Chapter IV: The English Sector

The company filed off the boat, and crossing the dock stumbled into formation down the railroad track by the hospital train, and was introduced to a bit of backwash from the drive. Some English wounded were being carried from the train to the boat by German prisoners. We looked curiously at the latter. These were the Huns we were taught to hate, whom we were to kill. They were husky, blonde chaps, in faded greenish gray uniforms, with their little flat caps. They paid scant attention to us, but carried the English very carefully and gently. Maybe the Tommy who walked near by with fixed bayonet had something to do with it. At any rate, I didn’t feel any very lusty rage or horror at them, and though one or two of our men cursed at them under their breath, it didn’t seem at all convincing, but rather forced. Most of the wounded men whose faces I saw glared at us with the usual British “What the devil do you mean by looking at me, sir?” so I suppose they were officers. I don’t blame them for not liking to be stared at. One or two fellows couldn’t help groaning when their stretchers were lifted.

But “C” Co. is moving off, and we swing into column of squads and hike off behind them, our great heavy packs, religiously packed with all the items prescribed for us and much besides, getting heavier and heavier. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Calais was quiet; the cobbled streets apparently peopled only by a few little gamins of both sexes who greeted us with the cries that accompanied us through France--“Souvenir,” “Bis-keet,” “Chocolat.”

We passed through the outskirts of the town and into a dusty, sandy road between green dikes or ramparts dotted with anti-aircraft guns. Then we passed by a group of weather-worn barracks, dusty and dreary, labeled--doubtless by some wag, we thought--“Rest Camp,” surrounded by wire fences.

We cross a canal, turn to the left, and pass along to another--“Rest Camp No. 6.” The leading company turns in at a gate in the wire fence; we see American uniforms and campaign hats; one or two officers in overseas caps, strange looking to us then; then we pass in through the gate and realize that this is our temporary destination.

We were billeted in tents, about 12 feet in diameter--and about 20 men to a tent. Sand everywhere. A hideous open latrine next to the mess hall. After the usual hurly-burly and confusion, we finally kick other companies out of our tents, are in turn kicked out of theirs, and, after a long wait, get--“tea.” Oh, how Americans did love that word!

The officers were lodged in luxury--the five of us had a whole tent, with some boards to sleep on. We ate at the British officers’ mess, where meals and very good beer and wine were served by Waacs. The next thing was an officers’ meeting, and that night a talk by an English major. He cheered us up by telling us that very few ever came back, and narrated several choice tales of sudden death in unusual and gruesome forms. He was apparently bent on removing from our minds any impression that we were in for a pleasure trip. We afterwards heard that he was severely criticised by other British officers for trying to get our wind up first thing.

The next morning our equipment was cut down. We could only keep what we could carry on our backs. The contents of our barrack bags, the extra equipment, the complete outfit that had been subjected to so many inspections, upon which we had turned in reams upon reams of reports at Camp Dix, were ruthlessly collected, dumped into trucks and carted off to Heaven knows where by a Q. M. 2nd Lieutenant. No count was taken, no papers signed. The omniscient powers, who had deviled our lives out to collect this stuff, hadn’t told us anything about this little ceremony. So underwear, socks, extra pairs of shoes were a drug on the market; and we simply couldn’t give the cigarettes away. A great quantity were turned over to the Y. M. C. A. canteen. Of course, we never saw our barrack bags again.

The next day we formed with rifles, belts and bayonets, and marched about four miles out into the flat, flat country; past windmills and hedges and a little estaminet here and there, until we came to a British gas house. Here some English and Scotch sergeants issued English gas masks, and after a couple of hours gas mask drill we went through the gas house, and started back to camp. On our way we stopped by at an ordnance hut where our American Enfields were exchanged for English Enfields, with their stubby looking barrels and heavy sight guards. In our army issuing or exchanging any piece of ordnance property is like getting married, and when a rifle is involved it is like five actions at law and a couple of breach of promise suits. Here we filed in one door, shoved our rifle at a Tommy, beat it for the other door, grabbed an English weapon and bayonet, and the deed was done. I happened to be in command of the battalion that day, and somewhere I suppose the British government has a couple of grubby slips of paper on which I’ve signed for 1,000 gas masks, rifles and bayonets. The transaction would probably have been a fatal blow to a U. S. ordnance officer. Being only a reserve officer of infantry, it seemed to me pretty sensible.

Back in camp we were pretty much left alone, and some there were who lost no time making an acquaintance with the estaminets of Calais. In thirty-six hours we had learned enough English to discourse glibly of “tuppence ha’ penny,” and I even overheard Price offer to “Shoot you a bob,” and somebody promptly took “six penn ’orth of it.” But this was nothing compared to our excursions into the unexplored fields of the long suffering French language. By that evening most of the men seemed quite proficient in a few such indispensable phrases as “Vin rouge tout de suite” or rather “Van rooge toot sweet,” “Encore,” “Combien,” and “Oo la la, ma cherie.”

The next morning--Wednesday, June 5th--we left Rest Camp No. 6, and glad we were to leave it, for a dirty, hot hole it was. We hadn’t been bombed, though the town got its usual raid, and the camp was complimented the next night by the Boche.

The hike to the station was long and hot and made without a rest. Of course, not knowing as much as they would later, the men’s packs were tremendous. The overcoat, blanket, 100 rounds of ammunition and extra shoes and rations alone are a good load, and when one adds several suits of underwear, extra toilet articles, Jenny’s sweaters, Aunt Sarah’s wristlets, a couple of cartons of cigarettes and pipe tobacco, and some chocolate, it gets tremendous. Little Effingham’s pack as usual, was down to his heels, but he stoutly refused assistance, also as usual. The company arrived at the station feeling like a dyspeptic bear with scarlet fever.

