Father Duffy's story

by Francis Patrick Duffy

BOIS DE LA LYRE

July 7th, 1918

Bois de la Lyre—Harp Woods since the 69th got here. We have arrived in two stages. We were to celebrate the 4th of July in proper fashion with games and feasting. But there was not much with which to hold high revelry, and the games were practically spoiled by an order to move. Anyway, our minds are on other things. I came on Terry O’Connor, sitting with his shirt open on account of the heat, busily cleaning his rifle. “Man dear,” I said, “Where is your patriotism? Every man home has a flag in his button-hole. I’m ashamed of you.” “I’ve got me roifle” (patting it) “an’ me Scafflers” (pointing to the brown string showing on his bared neck); “what more does a pathriot need?”

We moved by night, as usual, but not far, to the École Normale de Tir. The Normal School sounded big and fine. One expected a square two-story red brick building with white sandstone trimmings—but we found a collection of half underground iron covered dugouts, and all overground rough little board shacks. We would be happy there now for we find that this poetically named spot is some degrees less attractive. It looks as if somebody had put it up in a hurry because the cattle were out in bad weather. The Officers are in the sheds, the men out in what they call the Bois—which are probably thick enough for concealment from an inquisitive aeroplane. But that is all we need while this blessed weather holds. Sunny France had ceased to be the joke it was.

And then, something seems to be doing at last. We who are in the know have been hearing tales of plans afoot—an attack on the Chateau Thierry salient at Chatillon-sur-Marne seemed to be the plan when we first reached these parts. The indications are now that the Germans are due for another inning and we are to meet them here. Anderson has gone up with the 2nd Battalion to hold the trenches with the French. Donovan and McKenna are in support. There is a big dugout in a knoll ahead of us—they call it a hill, just as in Atlantic City any place four feet above tide water is called a height—and we are to move there when action begins. I am sitting on top of it—have been here all this sunny afternoon reading a book the Colonel gave me, Gabriel Hanotaux on France under Henri Quatre—and I certainly do not like the idea of spending my young life in a dugout P. C. during action. I am going to tell Colonel McCoy that my spiritual duties demand that I visit Anderson’s Battalion. He says that he wants his Officers to enjoy this war—the only war most of them can hope to have. And I hate dugouts anyway.

To get from Harp Woods to Chapel Woods you go north for about four miles through Jonchery to St. Hilaire le Grand—a bit of a village which to borrow from Voltaire’s remark about the Holy Roman Empire does not look particularly saintly nor hilarious nor grand. The Ohios are on the right of it, and our Company E just to the west with patches of blue Frenchmen dotted all around. Follow the Ancient Roman Way for a kilometer or two and you get to a patch of woods with tops of mounds showing through them as if large sized moles had been working there. It is marked on the map as Subsector Taupinière in the Auberive sector. But we carry our names with us, and these bits of the soil of France are to be called while we inhabit them P. C. Anderson, P. C. Kelly, P. C. Prout and P. C. Finny; P.C., meaning “Post of Command.”

I have spent the week with Anderson. He has his P. C. in an elephant hut—a little hole about five feet underground with a semi-circular roof of corrugated iron piled over with sand bags and earth,—enough to turn the splinters of a shell. I passed a couple of days with Captain Charles Baker of Company E, who is over to the right, along the Suippes. Charles is all energy and business, as usual. And Lieutenant Andy Ellett came in one night quite peevish because the French had countermanded the orders for a patrol. Andy likes the scent of danger. At P. C. Baker I saw Jim Murray, whom I once started out for the priesthood. I spent a pleasant day wandering about on my lawful occasions among the men in the different positions, one of which I found very popular, as just there the Suippes had actually enough water for a man to take a decent bath in. At the proper time I did not fail to discover the Company Kitchen, located on the river bank in a charming spot. While doing justice to a good meal I discussed Mt. Vernon politics with Carmody and Vahey.

The battalion is under French command. Colonel Arnoux of the 116th Infantry has us in immediate charge with General Gouraud in high command. Arnoux is an elderly patient kindly man with a lot of seasoned young veterans for officers and for Chaplain a big jolly Breton, whom the men adore. The regiment is not much higher in strength than our one battalion. Like all the regiments over here it has been worn down by constant fighting and the difficulty of finding replacements. During the week they got something to show for the good work they have been doing the past three years—the much desired Fourragère, a bunch of knotted cords worn hanging from the left shoulder. Our fellows call them “pull-throughs,” after the knotted cords they pull through their rifles when cleaning them. It was a very interesting ceremony. Our officers were invited to it and those of our enlisted men who wore the French Croix de Guerre. General Gouraud, a remarkable military figure with an added touch of distinction from his empty hanging sleeve and stiff leg—decorated the regimental colors while the officers invested the men with the coveted mark of distinction. The General reviewed his American Allies, each of the officers being introduced by Major Anderson. It was a formal affair until he came to our bunch of husky soldiers who wore no silver or gold insignia on their shoulders but carried on their breasts the red and green ribbon of the Croix de Guerre. Then you can see why every man in his army swears by him. No cannon fodder here, but interesting human beings. I liked him for it, and felt very proud of the men we had to show him—Corporals Hagan and Finnegan of Company F, Sergeants Coffey, Murray and Shalley of Company G, and Sergeants Jerome O’Neill and Gunther and Corporal Furey of Company H.[2] I was saying to myself, “General, you’re an old soldier but you never saw better men.”

