Chapter XII: Introduction: Bravery (6)

The second Indian V. C. hero of the first year of the war, says Mr. Leask, was also one of the bravest. Naik Darwan Sing Negi, 1st Battalion 39th Gurhwal Rifles, gained his reward for great gallantry on the night of November 23-24, 1914, near Festubert.

The 1st Battalion 39th Gurhwals are recruited from that portion of the Himalayas lying within territory immediately west of Nepal, known as Gurhwal; and Naik, like most of the sturdy recruits drawn from this neighborhood, spent his boyhood herding his father’s sheep and goats on the bleak uplands and glacier valleys, often alone for weeks on end.

One of the fiercest battles of the war took place around Festubert in the La Bassée district. On November 23rd the Germans made a determined attack upon some trenches near Festubert, held by the Indian corps. A counter-attack was organized during the night of the 23rd-24th, as our men were very hard pressed. In this great onslaught the 39th Gurhwal Rifles, all hardy warriors like Darwan Sing Negi from the northern hills, took a leading part. They leaped over the parapet with fixed bayonets, their faces set and grim. With irresistible dash they advanced to the captured trenches and drove the enemy off with terrible loss.

Darwan Sing Negi received two severe wounds in the head and in the arm, but refused to give in. He led the way round each successive traverse, and we can imagine the terror he inspired in the hearts of the Germans when they saw this tall, fierce Indian hero, with white turban gleaming in the darkness, his eyes afire, advancing upon them with the bayonet. Although fired at by bombs and rifles at the closest range, nothing could daunt this fearless fighter. By his splendid courage and powerful arm he practically cleared the trench himself and so saved a serious situation. The fighting went on all the next day, but the heroic deed of Darwan Sing Negi on the previous night had averted the worst of the danger. He was decorated by the King just before his Majesty left France on December 5, 1914.

THE JEMADAR

The next month, April, saw the winning of another V. C. by an Indian officer. He was Jemadar Mir Dast, of the 55th (Coke’s) Rifles, though he won his distinction when he was attached to the 57th (Wilde’s) Rifles, both belonging to Indian Frontier Force.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant Joseph H. Stowers

_42nd Division, 167th Infantry, Machine-Gun Company_

He was cited for rushing into the open under fire January 2, 1918, through an area flooded with poisonous gas, to the assistance of a wounded comrade who was lying in an exposed position. He brought the wounded man back safely in his arms.]

The jemadar—corresponding to our lieutenant—had already distinguished himself before coming to Europe to fight for his King-Emperor. He possesses the coveted Indian Order of Merit for gallant services on the Indian frontier while acting as guardian of the northern boundary.

During both battles of Ypres the Indians fought magnificently. After the enemy’s poison-gas attack had made a temporary dent in the British line in the Ypres area, Sir John French ordered the Lahore Division of the Indian Corps, to which Mir Dast’s regiment was attached, to be moved up and placed at the disposal of the Second Army.

A few days later, this corps, supported by the British cavalry, was pushed up into the front firing-line. The time had come for the British to assume the offensive. Fighting with the French on one of their wings, the Indians were successful in pushing the enemy back some little distance toward the north. Again the Germans let loose their poison gas, and rendered further advance impossible. Such was the position on April 26th.

The Indians fought with determination to carry the German positions. A formidable series of trenches had to be assaulted in order to dislodge the enemy and so relieve the pressure on the rest of the line. Jemadar Mir Dast got his men ready and was waiting to advance. When the order was given to dash from the trenches, Mir Dast found himself detailed off to remain with his platoon in reserve. The others, advancing by short rushes, reached the crest of the first slope without a check, although a number fell by shell fire. On reaching the crest, however, the line came under a terrific machine gun and rifle fire. Whole swathes of men fell as if a scythe had been drawn across their legs. In spite of this, the line pressed on.

Then came the dramatic sequel. The Germans suddenly released their gas. Although the French Colonials were the chief sufferers, the Indian troops were affected by it. The poor fellows were totally unprovided with any form of protection against this devilish device, and were falling fast, being at the same time under a hail of machine gun fire. No troops could have withstood the terrible conditions, and the line was forced to give way.

Jemadar Mir Dast, from his trench, had seen the oncoming poison cloud, and noticed the retirement of a part of the line. He had one of two alternatives presented to him. Either he must retire in conformity with the rest of the troops, or endeavor to get his men to stand firm and resist the attack. Mir Dast decided to remain.

STOOD THE BRUNT

Behind the dense volumes of gas and with ceaseless pointblank fire, the Germans approached nearer and nearer. Undaunted in the trying ordeal, Mir Dast remained firm, and collected all the men available, among whom were many who were recovering from the effects of gas. So many British officers had been killed that there was no one left to lead but himself. He therefore assumed command of the forces he had collected, and kept the men together until ordered to retire, all the while holding up the oncoming Germans with rifle fire.

After dusk, Mir Dast left the trench with his small force. During this retirement, he picked up many men who were in the successive lines of trenches by which he passed, and brought them back to safety.

