Chapter VI: St. Mihiel and Limey Sector (2)

I found the platoon commanders and their sergeants in their dugout--quite luxurious it looked, lighted with a candle and comparatively dry. They thought I was wounded, as my hands, arms, trousers and gas mask were all spotted and spattered with blood. I ordered a detail from the 2nd platoon to report to me at once for ration and stretcher carrying parties, and the 4th platoon to report as soon as the barrage lifted to relieve the 3rd on the line of outguards. As soon as the carrying parties were ready, I started back with them.

Sgt. Levy was placed in charge of the carrying parties, and they were soon on their way. The men knew nothing of the country; it was pitchy black, the shelling was still heavy, and they were wet, weak and miserable. It was very hard to make orders understood, and everything was wrong at once. Besides, there was the possibility of a counter-attack or raid by the Boche.

In about half an hour the shelling died down and the 4th platoon came up. When they were posted, while inspecting the outguards, I stumbled over a body. As I could not see the face, I cut off the front of his gas mask pouch where the name of the owner was printed. Next morning I saw it was Kindt, of the 3rd platoon. He had been killed instantly by a small piece of shell through the heart.

As I got back to Co. Hdq. it was getting light. I crawled into our hole, which had a shelter half over it, and lit my pipe--the old black briar I have in my face now as I write. Before I had taken three puffs I fell off to sleep. A few minutes later Sgt. Robbins woke me with the news that the ration detail had returned. I had been breathing through my pipe which made me very sick and dizzy for awhile.

It was too light then to get the rations out to the outguards. The ration detail was lying about on the ground, dead beat, among the pots and cans. Sgt. Wilson and his cooks had worked all the day before to make up a good chow, and Wilson had come up with it himself, though that was no part of his duty. It almost broke his heart to be too late. I tried to eat some, but everything tasted like blood.

Someone in the rear--not Sgt. Wilson--had the idea that we needed coffee worse than water and so while we had plenty of strong, thick, cold black coffee, we only had water that was left in our canteens. Our upset stomachs refused the coffee; I used mine to wash the blood off my hands and wrists. Robbins shaved in his.

Just then Capt. Fleischmann came striding along the path. He greeted me with “Hello Daddy. Isn’t this awful?” D Co. had suffered even worse than we, and they had not enough men to carry in the wounded, though they had stripped the outguards as much as they dared. He asked me for men to carry in four wounded that were still at his Co. Hdq.

I looked at the men lying on the ground asleep--the only ones available. They had been carrying all that awful night under the heavy shell fire, and I had not the heart to order them to make the trip again. But I woke them up and told them that D Co. had some men lying wounded, and asked for volunteers to take them in.

They stared dully for a moment, too tired to understand. Then Joe Levy, who had been on the go all night, dragged himself to his feet, and said “Hell, I’ll go. Come on, fellows.” Nobody wanted to go, and nobody pretended to. But they went. It was one of the finest things I ever saw, and every man that went should have had a D. S. C. No excitement to it though; nothing to thrill the penny-a-liners, so they didn’t get it.

When night fell, a detail went out to bring in the bodies of Weidman, Kindt and Laurencell. Cpl. Weidman had been hit right in the waist by a shell; his legs were lying several yards away from his body. It was a gruesome task bringing him and Laurencell in. We laid the bodies, covered with a blanket, near the graves of two H Co. men who had been killed, just off the path at the place when it crossed the good road--about point 368.8-242.3.

The night passed comparatively quietly; we got the rations issued, and some water came up too late. Holly, one of the company runners, had twisted his knee badly, and could not walk; so Cole was made runner in his place; and a faithful, fearless lad he was, too.

Wednesday, September 25th, dawned a bright fall day. About 10 A. M. Lt. Cressman, the regimental chaplain, came up. Winemiller, Cole, Cheery-O, and Slover went with us to bury our three comrades. We turned over their personal belongings to the chaplain, wrapped each poor mangled body in a blanket, and laid them side by side in the shallow graves--the best we had been able to dig. The chaplain read the burial service, while an occasional shell tore through the air far overhead. Then we filled in the graves. It was hard on our over-strained nerves, and when we got through most of us were crying more or less. We hadn’t as yet seen so much as one of the enemy to shoot at; it was all such a hopeless, dreadful, ghastly business. Winemiller and Cole made three little crosses and set them up at the head of the graves.