It was a good thing for all of us to have met the General—a man that any soldier would be proud to fight under, but we were mighty careful not to tell him that a phrase from a famous order of his was a by-word amongst the American Officers under him. He had issued an address couched along the lines of the Napoleonic tradition in vigorous staccato phrases, preparing the hearts of his soldiers for resistance unto death. The translator had turned his last hopeful phrase, which promised them it would be a great day when the assault was broken, into English as “It will be a beautiful day.” Many of the high-ups, both French and American, seem to think that the idea of a general assault along these lines in a direction away from Paris is a mare’s nest of Gouraud’s, but the debate always winds up with the unanimous chant, “Oh, it will be a beautiful day.” At present we are not in the front line trenches, but in what are called the intermediate ones. The General’s idea is to hold the front line with a few French troops who will make themselves as safe as possible against the vigorous shelling expected and withdraw behind our lines when the German Infantry make their attack. Then our fellows are to have the task of keeping goal. It’s going to bring the battle right down to our doors, as the battalion and company headquarters are only one or two city blocks from where the hand to hand fighting will have to take place.

I spend most of my time amongst the men and am very much interested in finding out how their minds react at the prospects of their first big battle. The other German drives against the British and the French have been so overwhelmingly successful that I was afraid the soldiers might think that whenever the Germans get started they were just naturally bound to walk over everything. I am delighted to find that these bits of recent history have not affected our fellows in the slightest. Jim Fitzpatrick of E Company expressed the feeling of everybody when he said: “Why would I be afraid ov thim? They’re just Dootchmen, a’int they? and I never in me loife seen any four Dootchmin that I couldn’t lick.” I have often read statements by reporters about men being anxious to get into a battle. I never believed it. But I find now at first hand that here at least are a lot of men who are anxious to see Heinie start something. I tell them that I am desirous of getting into our first mix-up right here. This Division has started out hunting trouble and if we don’t find it here they will keep us sloshing all over France until we run into it somewhere.

They will have need of all their courage, for if this general attack is made it’s going to be a tremendous one. The opinion of the French General staff seems to be that this line will not be able to hold. At any rate they have been making preparations with that contingency in view. The whole plain behind us is organized for defense with our other two battalions in rough trenches and the Engineers in reserve. I hear they are bringing up also a Polish Legion to take part in the support. They have Seventy-fives in position for direct fire on German tanks, and machine guns stuck everywhere with beautiful fields of fire across the sloping plain. Everything is so charmingly arranged, that I have a feeling that some of the people behind us have a sneaking hope that the Germans will sweep across the first lines so that they can be met by the pleasant little reception which is being prepared for them further back. However, I think that our friends back there are going to be disappointed unless the Germans can spare a Division or two to smother this battalion. Their orders are “Fight it out where you are,” which is Anderson’s translation of Gouraud’s phrase, “No man shall look back; no man shall retreat a step.”

Gouraud means it; and Anderson means it. I take great pleasure in observing him these days. A young fellow yet, just 29, and fresh from civil life—but a born soldier, with the carefulness of a soldier in making plans and in looking after his men, and the hardness of a soldier in ruling and using men, and a streak of sentiment carefully concealed which is a part of the soldier’s make-up. He has some Scotch in him by his name—a good thing for the Irish if it doesn’t make them Scotch-Irish—but the military tradition in his bringing-up is on the Duffy side. It is interesting to me to see the elements of school training showing in a man’s character and views. In his views of life, discipline and self-sacrifice, Anderson is a Christian Brothers’ boy. I sometimes feel that old Brother Michael had more to do with the making of Major Anderson as I know him, than his own parents had. One result of his education had been what most people nowadays would consider a detriment—his devotion to duty is so sincere that it has produced the effect of despising publicity; this he carries to an extreme. Well, he may or may not win fame in this war, but one thing I know, that the soldiers of his Company or of his Battalion who alternately cursed and admired him during the period of training are delighted to have him over them in a fight and will unanimously rank him as one of the greatest soldiers this regiment has ever produced.

Last night he and I made the rounds of all the trenches. General Gouraud had picked it as a probable night for the big attack, so we started around to get the men in right spirits for it. The Major’s method was characteristic. As the bright moonlight revealed the men in their little groups of two or threes, the Major would ask, “What are your orders here?” The answer always came, quick as a flash, though in varying words, “To fight it out where we are, sir.” “To let nothing make me leave my post, sir,” and one, in a rich Munster brogue, “To stay here until we’re all dead, sir.” “Then, will you do it?” “Yes, sir.” Soldiers are not allowed to make speeches, but there’s the most wonderful eloquence in all the world in the way a good man carries his shoulders and looks at you out of his eyes. We knew they would stick. I had my own few words to say to each of them, whether they were of the old faith or the new or no faith at all. We were two satisfied men coming back for we knew that the old regiment would give a good account of itself if the assault were made. The night passed uneventfully and this morning I was happy to have another Sunday for my own work. A French priest, a soldier in uniform (a brancardier), said Mass for Company F in the picturesque little soldier’s chapel that gives the woods its name, and gave General Absolution and Communion, while I did the same in successive Masses for Company G and Company H, and the Wisconsin fellows.