Throughout the attack, the resolute conduct of Mir Dast was beyond praise. As the little band wended its way to the rear he encouraged each man individually by his cheery words and courageous example. He saw an officer lying wounded, and at great risk went and brought him to cover. A few yards farther on he made out the writhing figure of a gassed Indian officer. In spite of a hot rifle fire the intrepid jemadar made for him, and, with assistance, got the suffering officer out of the zone of fire. Then a second British officer was observed. The jemadar, knowing every minute was precious if he himself was to escape the fire and gas, stopped once again to perform his heroic work of rescue.

In this way during the retirement the gallant Indian soldier brought in no less than eight wounded British and Indian officers. He was exposed in doing so to a very heavy fire, and was himself slightly wounded. Had he not shown such conspicuous bravery these eight men would have died on the field. Mir Dast not only received bullet wounds, but was rendered very weak through the effects of the German poison gas.

The gallantry of Mir Dast, as well as the behavior of the whole division at the second battle of Ypres, added yet another proud page to the record of the Indian army.

The jemadar, when well enough to be moved, was sent to England, and there received from the hands of the King-Emperor the V. C. he had so deservedly won.

He was much affected by the King’s praise and said afterwards, “What did I do?—nothing, only my duty; and to think that the great King-Emperor should shake me by the hand and praise me. I am his child.”

It must be remembered that India’s service in the war was entirely voluntary.

A LIVELY INTRODUCTION

An Ambulance Man’s First Twenty-four Hours at the Front Well Diversified

In a letter to his father, Dr. John B. Sullivan of Brooklyn, N. Y., an aid with the American Ambulance Field Service in France, Eugene Sullivan, who got quickly into the thick of things, tells the incidents of his first day where the Germans were busy. The letter appeared in the Brooklyn _Eagle_ as follows:

“Well, after being assigned to section ... we went immediately to the front by going to ..., base of sector, and arriving there were picked up by section chief and then brought to section headquarters. Next morning, at eight, was sent out as aid to learn roads, stations, _postes de secours_, etc. First station at.... Arriving there I expressed my disappointment, because everything looked so quiet, except for the village, which, by the way, at one time must have been lovely, but Germans had destroyed everything—every single house and building—only a few houses had walls standing. At the improvised relay station, or _poste de secours_, I left the ambulance and strolled to the top of a hill.

“Here I could see and was in plain sight of a German observation balloon, and the German must have taken a dislike to my position, physique or otherwise, because before long some nice big high explosive shells started to come my way—so much so I had to postpone my sight-seeing tour and retire to the _poste de secours_ and join the others who were in an _abri_, which is an enlarged rat-hole in the ground. While there an ambulance from a station nearer the first line of trenches came in with some _blessés_ (wounded) and left word that he was going to ... to the first hospital. It was then up to us to go forward to Pont ... to take the place of this ambulance, who on his return would take our place at ... Well, all went well and we hid the ambulance at Pont ... in some bushes to wait for some poor fellow to get his ‘ticket’ for the hospital. Very little happened that day, except for the shells flying over our heads and a few airplane scraps, but no wounded. Toward evening an extra ambulance arrived, and we in the first ambulance got word to go still further to the front, to where they have never had an ambulance before, but on account of shell-fire had to wait until darkness.

“This was like preparing me for the inevitable, but finally we got a French soldier to guide us, and the driver, Harry Dunn, the soldier, and yours truly, aid, started. All went well until about half over the rocky and muddy road to Dublin I noticed the soldiers running like mad for the trenches. For a few seconds I didn’t realize what it meant, until a shell burst right near us and pieces went hissing right over the top of the ambulance. Right then yours truly grabbed his steel helmet from the guide, who was holding it, and just planted it on his head, and, believe me, thought of home, mother, etc., said a few prayers, and finally landed under the cover of the French dressing station.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant August Steidl

_1st Division, 26th Infantry, Company “A”_

He showed exceptional bravery and control over his platoon while advancing through enemy machine-gun and artillery fire before he reached his final objective, which he took with great daring.]

“Got well located and fixed a stretcher in lieu of a bed, and just about settled down to rest and sleep while waiting for candidates for ride in ambulance when the French batteries started up. They were a couple of hundred yards in rear of us and were firing over our heads, and I got up and stood at the door to see the fire of belching batteries, etc. Joe, each time one of those blame things went off my steel (crown) helmet just naturally rose off my head, but in a few minutes I got used to it and got well used to my surroundings and looked over everything. It seems all the fire of a couple of hours was just a small preliminary to an attack by a small company to jump into the German trenches, grab about a dozen prisoners and then back again—all so they could give the poor Boches the third degree for general information, etc.

WITNESSES AN AIR DUEL

“Finally, after all the firing, got a French soldier who had the good portion of his head left to take to the hospital, and as it was getting near daybreak we were ordered to ‘beat it’ under cover of darkness, or the little that was left of it. Got out all right, except that we darn near rode on top of a French battery, just as it was firing, only 100 feet in front of us, and, believe me, we hit only the high spots for about five miles. Got to hospital at ... O. K. and returned to ..., taking up our order of relief and settled down to enjoy some rest. Nothing doing for a couple of hours until just about 8 a.m., when our tour of duty (twenty-four hours) was finished, when a lot of machine-gun fire attracted our attention to the sky.

“There we saw—in my opinion—the most wonderful and yet most horrible duel between two airplanes, French and German. Saw every move they made, until finally the German—or Boche, we call them—machine broke into flames and immediately the observer of the German machine jumped 7,000 feet to his death, leaving his pilot to finish the struggle; but although the poor wretch made a grand effort to right his plane after a fall like a rocket for 1,000 feet, the tail of his machine and one wing broke off and just dropped.