At 2:30 P. M. a message came up for Capt. Fleischmann and myself to report at once to Btn. Hdq. We set out together wondering what was up; leaving Lts. Hultzen and Schuyler in command.

We reported to Major Odom, who was studying his battle map by the light of a couple of candles. Louis Foulkes greeted us on the side and slipped me a couple of cigars.

After a few minutes, the Major took out his Bull Durham and started rolling a cigarette, saying:

“I have a little problem for your companies to do tomorrow morning,” quite as he had been saying any afternoon for the past year. Then he went on to explain.

The great Argonne drive was to begin the next morning. It was to be a surprise attack, preceded by only a couple of hours’ artillery preparation. We were to make a demonstration, a sham attack, with the object of keeping the enemy guessing for a few hours as to where the real blow was to fall, and so to delay his concentration of troops to meet the main drive.

The 312th Inf. on our left, and the 90th Div. on our right, were to advance several kilos. We were to advance about half a kilo, to approximately the line 368.3-243.4; 369.5-242.3. This line we were to hold, and the units on our flanks were gradually to fall back and re-establish the outpost line on us as a guide. We would have no barrage, but there would be an hour of concentration fire--that is, our artillery would shell points in the sector of the advance like crossroads, probable strong points, battery positions, etc.

Zero hour was 5:30 A. M. At that moment we were to cut loose with all our small arms fire. The battalion scouts had reported that there were no Germans for 500 meters to the front, but this Fourth of July stuff was to get the enemy’s wind up.

The arrangements for supplies and liaison were soon made. We had had no chance to use any ammunition, and about all we asked for was water and food.

Foulkes said that orders had arrived at Regtl. Hdq. detailing me to report to the Army School of the Line at Langres on Oct. 1st. I thought of the men we had buried that morning, and reflected grimly that I should probably not matriculate.

When the Major finished his instructions, we sat quiet for a moment. Then Fleischmann said “Well, come on, Daddy; we’ve got a lot to do before dark,” and we set out.

As we climbed Dead Man’s Hill, the Boche balloon saw us, and they amused themselves by sniping at us with a couple of 88’s. We kept about 20 yards apart, so that if one was potted the other could see to the attack. It was rather like playing “Going to Jerusalem.” We would linger by a good shell hole and then hustle for the next one; and of course the shells would always catch us between two holes, and we would have to flop into some six inch puddle.

On arriving at Co. Hdq. I sent for the platoon commanders and sergeants. Welch and McGarrity were left in command of the 3rd platoon; I had perfect confidence in their ability to handle it after their showing two nights before.

I knew that the moment we opened fire the German barrage would drop. If he hadn’t shortened his range since Monday night we would have it behind us. If he had, we would have to go through it anyhow, and the sooner the better.

B Co. was attacking over a full kilometer front, which in a regular supported attack would be the sector for at least a battalion. If we met any serious opposition, we could not hope to push through to our objective on this frontage. I therefore made my main objective the edge of the open field along the line 369.0-243.0 to 368.6-243.2. This line was along the top of a rather steep reverse slope, which would give us protection from frontal fire, and from this as a base we could throw out combat patrols to the flanks, and eventually get in touch with the units on either side.

The company was to advance with the 1st, 4th and 2nd platoons in the first wave, in above order from right to left; all in line of combat groups. The 3rd platoon was to follow at 50 meters, and would act as support and mopping up party. All would jump off from the line of outguards, so that all would get clear of the enemy’s barrage as quickly as possible. The 1st Plt. already had a common post with D Co., which was to move down the road on our right flank as a combat patrol. Our left flank post was to arrange with the visiting patrol of the 312th Inf. to advance similarly along the left flank of our sector.

By the time these orders were issued and the ground reconnoitered, it was nearly dark. Our rations were to be brought up that night by details from the rear; but they lost their way--or their ambition--and the chow never got beyond the foot of Dead Man’s Hill.

About midnight Capt. Fleischmann came over for a last consultation, and we explained our plans to each other. Then we shook hands hard, wished each other “Cheery-O” after the manner of the Scotties; and the night closed behind his tall figure as he strode off down the path.