I have served notice on Anderson that unless he produced some kind of a war in the next twenty-four hours I shall have to quit him. I had not been back to the Regimental P. C. for nearly a week, so on Friday I told Joe Hennessey that I wanted him to come up with a side car and bring me down. The side car arrived yesterday morning but with young Wadsworth running it. He had gotten impatient hanging around back there with prospects of a fight up front and he secured the privilege of coming up for me so as to get nearer for a while at least to the front line. It was a great pleasure to be at mess with Colonels McCoy and Mitchell once more—a mutual one evidently, for they both said that I had been too long away and would have to come back. I begged off until after Sunday.

Starting back on foot I ran into Major Donovan, who as usual walked me off my feet. I had to visit every foot of his position on both sides of the Jonchery road and I was glad when Major Grayson Murphy came along in a staff car and offered me a lift any place I wanted to go. Donovan and I are both fond of Major Murphy, so I told him I would go anywhere in the world with him so long as he delivered me from D.

On our way back to P. C. Anderson the Corps Officer who was with him gave his opinion that judging by past performances the Germans should be able to advance at least one kilometer in the massed attack that was threatened. I didn’t say anything but it gave me a shivery feeling, especially when I measured out a kilometer on one of Anderson’s maps and wondered just what would have happened to poor me by the time the gray mass of Germans would reach the point that the gentleman from the Staff had conceded them in his off-hand way. I needed the trip around the trenches for my own reassurance and I stretched myself out last night for a sleep with the comfortable feeling that the decision in this matter was in the hands of an aggregation of Irish stalwarts who care little for past performances or Staff theories.

We are going to celebrate tonight. Lieutenant Rerat is to bring over a few of the French Officers and the admirable John Pleune is off scouring the countryside and the French canteens for something to celebrate with.

July 14th, 1918 11:00 p. m.

We are here in Kelly’s iron shack. Lieutenant Tom Young, a thorough soldier and a good friend of mine, and old boy Finnerty and Harry McLean are waiting for the bombardment. Everything that can be done for the men has been done. There remains the simplest task in the world, though often the hardest—waiting.

Our little Hands Across the Seas dinner was a jolly affair. Anderson had Kelly and myself for guests with his own staff; Keveny, Fechheimer and McDermott (Buck Philbin—God bless him for a fine youth—was just ordered back to the States and we miss him); and Lieutenant Rerat brought along two good fellows like himself—a French-Irish Frenchman named DeCourcy (his ancestors left France, on their mission to teach the English manners and become good Irishmen themselves, somewhere around 1066, and one of their descendants came back to France with the Wild Geese after the Broken Treaty of Limerick) and a plump merry doctor whose name escapes me. The viands were excellent—considering. And Dan Mellett had done his noble best. Anyway, we made it a feast of song, that is, the others did. John Fechheimer (whom Heaven has sent us for our delight) has a complete repertoire, ancient (dating back more than 10 years) and modern—College Songs, Irish Songs, Scotch Songs, Negro Songs, music hall ditties, sentimental ballads and modern patriotic stuff—Upidee and Mother Machree; Annie Laurie and Old Black Joe; After the Ball and The Yanks are Coming. De Courcy received tremendous applause for

The prettiest girl I ever saw

Was suckin-a cidah sroo a sraw.

When Rerat had explained the verbal niceties of the diction, all joined with enthusiasm in the classic verse

Oh the Infantry, the Infantry with the dirt behind their ears,
The Infantry, the Infantry that laps up all the beers,
The Cavalry, the Artillery and the blooming Engineers,
They couldn’t lick the Infantry in a hundred thousand years.

We compelled the Major out of loyalty to his native heath to give us Down in the Heart of the Gas House District.

Just then the Adjutant of Colonel Arnoux stepped in to give us the news that the attack was certain and midnight the hour. So we toasted France and America and departed for a final inspection of positions. Everybody is as well fixed as he can be made and I have picked this as the handiest central place to await developments.

July 15th, 1918

It was 12:04 midnight by my watch when it began. No crescendo business about it. Just one sudden crash like an avalanche; but an avalanche that was to keep crashing for five hours. The whole sky seemed to be torn apart with sound—the roaring B-o-o-o-m-p of the discharge and the gradual menacing W-h-e-e-E-E-Z of traveling projectiles and the nerve racking W-h-a-n-g-g of bursts. Not that we could tell them apart. They were all mingled in one deafening combination of screech and roar, and they all seemed to be bursting just outside. Some one of us shouted, “They’re off”; and then nobody said a word. I stood it about 20 minutes and then curiosity got the better of me and I went out. I put my back against the door of the hut and looked up cautiously to see how high the protecting sand bags stood over my head, and then I took a good look around. I saw first the sky to the south and found that our own guns were causing a comfortable share of the infernal racket. The whole southern sky was punctuated with quick bursts of light, at times looking as if the central fires had burst through in a ten-mile fissure. Then when my ear became adjusted to the new conditions I discovered that most of the W-h-e-e-z-z were traveling over and beyond, some to greet the invaders, some to fall on our own rear lines and back as far as Chalons. I crawled around the corner of the shack and looked towards the enemy. Little comfort there. I have been far enough north to see the Aurora Borealis dancing white and red from horizon to zenith; but never so bright, so lively, so awe-inspiring, as the lights from that German Artillery.

