wire to prevent a visit from any
square-headed sausage inhaler who might stray over on his
way back from a fishing trip or outdoor pinochle game.
All was quiet and peaceful when a messenger came up and
gave us the information that we were to go back in
support that night. Accordingly we rolled up our homes
and reluctantly filed through the winding trenches to the
support position in the wood. And there our troubles
began. From the precautions our platoon lieutenant took
in those support trenches, and from the worried look he
always wore, one would think that the fate of the army,
the safety of democracy and the political freedom of the
next generation depended upon our staying up all night.
"Directly
night would begin to think about falling, the Chauchat
teams would be marched out to their positions and given
their countersigns and passwords. The latter usually
sounded like a cross between a Patagonian swear word and
the name of a new patent medicine. One of our fellows
actually remembered his password until morning, but he
long since was evacuated for brain trouble. We were then
left guarding the barbed wire in front of us until
morning, with the injunction to stay awake under pain of
court martial, death, starvation,
corned-willie"and"other horrors. At various
times of the night, the lieutenant would come out with
two or three sleepy non-coms to inspect us and wake up
the guards. 'Gee, this is the worst war I've ever been
in,' I heard someone say. 'They won't even let a feller
sleep at night.' Well, it was the best little war they
had to offer."
One of our most
reliable privates, coming from Battalion Headquarters one
night was halted by a sentry. " Halt! Who goes
there? " cried the guard.
The answer,
"Friend." But the private had forgotten the
password -"Digne-Druot," or something like
that-and was turned back. It was a rather long and
lonesome journey back to Battalion Headquarters. Suddenly
footsteps were heard approaching. Playing the part of a
sentry, he halted the stranger, demanding the password,
which he received without any trouble. Having saved
himself a trip to headquarters, he then stepped over to
the real sentry, gave him the password, and went merrily
on his way.
Back in the support
lines of Pettonville and Vaxainville the life was equally
terrifying. Dog tents appeared along the grassy slopes of
the Wittenmyer Line, where nights were spent digging
perfectly useless trenches in the solid rock on a reverse
slope, serving merely to call the Jerry-planes' attention
to the fact that the Americans were there in force,
daring them to send over a bit of artillery fire. Here,
as further back in reserve, it was drill, drill, drill,
when not carrying rations up over the tiny railway in the
Bois de Railleux, and coasting home at a speed which
compared favorably with the best that the switchbacks at
Coney Island could offer.
There were some
criticisms at the time because the 77th Division had been
sent to a French sector after receiving its instruction
with the British. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that the
men had learned the British way of "carrying on
" and had learned to use the British weapons, such
as the Lewis machine gun, or light automatic rifle. This
was replaced by the clumsy, clanking Chauchat which was
lighter and fired a delicate and troublesome clip of
twenty rounds instead of forty. Again, the British used
one type of grenade, the Mills, while the French used two
"citron" types, one which broke up into rough
and rugged splinters for use on the defense, and another
which destroyed merely by concussion, for use on the
offense. Both types were primed either by lever release,
or by a plunger to be struck against the heel or helmet
before being thrown. There is no doubt that these new
weapons caused some embarrassment at first, particularly
in the other regiments of the Division, which sustained
vigorous raids by the enemy. And so, the days were
consumed with practice in the use of these weapons.
However poor the
rations may have seemed at times, they didn't stop our
daily music ration. The boys in the trenches needed
aesthetic enjoyment and Corporal Kosak of the Signal
Platoon set out to provide it. Daily at three the band
played at Regimental Headquarters in Hablainville. To
relay this music forward to the trenches was a problem
easily solved. At that particular hour the Corporal would
call each Battalion Signal Detachment, and had them
listen on the telephone while the band played. As the
musicians were stationed directly beneath the room in
which the switchboard was located, the melodies were
audiblv transmitted over the wire. For a long time these
sessions continued, and the lieutenant in charge wondered
as to the why and wherefore of all the connections on the
switchboard.
Here, too, the hard
work of the Intelligence Section could be seen in
perspective. There seemed, in a way, to be no positive
division between French and German holdings. There were
many German sympathizers on the French side, just as
there were French sympathizers on the German side of the
lines. It wasn't exactly a case of having an enemy in the
rear, but the situation approximated that to a degree.