We were forthwith introduced to the famous “Hommes 40, Chevaux 8.” It was seldom that bad, but even 25 or 30 men are a tight fit in those little cattle cars, as you all can testify.

We rolled out of Havre, pursued to the last by the children and orange sellers, who seemed to spring up from the ground everywhere in Northern France.

This first trip was short. We passed from the low country into a gently rolling terrain, and at about 1 o’clock arrived at Marquise, where we detrained.

We were met by a couple of Scotch officers from the 14th Highland Light Infantry. They guided us up the road to the village where we were billeted, about two miles away. On the way one of them, Captain “Jimmie” Johnston, told us that their battalion was detailed to act as instructors for the 311th Infantry.

The first little crossroads village was our billet--Rinxent. The command “Fall out t’ right of th’ road” sounded quite welcome to the overloaded marchers and we watched the rest of the battalion march by enroute to their billets at Rety, two kilos further.

The company was scattered along the road in small billets of from ten to forty men. Company headquarters was established in the corner estaminet. This was our first introduction to French billets. The usual procedure consisted of:

1. Protest to billeting officer or N. C. O. at putting human beings into such a place. Unsuccessful.

2. Long argument with house holder, he speaking French very fast and we speaking American very loud. Usually ended by the argument of a five franc note to the frugal French peasant.

3. Cleaning out the stable, chicken house, or barn, with voluble protests from f. F. p.

4. Making sundry discoveries during the first night.

5. Pitching pup tents in nearest field.

We got permission to use a field about 100 yards square for a drill ground and two platoons pitched pup tents there.

The first night a few of the boys became slightly excited over the privilege of visiting the estaminets, and tried to drink up all the vin rouge and cognac at once. The consequence was that the dispensers of good cheer were put under the ban for several days.

Now the training of the company began in earnest. The majority of the men had had only the most hasty smattering of the elements of squad drill; many could not shoulder arms properly. Two platoons would use the drill field while two drilled on the roads outside. The training schedules called for a good nine-hour day of drill and ceremonies, varied occasionally by short practice hikes by company or battalion.

Lewis guns were issued to us here. A few officers and n. c. o.’s had taken courses in the use of this weapon at Camp Dix; company and battalion schools were at once started, the latter conducted by Scottish n. c. o.’s from the 14th H. L. I.

In addition, there were battalion, regimental and corps schools for bayonet, gas defense, liaison (for the runners), bombing, rifle grenade, musketry and several more. From this time until we left France there were always a number of men away at schools. Of course this was necessary, but it broke up the training of the company as a whole. Also, we were brigaded with the British, and some men would go to a British school and qualify as instructors, only to come back and find that the American system was being used, and vice versa. Both systems might have their good points, and did have, but the rate at which orders and instructions and ways of doing things changed from day to day was enough to bewilder old hands at this game; and we were greenhorns.

“Jimmy” Johnston helped a lot. He was in command of what was left of the 14th battalion, Highland Light Infantry--about four squads. Of medium height, rather stocky build, with a bonny, handsome face and bright blue eyes under his Scotch cap, Jimmy was one of the finest fellows and best officers that ever stepped. He had been through the Gallipoli expedition, and two years on the Western front; had been reported killed in action, and gone home on leave to be greeted as one risen from the dead.

Jimmy had been through the mill. He knew. Always with a word of encouragement, to avoid dampening our American energy, he would help along with quiet hints and canny suggestions that were worth their weight in gold. When we came staggering along under heavy packs, he said nothing, but strolled along with his little cane and admired the landscape. When orders would come in thick and fast, each one contradicting the last, and all to be executed at once, Jimmy would intimate verra, verra cautiously, that if we used our own judgment we should get along somehow, and that C. O’s and chiefs of staff had to keep themselves busy, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt ’em. Like most Scotch officers he seemed to live mostly on whiskey, and throve on the diet.

On June 11, Major Odom went to a Corps school, and I was left in charge of the battalion. Of course, that evening orders came in to move next morning. We had just begun to get in our English transport--the little limbers and the cranky rolling kitchen with which we were to become so familiar later. Up to then we had cooked on our American field ranges.

At 7 o’clock next morning we pulled out and marched down to Rety. There we fell in behind the 2d battalion, and started on our first full day’s hike. The packs were still heavy, and those full cartridge belts--Lord, how much 100 rounds of ammunition can weigh after a while! As usual with green troops, the leading element set too fast a pace. Rests seemed but a minute. Finally, on a long, long up grade, we halted for lunch. After chow and an hour’s rest, we pulled on, picking ’em up and putting ’em down. On, over broad white roads; turning off into narrower roads shaded by rows of tall trees, turning into the highroad again. We passed stragglers from the 309th and 310th Infantry, so knew that the whole 78th Division must be in France and on the move near us. The hills were higher, the women were older. We came to a village; three estaminets, two stores, a school house, a blacksmith’s shop, a sign. “Brunembert.” Regimental Hdqrs. and Supply Co. are halted there. We keep on; on the other side of town “C” and “D” companies meet their advance party guides and turn off; we hike on half a kilometer, half way up a hill, turn off to the right, hike around the hill, and finally, at about 3 P. M., plumb tuckered, the company is split, two platoons going to one farmhouse, the other two to another, at Haute Creuse.

Haute Creuse itself was only a crossroads, with one poor cottage. Battalion headquarters was there. The company billets were a good quarter of a mile apart. In addition, when I inspected the billet assigned the 3rd and 4th platoons, I found a remarkably dirty old barn, with a cesspool and manure heap outside that was awful, even for France. The only spring was near the pool. So the next morning we moved these platoons over to the other billet, pitching pup tents in a beautiful field just on the other side of the barnyard.

