Chapter V: “the American Sector”

The battalion tumbled off, very greasy as to face and stiff as to legs. The rolling kitchens were unloaded; the Colonel and Lt. Gibbs appeared and disappeared. We saw our own supply company hard at work in the adjacent field. In a few minutes it was “Fall in,” and we hiked across the railroad and down into the centre of the little town.

At the town square we halted, and lay around for an hour in the shade waiting for our French guides to take the companies to their billets. There was a cool fountain splashing in the center of the square, but it was marked “Non potable,” so we had to wait until we could get some chlorinated water from our lister bags. Oh, that chlorinated water! Will we ever get the taste of the stuff out of our mouths?

At last a guide came along, but only to take off “C” Co., which was billeted at the little village of Rochere, about 4 kilos outside Passavant. Finally our guide appeared, and “A” and “B” companies hiked off down a narrow street, skirting the great chateau, then up a long hill, under the railroad bridge, and into our billeting area, a little “suburb” of the town across the railroad tracks.

At once we noticed a difference in the people. This town was far behind the lines. No air raids had visited it; lights could be shown at night. And the people seemed actually glad to see us. Instead of lowering brows, grudging admission, furious protests, we met pleasant smiles, bon jour’s, readiness and willingness to accommodate us. Even when we swept out the stables and outhouses where we were billeted there was no objection. Oh, boy, this was something like it!

The rolling kitchen was put to work in a field on the outskirts, and Wilson, deBruin, Lusier & Co. got busy. Everyone was pretty tired, but after chow things looked much brighter.

That night occurred an incident which shows how thoughtless soldiers are. A couple of men, who shall be nameless, patronized the estaminets far too freely. When they had acquired a skinful of vin rouge apiece, they went forth and nobly robbed a hen roost, and had a chicken dinner.

Now had this happened a week before, there would have been immediate and voluble protests to the authorities, and a bill for damages as long as your arm. And on our side, I fear the matter would have been looked on as righteous retribution, and the officers would have received very little assistance in investigating the affair.

But this was different. Wilson and some others found the little girl at their billet and her mother in tears over their loss. The offenders were promptly trailed and spotted, and reported to Lt. Schuyler. And nobody felt more ashamed than they when they woke up in the guardhouse the next morning. Meanwhile, that same evening a hasty collection had been taken up in the company, and the French lady reimbursed a good many times the value of her loss. I understand she wouldn’t take all they collected; but next day I met a couple of the boys, Wilson and Weber, I think, coming back from town with the little girl between them, proudly bearing the finest bonnet that Passavant “epiceries” could produce, and enough chocolate to satisfy a dozen youngsters.

The days at Passavant were about the brightest spot in our stay in France. The training schedules were on hand again, of course. Chauchats were issued to replace the Lewis guns of the English sector; much to the disgust of the auto riflemen, who had worked so hard learning the Lewis, and found the Chauchat but a crude affair comparatively. But the weather was beautiful; there was a stream to wash in, and a lovely lake about a mile away where you could have a swim--the only time we enjoyed this luxury that summer. The people were pleasant; we were getting American rations; all went well.

It was too good to last long. On August 27th we got a march order, and at 1:00 P. M. the next day we pulled out, down the hill to Passavant, up hill through the town, and fell in behind the second battalion for a long, long hike through the summer afternoon and evening.

Six o’clock came, and seven. Still no sign of camp. It was growing dark. The men were good and tired; but “B” company held to its record as the best marching company in the outfit, and plodded along doggedly. I felt uncomfortable every time I looked back at my four platoons; I felt that I ought to be hiking with them instead of on the Major’s horse; knowing, however, that I had a couple of hours hard work ahead of me after we camped, I turned back to the road ahead, and wished the Major were back.

At last, at 8:00 P. M., when it was quite dark, we turned off to the left, crossed several fields, and came to a number of frame barracks. These had bunks within them--about half enough to accommodate the men, but we were glad to lie down anywhere. After the usual turmoil we got supper under way, and as fast as chow could be obtained and swallowed, we hit the hay--some in barracks, others in pup tents in the fields outside. We had done about 20 kilos that day.