“While dropping, the flames must have got to him, for he finally jumped, too, and his machine fell one way and he, all in flames, a little farther away. All the while the Frenchman in his victorious machine was flying—really dropping—and followed him down, making a spiral dive, and landed almost as quick. We jumped into our ambulance and hurried to the spot, and the sight which greeted us was horrible. I had my camera with me, but just couldn’t snap the picture. The victorious aviator then reached the spot and stood smilingly over the body while various ones took the picture.

“The German balloon observers took it all in and when the crowd of us gathered they had their artillery just drop some shells among us, so we ‘beat it,’ and that was the end of my first twenty-four hours on the front. Some baptism.

“A chap who came over with me—Osborn, of Dartmouth College—was only four days in active service with Section 28, and in going to the aid of one of his section ambulances got stalled himself and while repairing his car the Germans located him by a star shell which illuminates everything, and in this way they got a line on him and his ambulance. They paid no heed to red cross on ambulance, but let him have a shell, with the result that one leg was shattered and a piece of a shell went through his body and lung. The poor chap didn’t realize how seriously he was hurt or that he lost his leg later by amputation, but was apparently O. K., for on the morning of the day he died he was chatting merrily with every one, shaved himself and had a smoke. He even wrote a most wonderful and pathetic letter to his parents, and yet that night he died. Some say, or try to say, we don’t get under fire. I at least know what shell-fire is.”

At the date of the signing of the Armistice over 25 per cent. of the entire male population of the United States, between the ages of 18 and 31, were in military service. This represents a growth in the size of the American Army in 19 months of nearly twenty-fold, namely, from 189,674 in March, 1917, to 3,664,000 in November, 1918.

“A VALIANT GENTLEMAN”

So Comrades Named Dick Hall, One of the First of Ours to Die

Speaking at the Lafayette Day banquet given in New York the evening of Sept. 6, 1916, M. Jusserand, the French Ambassador, referring to the service of Americans in France before the United States entered the war, said:

“Serving in the ambulances, serving in the Legion, serving in the air, serving Liberty, obeying the same impulse as that which brought Lafayette to these shores, many young Americans leaving home and family have offered to France their lives. Those lives many have lost, and never, even in antique times, was there shown such abnegation and generosity, such firmness of character: men like that Victor Chapman, who died to rescue American and French co-aviators nearly overcome by a more numerous enemy, and whose father, so justly admired for his gifts of mind and heart, decided that his son’s remains should be buried where he had fallen: ‘Let him rest with his comrades’; or that Richard Hall, killed by a shell while on the search for our wounded and whose mother hesitated to accept a permit to visit his flower-wreathed tomb at the front, because French mothers are not allowed to do so; or that Harvard graduate, the poet of the Legion, Alan Seeger, who felt that his hour could not be far remote and in expectation of it had written from the blood-soaked battlefield where he had fought for Liberty. The Frenchman who goes up is possessed with a passion beside which any of the other forms of experience that are reckoned to make life worth while seem pale in comparison. It is a privilege to march at his side—so much so that nothing the world could give could make me wish myself anywhere else than where I am.”

And Emory Pottle, in telling for the _Century_ the story of a “Christmas at Pont-à-Mousson” (1915) when he and his fellows of the American Ambulance Service in that sector had a “bonne fête,” superintended by Mme. Marion and pretty little thirteen-year-old Jeanne, says:

“It was a gay meal, recklessly, happily so. No one in the sector to which we were attached was wounded that day. That, maybe, was the real holiday note. Though it may seem incredible, the meal ended with a huge plum pudding.

“It ended, too, with something very grave and as I now think of it, very beautiful. The festival meal and the gifts were forgotten in the face of it. For it was, oh! not strangely, one of those events which lift men, if ever so briefly, out of their daily selves into unseen things. Our chief of Section was called to the telephone. He came back—we all saw it—with saddened face. ‘Fellows,’ he said slowly, ‘Richard Hall of Section III has been killed, blown off his car by a stray shell in the Vosges. He is the first of us all to go.’

“We stood very silently and soberly about the table. Such news drove home abruptly, cruelly by reason of our Christmas gaieties—just what being there involved to us, to those who loved us. Very often we had jested and joked about death. None of us was a coward, I think; but—Hall dead—the first of the lot of us—dead—so far from home—Christmas!

“‘Boys, let’s drink to him, the first of us to lay down his life for France. Here’s to Dick Hall, good old scout!’

“So we drank, and I think no man there that night, where danger and death were always brooding darkly, failed to feel the dignity and honor of his calling.

A MOTHER’S GIFT TO THE CAUSE

“A long time after, the mother of Richard Hall said to a friend of mine—said with clear, sad, gentle eyes—‘I am glad to give my boy to so great a cause!’ And we on the edge of the sinister Bois le Pretre, when the news of the boy’s death came to us that Christmas day, felt, too, somehow, somewhere within us, that the cause was great, was ours.