Various details of the arrangements kept me busy until the 2nd and 3rd platoons came up at 5 A. M. to take their posts for the attack. Things were comparatively quiet; only the usual shells going overhead. There was just time to see the platoons properly disposed and to get my headquarters platoon into position between the 1st and 4th platoons. Then I watched my wrist watch tick off the last five minutes, as the first tinge of dawn crept into the sky on our right. I ran everything over in my mind hastily, to be sure nothing was forgotten. And then the minute hand pointed the half hour.

Nothing happened.

The seconds ticked away. I listened and listened for ages--twenty seconds by the watch--and nothing happened.

Finally I heard Schuyler’s voice over to the right, calling cautiously “Hey, Cap, isn’t it time yet?”

“Sure it is,” I replied irritably. “Turn ’em loose. It’s after the time now.”

The words were not out of my mouth before his rifle cracked and his voice rang out “First platoon, Fire.”

The shots began to ring out, singly, then a rattle as the other platoons took it up, each man firing a clip; then the rackety-split of the Chauchats. An instant’s lull as we reloaded, and then the command was “Forward!”

Then Hell broke loose.

The Germans had shortened their range. Their barrage dropped right on us. The company runners were behind me in single file, Slover at the rear. A shell burst behind us, killing him in his tracks before he took a step. We knew nothing of it at the time. We pushed across the field to our front, a field studded with stumps and full of underbrush. Shells were bursting all around; the air filled as if by magic with the stifling acrid smoke of high explosive. Several times the concussion of a close one nearly knocked me off my feet, and the fumes blew against my face like the blast from a furnace door. I wondered vaguely when I’d get it, and shouted “Come on, B Company,” until I was hoarse. Occasionally I heard Schuyler cheering on his men. You couldn’t see ten feet for the smoke.

At the far edge of the field we ran into a broad belt of barbed wire. We spread out, looking for a passage. Joe Levy called “Here’s a place, Captain,” and we struggled through; I was dragging a long French VB rifle after me. The wire was about 20 feet across.

We found ourselves at the bottom of a wooded slope, on a rough wagon track. Lt. Schuyler, with Sgt. Reid and a couple of men, had gotten through further along, and we started up the hill, sheltered somewhat from the shells, though they were bursting in the treetops overhead.

I dumped my pack and V. B. rifle by a tree and christened the place company headquarters. Then we went on up the hill. I got out my map and pencil to be sure this was our objective.

It was quite light now; a beautiful September morning. Schuyler and I gained the top of the ridge together. The woods ended there, giving way to a little open plateau, about 250 meters across, with woods on the other side again. I verified the position on my map, and ordered Schuyler to post his men along the ridge under cover of the trees and underbrush, while I did the same further to the left, where men from the 4th platoon were coming up the slope in groups of two and three as they got through the wire.

I had not gone twenty paces when Sgt. Reid came running after me and said “Lieut. Schuyler’s been hit, Captain.” I answered mechanically “All right; bring him behind the ridge, take charge of the platoon and post the men as they come up.”

Rifle bullets were beginning to snap overhead, coming apparently from the woods across the field, which was held in some force by the enemy, as we soon realized. Our only chance of meeting a counter-attack was to build up a firing line to sweep the plateau in front, and as fast as men from the 4th platoon came up I posted them to command our front and left flank.

Slim Price, in a German’s black fur coat that came about to his hips, came stalking up the hill with his Chauchat, and disappeared over the crest, subsiding in a little clump of bushes out on the left of the plateau. He was telling the world that he was a “fighting ---- of a ----.” A moment later I heard the rattle of his gun as he spotted a Heinie machine gun squad advancing down the gully on our left. I guess Slim was right, at that.

The C. O., 4th Plt., came up by this time. He was badly shaken, but I put him in charge of the left flank until the 2nd platoon should arrive, and went back to the right.

They had brought Lt. Schuyler a little way down the slope, and laid him down until a stretcher came up. A shell had burst right beside him, between him and Reid. He was still breathing, but very heavily, and was quite unconscious; his eyes were nearly closed. I bound up his head as best I could with his first aid packet, but my heart sank--the concussion had been near the base of the skull. Oddly enough, he was not at all disfigured; but it had been a terrible blow, and only his magnificent vitality was keeping him breathing. That was a bitter moment, with my best officer and best friend in the outfit dying, the company shattered; and not a German had I seen.