Now, it is the duty of the Intelligence Section to
appre-hend all spies, as well as to know what Ger-man
regiments are op-posing, or to detect and report any
indications of enemy activity.
A page from a
German-printed book is found in Migneville on which is
penciled, as if by the merest beginner in the study of
English, "Love to Joe." This suspicious bit is
hurried down to the Battalion Commander by the
Intelligence Officer of the Regiment with the imperious
command:
"Search every
library in town and apprehend the owner of the book from
which this leaf was torn! No one but a female spy could
be so intimate with an American soldier." At all
costs, we must be protected from the sinister workings of
the German spy system within the ranks. That we shall be
so protected is made clear by the report: " Private
H-, on May 7th, was seen giving cigars to several of his
comrades. You will recall that this is the anniversary of
the sinking of the Lusitania. This man will bear
watching.
Again, the doughboy
hears a distinct and characteristic whizzing overhead,
sees the dirt fly on the hillside below Regimental
Headquarters, hears the explosion and, in his ignorance,
immediately jumps to the conclusion that the German is
doing a bit of shelling. Ali, but one must be sure!
Loughborough vaults into the saddle of his trusty, rusty
bicycle, pedals madly to the scene of the intrusion and
reports the awful truth: One German 77. German activity
cannot escape detection by our Intelligence Department.
A big factor in our
lives was Vaxainville Pete, the short change artist of
the Y. M. C. A. If you asked him what time it was, he
would cheat you out of' five minutes. He was a wizard on
this one-to-a-man stuff. He would take your five-franc
note, dig into his subway pocket for the change, wag his
head sadly and say, "No centimes; be a good
fellow." "Oh, that's all right," the boys
would have to say, "buy a drink with it, all for
yourself." We expect to hear that Vaxainville Pete
has bought a farm with his winnings, and settled down.
Terrible as the war
was up at the front, it was equally terrible in reserve
-at Gelacourt, Brouville and Glonville. With the city of
Baccarat near by, the boys longed for passes, but got
precious few of them. It is rumored that all who pleaded
with their lieutenants in suspiciously earnest fashion to
be sent to the " delousing " plant, somehow
landed up in Baccarat for a holiday.
And that four
o'clock Reveille! Whose bright idea was it which turned
the Second Battalion out of billets at that hour of the
morning, think-ing to escape the heat of the day? A f air
idea it might have been for the men; but company
commanders will tell you a long, soulful story-how they
would crawl back to bed at nine A. M., crawl out again to
swat the pestering fly, lie down, get up to answer the
battalion orderly's persistent knock, retire once more,
at eleven o'clock fling on a few clothes and dash down to
Battalion Headquarters in response to a peremptory
summons. General Duncan, it appears, had breezed through
town in his limousine, had seen a man in billets without
his gas mask slung, another without his rifle and
cartridge belt immediately beside his recumbent form,
another outside the door of the barn in his shirt
sleeves, and had demanded recourse to immediate
disciplinary measures. Then, perhaps, the poor old
captain would have to sit at the pay table from twelve to
three, before drilling again, or inspect his kitchen, his
billets, his men's equipment. Well into the evening he
had his numerous reports to attend to.
And the dubbin!
Shoes must be dubbined at all times, though a man have
but one pair, the roads dusty, the fields muddy.
"The same morning that the first dubbin arrived, the
lieutenant in charge of our company received an order to
send a few N. C. O.'s over to the 37th Division to teach
them practical machine-gun work-a few of us Lorraine
veterans. Ahem! He rallied his braves around him and
picked seven for the job. We had to get our packs made
and slung, eat, shave and get slathers of the awkward
Chauchat stuff together in about twenty minutes, as
usual. As each change in orders would occur to the
lieutenant's mind, runners would be dispatched to the
various billets to inform us. These runners, true to
their calling, would stick their heads inside the doors,
yell the news and run. 'Take helmets.' Then, 'Overcoats
on the packs.' 'Wear your overcoats.' And so on. Finally,
one bright chap came looking for me-'Corporal Lazarus,
oh, Corporal Lazarus, Wilson says to take dubbin along; I
don't know what platoon he's in, but ya gotta take
him."'