I stepped inside and made my report to Lieutenant Young, who was busy writing. He called for a liaison man. Harry McLean—just a boy—stepped out of the gloom into the candle light. He looked pale and uneasy—no one of us was comfortable—but he saluted, took the message, made a rapid Sign of the Cross, and slipped out into the roaring night. A liaison man has always a mean job, and generally a thankless one. He has neither the comparative protection of a dugout or fox-hole under shelling, nor the glory of actual fight. Our lads—they are usually smart youngsters—were out in all this devilment the whole night and I am glad to say with few casualties. Every last man of them deserves a Croix de Guerre.

I wanted to see Anderson. He was only 40 yards away by a short cut over ground. I took the short cut—we were not allowed to use it by day—and had the uncomfortable feeling that even in the dark I was under enemy observation. It was the meanest 40 yards I had ever done since as a lad of 12 I hurried up the lane to my father’s door pursued by an ever-nearing ghost that had my shoulder in its clutches as I grasped the latch. But I went in now as then, whistling. Anderson and Rerat were there. They had a word of comfort to tell; that General Gouraud had planned to meet artillery with artillery and that our fire was bursting on the enemy forces massed to attack us in the morning. Just then a nearer crash resounded. The major spun in his chair and fell; Rerat clasped his knee and cried, “Oh, Father, the Major is killed.” The Major picked himself up sheepishly as if he had committed an indiscretion; Rerat rubbed a little blood off his knee apologetically as if he had appeared with dirt upon his face at drill; and I expressed jealousy of him that he had gotten a right to an easy wound stripe.

Just then a gas-masked figure opened the door and announced that there were two wounded men outside. That came under my business and it was a relief to find something to do. I followed the messenger—it was Kenneth Morford—one of two good lads the Morford family gave to the service. Around the corner I came on Jim Kane badly hurt in the legs. Kenneth and I lifted him and carried him with difficulty through the narrow winding trench to the First Aid Station where we left him with the capable Johnny Walker and went back for the second man. It was Schmedlein—his folks were parishioners of mine—and he had it bad. I was puffing by now and blaming myself that I had not followed Major Donovan’s rules for keeping in condition. As I bent to the task I heard Phil McArdle’s voice, “Aisy now, Father. Just give me a holt of him. Slither him up on my back. This is no work for the likes of you.” I obeyed the voice of the master and slithered him up on Phil’s back with nothing to do but help Jim Bevan ease the wounded limb on our way to the dressing station.

Corporal Jelley of H—a fine soldier—and Private Hunt of E—he had a cablegram in his pocket announcing the birth of his first born—had been killed by the shell that struck in front of our dugout, and my friend Vin Coryell wounded. We found later that some men of Company H who had been sent to the French for an engineering detail, had been killed—Corporal Dunnigan, whom I married at Camp Mills; Patrick Lynn, Edward P. Lynch, Albert Bowler, Russell W. Mitchel, Patrick Morrissey, James Summers, Charles W. O’Day and Walter M. Reilley. Company G had also suffered losses during the bombardment: Paul Marchman, Theodore Sweet, Harold Cokeley, Patrick Grimes, Patrick Farley, killed; with Corporal Harvey J. Murphy and Charles J. Reilley fatally wounded.

Around P. C. Anderson there was plenty of shelling but no further casualties until morning broke. At 4:30 the firing died down after a last furious burst over our immediate positions. The French soldiers in front began to trickle back down the boyaus to the defensive positions. Our men crawled out of their burrows, eager to catch the first sight of the enemy. A few wise old French soldiers stood by to restrain them from firing too soon, for in the half lights it is hard for an unaccustomed eye to discern the difference between the Poilu’s Faded-coat-of-blue and the field gray of the Germans. Nearly an hour passed before one of them suddenly pointed, shouting, “Boche, Boche!” The enemy were appearing around the corners of the approach trenches. Rifle and machine gun fire crackled all along the front. The Germans, finding that this was the real line of resistance, went at their job of breaking it in their usual thorough fashion. Their light machine guns sprayed the top of every trench. Minenwerfer shells and rifle grenades dropped everywhere, many of them being directed with devilish accuracy on our machine gun positions. Many of ours were wounded. Sergeant Tom O’Rourke of F Company was the first man killed and then one of the Wisconsins.