The next morning we pulled out at 9 o’clock, hiked into Fresnes, the village near by, and then out on a good wide road, heading generally west. The Colonel, who was making the hike in an automobile, had a theory that no man needed more than a pint of water on any march, and the march discipline was to be very strict. The everlasting rain started again; it was hike, hike, hike. Who that hasn’t done it can ever understand the awful, soul tearing grind of a long hike with full pack? After the first hour, the pack gets heavy on the back and shoulders. You see the feet of the fellow ahead--up and down, up and down, remorselessly, steadily--doesn’t he ever get tired? If he can make it, you can. Some buckle or piece of equipment gets loose, and goes jingle, jingle, jingle, and slap, slap, slap against your leg. It gets irritating. You are sweating and hot and dirty and uncomfortable. “Close up!” You mentally damn the officers, who haven’t any rifles; the ones who ride horses, doubly damned; and as for those birds in the autos--ahem! How long to the 10 minutes rest? Then it starts to rain. It beats into your face. You damn the boob who wished upon the Americans that prize inanity of equipment, the overseas cap. It is ingeniously designed to give the eyes and face no protection from sun, wind or rain, and at the same time efficiently to direct water down the back of your neck. On, on, on, plod, plash, squnchy, sqush. The Major looks at his watch. You eye the side of the road for a likely looking place. At last: “Fall out t’ right th’ road.” You stumble over and plump down on the ground. Oh, blessed moment! you ease the load on your shoulders; your feet are tingling with happiness at being off duty; after a few breaths you fish out a cigarette or the old pipe, and light up for a few puffs. You lean back--

“Fall in!”

Oh, murder! You know it hasn’t been four minutes, let alone ten.

Toward noon we passed through Bourbonne-les-Bains, quite a sizable town; and as we went plugging along by the railroad station there was Major Odom. He was carried off by the Colonel in his car, but took command of the battalion that night, and I was glad to get back to “B” Co.

Up that long, long, steep street we plugged along, rested, then pushed on well clear of the town, and halted beside a pretty green meadow in the woods for lunch. After we finished our hard bread, corned willy and jam, and were lying about in heavenly idleness for a few minutes, Roy Schuyler’s eye fell upon the bn. adjutant’s horse; a dignified and rotund, rather elderly mare, indulging in a roll while her saddle and bridle were off. In a minute Roy was on the astonished beast’s back. Encouraged by a couple of hearty thwacks from a club, Mary started on a very creditable imitation of youthful gamboling. It was a gallant sight for a summer afternoon. Often since, the picture has come back to me--the prancing horse, the laughing young rider with one hand in her mane, the other brandished aloft. But our time is up; Mary must resume her saddle, and we our packs, and off we go.

The shadows lengthened; the sun dropped down behind the hills, and the long French twilight set in. Still no sign of our guides to indicate our billet was near. Village after village came into view, raised our hopes, and dashed them again as we plodded on. At last, at about 6:00 P. M., we slogged into Merrey. There the Colonel was waiting, in his car. He remarked cheerfully that he had had quite a hunt for billets, but had found a splendid spot. We hiked through the village, and turned off the road into the splendid spot--a pine grove, very wet and rooty as to floor, and no water around. We were satisfied to get off our feet, however. After the usual procedure of getting kicked out of X company’s area, and kicking Y company out of ours, we rigged up shelter tents or sleeping bags. Of course the water carts weren’t on hand, and dinner was held up. There are two recurrent occasions in a soldier’s life when the seconds drag most fearsomely; the interval between a shell’s landing and bursting; and the interval between the end of a hike and chow.

Some of the boys went off to wash their feet in a pretty little pond a couple of fields away. That pond concealed some dark secret beneath its placid bosom. Whew! Didn’t it stink when disturbed?

At reveille we rolled out of our blankets, pretty stiff and cold, but rested. Packs were rolled again, and we fell in at 9:00 A. M., Major Odom again commanding the battalion, and were off on the last lap. This was to be a short one, only about five miles. We passed a large field with a number of Boche prisoners at work, and at about 11:00 A. M. crossed a railroad, turned off the road to the right, and came upon a cantonment just outside of Breuvannes, where the battalion was billeted.