Sgt. Levy came up with a couple of stretchers and the news that both the Medical Detachment men attached to the company were killed. Hoping against hope I had him put Roy on the first stretcher, and they bore him away to the rear, though the shells were still bursting behind us. It was no use; that gallant spirit breathed its last before they had gone a kilometer. The bearers wanted to take him on to the surgeon anyhow, but there were many others desperately wounded, and stretchers were pitifully few.

In the meantime I had sent out patrols to the flanks to try and get in touch with D Co. and the 312th Inf. A patrol of 6 men from D Co. came in on our right, but they were separated from their outfit and didn’t know what had happened. Brisk machine gun firing to our right rear made us fear things were not going well there.

On our left, a party of the Boche under an officer had advanced down the ravine toward the end of our ridge, and had driven in our advanced riflemen; but had been checked, largely by the doughty Price from his clump of bushes. Three runners sent to the left to find the 2nd platoon did not return, and I feared the latter had lost its direction and was in trouble.

During a temporary lull, I strolled out to the left, map in hand, and crossing the ravine started up the next ridge to find them. About a hundred yards ahead I caught a glimpse of a man walking through the trees, and thought I recognized one of our runners. I shouted “Hey.” He turned around. I asked “What platoon are you in?” Then I noticed how nicely his helmet came down around his neck. He unlimbered a rifle that looked about eight feet long, and cracked a bullet past my ear. I reached for my .45, remembered my last target score with that weapon, and promptly betook myself off to our own ridge.

There I took a dead man’s rifle and ammunition, and called for volunteers to go on a combat patrol to find the 2nd platoon. We needed them badly, for if the enemy got in on our left flank they could enfilade our ridge and shoot us down at pleasure.

I took Martocci and four other men--their names I can’t recall, though their faces stand out sharply in my memory. We advanced up the ridge on our left in skirmishing order. My Boche friend was waiting for us, and before we had gone fifty yards he cracked down on us from the woods above. We answered, firing by ear at the sound of his rifle. It was blind work; we couldn’t see fifty yards through the woods.

We worked up to the top of the ridge, and then along it toward the west. Two of the patrol were missing; lost or killed, I never knew which. We pushed on cautiously, a few yards at a time, stopping to look and listen. Now and again the enemy would spot us, and his bullets would snap past us viciously. The German rifle has a high, whip-like crack, easily distinguishable from that of our Enfield or Springfield; but the noise of the bullet passing by is much the same.

Suddenly I felt a sharp blow on my shoulder; one of the gentlemen had pinked me neatly. Down the ridge the bushes rustled; all four of us let drive at the sound. There was a shrill scream, and then silence. One of us had found a mark.

This was all very interesting, but my business was to find that 2nd platoon. My mind was working away industriously at that problem, with a peculiar detachment. I only remember feeling vaguely annoyed at our patrol’s unpleasant situation, and did my share of the shooting almost mechanically.

Of course, as we found out later, the 312th Inf. outpost made no advance at all that morning, and our patrol had pushed in behind the German line of outguards; to our mutual bewilderment and disgust. The Boche began to fall back through the woods, not stealthily as we were moving, but clumping and crashing along, and shouting to one another to know what in donner und blitzen was up.

We were now well beyond the left of our own regimental sector, and a long half kilo from the company. The withdrawing outguards of the enemy were passing all around us. For twenty minutes we played a desperate game of blind man’s buff with them. Occasionally we would catch a glimpse of a gray form or a green helmet through the trees, and our little messengers of death would speed him on his way. Then bullets would sing over our heads from all directions, and we would hug the ground until we could push on again, to repeat the performance from another position.

Finally I gave up hope of finding the 2nd platoon, and got out my compass to steer our course back to B Co. Cautiously we stole through the woods to the southeast. We could still hear the Boche trampling the bushes all around us.