That day the Badgers showed the fighting qualities of their totem. Several of their guns were put out of action at the outset of the fight, and practically all of them one by one before the battle was over. In each case Captain Graef, Lieutenant Arens and the other officers, together with the surviving gunners, set themselves calmly to work repairing the machines. Corporal Elmer J. Reider fought his gun alone when the rest of the crew was put out of action, and when his gun met the same fate he went back through a heavy barrage and brought up a fresh one. Privates William Brockman and Walter Melchior also distinguished themselves amongst the brave, the former at the cost of his life. There were many others like Melchior, who, when their gun was made useless, snatched rifles and grenades of the fallen Infantrymen and jumped into the fight. As specialists, they were too valuable to be used up this way and an order had to be issued to restrain them. Sergeant Ned Boone, who knows a good soldier when he sees one, said to me: “Father, after this I will stand at attention and salute whenever I hear the word Wisconsin.”

Our own Stokes Mortar men fought with equal energy and enthusiasm under Lieutenant Frank McNamara and Sergeants Jaeger and Fitzsimmons with Corporals John Moore, Gerald Harvey and Herbert Clark. They did not take time to set the gun up on its base plates. Fitzsimmons and Fred Young supported the barrel in their hands, while the others shoved in the vicious projectiles. The gun soon became hot and before the stress of action was over these heroic non-coms were very badly burned.

During this interchange of fusillades the Germans were seen climbing out of the approach trenches and taking their positions for an assault on the whole line.

They swept down on our trenches in masses seeking to overcome opposition by numbers and make a break somewhere in the thinly held line. Grenades were their principal weapons-rifle grenades from those in the rear, while the front line threw over a continuous shower of stick grenades, or “potato-mashers.” An exultant cry went up from our men as they saw the foe within reach of them. Many jumped on top of the trench in their eagerness to get a shot at them or to hurl an answering grenade. The assault broke at the edge of the trench where it was met by cold steel. It was man to man then and the German found who was the better man. The assaulting mass wavered, broke and fled. No one knew how it might be elsewhere, but here at least the German Great Offensive had lost its habit of victory. They were unconvinced themselves, and hastened to try again, this time in thinner lines. Again they were repulsed, though some of them, using filtering tactics, got up into places where their presence was dangerous. One of their machine gun crews had established themselves well forward with their light gun, where it was troublesome to the defenders, and an enemy group was forming to assault under its protection. Mechanic Timothy Keane came along just then in his peaceful occupation as ammunition carrier, which he was performing with a natural grouch. Seeing the opportunity, he constituted himself the reserve of the half dozen men who held the position. He found a gun and grenades and leaped joyously into the fray; and when the attacking party was broken up he called, “Now for the gun, min,” and swarmed over the parapet. The others followed. The surviving Germans were put out of action and the gun carried off in triumph.

Again and again the Germans attacked, five times in all, but each time to be met with dauntless resistance. By 2:00 in the afternoon the forces of the attacking Division was spent and they had to desist until fresh Infantry could be brought up.

All this while and through nearly three days of the battle the enemy used another power which proved in the outcome to be more annoying than directly dangerous. We had often read of superiority in the air when our side had it. We were now to learn the reverse of the fine picture. The German planes for two days had complete mastery. They circled over our heads in the trenches, front and rear. They chased automobiles and wagons down the road. You could not go along a trench without some evil bird spitting machine gun bullets at you. I doubt if they ever hit anybody. It must be hard to shoot from an aeroplane. After the first day they ceased to be terrifying—in war one quickly learns the theory of chances—but the experience was always irritating, as if some malicious small boy was insulting one. And they must certainly have taken note of everything we did. Well, it was no comfort to them.

When the Infantry assault was over the shelling began again. They put minenwerfer in the abandoned French trenches and threw over terrific projectiles into ours. They dropped a half dozen shells on Captain Prout’s P. C. and utterly ruined that humble abode. Prout, with recollections of his native Tipperary, said, “Yes, Father, I got evicted, but I never paid a penny of rent to any landlord.”

In spite of these events the issue of the day’s battle was not in doubt after 10:00 o’clock that morning. There had been anxious moments before, especially when many machine guns were put out of action and the call for further fire from our artillery met with a feeble response. I dropped in on Anderson. True to his motto, “Fight it out where you are,” he was putting the last touches to his preparations for having his clerks, runners and cooks make the last defense if necessary.

“Do you want some grenades, Padre?” was his question.

“No, Allie,” I said, “every man to his trade. I stick to mine.”

“Well here, then: this is my battalion flag,” stroking the silk of the colors. “If things break bad in the battle you will see that it don’t fall into the hands of the enemy. Burn it up if it is the last thing you find time to do before you go.”

“All right, I shall look out for your flag. That is a commission that suits my trade.”

And I received what was to be his last bequest—if things went bad. I said no more, but in my ears was humming “Down in the heart of the Gas House District in Old New York.”

They breed good men there. Over in Anderson’s old Company E, now in the able hands of Captain Baker, there were a lot of Anawanda braves who met the attack with the same fiery zest as their comrades on the left, as I shall tell in its place. I was not long with Anderson when in sweeps Kelly as brisk and jaunty as if he were on his way to the Fair at Kilrush in his native County Clare on a fine Saturday morning.

“How are things going, Mike?” said the Major.

“No trouble at all,” said the Captain. “We’ve got them beat.”