“Late that night I stood alone for a time under the starry sky of that strange hell we inhabited. Oddly enough, I felt, so I recall, a calmness and a courage, even a sort of happiness, new and strange. Though its approaches might be loud and frightening, I knew again that ‘the ways of death are silent and serene;’ an honorable death, a death of one’s own choosing for an ideal, for a cause.”

An extract from a letter written to his parents on Decoration Day, 1916, by Louis P. Hall, Jr., next older brother of Richard—he, too, valiant in the Ambulance Service—gives an intimate glimpse of the qualities of heart and mind that endeared Richard Hall to his fellows and to all who knew him:

“To-day at two I attended a beautiful memorial exercise. It was held at the monument to Washington and Lafayette in the Place des États-Unis, here in Paris. And during these exercises I took a little part when my officers and myself placed a great floral tribute at the base of the monument among the many others. On the tri-color ribbons of this tribute from the American Ambulance were these words: ‘To Richard Hall and the other Americans who gave their lives for France.’

“And so it is, as you well know, that I have thought a great deal of Dick to-day. I believe I can recall almost every time I saw him during our last three months together in Alsace with the circumstances of each meeting. I can even remember many of the times and places we passed each other on the road. He invariably smiled as we waved to each other in passing, just as if he were as pleased to see me as I was to see him. And I wonder if that really could be true! How I did admire and love him as I knew him there in a life which brought forth all the best from a boy who had no worst. And coupled with his splendid character, indeed a part of it, was that fine reserve which never courted an open show of devotion from me. But he was my own brother and always must be my brother, what more could I have asked?... Though we were often miles apart for days at a time, each was doing his little share in alleviating that endless physical pain and bitter human suffering which made our own hardships seem as nothing. And there was always our next meeting, sometimes down in the valley, sometimes at a post in the mountains, when we would talk things over; but even then neither told the other all his inmost thoughts, for in such work our very depths were touched and stirred as they never had been touched and stirred before.”

FROM DARTMOUTH TO FRANCE

Richard Nelville Hall, less than 21 years old when killed, was the youngest son of Dr. and Mrs. Louis P. Hall, of Ann Arbor, Michigan. In June, 1915, he was a senior at Dartmouth College and with other members of that class he enlisted with the American Ambulance Corps for a period of three months, and was assigned to Section Three. When his term was up there was such urgent need of men and the new enlistments were so few that Dick volunteered to remain in service until he could be spared more easily. About that time Louis P. Hall, Jr., his next older brother, enlisted and surprised Dick by appearing in the yard of the American Ambulance Corps in Paris. Dick had just driven in from the firing line. The meeting can be appreciated only by those who know what a bond of affectionate devotion united the brothers, and which is expressed in the foregoing quotation from Louis’ letter to his parents dated Decoration Day, 1916.

But even when recruits came the work of the Ambulance Corps was such that the need of men was increased, and Dick continued to drive his ambulance, postponing a little further his expected return home. There was terribly fierce fighting in the Vosges in that period, it will be remembered, and the demands upon the ambulance driver were almost incessant, the peril of it constant, gathering up the wounded from the battle front and hurrying them to a place of safety. For five months he had made those hazardous trips from battle front to safety station, unhesitatingly, devoted, inspired by the consciousness that he was engaged in saving, not in destroying life, his work not for France alone but for humanity.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant David U. Binkley

_42nd Division, 168th Infantry, Company “I”_

While a private, Sergeant Binkley, on July 28, 1918, sought and obtained permission to rescue his corporal who was lying severely wounded in the open near Sergy, northeast of Château-Thierry, France. He crossed an open area that was swept for more than 50 yards by enemy machine guns, reached the corporal and carried him safely back into the lines.]

Lovering Hill, the chief of the section, says of him: “I have never known any one who always showed so much _dévouement_ in his work. He was the steadiest of all, and the most reliable. He never slacked up in times when work was dull, when day in and day out was the same grinding monotony; and in times of activity after many hours without rest or sleep, he was always cheerful and stuck to the work with a tenacity which was astounding. His frankness and straightforwardness, his cheerfulness and good nature, his kindness—for he was always the first to help his comrades—made him beloved by all of us, and by most of the French with whom he came in touch, who admired the wholehearted way in which he worked. In the technical matter of the upkeep of his car he was my special delight, for both his car and his equipment were always in perfect order.”

The incidents of the days preceding the death of Hall have been indicated briefly in a tribute written soon after the fatality. There had been something of a respite from fighting, but on December 21 “the mountains spoke” and all the cars rolled upwards toward the post of Hartmanns-Weilerkopf—taken and retaken a score of times, a bare, brown, blunt shell-ploughed top where before the forest stood—up, elbowing and tacking their way through battalions of men and beasts. From one mountain slope to another roared all the lungs of war. For five days and five nights, scraps of days—the shortest of the year—nights interminable—the air was shredded with shrieking shells—intermittent lulls for slaughtering after the bombardment—then again the roar of the counter-attack.