Suddenly from the bushes ahead came a challenge, in the mechanical, drill-book German that means bullets are coming. We hit the dirt, just as a brisk rapid fire opened on us, cutting the twigs overhead. We let drive into the bushes in front, firing low. As I slipped a fresh clip into my magazine, I glanced at Martocci, his olive cheek white with excitement, but firing quite steadily and coolly from a kneeling position.

I signalled “Cease firing.” All was still, except for a trampling receding off to the right. Warily we circled round the bushes, and came upon a road--one of those straight German roads, with a 2-inch pipe line running along the side.

One of the men crossed, while the rest stood ready to cover him. I crossed next, with Martocci. As I glanced down the road, I saw two Germans lying at the side of it, about ten yards away. Nice looking, fair-haired lads they were. One of them just then stretched out his hand towards his rifle, which lay beside him. It may have been only a convulsive movement, but we weren’t taking chances. I put a bullet into him, squeezing the trigger carefully. He jumped and rolled out into the middle of the road, where he lay still enough. Then I did the same for the other, mechanically, with a cold disgust at the whole business. My mind seemed to stand aloof and watch the proceeding for a moment; then it went on thinking, planning, weighing carefully our next move.

After this, the enemy seemed to steer rather clear of us, though we passed near several other groups. One fellow was shouting for “Emil;” and I reflected grimly that Emil’s military career was probably blighted, anyhow. So we came at last to the foot of the ridge again, and about 200 meters along the road at its foot we found our left flank post. And there at last we found the 2nd platoon--Lt. Dunn, Sgt. Sweeney and four men. The rest were lying back in the field where the barrage had struck them, or were on that long, long trip back to the first aid post.

At this time--about 8 A. M.--a German plane appeared, coming at us with a rush, low over the treetops, almost head on. We could see the aviator looking over the side of the car. He spotted someone moving, and flew low along our line, firing his machine gun, but more as a signal than at us particularly, I think. We cracked away at him, but had no luck. With superb nerve he flew slowly the length of our line, returned, and then banked lazily and disappeared toward his own lines. Ten minutes later shells were bursting about us with devilish precision, and machine gun squads pushed up on either flank, until stopped by our Chauchats. They were still somewhat leery of us, though, possibly suspecting a trap, and the attack was not pressed home. The German snipers in the woods across the little plateau in front were reinforced by machine guns, and both sides greeted every shaking bush or exposed head with a vicious crackle of bullets.

Corporal Apicelli’s squad, lying out in the advanced posts where they had been stationed by Schuyler and Reid, were especially exposed, Apicelli and two other men being killed during the morning. At least one of the enemy was using dumdum bullets, as I saw one of our men shot in the hip, and where the bullet came out you could have put your fist in the hole.

Levy and Winemiller were set to cutting two lanes in the wire behind us, so that we would not be hopelessly in a cul-de-sac.

At about 9 A. M. Lt. Wolcott of D Co. appeared with his platoon, reduced to some 20 men. He was out of touch with the rest of his company, and did not know how it had fared. He was posted on our right flank, and sent out a patrol to get in contact with D Co.

The firing died down to incessant sniping, and I set about completing my situation report for the Major, having given up hope for the present of establishing contact on the flanks. As I was finishing, Lt. Drake came up with a squad of the battalion scouts, among them the honest face of our own Sgt. DeGrote. I explained the situation, and gave him the report to take back. I shall never forget “Ducky’s” eyes, sick with seeing horrors, as he turned to go.

As he disappeared, a tall figure came striding along from the right--Capt. Fleischmann, with dark circles under his eyes, blackened and stained from head to foot with blood and powder. We greeted each other as risen from the dead, and compared notes. He had run into the enemy in force strongly established in concrete pillboxes and machine gun posts; and while scattered groups of his company had won through to the company objective, they were unable to hold it without machine guns against the enemy’s enfilading fire. The remnant had retired to their old line of outguards, after suffering heavy losses.

Since I still thought the 312th Inf. might be far out to our left front, and depending on us to cover their ultimate withdrawal, we decided that B Co. should hold on where we were, while D Co. would string scattered Cossack posts along their old line until relief or further orders came up.

The morning wore on; still no news from our left flank. I kept on the move up and down the line, assuming a confidence that I did not feel; for of course if the enemy advanced in any force we were done for. Still we had our orders, and there was nothing for it but to put up the best scrap we could.