While these frame barracks were not so picturesque as other billets we had had, they were infinitely better adapted to our uses. There were bunks for all, mess halls, a parade ground large enough to form the battalion, and a fine level drill field near by, along the railroad track. A good-sized creek ran close by, and Breuvannes was only 5 minutes walk away. A pretty enough little village, with five or six stores and estaminets. Also there was a Y hut, where you could see movies at night if you got there soon enough.

The 42d Division had been here until the day before, resting and replacing their losses from the fighting in July. A bn. of the 5th Marines had preceded them, and that evening I ran across a Marine lieutenant who was following up his outfit. My own alma mater, the Virginia Military Institute, furnished a number of officers to the Marines, and I was particularly interested in news from them. This officer told me of the death of several of my old school fellows at Belleau Woods. When he said that only one in ten had come through out of his own company, however, I thought he was pulling a long bow.

The next morning, August 31, we resumed the familiar drill schedules. Every effort was made to teach the use and mechanism of the new Chauchats. Special training went on as usual, and we practiced the formations of the O. C. S. U. (Offensive Combat of Small Units) on all the bushes and trees in the vicinity.

Barney O’Rourke and I spent one day on a pilgrimage to Bourmont, where the courtmartial heretofore referred to took place; Barney quite prepared to be shot at sunrise, and I suspect a little disappointed at the affair ending so undramatically.

The drill field furnished a very fair baseball diamond, and several inter-company contests were staged. We played one ten-inning thriller with “A” Co., in which Joe Fahey finally pitched us to victory, supported by an able cast. We had the makings of a good football team under way, too, and I remember I had most of the skin off my right arm. But more serious business was on hand, and our athletic activities had to be temporarily laid aside.

On Sept. 4, we prepared to move. The battalion was formed at dusk, and at 9:00 P. M. we filed off for our first night march in France. It started raining promptly, of course. Wasn’t it dark! In an hour you literally could not see your hand an inch before your nose. No lights or smoking were allowed; and even a chew was risky, as you never knew who you’d hit when you let fly. Now and then a glimmer of light from some cottage fire would show the shadowy forms of the last squad of “C” Co. in front, hastening on into the darkness. I walked into an ungainly quadruped and requested the rider to get his damned mule out of the road; and was immediately and discourteously informed that I had better keep my mouth shut and drive on. I recognized Major Odom’s voice and drove on.

Rain, hike, rain, slog, mud, mud, sweat, damn. Halt and fall out and sit in the mud for ten minutes and feel the rain percolate. Fall in, and hike again, your cold, wet clothes clinging to you.

Eight weary hours of this. At last, just before daybreak, we turned off the road through the gateway of a once palatial estate, and hiked across a park to a grove where we were billeted. The fifteen miles we had covered seemed like 30. We were done in enough to fall asleep, many without unrolling their packs. The rain, however, found us out, trickled in at every corner, and morning found us miserable enough.

No word was vouchsafed to us as to when we should move again; and this playing at secrecy cost “D” and “C” Cos. their meal. It was more luck than good management that gave me the hunch to rout out our weary cooks and have chow at 11:00 o’clock. At 12:00 o’clock orders came in a great hurry that we were to clear the crossroads at 2:30. We did it at 3:00.

Our new lieutenant-colonel, Arthur Budd, had joined us the night before. During the first halt Lt. Foulkes came galloping up on old Mary, and his former platoon--the first--chortled with glee every time daylight showed between Louis and the saddle. Col. Budd promptly treated me to a cold and fishy stare, and inquired if it was the custom for “B” Co. to yell at officers when they passed. I hastily delivered a brief resume of Louis’ career with the company and the estimation in which we held him, intimating that he was regarded as one helofa good fellow, and that no mutiny was breaking out. Meanwhile I had hastily sized up our new acquisition as a goof. I had reason to revise this estimate, and that shortly.

The rain let up this evening, for a wonder, and the march wasn’t half bad, except for the mud under foot, which we were pretty well used to. We passed by a sizeable cantonment of Chinese labor troops, and Diskin wanted to fall out and leave his laundry. We had only the most vague idea of where we were; in fact, our notions of French geography were of the crudest anyhow. Bill Reid, from his six-foot eyrie, solemnly announced that he saw the Alps ahead, and had the 1st platoon craning its respective necks for an hour.