THE TRAVELED ROAD

“All this time, as in all the past months, Richard Nelville Hall calmly drove his car up the winding shell-swept artery of the mountain of war—past crazed mules, broken-down artillery carts, swearing drivers, stricken horses, wounded stragglers still able to hobble; past long convoys of Boche prisoners, silently descending in twos guarded by a handful of men; past all the personnel of war, great and small (for there is but one road on which to travel, one road for the enemy’s shell); past abris, bomb-proof, to arrive at the _Poste de Secours_; where silent men moved mysteriously under the great trees, where the cars were loaded with an ever ready supply of still more quiet figures (though some made sounds), mere bundles in blankets. Hall saw to it that these quiet bundles were carefully and rapidly installed, then rolled down into the valley where little towns bear stolidly their daily burden of shells thrown wantonly from somewhere in Bocheland over the mountain to somewhere in France—the bleeding bodies in the car, a mere corpuscle in the full crimson stream, the ever-rolling tide from the trenches to the hospital, of the blood of life and the blood of death. Once there, his wounded unloaded, Dick Hall filled his gasoline tank and calmly rolled again on his way. Two of his comrades had been wounded the day before, but Dick Hall never faltered. He slept when and where he could, in his car, at the _poste_, on the floor of our temporary kitchen at Moosch—dry blankets or wet blankets of mud, blankets of blood—contagion was pedantry, microbes a myth.”

It was over this shell-swept, torturous road that Dick Hall was driving his car on its final errand of mercy when, in the first hours of the Christmas morning, death made friends with him. Some three hours later he was found by Matter, one of his comrades, the first to pass along the mountain road. It was between 3 and 4 o’clock of the morning. Matter and Jennings, who came a little later, bore the body back in Matter’s car to Moosch, where his brother, Louis Hall, learned what had happened. Death had been instantaneous. A fragment of shell had penetrated his brain. Though he had other injuries (the car was utterly demolished), we have the testimony of Abbé Klein, the chaplain, that “even in death his face preserved the expression of smiling radiance, that frank and kindly nature that his comrades had learned to love in the months he had been with them.”

“There in the small hours of Christmas morning where mountain fought mountain—on that hard bitter pass under the pines of the Vosgian sweep, there fell a very modest and valiant gentleman,” says the memorial from his comrades of Section Three, adding:

“Dick Hall, we knew you, worked with you, played with you, ate with you, slept with you, we took pleasure in your company, in your modesty, in your gentle manner, in your devotion and in your youth—we still pass that spot, and we salute. Our breath comes quicker, and our eyes grow dimmer, we grip the wheel a little tighter—we pass better and stronger.”

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Private George W. Langham

_32nd Division, 128th Infantry, Company “H”_

Though he was severely gassed near Juvigny, north of Soissons, France, August 20-September 2, 1918, he remained on duty with his company while it was in the front line. Later he aided in the work of carrying wounded men across the area covered by artillery and machine-gun fire.]

THE LIVING DEAD

The funeral services were held in the little Protestant Chapel five miles down the valley while the guns roared in a fierce battle raging for the possession of Hartmanns-Weilerkopf. At the conclusion of the ceremony Hall’s citation was read and the _Croix de Guerre_ was pinned to a fold of the tri-color that wrapped his coffin. At the head of the grave was placed a wooden cross with the simple but all sufficient inscription, “Richard Hall, an American who died for France, December 25, 1915.” The Alsatian women heaped flowers on the grave, and after kept it decorated and cared for. When the United States formally entered the war there was a further ceremony, when a French General laid a palm on the grave in the presence of Louis Hall and the American Corps.

But Richard Hall was one of those fortunate servants whose service and humanity did not end with death. Very soon after he was killed, as a tribute to his memory a new ambulance car was sent to France to be driven by Louis Hall. It was the gift of a lady. Another followed, the gift of a New York gentleman, and a third ambulance was sent by Dr. and Mrs. Louis P. Hall, who also kept a memorial bed in the American Ambulance Hospital at Neuilly until the end of the war. In addition to that they established a Loan Fund of $2,000 in the University of Michigan (Ann Arbor was Dick’s birthplace, his father a professor in the University) and $500 was given to Dartmouth. In the same spirit of carrying on Dick’s work his parents’ efforts resulted in the sending of $18,000 to the “Fatherless Children of France” and ten thousand garments to the children of the Frontier.

An editorial in the Philadelphia _Press_ had this to say of Richard Hall:

“Much more glorious is the death of this man than is that of the fighting soldier. His was a devotion, not to country and fireside and altar, but to an abstract conception of duty. There can be a selfishness, of a refined kind, to be sure, in even the greatest bravery shown by the soldier who is fighting for the preservation of his native land. Thoughts of his near and dear ones in that land inspire his actions and nerve his body and will for them. To the alien nurse, physician, hospital attendant there is no such inspiration. For them the inspiration must come from the depth of their humanity, and cannot be tinged with the slightest touch of self. German or Hun, Briton or Serb or Frenchman are all the same in their eyes if they are suffering from wounds or disease. Americans have a right to be proud of a fellow countryman like Richard Hall.”