Some things were funny, even then. I remember the company barber, that sterling son of Italy, after a Boche sniper put a bullet past each ear. He wriggled back from his unpleasant position on the crest of the ridge, and retaliated by holding up his rifle at arm’s length over his head, pointed northeast, and executing rapid fire, pulling the trigger with his thumb, while he regarded my approach with the complacence of conscious ingenuity. I think the Boche must have laughed too; for the branches of a tree across the field began to shake, and a bullet brought a gray body tumbling down from branch to branch.

We had some food--hard bread, corned willy and goldfish--but very little water. It was pitiful to see the wounded, who wouldn’t take any from the others, because they were going back when the stretcher bearers got around to them. Levy and his detail worked like Trojans, but it was a long trip, and every time they returned there was a fresh batch of wounded to be carried.

There was one man--I wish I could remember his name, but though every event stands out clearly in my mind, I cannot remember the names connected with them. He was sitting with his back against a tree, wounded by a shell in the legs and stomach. When I asked him if I could do anything for him, he said “If I could have a little water.” I gave him my canteen, which had a couple of swallows left in it. He shook it, and grinned and shook his head. “Not your last, Cap’n.” I told him that Levy had just brought up a can, and hurried off to the left, where the firing was getting heavy. When I passed that way again, the man was dead. And the water was still in my canteen, and he had screwed the stopper back on; so he must have thought I was lying about Levy.

Three o’clock came, and shortly after a platoon from A Co. under Lt. Bigler came up to reinforce us. They were posted on our left flank to hold the ravine up which the enemy had been trying to advance and flank our position. I couldn’t understand why the Germans in front of D Co. had not come in on our right flank yet.

At 3:30 a patrol of two officers and six men came up the road on the left, and as they drew near I recognized Capt. Gray, of the 312th Inf., who I knew commanded their outpost line. His news was not encouraging. His company had received no orders to advance; they were still on their old line to our left rear. We arranged that he should run a line of Cossack posts along the road up to join us, so that we would have at least a continuous line of outguards on the brigade front. On the way over the ridge from his right flank post, his patrol had had several skirmishes with German outposts or patrols; so the enemy was apparently venturing back to the positions where our patrol had flushed them earlier in the day.

Just after he left--about 5.30--Lt. Col. Budd came up with several men. I was certainly glad to see him, and even more glad to see Levy with a can of water, which he doled out, a swallow to each man. Col. Budd looked over the situation, and decided that we should hold the ridge until nightfall, when we would be relieved. While he was there, three German snipers managed to get into a rifle pit on the plateau about a hundred yards in front of us, and made things very hot on the right flank. Sgt. Lehy took our last two rifle grenades, and dropped the second one plumb into the pit, which discouraged those three for the day.

Col. Budd departed to arrange for sending up water, ammunition and the relief.

At 5:30 the enemy’s artillery started in on us again, sweeping the top of the ridge with shell and shrapnel, and dropping time shells into the ravine behind it. For twenty minutes he poured in a heavy barrage, while we hugged the ground and gripped our rifles. If this meant a counter-attack in force we were up against it, because our ammunition was running low; but if we could beat them off once more we might hold out until night brought the relief.

But this time the enemy was starting the real thing. He knew the ground like a book, of course; and I must say that his attack was ably planned and bravely executed. While his artillery shelled us, machine guns worked around behind both our flanks. At 5:50 men from D Co’s outguards came running in and reported that the enemy had advanced in force, broken their skeleton line, and was coming in on our right flank with machine guns. Even while they spoke, the “Tap-tap-tap” of the machine gun broke out on the right to confirm them, and our Chauchats spat back in answer.

In those woods, it was merely a question of who could throw enough lead to keep the other fellow’s head down; and at this game our Chauchats had the chance of the proverbial snowball. With Sgts. Reid, Lehy, Fahey and Levy, the right flank, which had been disorganized and driven in with the D Co. outposts, was re-formed, and a firing line built up at right angles to our front to face our new foes. The enemy in front was pouring in a hot fire; we could not encircle the enemy machine guns to the right because of that belt of wire behind us. Meanwhile those same machine guns were enfilading our main line along the ridge.