But there was still trouble ahead. All afternoon the trench mortar shells and whiz-bangs kept bursting in the whole sector, making the work of litter bearers and liaison men very difficult. Also the task of burying the dead, which Mr. Jewett of the Y’s athletic department volunteered to superintend for me with the sturdy assistance of Corporal Michael Conroy of Company H.

Company H was in support—the most thankless and difficult sort of a job for any unit, whether Company, Regiment or Division. It is called upon for detachments which must go up under shell fire, and go in where the battle is hottest, and in unfamiliar surroundings. The unit generally gets little public credit for its share in the fight though military men know that it is a compliment to be held in support. It means that the Chief Commander has confidence that the smaller fractions into which it may have to be split are under well trained and competent leaders. However, nobody likes the job. Certainly big courageous Captain Jim Finn did not like it. He wanted to lead his own company in the fight and the H men would rather fight under their great hearted Captain than under any other leader in the world. That pleasure was denied them, but the Company surely did honor to the training and the spirit their Captain put into them. I saw a platoon going up the boyau with Lieutenant Wheeler, all of them flushed with the joy of action. “Over the top with Fighting Joe,” called John O’Connor, from the words of Tom Donohue’s song. Their services were needed often on the 15th to support the gallant defenses of Companies F and G.

On the morning of the 16th there was another furious assault. A whole German Battalion attacked one of the defense positions and for a time the situation looked serious. Lieutenant Young of F was killed while organizing the resistance. Lieutenants Wheeler and Anderson of H and Sears of F took all kinds of chances in meeting the situation and were carried off wounded. Some parties of Germans managed to get up into the trench. Joe Daly, while carrying ammunition, almost ran into a German. The latter was the more excited of the two, and before he could recover his wits, Daly had snatched a rifle which was leaning against the trench, whirled it over his head like a shillelah, and down on the German’s skull. Then he ran into the middle of the fight.

Sergeant Bernard J. Finnerty and Corporal Thomas Fitzgerald of H saw a group of Germans who had ensconced themselves in an angle of the approach trench whence they were doing terrible damage with their potato mashers. Michael Tracy, a crack shot, who had done great work that day with his rifle, made a target of himself trying to find a better spot to shoot from, and got wounded. But they had to be dislodged. So Finnerty and Fitzgerald rushed down the trench, hurled over hand grenades into the party, and destroyed it—but at the cost of their own heroic selves. John F. O’Connor, Mechanic of Company O, jumped on the parapet to get a position to bomb out a machine gun crew which were sheltered in a hollow. He drove them into the open where our own machine guns settled them.

The places of the wounded Lieutenants of H Company were taken by Sergeants Eugene Sweeney and Jerome and William O’Neill (two of “The three O’Neills of Company H”; the third, Daniel, being First Sergeant, was with Captain Finn). In Company F Sergeants Timothy McCrohan and Thomas Erb with Corporals James Brennan and John Finnegan led the fighting under Captain Kelly and Lieutenants Marsh and Smith. Bernard Finnegan and Matt Wynne refused to quit when badly wounded. William Cassidy, Company Clerk, who could not content himself with that work while the fight was on, and Corporal Michael Leonard, an elderly man who had volunteered when men with a better right to do so were satisfied to wave the flag—these too won great renown. They and the others routed the enemy out of the trenches, following them over the top and up the boyaus. Cassidy and Leonard were killed, and my old time friend, Sergeant Joe O’Rourke of H, and many another good man. Sergeant William O’Neill was wounded, but kept on fighting, till death claimed him in the heat of the fray. His brother, Jerome, still battled valiantly and he was always worth a hundred men.[3]

Eugene Sweeney was twice wounded and refused to retire till the enemy was chased utterly from the field. When his wounds were dressed he insisted on returning to the lines.

Corporal John Finnegan had been wounded in the leg the day before. He tied a bandage around the wound and stayed where he was. He was with Lieutenant Young when that leader was killed and ran to avenge him. A shell burst near him and he was hurled in the air, falling senseless and deaf. I saw him in the First Aid Station, a little way back, where he had been carried. The lads there had ripped up his breeches to re-bandage his earlier wound. He was just coming to. They told me he was shell shocked. “Shell shocked, nothing,” I said. “A shell could kill John Finnegan, but it could not break his nerves.” Just then he got sight of me. “There’s nawthin’ the matther with me, Father, exceptin’ that I’m deef. They got the Lootenant and I haven’t squared it with thim yet. I’m goin’ back.” I told him he must stay where he was at least till I returned from the Battalion Dressing Station, which was 500 yards down the old Roman Road.

Going out I saw Marquardt, Hess and Kleinberg carrying a litter. I offered to help and found it was Dallas Springer, a dear friend of mine since Border days, now badly wounded. We got him with difficulty down the shelled road to the Battalion Dressing Station where I found the Surgeons, Doctors Martin, Cooper and Landrigan working away oblivious of the shells falling around. Landrigan had been out most of the night of the big bombardment arranging for the evacuation of the wounded. I put Dallas down beside Michael Leonard, a Wisconsin lad named Pierre, and Harold Frear, a slim, plucky lad whom we had rejected at the Armory for underweight when he applied for enlistment just a year ago, but who had pestered us all till we let him by. I was told that Lester Snyder of our Sanitary Detachment had been brought in nearly dead, a martyr to his duty, having gone out to bandage the wounded under heavy fire. It was a consolation to me to recall the devout faces of all five of them as I gave them Communion a day or two before.