WHERE DENOMINATIONS END

A Christian Priest Who Was a Hero too Found They Vanished at the Front

Though we did not see much about them in the dispatches, those soldiers of the Most High, the army chaplains who went to the front, were often as heroic and self-sacrificing in attending to their duties as were the doughboys themselves. Among the many was Father John J. Brady of New York, the young Catholic chaplain of the 5th Regiment, U. S. Marines, who was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for things he did in the Château-Thierry region in the deadly period of June, 1918. Some of the zealous folk who wish to put a ban on tobacco in all of its forms will hardly understand the quality of heroism that prompted Father Brady to risk his life on several occasions to carry cigarettes to men of the fighting line who could not otherwise have had the “soldier’s solace” after the perils and fatigues of long hours of trench service. Nevertheless, that generous and courageous act was among the valiant things for which his country officially honored him. In the big fight that turned back the Germans, this free-souled chaplain made two complete tours of the front line under severe fire, ministering in unusually trying circumstances to the wounded and dying men of his regiment. Right well the men of that regiment loved him—not because he was their chaplain but because he was the chaplain who understood. A wonderful thing is understanding. We recall that the wise Solomon rated it above all things else.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant Patrick Walsh

_1st Division, 18th Infantry_

He captured a nest of enemy machine gunners who were doing particular damage to his unit and as a result he was decorated with the Croix de Guerre and the Distinguished Service Cross. He is said to be the first American soldier to receive the former decoration.]

The _Stars and Stripes_ in an article about Chaplain Brady has the key to the man in the opening paragraph, which quotes him as saying:

“’Tis all one great church, the front line is. In all Christendom, in all the rest of the world you will not find so much unselfishness, so much Christian charity, so much loving kindness, as you find at the front. There, if anywhere, the men are brothers. We feel it. Denominations or sects are pretty much forgotten. Faith, war makes strange bunkies, and ’tis me and my pal, the Presbyterian minister, have been shelled out of the same quarters together.”

The article continues:

“Father Brady ought to know, for he penetrated the farthermost American position and has crawled beyond the front lines to hear confessions of Marines in the outpost. He was decorated for extraordinary heroism at the battle of Château-Thierry where his unfailing ministrations were a big factor in conserving the morale of the men.

“The true spirit of the Marines is Father Brady’s. He laughs at obstacles and perils, and his indomitable will carries him through the most difficult tasks. Often he has accomplished the seemingly impossible and he is honored by Protestant and Jew as he is by those of his own faith. Regardless of creed, the Devil Dogs of the 5th Regiment are proud of their chaplain.”

HIS LEATHERNECKS

“There was to be an attack the next morning in the gray hours before the sun was up, when Father Brady reached the wooded country between Soissons and Château-Thierry where his Leathernecks crouched under the Hun bombardments. He crawled and stumbled along the lines to hear confessions from his warriors. Hard-bitten old-timers who had not seen the interior of a church in years bared their souls and went light-hearted into the hell that followed the opening barrage.

“Reaching the final outpost, the young priest spied a shallow trench from which a sentry peeped. In spite of warnings he slipped out among the shadows and wormed his way forward and rolled into the ditch. He heard the confession as he and the outpost lay side by side looking up at the stars, and as he crept back to cover he knew that he had never granted absolution in stranger places. He has said mass for the faithful with his altar cloth on the shattered stump of a tree during the last lull before the attack.

“Friend and foe alike received the sacrament from the young Catholic priest. His enmity for the Germans ceased when he went among the young wounded Bavarians left on the field and gave them the last consolation of the church. Often he bent over young Germans, scarcely able to speak as they groped for their rosaries, and left them facing death more bravely.

“One of his most dangerous tasks was the burial of the dead, which must be done at night, and frequently under shell fire. It is work that must be done in the open, for digging is almost impossible where the woods fill the soil with interlacing roots. It was on such a mission that personal tragedy touched him. Making his way to the crest of a hill, where he had been told a man lay dead, he found the face of one of his closest friends turned up to the moonlight.

“In spite of the horrors he has witnessed and the sorrows he has shared, those who have met Father Brady recently say he is unchanged. Many men would have shrunk from his work, much of which was done alone with no comrade to speak a steadying word. Yet his spirit is still buoyant and his mind is unoppressed.”

A BIT OF A MISTAKE

“Many of his stories deal with the changes in spirit and practice that have followed the sharing of hardships. All the Marines were ‘his boys.’

“‘What a pother they’d have made in the old days of peace back home if they had caught me at a mistake I made the other night,’ he said. ‘In the confusion just before the attack I heard the confession of one old sinner of a sergeant. He got half-way through before I discovered that he was not a Catholic.’

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

First-Class Sergeant George Burr

_32nd Division, 107th Field Signal Battalion, Company C_

Sergeant Burr, in charge of a detachment near Cierges, France, August 2, 1918, strung wire far in advance of the front lines, working through heavy artillery fire to the point where the regimental post of command was to be situated. When ordered to leave one man at the instrument, he himself remained.]

“‘Why, you’re no Catholic!’ I told him.

“‘No, Padre, I’m a Presbyterian,’ said he, ‘but they say confession is good for the soul. Believe me, mine feels none the worse now.’

“Once Father Brady received $2,000 from America to buy himself an automobile. He spent it on a club for the boys in his regiment. Later they found that the young priest could box and wrestle, and that he was the best referee that could be got for their fights. He built up trust and affection for himself during the weary months at the front.

“He has been day and night with his regiment during the long period when they were in the midst of things. For a month at a time he has snatched what sleep he could wherever he might throw himself down, under hedges, in roadside barns and even in shell holes. But he has always had a word of cheer for the men, and in the most terrible days he has made both living and dying more bearable for the 5th Marines.”