That afternoon an old duffer in an English major’s uniform came ambling along. He expressed great anguish at our not using the billets assigned to us. It meant nothing to him that our comfort, health, convenience were served by our using our own tents. The plan was that that lousy old typhoid trap should be occupied, and so it must be done. And he, it appeared, was the “area commandant.”

So I said “Yessir,” and tipped Sgt. Ertwine off to have some men make a great show of striking tents, and resolved privately to take a chance yet. Jimmy Johnston came along later and told me that area commandants were a tribe of dud officers who were given that job to keep ’em out of mischief.

I was hauled over the coals three or four times about it. The old Major wrote to his General Hdq., and they wrote to our hdq., and it came down the line to our Colonel, whose soul shivered before the wintry blast. But finally Lt. Col. Myers took it up and obtained permission for us to stay where we were.

At Rinxent a number of second lieutenants, just commissioned at the Officers’ Training Camp at Langres, had joined us. We had a captain and five or six second lieuts. attached to “B” Co. The captain, who was commanding the company in my absence at bn. hdq., was a peculiar individual, with very fierce and imposing mustachios, and a manner to match; but an absurdly incongruous weak and husky voice, due to throat trouble. The lieuts. were rather a good bunch; men who had been n. c. o.’s in outfits that had come over during the preceding year, and some of whom had been in the trenches already. We were fortunate in keeping one of them, Lieut. Bivens Moore, in the company; the others we lost by transfers from time to time.

Training was resumed again; schools ran in full force. Officers and men were continually going off to sundry corps or army schools in the vicinity; at St. Omer or points near by. Harold Sculthorpe went off to a cooks’ school, and we didn’t see him again for many a month. Sgt. Peterson was made Brigade Postal N. C. O. We received our first mail from home, and nobody can ever tell how welcome it was. Letters were the one slender thread that connected our new life with the old. A bit of mail cheered up a soldier for days; a disappointment when mail came in without one for him made him blue for a week. It was pleasant to see the earnest faces of fellows like Sgt. Schelter, and Corporal DeGrote beaming when they heard from their wives and little ones. With the impatience and eagerness of the newlyweds, I was of course sympathetic. And as for the majority, who were waiting for letters from the best little girl in the world, they were either insufferable in their glamourous egotism, or serio-comic in their suffering, according to whether the lady had seen fit to be kind or cool when she took her pen in hand. Certain ones, too, who shall be nameless, would receive letters in sundry handwritings, with a variety of post-marks. Don Juans, these; gay and giddy Lotharios in the old home town.

We were billeted at a typical French farm of the larger type. As you turned in off the road through the gateway, a black dog chained in a little stone dungeon just inside barked fiercely. This poor beast had been chained in that one place for so long that he knew nothing else. He was half blind; and one day when I unchained him and took him for a walk down the road, he was desperately frightened; and as soon as he got back he made a dash for his kennel, and refused to come out.

The long, two story house took up most of the left hand side of the courtyard. The officers had two rooms here, one of which we used for a mess. The family lived mostly in the big kitchen, where a little fire burned on the great hearth. On the other two sides were stables, some of which were used as billets, storeroom and orderly room. The manure heap adorned the center of the courtyard. Behind lay a small but important yard, which in turn opened on the big field where two platoons were in pup tents around the border, and where the company formed.

The people here were dull, homely, grasping and churlish. I do not recollect ever having been given a pleasant word by one of them; but of complaints and claims for damages there was no lack. They seemed to resent our presence from the very first; we were apparently as much intruders to them as German troops could have been.

The men soon began to resent this attitude, and to reciprocate in kind. Soldiers are apt to be heedless, and are of course a nuisance to the people they are quartered on; but at Rety they had greeted us in the main as friends, and we in turn tried to give as little trouble as possible. Here our notions of being the welcome young warriors got a good severe jolt.

We on our side took some time to learn how to conduct ourselves. How were we to know that a French peasant would far rather have you walk over him than over one of his fields? Why was it a crime to cut down a stunted dead tree for the company kitchen? And where, oh, where were the pretty mademoiselles?

But even in Northern France all the people were not like this. Remember the old woman just down the road, who lived with her daughters in the cottage which was battalion headquarters? They were very poor, and worked very hard; all the long summer day--and it was light from 4:30 A. M. to 9:00 P. M.--they were busy, indoors and out. Her three sons were in the army, one a prisonier de guerre, two at the front. When one of them, only a young lad, came home for a few days’ permission, he went out every morning at 6:00 o’clock and worked until dusk. How many of us would have done as much? And the old lady and girl always had a smile and cheery word, and would give soldiers a drink of milk and insisted on having officers going to bn. hdq. stop for a cup of coffee. Even the pretty little goat in the yard grew friendly with olive drab, and would romp with us like a dog.

For several days we used whatever little fields we could for drill; every square foot of land that was suitable seemed to be under cultivation. This was unsatisfactory, to say the least. Finally Col. Meyers arranged for us to have the use of the top of the great hill. It was a splendid place to drill--after you got there. But oh, that hike up that young mountain and down again, twice a day! Will we ever forget it?

When we had been here about a week, Major Odom returned, and a day or so later Lieuts. Schuyler and Merrill rejoined the company. They were all primed with the new wrinkles they had picked up at school at Chatillon, and took over the first and third platoons respectively. Schuyler’s conscientiousness, high spirits and inexhaustible energy made him a great asset to the company. Merrill was an equally hard and willing worker, and though young, was one of the brightest men in the regiment. He had graduated from the school at the head of his class, which included majors, captains and lieuts. from all over the A. E. F.