Between looking after these and others who kept coming in it was a good while before I got back to the First Aid Station in the trenches and John Finnegan was gone. They had kept him for some time by telling him he was to wait for me. But after a rush of business they found John sitting up with a shoe lace in his hand. “Give me a knife,” he said, “I want to make holes to sew up my pants.” Johnny Walker had mine but he wouldn’t lend it. “Lie down and be still.” “All right,” said Finnegan, “I have the tools God gave me.” He bent his head over the ripped up breeches and with his teeth tore a few holes at intervals in the hanging flaps. He carefully laced them up with the shoe-string, humming the while “The Low Back Car.” Then he got up. “Where’s me gun?” “You are to wait for Father Duffy. He wants to see you.” “Father Duffy done all for me I need, and he’d be the last man to keep a well man out of a fight. I’m feeling fine and I want me gun. I’m going back.” He spied a stray rifle and seized it. “Keep out of me way, now, I don’t want to fight with the Irish excipt for fun. This is business.” So wounded, bruised, half deaf, John Finnegan returned to battle. Immortal poems have been written of lesser men.

The attacks on the position of Company G were not so bitter and persistent as Company F had to sustain. The G men felt rather hurt about it, but their genial Captain smilingly tells them that it was because the enemy know they could never get a ball through where G Company soldiers kept the goal. On the 15th the enemy certainly got a taste of their quality. A strong attack pushed in at a thinly held spot and were making off with a machine gun. Lieutenant Ogle mustered his platoon, sped over the top and down upon the enemy with grenades and cold steel. A short sharp fight ensued. The gun was carried back with shouts of laughter and in a few moments was barking with vicious triumph. Sergeant Martin Murphy, Corporals John Farrell, Michael Hogan and Thomas Ferguson—four soldiers of the jolly, rollicking Irish type, were Ogle’s mainstays in this dashing fight. Lieutenant Boag was wounded, but his platoon was ably handled by Sergeant John McNamara.

When Prout’s dugout was smashed to pieces by shell fire, Sergeant Martin Shalley, who is the very type and pattern of the Irish soldier, took charge of the rescue work and dug out the buried men in time to save their lives. Another shell destroyed the kitchen of Cook William Leaver. Thus relieved from his peaceful occupation he got himself a gun and belt and ran out into the fight garbed in his blue overalls. Michael Foody, tiring of being made the cockshot of aeroplanes which were flying low over the trenches, determined to try reprisals, and leaning back against the trench, began to discharge his automatic rifle in the direction of one that was particularly annoying to him. It was a long chance, but before he had emptied his feeder he had the joy of seeing the plane wabbling out of control and finally making a bad landing back of the German lines.

Corporal John G. Moore lived up to the best traditions of his gallant Company. He had been wounded but refused to go back. Later his post was suddenly occupied by half a dozen Germans. They called upon him to surrender, but Moore does not know that word in German or in any other language. He says he took it to mean a command to fire, so he started to put hand grenades over the plate and the two Germans that were left made quick tracks for the exit gate. Moore’s delivery is hard to handle. Alfred Taylor also proved his mettle by sticking to his post when wounded and insisting furthermore on joining a raiding party the same day.

Raiding parties were G Company’s stock in trade. Lieutenants Ogle and Stout revel in them. They were out at night looking for the trouble that did not come their way often enough by day. One of these patrols fell upon what they called a bargain sale and “purchased” new German boots and underwear for the whole Company. John Ryan got left behind in one of these raids and had to lie for two days in a shell hole with Germans all around him. He finally got back with valuable information concerning movements of the enemy.

Further to the east and separated from the other companies by a battalion of the 10th Chasseurs was Company E under Captain Charles D. Baker. During the bombardment only one man, Michael Higgins, was killed. The attacks of the enemy on the next two days were of the filtering kind, and were easily repulsed, George McKeon being the only man slain.

By the 18th they began to grow weary of these trivial actions and Captain Baker ordered two platoons to go a raiding. The first platoon, under Lieutenant Andrew L. Ellett and Acting-Sergeants Malloy and McCreedy, went up the boyau on the left. They had not gone a quarter of a mile when they saw Germans in a trench. Douglas McKenzie, in liaison with the French, reported them as gathering for an attack. The Lieutenant climbed out of the trench to get a better view, and Matt Cronin got out behind him with his automatic rifle to start things going. Some of the enemy were in plain view and Cronin’s weapon began pumping merrily. The enemy responded and he received a wound. The fight was on. It was a grenade battle. Our men rose to it with the same zest they had shown when they fought their boyish neighborhood fights, street against street, in Tompkins Park or Stuyvesant Square. But this was to the death. Both Sergeant Malloy and Archie Skeats took that death in their hands when they caught up German grenades out of the ditch and hurled them back at the enemy. Lieutenant Ellett’s men were far from their base of supplies. Three times they fell back along the boyau as their ammunition ran out; and three times with fresh grenades they advanced to meet the foe. The Lieutenant was wounded, but a hole or two in him never mattered to Andy Ellett. He withdrew his men only when he felt he had done all that was necessary. Then he handed over his charge to Sergeant Frank Johnston, a warrior every inch, who had joined up with Anderson’s old company for the war because he knew Anderson of yore. He had fought, with him many a time in the Epiphany Parish School.