It was a terrible
war, but not so awful for those who got away, via motor
truck, to study bomb-throwing or attend the school of the
clanking Chauchat at Fraimbois. They did not complain at
all about the late, luxurious Reveille, the easy classes,
swimming in the river Meurthe or tripping to the big city
of Luneville-or the grand parade of combined American
detachments on July fourth, and the international field
meet in which we gave the French such a drubbing.
The others were just about ready to be tagged to the
hospital for nervous aggravation, when news of the first
American offensive came through-news that the French and
Americans had advanced beyond Chateau Thierry, taking
thousands of prisoners and liberating twenty towns. Great
was the enthusiasm and excitement. The men jumped with
unwonted vigor into their bayonet drill, picturing the
heroic deeds which they might at that moment have been
doing. If others could fight, they could.
Then along came the
37th Division looking for something to do, and merged for
a week or so their inexperienced units with ours.
Veterans we considered ourselves, superciliously
regarding their initial efforts in a much less charitable
spirit than that of the French who had led us through the
mazes of the first dance. At least, we did not discharge
Colt 45's out of the second-story windows of Pettonville
during an imaginary gas attack, or try to shoot up one of
our own tired units, as they did our C Company when it
passed rear-ward through the support lines!
It was pitch dark
the night of August third when we started on a long,
weary hike to the rear, the rain and lightning
terrific-much less welcome than any shelling we had
experienced in that sector. Played out from their long
stay in the dirty trenches, out of which they had carried
most of the cooties, the men slopped and slipped in the
muddy road, unable to see the pack in front, but keeping
distance by holding on to it. Yet, such was the relief
gleaned from the prospect of some different adventure,
that men sang all the way-all the way back to Domptail,
where the Second Battalion was herded into an old
airdrome, the first good roof they had crawled under in
some time.
But there, the next
day being Sunday, and though kilos and kilos behind the
lines, they couldn't even go outside the building without
rifle, belt, bayonet and gas-mask. And one of those
irksome inspections ordered! Again that night they hit
the long, long trail leading into the vicinity of
Blainville, a railhead. Through Gerberviller the units
passed by moonlight, the worst used-up town encountered
thus far. It was said that during the Germans' 1914
advance an entire brigade had been stopped there by a
mere handful of the French Blue Devils, who had been
ordered to stay the advance for at least two hours. They
held it up for half a day. To vent his rage, the German
general had sacked and burned the town, torturing the
civilians. Every time he raised his glass ten men, women
and children were shot down. In the moonlight, the little
town looked ghostly, scarcely one brick left standing
upon another. We itched to try our guns upon Berlin
itself.
Before the
entrainment on August 7th, there was time in which to
practice "infiltration" as -the Boche had
worked it against the English. It was a beautiful word,
uttered as fondly by the local Powers That Be as that
"defense in depth," and "liaison."
But of real instruction, real information as to how it
worked out in detail, there was none. It was left to the
imagination of the officers. "You are now to get
back to the idea of an individual warfare, man against
man, everyone for himself. It is just like the games you
used to play in the sand-lots when you were boys. Go out
and 'infiltrate."' And "now that you have given
one morning to the teaching of 'infiltration, we can let
that drop." It was dropped, until September 26th,
when something akin to it was tried out in desperate
earnest.
Though vaguely
sensed here and there in the ranks that life was not to
be simply one journey after another, there were blithe
spirits-of differing sorts-aboard the trains. This
despite orders that nothing drinkable but water and
coffee could be allowed. One of his men tells how Lieut.
Robinson of E Company cemented the ties which bound him
in affection to his platoon: "When about a hundred
kilos from Blainville, old 'Champy' Robinson, the
champagne hound, jumped out of the officers' coach and
bought six bottles of Monte Belle. The train started
while he was making the purchase. Robbie paddled
desperately after the moving train, handing bottles
through the car doors as they flashed by, ere he could
make a landing. Some of the boys thought he was
remarkably generous to hand out such a beautiful drink to
plain soldiers and lingered just long enough to toast
him; others never even hesitated, but sent it home with a
greeting and a gurgle. At the next stop, Robbie started
down the line to collect his liquor, but was out of luck.
'Must have been the next car, Lieutenant,' was his
reception. 'Come on, boys, come across,' he would
hopefully call at the doors in turn-, but his language
sounded like Chinese."
Still blithe and
carefree, the boys alighted at Mortcerf, to billet for a
night in the neighborhood of Moroux, all unmindful of the
thrill awaiting them.