We were stationed about 50 kilometers behind the lines; and had the Germans made one more drive on Calais that summer we should have undoubtedly gone into action. No lights were shown at night, and it was seldom that we did not hear the droning buzz of the great Boche bombing planes winging their way to bomb Calais or Boulogne, or maybe some nearer town, Desvres or St. Omer.

At the beginning of July details of officers and n. c. o.’s were sent up to the front lines for four day tours of observation. Sgts. Ertwine, Perry and I went on the first one, and were in the line with a battalion of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Our experiences, while interesting, hardly belong here. Lieut. Foulkes went up the next week and landed in the midst of an attack, so he saw plenty of action. Then Lieut. Schuyler went up with an Australian outfit, who didn’t let him pine for excitement during his stay. It was an excellent system, and we saw at first hand how things were really run in the trenches.

When I returned from my tour, an orderly brought around late that night some red covered books and leaflets, and we were told that these would be put into effect the next day. These were the new system of combat formations, involving an absolutely new extended order drill, and formation of the company. Lieut. Moore had drilled a few times in these formations; the rest of us knew no more about them than the company cooks did. So next morning we sallied forth, books in hand, and worked the formations out step by step. Everyone was quick to see that this was something like business, as of course our old army regulations were absurd when it came to using the new special weapons, such as automatic rifles, hand and rifle grenades, and so on. So the new formations were mastered remarkably quickly.

A bayonet course with trenches, “shell holes” and dummies was installed, and a sergeant of the Northumberland Fusileers was instructor. He was a good one, too; but as usual, we were up against it, as he taught some things slightly differently from the American methods.

It was while going over this course that Gustave Fleischmann stepped in a hole and broke his leg. It was a bad break, for I saw his foot and lower leg go out sideways at a right angle, in spite of his leggings. He was game enough, though, and smoked a cigarette while waiting for an ambulance and surgeon. We heard from him several times from English hospitals, but he was never able to rejoin the company.

We also lost another very valuable man in Corporal Edward Johnson. This man could have claimed exemption for either dependents or a weak heart. He refused to do either, and we managed to get him passed by the medicos for foreign service. The daily hike up that hill, however, and the strenuous life generally, were too much for him, though he kept at it until he was worn down to a very dangerous point. I made him go before the surgeon, who at once ordered him transferred to a depot brigade. I know that Johnson was not liked by some of you men on account of his conscientiousness. I believe, however, that when you look back upon it you will appreciate his honest, unselfish and unceasing labor for his squad, platoon, and company.

That countryside was beautiful at this time. It rained often, but in showers; not the continuous drizzle that came later. Maybe it was because we took more notice of such things than usual, not knowing if we would see another summer, but the green fields, fresh in the early morning and cool and sweet at night, and the hedges, and the pretty little bits of woodland along the creeks and ravines, all seemed lovely as never before.

In the next town, just over the hill, was an Australian rest camp. We got along with the Aussies much better than with Tommies, and every night numerous visitors went down to cultivate the entente cordial with the assistance of the town estaminets.

Our first payday in France came about this time, and what with back pay coming in, and the high rate of exchange, and being paid in francs, some of the boys waxed rather too exuberant over the flowing bowl. What with Janicki and Effingham trying to clean up Brunembert, starting in with a couple of Tommies and ending with an abrupt thud when they got around to “D” Co. headquarters; and sundry members of the Irish brigade making a Donnybrook Fair out of the highways and byways, I had a busy night.

Another night we shall remember is that of July 4th. Sgts. Ertwine, Perry and Anness were going up for commissions at the Officer Candidates’ School at Langres, and the officers gave them a farewell supper that evening. The company was, I understand, also celebrating the national holiday conscientiously. When the festivities were at their height, we heard the squealing of bagpipes, and the curious bump-bump-bumpetty-bum of the Scottish drummer, that nobody on earth but a Jock can keep step with. The band of the H. L. I. had been serenading the Col. and were going back to their billets.

All turned out to see them pass, and as they swung up the road, Lt. Foulkes, in an inspired moment, detailed Supply Sgt. Levy to bring ’em back for “B” Co.

In five minutes the pipes returned, with Joe marching at their head twirling the drum major’s baton. They turned into the courtyard, and were taken into our midst with a mighty burst of cheers, skirling of pipes, and thunder of the drums. That was a scene I shall never forget--a wonderful setting for a musical comedy. The dark courtyard, fitfully illumined by the glare of a few lanterns and torches--the crowd of olive drab figures around the Scotties in their kilts, with one in the center doing a Highland fling. The visitors were already fortified, but additional liquid refreshments were hastily procured for them, and a testimonial taken up in the way of a collection. In the meantime the drummer, well on the shady side of sober, rendered several ballads. We reciprocated with Irish songs by Peter and others, and a breakdown by Kitson. It was well on towards midnight when they left; and next morning the Major wanted to know “what the hell was B Company up to last night?”

Another pleasant time was had by all one day while I was at the front. Someone at staff hdq. felt an idle curiosity to see how fast the division could turn out, if it had to. Accordingly the order went forth--march at 2:00 P. M. Thinking the Boches had broken through and we were “for it,” there was a mad scurry and scramble; the kitchen pulled to pieces; rations hastily issued; and the company, under Lt. Dunn, reported to the Brunembert road about half an hour after the time set, and about two hours sooner than had seemed possible that morning. After fussing about a bit, the companies were marched back to their hastily abandoned billets.