“BUCKEYES” OR “SPEARHEADS”

How the Ohio Doughboys Managed to Pick Up a New Nickname in France

The “Buckeye Division,” the 37th Ohio, got a new nickname for itself at Montfaucon in September, 1917. It was called “Spearheads” because of its ability to start a drive and carry on until its objectives were reached and captured. In a history of the Division Jack Koons (of the Cincinnati _Inquirer_), who was one of the Spearheads, tells in a breezily entertaining manner of the first experience of the boys going “over the top.”

Montfaucon had been held for over three years by the Germans, and was one of the so-called “invulnerables.”

The division historian says:

“Just before dusk on the night of September 25 the men began to enter the trenches. Blankets, overcoats, packs, and all unnecessary equipment were piled in large salvage heaps. Behind the lines, crouched beneath leafy screens of camouflage, was the artillery. At 10.25 o’clock the first gun spoke and all along the line great splotches of red seared the sky and the boom, screech, and crack of the gigantic pieces echoed and reëchoed through the hills. Far across the landscape, rising from the plain and standing out upon the horizon, was Montfaucon. The white walls of the city could be seen distinctly in the daytime. A church steeple, long ago deserted by worshipers, stood, a vacant monument to the ravages of the foe. In the advance against Montfaucon it was necessary to advance approximately twelve kilometers, through two dense woods, a marshy land, up a sharp slope, another plain, and then a sharp ascent into the town. It was later learned that a German Division Headquarters was located in the town.”

© _Committee Public Information._

Machine Gun in Action]

AT THE ZERO HOUR

“Patrols advanced into No Man’s Land as the artillery cut away barbed-wire entanglements. The great guns rose into a rumble and death rode through the night on shells—bound toward Germany. At 2.25 o’clock in the morning of September 26 the barrage rose and thundered in volume. Like the roll of a mighty drum the sound could be heard for more than a hundred miles. At 5.05 o’clock the barrage rested on the German front lines—rested there for twenty-five minutes, cutting forests to the ground and demoralizing the enemy who fled into the deepest dugouts. At 5.30 o’clock, the zero hour, the boys from Ohio went over the top. Every county and village in the State was represented in that attack.

“On and on they went. Machine-gun nests, carefully camouflaged with the hellishness shown only by the German, were discovered and destroyed. Here and there in the woodland Hun snipers were busy—but not for long. Men fell by the wayside in agony, refused assistance from comrades, and urged the men to go forward. That was the true Ohio spirit. The spirit that drove the Germans back mile after mile, that resulted in the capture of not only Montfaucon, twenty-four hours later, but Cierges and Ivoiry. These towns had been held by the Germans for four long years and were wrested away and liberated by Ohioans in forty-eight hours. In the prisoner cage were huddled approximately 1,100 prisoners, many officers among them.

“Relief came to the tired, fighting crew on September 30. Back they came a laughing, joking, dirty, sleepy division of fighting men—no longer boys. Behind them, buried in the fields of eastern France, slept those sons of Ohio who had given their lives, their all.”

NOW THE FINAL EPISODES

“At 5.25 o’clock on the morning of October 31 ‘Fritzie’ on watch along the Lys River was rudely awakened from his dreams of German beer and sauerkraut to face a typical go-get-’em barrage. It was a typical American barrage. Five minutes of drumfire. Five minutes of hell, fire, and damnation. Five minutes of terror. Across the Lys River scurried the Ohioans. Paddling in the icy water on logs and planks, the ‘doughboys’ went over, carrying rifles and machine guns. Engineers began to build bridges. For a few minutes the Germans hesitated, but it didn’t take them long to decide. Back they went to previously arranged positions. Here they planned to stop the infantry, but they were mistaken. In twenty minutes the Ohioans had reached their first objective. Three hours later they passed their second objective and dug in for the night. As they dug in the Germans dug out and started for the Escaut River. On the second day members of the 37th Division drove on through Cruyshautem and Huysse to the banks of the Scheldt (Escaut) River. Here, under a veritable rain of shrapnel and machine-gun fire, they established and held the only bridgeheads to be erected over this river during the war.”

THEIR LAST OVER

“In this drive through the fertile fields and populated country which had grown dormant under the four years of iron-hand rule of the Hohenzollern, more than twenty towns were liberated. Hundreds of men, women, and children, laughing, crying, cheering, greeted the men as they advanced and entered towns. The yellow, red, and black flags of Belgium appeared mysteriously from hiding places and swayed in the breeze. Apples and bottles of wine were resurrected and slipped down the throats of the boys in olive drab. Up ahead at Heurne, near Audenarde, the Americans were raising Cain with the Germans, who were falling back along the river.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeants Eggers and Latham

_27th Division, 107th Infantry, Machine-Gun Company_

In action against the enemy near La Catelet, France, on September 29, 1918, Eggers and Latham separated from their platoon in a smoke barrage, and took shelter in a shell-hole within the enemy’s line where an American tank was disabled with three men inside; it was in a heavy fire from enemy guns; but the two sergeants rescued the men in the tank, one, an officer, was wounded, and conveyed them all to a nearby trench—returned to the abandoned tank which was in a violent rain of artillery fire—dismounted the Hotchkiss gun and returned with it to the trench, where the wounded men were and there effectively protected themselves from the enemy until night time, when they were able to take the wounded officer and tank crew to their own trenches.]