Our only chance was a frontal attack on them. First we tried a series of rushes. I realized then exactly what was meant by “fire superiority,” and the enemy certainly had it. One Chauchat ran out of ammunition. The other was in Cocker’s hands, and he used it well until it jammed. He worked at it desperately for several minutes, as he advanced with the line; then he threw it up against a tree in disgust, crying bitterly “That’s a hell of a thing to give a man to fight with.” From then on we had only our rifle fire against their leaden hailstorm. Neither side could aim their shots, but they were shooting twenty bullets to our one, and our hastily formed line was driven back.

As they retired, Sgt. Fahey and I, with two other men, tried to sneak up along the top of the ridge and get close enough to bomb one of the machine guns. We were lucky at first, the enemy being busy with his bullets further down the slope. We saw four Germans, carrying ammunition ahead of us, but held our fire, hoping they would lead on to their gun. Fahey slipped me a bomb, and I pulled the pin, ready to throw. Just then a new devil’s tattoo broke out about fifty yards away to our left, and the bullets came showering about our ears. They must have caught sight of us through some opening in the trees, and were probably waiting for just such an attempt. One of our patrol was riddled through the stomach and back, and started crawling back on one hand and his knees, with strange, shrill moans like a wounded animal. The other was killed instantly. Fahey and I looked in each other’s eyes for a startled moment; each, I think, wondering why the other was not killed. A bullet went through the tube of my gas mask, as I noticed later. Fahey lifted his eyebrows and pointed at the new gun. I nodded, and we started for it. But the first gun’s crew heard the cries of the wounded man, and traversed back and forth by us. Fahey staggered, shot through the chest. We could not see to throw a bomb, and it would probably hit a branch and light on us anyhow. Our slender chance vanished, and we slipped back through the trees.

As we returned, I saw our left flank retiring in some disorder, further confusing our hard pressed right. The enemy had driven back the post holding the head of the ravine on our left, and we were in the desperate position of being enfiladed from both flanks. Our losses were heavy, and ammunition was very low.

I glanced at my watch--only 6:20. No chance for the Lt. Col. to have gotten a counter-attack under way. The position had become untenable, and at any moment might develop into a complete cul-de-sac. It was time to pull out.

I gave the order to withdraw by squads and fall back to the old outpost line; 4th platoon to go first, covered by the 1st and 3rd; then the 4th platoon to cover our withdrawal from the other side of the wire.

As the first squad from the 4th platoon started through the wire, a machine gun opened on the wire and the road before it, killing two and driving the rest back. The platoon leader reported that it was impossible to get across.

To remain, however, meant almost certain death for all, with very little chance of inflicting compensating losses on the enemy. So as a last resort I took the 1st platoon, and during a momentary lull in the firing we made a rush for it in two or three groups at different places.

The wire clawed and tore at us as though it were alive. My group scrambled through, somehow, anyhow, marvelling that the bullets did not come. When half way through I noticed that I was still mechanically holding Fahey’s bomb, with the pin out. I went a bit carefully after that, so was the last one through. As I ripped my puttee free from the last strand of wire, the machine guns started up again, and I hugged the dirt while bullets cracked viciously overhead. The grass and green leaves felt cool and smelled fresh and green, and a little green bug went scrambling along a creeper, two inches from my nose.

Presently another lull came, and I proceeded to worm my way through the underbrush, looking for my half platoon. Not a sign of them. They had gotten clear of the last burst of fire, and then made a break for it.

The machine guns were still firing intermittently, but I heard no reply from our rifles, and hoped that the others had followed us through the wire. Most of them had, as I found out later.

Then came the hardest moment of the war for me. A group of about 20 men had remained on the hill, apparently despairing of crossing the wire alive. An officer was with them, and upon him lies the responsibility of what happened. The men themselves had done brave service before that time. But, as I understand by permission if not under orders, they raised the cry of “Kamerad.”

When I realized that this had really happened, I tried desperately to cross the wire to them again. But I was in too big a hurry, and made too much noise. The machine guns spotted me promptly, and streams of bullets made the sparks fly from the wire six feet ahead of me. Before I could work around to another place, I heard the sound of their withdrawal toward the German lines, and knew I was too late.