All the time we were in the English area, rations were short. The British ration must have been much smaller than ours, or else there was a hitch somewhere. Our men were used to three square meals a day. The British only had porridge, tea and bread and jam for breakfast; a regular meal--stew or meat and vegetables--in the middle of the day, and tea and bread and cheese at night. This didn’t go far to relieve the aching void that every American soldier cherishes under his belt. We spent thousands of francs from the company fund buying potatoes and whatever else we could to eke out the ration. But even so, there was never any difficulty in following the advice of those doctors who say to stop eating while you still feel hungry.

July 14th was Bastile Day. We were turned out for a ceremony to celebrate it. The ceremony consisted of marching to Brunembert in the rain, squads left, right dress, present arms, order arms, squads left, and hike back in the rain. I can’t say my bosom dilated with enthusiasm, nor did the spectators--a dozen children, two estaminet keepers and the usual “orangee” girls--emit any rousing cheers.

I see by the Regimental History that the Duke of Connaught and General Pershing “honored us with a visit” at this time, but said visits were practically painless for “B” Company, as we didn’t even see the dust from their automobiles.

By this time the regimental transport was complete--or as nearly so as it ever was; all furnished by the British. Each battalion was now functioning as a separate unit, and Lt. Gibbs had his hands full with the supply and transport. He was accordingly made bn. transport and supply officer, and the Major selected Lt. Foulkes as battalion adjutant. So we lost the best officer in “B” Company, and I believe the best line subaltern in the regiment. I know he hated to leave the company, and there wasn’t a man but missed him from that time on. He always had a soft spot in his heart for us, as Bn. Adjt. and later as Regimental Adjt. Foulkes was one man I was never disappointed in. McMahon, his striker, went with him. Mac was a good scout too.

By July 18th we had skirmished over every inch of the big hill; hiked over all the roads within a six mile radius; bayoneted about 500 “Boche” gunnysacks apiece, and made ’steen triangles at musketry drill. We got another march order, and after the usual bustle of cleaning up we pulled out with full equipment on July 19th at 9:00 A. M.

It was only a four mile hike this time, to Lottingham, the nearest railway depot. There we were parked in a little yard off the road, and saw the 309th and 310th Inf. go by to entrain. We waited about an hour, and I broke up a very promising crap game, to my secret regret. I afterward chucked the bones out of the car window, much to Dunn’s disgust.

At 11:30 we were packed into a train, which rolled off in the usual nonchalant manner, at an average speed of six miles per hour. We passed through some pretty enough country during the afternoon, and speculated wildly on our destination, as usual missing it completely.

At 8:30 P. M. we pulled up at Ligny alongside an American Red Cross train, with a couple of real American nurses in it. How good they looked to us! The car windows were nearly all shattered, and the cars scarred with bullets and shrapnel. This was a bit of the real thing.

The battalion detrained, formed on the road, and we hiked off through the long summer twilight, guided by Vafiadis, our advance party detail. We were being introduced to the Arras-St. Pol road, with which we were to become well acquainted shortly. We went on, over the railroad tracks at Roellecourt, stopped for a ten-minute rest at dusk and watched the cows come home down the hill--another homesick sight for the country lads--and hiked on and on. At last, well after dark, we turned off up another road; past a bit of woods, then off to the right past a large farmhouse, and Vafiadis pointed out a little plot about as big as a Harlem flat and said we were to billet there. I remarked “likell” and pushed ahead into a nice grassy field where we pitched pup tents for the night. I knew there would be an awful yowl from the owners in the morning, but let it slide.

Next morning we found that this was St. Michel, and that St. Pol, quite a sizeable town, was only a quarter of a mile away. Pup tents were pitched up the hill from the field, in the woods, along a rough lumber road. The kitchen was installed under some trees near the farmhouse, which was deserted. We found a lot of kitchen utensils--the place had been an estaminet--and put some of ’em to use. The day was spent in resting and getting cleaned up and settled. In the evening some went into St. Pol.

That night we found out why the place was deserted. St. Pol was a railroad center, and quite convenient for the Boche bombers. No bombs landed in camp that night, but they were hitting all around, with a roar and a jar that gave a fellow a queer sensation in the stomach. Being bombed is such a helpless, hopeless sort of process.

Earlier in the war St. Pol had been under long range artillery fire; and between that and the air raids there were plenty of shell holes all around. There were some among our pup tents, and a couple of huge ones just across the road in the woods.

Company headquarters was established in the attic of the farmhouse, battalion headquarters being on the first floor. Regimental Hdq. was at Foufflin-Ricametz, about 4 kilos away.

In a couple of days a vitriolic and voluble French woman descended upon us. It appeared that we had broken into the house, used her things without permission, taken eggs the hens had laid, used several priceless old boards from the barn to make a mess table, walked on the grass, and disturbed the manure pile. I never did believe she and her husband ever lived there; but we put everything back, and ate in the mud until Thompson and Farry found some boards elsewhere. These two French people made life as miserable as they could for us while we were there, continually claiming damages and protesting at everything we did, it seemed.

Most of the inhabitants of St. Michel and St. Pol slept at night in long dugouts tunnelled underneath the hills. They were very damp, foul close holes, with little cubicles scratched out of the walls to sleep in. They weren’t taking any more chances with H. E.

Our “intensive training” was continued here. We were rejoiced that we hadn’t that awful hill to climb, and somehow we got away with using the field to drill on. The mornings were taken up with problems, and before long we were well acquainted with those woods; then there was bayonet drill, bombing, the everlasting gas mask drill, musketry, physical drill, and so on. The afternoon was devoted to special drill for Lewis gun, V. B. and hand bombers, runners, etc., while the rest of the company did problems or musketry. We stood retreat and reveille along the lumber road--oh, yes, and that 15 minutes of manual of arms before retreat every night.

