Chapter 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....”

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....”

Quiet French villages along the road, stone houses like gray ghosts under the pale moon, and all lights hooded against Boche planes. Long, empty stretches of road. Shadowy columns of French infantry, overtaken and passed. Horse-drawn batteries of 75s on the move. Swift staff cars that dashed by, hooting. Then, long files of horsemen, cloaked and helmeted, with a ghostly glint of lanceheads over them—French cavalry. Presently, dawn, with low clouds piling up in the rosy sky. And along the road, wherever there were groves, more cavalry was seen, at ease under the trees. Horses were picketed, lances and sabres stuck into the ground, and cooking-fires alight.

The Marines had not met the French horse before. They now looked approvingly upon them. Men and horses were alike big and well-conditioned. All morning the camions passed through a country packed with troops and guns, wherever there was cover from the sky. Something big was in the air.

It was mid-forenoon when the train stopped, and the battalion climbed out on cramped legs. “Fall in on the right of the road.... Platoon commanders, report.... Keep fifty yards’ distance between platoons.... Squads right.... March!” and the companies moved off stiffly, on empty stomachs. The little dark Annamites watched the files pass with incurious eyes. They had taken many men up to battle.