My next job was to get back to the old outpost line and take charge there. The enemy machine gunners had penetrated well to our rear, and I had to go very cautiously, hearing their voices all around. They were withdrawing, however, and in ten minutes I found out why. Their artillery completed the day’s work by shelling the ravine and vicinity in their usual methodical manner. Not to be outdone, our own artillery did the same. This was the last straw; I was too dead tired to dodge American shells as well as German. So I crawled under a bush and waited for whatever was on the cards. In two minutes I dozed off, with the shells banging all around.

I must have slept for about twenty minutes. Waking with a start, I found dusk setting in. I took off my tattered slicker and wound it around my tin hat, to keep the twigs from playing an anvil chorus on it. The shelling had stopped. My short rest had revived some interest in life, and I slowly retraced our advance of that morning. I didn’t think the enemy had left any outposts behind, but in any case was too tired to care, and went clumping along like any Heine. I arrived at our old outpost line, which we had held long, long ago, it seemed. It was absolutely deserted. I went along the path, past D Co.’s headquarters, and noticed that a shell had landed there and set off those pyrotechnic signals which had been quite fireproof two days before.

Apparently the war had been called off around here. I pottered about for quite a bit, but could find no one. Somehow my principal feeling was an immense relief that for the present I had no responsibility, no one to look out for but myself. Presently, however, it was evident that as I had not even a runner, I had to go back to Bn. Hdq. myself and report on the situation.

Wearily I plodded off, back over Dead Man’s Hill. It was quite dark, about 11 P. M., and I was making very slow time. As I drew near the main line of resistance, I came upon two D Co. men, lying where they had been hit by a shell. One was dead; the other had a leg shot off. He said he had been lying there for about three hours. His comrade had helped him tie up his leg before he died. I left my blouse over him, as it was chilly, and went on to the firing trench, which had wire in front of it by this time. I had some trouble convincing the occupants of my identity. In truth, with no blouse, my ragged slicker draped about my helmet, the shoulder of my shirt all torn and bloody, and my breeches and puttees in tatters, I didn’t look much like an officer, and not at all like a gentleman.

I stumbled down the ramp into Bn. Hdqrs., where I found Maj. Odom, Foulkes, Strawbridge and Lt. Col. Budd, to whom I reported. Capts. Markewick and Laing, of “I” and “L” Cos., were also there. Thinking the position in front was strongly held by the enemy, the idea was to send these companies up at dawn behind a rolling barrage to re-establish the outpost line. I was glad to tell them that this was unnecessary, and they later strolled on up in single file and occupied our old line without a single casualty.

Major Odom in turn told me that Lt. Dunn with most of the 1st and 2nd platoons had already come in, and had been sent to the kitchen for chow. Louis Foulkes gave me some water and a couple of doughnuts, which I was nearly too sleepy to eat.

I had to report to Regimental Hdq. then, and rehash the day’s operations; but all I remember is that Capt. Brennan gave me some grape jam and bread and water, and the regimental surgeon swabbed my shoulder with iodine. I have some hazy recollection of the Colonel himself pulling a blanket over me, though this may not be correct.

Late next morning I woke up to be greeted by Strawbridge with the news that our travel orders had come, and we--he, Capt. Brennan, and myself--were directed to be at Langres--wherever that was--by October 1st.

As soon as possible I rejoined the company, which had been stationed at Brigade Reserve with the remnants of D Co. We had about 50 men left, not counting 20 who were on various special details. Sgt. Wilson and the cooks fed us like lords, and we made up for the past week. Big shells landed around occasionally, but it was a Philadelphia Sunday compared to what we had just left.

The company was reorganized as a platoon, with Lt. Dunn in command and Reid as top sergeant. We slept in pillboxes or gun emplacements, or anywhere else where there was a bit of shelter.

The next day I said goodby to the company for six weeks, as I thought. There were rumors that the Bulgarians were nearly done, and the Austrians weakening; but I don’t think that anyone dreamed that the armistice was only six weeks off. I stopped off one night with Sgt. Stiles to write up the company records, and finally boarded a motor truck for Toul.

From this point the history is taken up by Lt. Gardenier, Sgt. Stiles, Sgt. Peter and Sgt. Tracy White.