Usually it rained here. Drill went on just the same, though. We could hear the thunder of the big guns at night, and the crash and roar from the droning bombing planes let us know that this was in grim earnest, and it behooved us to make the most of our time.

Regimental, brigade, and divisional problems began to be all the rage. Since nobody below majors ever get any information as to what these are all about, the troops were usually represented by flags. In good weather these things are just a bore; when it rains, they’re considerably worse.

On August 3d, the H. L. I. detachment left us, and we completed our training on our own.

About two weeks after our arrival at St. Michel, the word was passed that Elsie Janis was coming to visit the division. Of course that afternoon was marked by a good old Northern France soaker. How it rained! We hiked about three miles through it, and were packed into a courtyard with five or six thousand other shoving, soaking doughboys. Miss Janis had our band to help her out, and a little platform with a bit of canvas overhead, which kept off a little of the rain. Half of us couldn’t see her except for occasional glimpses; officers and men were drenched right through and through. Besides, Miss Janis was physically about all in from overwork, and had a peach of a cold--a real A. E. F. cold, not the kind that amateur singers always use for an alibi. The bunch was sore at being hauled out in this weather for anything short of going into action.

And yet, from the first moment that girl stepped on the platform, she had the crowd with her. We were fed up, lonesome in a strange land, sick of hearing a foreign tongue, longing to see a regular girl again. And here was a bit of real America before our eyes; pep incarnate--a snappy, clean cut, clean girl from home, laughing with us, making us laugh at ourselves and in spite of ourselves, jazzing it up in the rain. And we sloshed and squnched back to St. Michel, singing:

“Beautiful Elsie, beautiful Elsie,
“You’re the only, only girl that I ado-o-re.”

On August 5th the battalion left St. Michel at 9:00 A. M. in full marching order. We were going to occupy a trench sector for a practice tour.

As you all know now, the trench systems of each side during the war were in triplicate, or maybe quadruplicate. There was the system actually being occupied against the enemy. A couple of miles back was another complete system, to be defended in case the first was taken; and, if time permitted, yet another behind this.

We were to take over a sector of the G. H. Q., or second system, just behind Arras. While this was partly a regular item on our training schedule--the last one before actually going into the line--it was also contemplated that in case the Boche uncorked another drive on Arras, we should occupy this line and bar the road of the enemy should he break through, as he had done in the spring further north.

After a long 12 mile hike up the Arras road, we turned off to the right, past a long train of British motor lorries, of which there seemed an inexhaustible supply. On through roads ever rougher and narrower we went, and halted at last in a clearing in a patch of woods. The officers went out to reconnoitre the sector and have their company sectors assigned, and the company stacked arms in the wet woods--it was raining, of course--and wondered if we’d get any chow.

It was dark when we had had supper from our one lunged rolling kitchen and filed off to take up our position. “B” Co. was battalion support. The trenches were only dug about waist high; there were no dugouts or cubby holes to sleep in; not even a firing step to keep you out of the mud. We splashed and squatted through the pitchy blackness; no lights were allowed, of course. We reached our post finally, and settled down in the bottom of the trench in abject misery. The only lights were from the star shells that the Germans were sending up from their real lines, only a few kilos away; and the rumble of artillery fire there ahead reminded us that we were pretty close to the real thing.

While I was making my final inspection, I saw a light come flashing down the communication trench towards us. This was against all orders, so I snarled out a peremptory command to put it out. The light didn’t pay any attention. This was the last straw; I thought that so long as we had to go through this performance it was going to be done right, with nobody privileged to cross their fingers and say they weren’t playing. I wallowed off in the direction of that flash light, wet through and getting pretty sore. I hailed it; I adopted a false, feigned politeness; I remarked that this was not puss in the corner, nor was I talking for my health, and if they couldn’t douse that glim I had a .45 that could. The light went out abruptly. I asked if he was simulating a steamboat on the Mississippi. I finally got quite near and demanded whoin’ell that was anyhow. And it was the Colonel. Yes, of course.

The best of it was that he had issued the order against lights himself about two hours before, and couldn’t very well blame me.

An order came round to send a detail after some corrugated iron at point “G24a7.3.” I stumbled around until I walked on a sergeant, Bill Reid, and so I made him the goat, and told him to take a detail and go to it. The place was about 300 yards away over a couple of fields. Bill and his detail floundered off, and roamed about until 3:00 A. M., when they hailed a figure in the darkness as “Hey, buddy.” It was Lt. Col. Myer, at regimental hdq. at Hermaville, a couple of kilos away. He steered Bill back to the company, where he arrived at dawn--without the iron.

During the day the sun shone at intervals, and we scraped out cubbies in the side of the trench, and tried to get a little dry. Barney O’Rourke, who had been missing since the night before, showed up under guard, somewhat the worse for wear. He had wandered off to Hermaville, met an Irish Tommy, found a hospitable estaminet, and subsequently had severely rebuked an officer from Rgt’l. Hdqrs. who undertook to reprove him. Regt’l Hdq. was all for having Barney shot at sunrise or something, and of course I got a call. At the courtmartial, though, we got him off with a month’s hard labor and a $10.00 blind, which was really quite all that happy-go-lucky, golden-hearted son of Erin deserved. He never did the month at that, or rather we all did. But he dug me a company headquarters when he came back, and it would have been fine only someone walked through the roof.

We were relieved that night by “E” Co., 24 hours before we expected. We marched back to the clearing in the woods, had supper at the rolling kitchen, pitched pup tents and had a comparatively dry night’s sleep. Jerry came over and tried to drop an ash can on the kitchen, but didn’t succeed.

They let us sleep late next morning, and we started for our billet at 10:00 A. M., leaving the 2d bn. to the joys of make-believe trench life.