Just as darkness fell, we ran into an ammunition train, the tail end of the 42d Division. We pushed on behind them up a hill into the village of Viocourt, where our old dependable of the advance party, Sgt. Hill, met us and pointed out our billets, in lofts and stables on both sides of the “street.”

We all knew pretty well by now that we must be in for action soon. The St. Mihiel salient meant nothing more to us than it did to folks at home then. The general impression was that it was to be a drive on Metz; and this wasn’t so far out of the way, at that.

By this time it didn’t take us long to make ourselves at home in a strange place. We had bagged a good place for the rolling kitchen, and the billets weren’t so bad. Between showers we got in some drilling, and a couple of hours on an extemporized 30-yard range that Lt. Schuyler put up one morning before breakfast. Everyone tried his hand at the Chauchat for a magazine full. This was the only chance we had to fire this gun before we had to meet the enemy with it. The men armed with pistols punctured a few tin cans after a vast expenditure of lead.

There was a beautiful meadow below town, and on Sunday, the 8th, we staged a couple of good ball games. On Monday we had a company problem through the woods beyond the meadow, and Tuesday we got in the target practice.

Wednesday morning the Major assembled the Co. cmdrs. and ordered us to be ready to march at 1:30. After the usual bustle all was ready for the road, two days’ rations being carried. Our kitchen and cooks were attached to the regt’l supply train.

It had been raining all the morning, but old J. Pluvius had only been practising for the real show. We started off in a steady downpour, which speedily became a regular deluge. The wind rose to a gale, which drove the sheets of water directly at us, penetrating right through slickers and clothing. In 15 minutes we were all wet to the skin.

It was only an hour’s march this time. At 3:00 P. M., we came to a crossroads just outside Chatenois. There stood a long line of motor trucks, stretching away in either direction as far as the eye could see. The embussing was well handled, and in 20 minutes we were packed in, 20 or more to a truck, jammed as tight as they could be, every man wet through and chilled. Even our incorrigibly optimistic regimental history says, “We shall never forget this day because of its miserable and nasty weather.”

These busses were driven by Chinese in the French service. With their impassive Oriental faces looking out over their great sheepskin coats, they looked fitting agents of destiny; grave Charons, bearing us on the last lap of our progress toward our fate.

At 4:00 o’clock we were off, with a jerk and a clank of gears and a steady rumble. On and on, over the long French road, rolling on through rain and wind, steadily, inevitably; each lorry nearly touching the one in front. Darkness fell; the long gray train rolled on, not a light, not a sound save the rumble of the trucks. We got colder and colder; more and more cramped. Capt. Fleischmann and I spent most of the night each cherishing the other’s icy feet in his bosom. On and on, through gray, silent towns, past the ghostly figure of a lonely M. P. at a crossroads; through fields, woods, villages, all wet and quiet in the falling rain.

Just as the daylight began to thin the inky mist, the train halted, and the word was passed along the line to debus. Wet, shivering, miserable, “B” Co. struggled hastily into clammy shoes and slung their heavy, soggy packs. As we formed on the side of the road, the busses started again, and rolled swiftly off into the shadows ahead, leaving us on the road, with heavy woods on either side.

We marched down the road to an open field on the left. Here a railroad track entered the corner of the wood. We turned off up the track, and about 300 yards along we came upon the 2nd battalion bivouacking. We went on just beyond them, and were allotted our own share of squishy ground and drenched underbrush.

A limited number of fires were allowed, and we made ourselves as comfortable as we could under the circumstances. I was detailed on O. D. and spent a busy day dissuading the regiment from straggling all over the road and open fields. All knew that a big attack was in preparation, and that it was important that the concentration be kept under cover from the enemy’s aircraft. But some men apparently couldn’t compree that we weren’t roosting in that bally old dysentery generator of a wood for sheer sport.

Showers fell intermittently during the day, but nothing like the previous day’s deluge. At about 4 P. M. there was an officers’ call, and we were warned to march at 7 P. M. Co. Commanders were issued maps, and we learned that our present bivouac was in the Bois de la Cote en Haye, east of Tremblecourt.

About 5 P. M., six French tanks came clanking down the road, did a Squads Left, waddled across the fields and disappeared over the brow of the hill, toward the rumble of intermittent artillery fire in the distance that meant the front.