GENERAL LENIHAN, LIEUTENANT GROSE, COLONEL MITCHELL, FATHER DUFFY, MR. GEORGE BOOTHBY OF THE “Y,” AND JUDGE EGEMAN, OF THE K. OF C.

The other platoon was commanded by Lieutenant Tarr with William Maloney and Michael Lynch as Sergeants. Dick O’Connor, who always went to battle with song, was the minstrel of the party, his war song being “Where do we go from here, boys?” John Dowling, Cowie, Joyce, Gavan and McAleer went ahead to scout the ground. They passed through some underbrush. Suddenly they flushed two Germans. Dowling fired and shouted, “Whirroo me buckos, here’s our mate.” His cry was answered by Maloney, a mild-mannered Celt, who knows everything about fighting, except how to talk of it afterwards. Lieutenant Tarr gave the order and led his whole platoon over the top across the level ground and up to the trench where the Germans held the line. It was grenades again and hand to hand fighting on top of it. A party of the Germans fled to the left. They heard the battle of Ellett’s platoon from there and they turned with upthrown hands and the cry “Kamerad.” Dowling helped the first one out of the trench by the ear. “Aisy now, lad, and come along with me. The Captain is sitting forninst the blotter to take your pedigree.” Back went most of the platoon with the prisoners, their mission accomplished. Eleven prisoners had been taken and fifty Germans left dead upon the field. But the never satisfied Maloney elected himself to cover the retreat with Hall, Breen and Hummell; and with such a leader they kept battling as if they were making a Grand Offensive until they were ordered to withdraw.

I have been to the Third Platoon of Company E and everybody talked about that patrol at once. Everybody except Maloney. But everybody else was talking about Maloney. I looked around to see what Maloney would have to tell. And I found no Maloney. Maloney had fled, sick of hearing about Maloney.

This was practically our last shot in the battle. The German attack had evidently come to a complete standstill. They even lost their command of the air on the afternoon of the 17th, when a fleet of British aeroplanes had come along and driven them to cover. On our part we were preparing to become the aggressors. The 3rd Battalion was being brought forward to relieve the 2nd, and to take command of both came our good old Lieutenant Colonel, jaunty and humorous as always in a fight and without a worry except as to whether he and I had enough smokes to last. All care vanished when my orderly, Little Mac, sneaked up from where I had left him in the rear, bringing two cartons of cigarettes.

Today we received definite word of what had happened meanwhile in the support Battalions. During the bombardment, young Wadsworth was killed at Headquarters, and I lost other good friends in Company B—Sergeant Harry Kiernan, as good a man as he looked, and that is a great compliment; Arthur Viens, one of my own parish lads, and Joseph Newman, and Archie Cahill, mortally wounded. Louis Cignoni of Company C and Sam Forman of the Machine Gun Company were also killed. Sergeant Charles Lanzner of Company A was killed while doing brave work as a volunteer carrying a message to Company B under the fearful cannonading. The Polish Battalion also had met with a savage reception that night.

The French gave news that the enemy was held in every part of the long front, with the exception of a portion of the line around Chateau Thierry and running up the northeast side of the salient. The old Rainbow had not a single dent in it. I got our fellows stirred up by telling them that they had gone and spoiled one of the loveliest plans that had ever been prepared by a General Staff. “What do you mean, spoil their plans? All we spoiled were Germans!” “That’s just the trouble. The men who planned this battle did not really expect you to stick, and they were all ready to give the Germans a terrible beating after they had walked through you and gotten out into the open space. The trouble was that you fellows did not know enough to run away, and the Generals finally had to say, ‘We shall have to scrap our beautiful plans and fight this battle out where those fool soldiers insist on having it fought.’”

Around midnight we were told that we would be relieved by morning. Why? No one knew. Where were we going? No one knew. The French were to take our place. They were slow in coming. We wanted to be away before sunrise or the enemy would have a fine chance to shell our men as they made their way over the plains. I waited the night there in Kelly’s shack, impatient for the relief to come ere dawn. Finally the Poilus, their blue uniform almost invisible by dark, began to appear. I started off with Mr. Jewett down the road to St. Hilaire. We picked up Bill Neacy with a Headquarters detachment, and found a back road down to Jonchery. I watched for the dawn and German planes, filled with anxiety for our withdrawing columns. But dawn came and no shelling, and shortly afterwards I fell into the kindly hands of Major Donovan, and soon good old John Kayes and Arthur Connelly had a beefsteak on the fire for us. The 2nd Battalion came drifting in in small parties, and reported everybody safe. Then I saw Pat Kinney and knew that the Colonel was somewhere about. He had come out to look after his men. I certainly was glad to see him, and I got the reception of a long lost brother. He bundled me into his car, and in a short time had me wrapped in his blankets and taking a long deferred sleep in his cot at Bois de la Lyre.