Right here I want to say a word about our experience with court-martials. There has been much criticism of military justice as administered in the A. E. F., but the 78th Division was fortunate in having as Judge Advocate a most capable, honest, experienced, broad minded man, Major George G. Bogert, formerly Professor of Law at Cornell, I believe. His assistant, Lt. John J. Kuhn, was an equally fine type of lawyer and gentleman. I know of no accused man who did not get an absolutely square deal from them, and from the courts-martial before which they appeared.

Well, here we are back in St. Michel, rocked to sleep every night by the free fireworks from our aerial visitors. We had hardly rested from our trench experience before I was ordered to take details from each company to the rifle range. Part of “B” company had gone a week before, and their tales of woe had in some measure prepared us.

We had no guide. As we hiked through Foufflin-Ricametz, I stopped off and Capt. Wagner showed me our destination on a map. We plodded on and on, through about 20 villages, all alike, and all with a maze of crooked little streets that weren’t on any map. We passed by a lot of Canadian artillery back for a rest. The Canadians had been badly shot up before we got to France, and were being reorganized and recuperating that summer. They, the Anzacs, the Australians, the Scotties, and the Guard regiments were the shock troops of the British Army.

Finally we came upon a welcome sign, “Target Range,” and we bivouacked in woods behind the slope whereon the targets were. The next day we plugged away at 200, 300 and 500 yards at four rickety swivel targets. It rained, of course; but we finished in the afternoon, and hiked back to St. Michel. It seemed even longer than before, though we took a short cut by a back road; and we were for once glad to see the lonely tower of St. Michel rising above the woods outside St. Pol.

I returned to find Major Odom on the eve of departure for another school. From this time, then, until he returned on August 20th, the company was commanded by Lt. Schuyler, who carried out his additional duties with characteristic energy and conscientiousness.

On August 12th, the whole regiment was on the move; and this time we were leaving St. Michel for good, though a small detail was left to guard the baggage. Sgt. Haynes, who had hurt his leg in bayonet practice, was left behind with water on the knee, and never succeeded in rejoining the company. Our faithful company clerk, too, Cpl. Jimmy Jones, broke his ankle, and was sent to a hospital in England. Fortunately for me, we had Cpl. Stiles ready to step into his shoes. From this time on Stiles handled the company paper work in a most efficient and conscientious fashion. Most fellows never have any idea of the long hours, day and night, that a company clerk puts in, struggling with the labyrinth of forms, records, reports and correspondence that are vital to the running of the company. The greater part of the paper work that was done at Camp Dix by the officers and Co. Cmdrs. was turned over to the Co. clerks in France, and many a night Stiles and Jones have pored over that field desk, by the light of a candle, keeping us straight with the authorities. If records ever went astray, or passes went awry, it was not their fault. “B” Company was certainly most fortunate in its company clerks.

It was a long, hot march that sunny August day up toward the front, and the company pulled into Lattre St. Quentin pretty well tuckered. I had been taken up in a British staff car as we passed through Regt’l Hdq., and, with the other two battalion commanders, was taken to reconnoiter the sectors of the front line which we were to take over. Each battalion was to be brigaded with an English regiment, and to hold the front lines for a regular tour of duty as the last step in the training schedule.

The 1st Bn. was to go in with the 1st London regiment. The officers of this brigade and regiment received me very cordially. Our proposed battalion sector was just outside Arras. The town itself was within the English lines, which ran along the eastern outskirts. The position was well organized, and the trenches were in good shape, as this part of the line had been practically stationary for a year. The outfit we were to relieve were in high glee, as they had been in the trenches for 8 months straight. It was a “quiet” sector, but Jerry buzzed a few shells quite unpleasantly close while I was roaming about.

I rode back in luxury in the staff car to find the battalion billeted and asleep. We had arranged for officers and platoon sergeants to go up in a couple of days to reconnoiter their respective positions.

Lattre St. Quentin was a village of some sixty houses, about 20 kilos from Arras. “B” Co. was billeted in the barn behind the house where Bn. Hdq. was located, and in the house next to it down the road.

During the next few days we had a platoon competition in the battalion. “B” Co. was represented by the 4th platoon. The event was won by the “C” Co. 3d platoon, but all the contestants did well.

There was a nice “vacant lot” by the billet, and we had some good fun kicking a football and staging several baseball matches there. The weather was fine, and we were in great fettle.

On August 14th orders arrived promoting Lt. Col. Myer to Colonel and putting him in command of the 129th Infantry. This was a great loss to the regiment. Myer was the best officer we had, thoroughly efficient, devoted to his profession, always on the job, an excellent judge of men, and an adept at picking out the essential things that counted. He placed the good of the service first, and himself last, and he had the trust and respect of every officer and man in the outfit.

The officers and platoon sgts. left on the evening of the 15th for the front line via a little narrow gauge railway, returning the next morning. All was now in readiness.

But at noon on the 16th, orders arrived postponing the relief. On the 17th, rumors began to fly that we were to go to another part of the front. Then we were ordered to turn in the Lewis guns, with which we had become quite familiar. Somehow it leaked out that we were to go South to the American sector. This rumor became a certainty when we turned in all our British rifles and ammunition, receiving instead American Enfields. Our overcoats and other supplies that we had left at St. Michel were brought over in motor trucks. The details guarding them said that Jerry had bombed the old billet to a fare-you-well the night after we left it.