The 312th Inf. was bivouacked on the other side of the railroad track, and the rest of the division was hidden in the woods near by. Across the main road was a great artillery ammunition dump, big enough to blow up ten divisions if a bomb ever hit it. But I kept this to myself, and what a soldier doesn’t know doesn’t worry him. He has enough to worry about anyhow.

The kitchens came up late in the afternoon, and we got outside of a ration of hot slum before dark.

By 6:45 P. M. we had rolled packs, and were ready to hit the road again. I went to sleep on the ground, with my pack on my back, and was awakened by Dunn to find it nearly dark, and the battalion ready to move off.

It seemed hours before we got out of the wood into the open field. We would go forward a few steps along the track, and then stand and wait for ten or fifteen minutes. The road by which we had arrived was crowded with transport and artillery, and we turned off on a bypath through the woods. It was now quite dark, and blind work it was blundering along, touching the man ahead to keep from losing him, slipping and tripping in the wet underbrush. It is remarkable how exasperating a pack and rifle become under such circumstances. However, the excitement of anticipation buoyed us up, and “B” Co. wallowed through the wood, across a mushy field, and scrambled up a slippery embankment on to a strange road, much more cheerfully than now seems possible.

Once re-formed on said road, we hiked along briskly in column of squads. Soon we overtook a long column of transport wagons, trucks and artillery. Road discipline was something apparently unknown; every vehicle seemed to be trying to pass every other one. The consequence was of course wondrous confusion, and here and there a total jam, through which we had to thread our way in single or double file as best we could.

When we got clear of the last jam, the company ahead had gained about 15 yards, and was consequently as completely out of sight as if they had been in Timbuctoo. We passed through a village in hot pursuit of them. At the crossroads, by sheer good luck I turned off up the right one. After a long hour’s stern chase we were relieved to see the bobbing forms of Headquarters Co. show through the gloom ahead.

At about 10:30 we came upon Sgt. Hill waiting for us by the roadside, with the welcome news that our temporary destination was only a couple of kilos off. We toiled up a long hill, and turned off the macadam into a rough road that was a series of four inch ponds. We plashed along to the edge of a large wood, and Hill showed us a pile of empty bandoliers and boxes, where the Marines had been issued ammunition and grenades about an hour before. They had just pulled out, and were going over the top at dawn.

A hundred yards or so, and we turned into the woods, on a road which was from ankle to knee deep in all varieties of mud, from sticky to liquid. We moved on, stumbled over a railroad track, and finally Hill said we were at our bivouac. The trees and underbrush grew so thick along the road that we blundered about a bit before we found a couple of places where we could force our way through. As each man reached a place where he could sit or lie down, down he flopped, and the rest of the company walked over him. The woods already had some occupants, and more and more poured in every minute.

At last “B” Co. had distributed itself on the ground, and was preparing for a dismal wallow until morning. In spite of wet, mud and chill some were already asleep. We were just within the artillery zone, and the jar and grumble of the guns ahead was occasionally punctuated by the roar and scream of one of the heavies nearer by. This, however, was only normal artillery fire, such as we had been accustomed to at St. Pol and Lattre St. Quentin, and we settled down to wait for the big show. Some of the more energetic started to pitch their pup tents.

Just as I dozed off, some idiot shouted “Gas!” Our long hours of gas drill, and many vivid and gruesome lectures on the subject, promptly bore fruit. In fact, the good seed shot up like Jack’s beanstalk. The cry was re-echoed by a dozen, then a score of startled voices. Everyone reached into the familiar canvas satchel that he cherished on his bosom, donned his mask more or less expeditiously, and sat expectantly awaiting developments.

In the midst of the rumpus I heard Lt. Foulkes’ voice from the road bawling for the company commanders. I thought sadly that the lad had probably lost his mask, or the gas had caught him suddenly and he was raving. However, for sake of auld lang syne, I took a long breath, and shouted, “Whatsmatterwhydontyouputonyourmask?” I replaced my mouthpiece, and started blundering toward Louis’ voice, hoping I might be in time at least to view his remains.

During the next two minutes I walked on every man in “B” Co. at least once, and probably on most of “A” and “C” Cos. Then Foulkes roared my name within five yards of me.

“Where’s the gas?” I demanded.

There wasn’t any gas.