“On November 4, 1918, the Division was relieved by a French division and hiked thirty kilometers to Thielt, the largest town they had been in since leaving Montgomery, Ala. Here they brushed away the dirt and dust, waxed and grew fat until November 9. On that date the Division advanced again past Deynze to Synghem. With peace rumors flashing through the air, on the morning of November 10, the 37th Division went over the top again, crossing the Escaut River north of their first sector, and drove the Prussian Guards before them. It was here that news of the armistice arrived on the morning of November 11. Orders had been received to suspend hostilities at eleven o’clock. At ten o’clock the men were prepared to follow another barrage.

“Squatting in ‘funk’ holes, the men carelessly rolled cigarettes and waited for the hour to tick around. The announcement was made. ‘Hostilities had ceased.’ Calmly, confidently they clambered to the ground. Across the fields the Germans were moving away. There was no exchange of shots. Another cigarette. The war was over.”

CORPORAL HOLMES’S WAY

And a Right Good Way to Win the V.C. and the Hearts of Men

Fred Holmes, corporal in the Yorkshire Light Infantry, was awarded France’s chief military decoration, the _Médaille Militaire_, for gallantry during the fight on the Aisne. The official account of the exploit is quite brief: Holmes saw a platoon of French struggling against heavy odds, whereupon he dashed over the river for a machine gun, carried it to the platoon, and turned it on the enemy, with such effect that the German pressure was immediately relieved. However, when Corporal Holmes’ name is mentioned men usually think of the thrilling record at Le Cateau which brought him the V.C.

The Yorkshire Light Infantry were in the very thickest of the fighting at Mons. At the little colliery town at Warmb they received a severe shaking from the enemy, but gave as good as they got. It was after the engagement at this place that the brave fellows, footsore and tired, but still cheerful, tramped many weary miles to the famous battlefield of Le Cateau.

It is not necessary to describe the stand made there, but only to mention a few facts, as recorded by G. A. Leask in his _Heroes of the Great War_, without knowledge of which Holmes’s feat would be unintelligible.

Orders were given to entrench, and the men set to work with zest, glad of the change from the continuous retreating. The task accomplished, the regiment lay down in the trenches, while the booming of the German guns grew ever louder.

At dawn of August 26 there was suddenly a fierce bombardment from the enemy’s artillery. According to Holmes, “We could feel the breath from their guns. It was awful.” The Yorks stuck to their trenches, firing incessantly. They had been told that French troops would reinforce them, but as the day dragged on no French appeared. The British artillery kept up a hot fire from behind Holmes’s trench, which suffered the proverbial discomfort of the unlucky victim between two fires.

Late in the afternoon the Yorks received orders to retire; to have remained longer would have meant annihilation. The troops retired in small sections, Holmes remaining with five men to the last to cover the retreat of the others.

Holmes was actually the last man to leave the trench. No sooner had he climbed over the parapet than he met the full brunt of the enemy’s fire, which by this time had become fiercer than ever. He had seen many of his comrades drop to earth, but his heart was undaunted. Suddenly, when he had proceeded a few yards from the trench, he felt his boot clutched and heard his name called.

“For God’s sake, save me, Fred!” said a feeble voice.

© _New York Herald._

Firing at Close Range

A British fieldpiece, in an exposed position and without cover of camouflage, firing point blank at the enemy.]

TAKES UP HIS FRIEND

Holmes paused. There at his feet, unable to move, was one of his chums, his knees shattered by shrapnel. Holmes had only a brief moment for reflection. To delay meant certain death. The problem was how best to help the poor fellow. To take him back into the trench was the quickest way out of the difficulty, and the easiest. Had he done this, the Germans would soon have discovered the wounded man, and in all probability would have put an end to him. Holmes quickly dismissed this plan and decided upon the nobler and more dangerous course. He determined to make a dash with the wounded man, trusting to Providence to reach his lines in safety.

He took the poor fellow in his stalwart arms, no light task, as his chum weighed twelve stone. Exerting his full strength, Holmes slung the man across his back. His only thought now was how to escape the bullets. All around him were the British dead and dying, heroes who had done their bit in the great battle.

A slight drizzling rain was falling; it made the ground slippery, so that when Holmes resumed his dangerous journey he had the utmost difficulty in avoiding treading on the men who were at his feet. With infinite care he succeeded in reaching more open ground.

After proceeding about one hundred yards he paused to take breath, for the burden on his back was a heavy load. At this stage his companion began to complain that Holmes’s equipment hurt him. Holmes laid the man down and removed the equipment. Knowing that he might have to make a long journey before he could reach assistance, he decided at the same time to drop his pack and rifle.

The next few hundred yards were the most difficult, for a hailstorm of bullets and shells raged around. Holmes could hear them whistling as he staggered painfully along. Had he not been possessed of a splendid constitution he must have given in, but he was determined at all costs not to give in. So he continued on and went doggedly forward, with clenched teeth and grim countenance.

On the way he came upon a wounded officer seated on the ground, his head between his hands. The officer looked up as he heard Holmes approach, and when he saw what the hero was doing suggested to him to leave the man with him and look after himself. This Holmes could not bring himself to do. Yard by yard he plodded steadily along. The poor fellow he was carrying began to lose heart. Holmes, although in terrible mental anguish himself, had to cheer him all the weary and dangerous way.