Our joy at moving was heartfelt and unbounded. Those who had been south to schools or on other duties told us what a “bon secteur” it was. And the prospect of drawing American rations and being with American troops and transport again was welcomed with acclaim. To tell the truth, we were rather fed up with being under the wing of our British Allies. Their ways were not our ways; we would feel better when with our own kind. Theoretically, we were brothers in the great cause. Practically, in the mud and sweat and thousand petty aggravations and misunderstandings, we had undoubtedly gotten upon each other’s nerves. The average Tommy looked upon us as a bunch of greenhorn Yankees, who had all made fortunes during the first three years of the war and were now over in France three years late spending them and raising the price of vin rouge and “oofs.” We looked upon the average Tommy as a degenerate, tea drinking, saluting bellyacher. The Australians and Canadians were our sworn buddies, however, and we liked the Scotties. Maybe this was because the only British combat troops we had been in touch with were these organizations. To me, the few English combat troops that I encountered seemed a fairly decent bunch.

It was with light hearts, then, that we pulled out of Lattre St. Quentin on a beautiful summer morning, at 10 o’clock, August 20th. It was only an 8 mile hike to Tinques, a rail head on the Arras road. We turned into a big held and I halted the battalion while I went to find the R. T. O. in charge of entraining.

All was bustle and hurry. Things were being rushed through in the American fashion. Nobody knew where the R. T. O. was; everybody was too busy to know anything. At last I saw Lt. Gibbs on top of a flat car loading wagons. He shouted that our train was across the platform and was due to leave in 20 minutes. I dashed back to the battalion, hurried it across the tracks, entrained them and sure enough the train pulled out just as I got the outfit aboard. As I was finishing, a dapper U. S. Major of the Division Inspector’s Dept. toddled up and said it was the worst entraining he had ever seen, and why weren’t the men marched up to the cars in column of squads? I saluted the boob wearily and swung aboard just as the train pulled out.

Now came our longest rail journey in France. For two days we bowled along pretty steadily. We swung around by St. Pol, with a farewell glimpse of our old billet, and then south, through Amiens, up to the outskirts of Paris. Hearts beat high, and had the train stopped for five minutes at a likely looking place, I was prepared to see the battalion make a break for la vie Parisienne. The only stop, however, was for a few minutes to get routing orders from a business-like French R. T. O. From these orders I learned that our destination was Passavant. It might as well have been Timbuctoo for all that meant to me; but I had learned by this time that these French trains, with all their misery and sin, did get you to the proper place at last, so I didn’t worry.

The houses of Paris fell behind, and we rolled east along the famous Marne river. At Haute Creuse and St. Pol we had read in the Paris editions of the “New York Herald” and “Daily Mail” of the desperate fighting along here in July, in which the mettle of our American regulars and marines had been put to so stern a test; and the next morning, a beautiful, bright day it was, too, we began to pass through towns whose names were yet ringing all over the world. The familiar signs of nearing the front began to appear--the roofless houses, shell holes, and so on. Then we began to see debris lying about--discarded bits of equipment and uniform, empty bandoliers, then here and there a new grave, marked by a helmet, and sometimes a little cross. Presently we went right through Chateau Thierry--one of the first trains since the battle. From our cars we saw the little firing posts that the Americans had scratched out in the side of the railroad embankment. Here and there a grave showed where one had died where he fought. Some German helmets over graves on the south side of the river showed where perhaps some of the enemy had gotten across before they fell under the fire of the Springfields.

But the most impressive and inspiring sight of all to Americans were the hills that stretched up to the North of the river. A long steep, smooth, stretch broken only enough to allow of cover for reserves and machine guns--a position that looked absolutely impregnable if defended by modern weapons. And up these heights, defended by the flower of the German army, flushed with recent success, our countrymen had swept forward, carried the position, and hurled the foe back. It must have been some scrap.

The Marne here is about as large as a good-sized American creek. There were quite a few dead horses and men still bobbing around in it. The countryside had not been under fire for very long, compared to the Arras section; some crops were still standing, and a few people at work reaping them already. I am sorry to say that one of our men was thoughtless enough to grab a pile of new cut hay from a field during a stop. I happened to see him and of course he put it back, and got a summary out of it. I mention this to remind you that in most of our trouble with the French peasants we were at fault to some extent. Of course, it isn’t pleasant to sleep for several nights on the floor of a jolting cattle car. But neither is it enjoyable for poor Jacques to see his hay miraculously preserved from the H. E.’s, laboriously gathered, and then have a doughboy coolly annex it and roll away in a train.

We rolled on through the sunny August day, east to Chalons-sur-Marne, then southeast, away from the battle front. Night came on, and dragged along toward dawn. At about 2:00 A. M. we stopped at a little way station for hot coffee, ready for us in great G. I. boilers. The French corporal in charge of the station gave me a cup out of his own private pot, cooking over a smelly little oil stove, thick as mud, black as night, reeking with cognac, altogether very satisfactory. I wished every man could have had such a shot.

Early in the morning we passed the walled heights of Chaumont, A. E. F. headquarters. On past the picturesque battlements of Langres, centre of the Army Schools; then east again. The country was more rugged and less highly cultivated. Here was a place where one might get off the road without stepping on Jacques’ garden. It looked more like home. The woods were sure enough ones, not little, severely confined, neatly trimmed groves such as they had in the north, with every tree numbered and recorded.

Best of all, we were in the American sector. The M. P.’s at the stations were doughboys instead of Tommies or poilus. Here an American ambulance hustled along the road; there a good old 3-ton Q. M. truck lumbered along. Overseas caps were sprinkled about the stations. No more now of “What is the name of this bally station, old top?,” and “Kesky eessy, Mossure.” We could yell: “Say, buddy, what t’ell burg’s this?” like civilized persons.

Off on a branch line, around hills, over a long, white stone bridge, and the train slid up to the long platform at Passavant station.