CHAMIGNY SUR MARNE
July 24th, 1918
Sur Marne—there is magic in that. I have always wanted to see the Old Regiment add the name of that river, so full of martial associations, to the history-telling silver furls on its colors. We are not in battle yet. Nothing could be more peaceful than the scenes in which we live, if one shuts one’s eyes to uniforms and weapons. The broad, silvery Marne forms a loop around the little village and the commodious modern chateau (owned, by the way, by an American), in which we live. We revel in our new found luxury. Following a motto of this land, “We take our good where we find it.” I got a variation of that as I came into the lordly halls and stood staring around me. Sergeant Major Dan O’Connell gave a signal like an Orchestra Leader to the Adjutant’s Office Force and McDermott, O’Brien, Jimmy Canny, White, Monahan, Farrell, Whitty, with Dedecker and Dietz joining in, sang deliberately for my benefit, “There’s nothing too good for the I-i-i-rish.” A sentiment which meets with my hearty approval.
A diary is a sort of magic carpet; it is here, and then it is there. Three days ago we hiked it from Vadenay to the nearby station of St. Hilaire-au-Temple where we entrained for parts to us unknown. Our 2nd Battalion and the Wisconsins, which formed one of the sections, had the mean end of a one-sided battle while waiting at the station. The German bombing planes came over and started dropping their “Devil’s eggs.” C-r-r-unch! C-r-r-unch! C-r-r-unch! the face of the earth was punctured with deep holes that sent up rocks and smoke like a volcano in eruption; the freight shed was sent in flying flinders, but the train was untouched. Animals were killed, but no men.
“We don’t know where we’re going but we’re on our way” might be taken as the traveling song of soldiers. We dropped down to Chalons, crossed the river, going first in a southeasterly direction to St. Dizier, then southwest to Troyes, and rolling through France the whole night long we came in the morning as near Paris as Noisy-le-Sec, from which, with glasses, we could see the Eiffel Tower. Judging from our experience with the elusive furlough, that is as near to Paris as most of us will ever get.
We were impressed with the new enthusiasm for American soldiers among the French people; every station, every village, every farm window was hung with colors, some attempt at the Stars and Stripes being common. And stout burghers, lovely maidens, saucy gamins, and old roadmenders had a cheer and a wave of the hand for “les braves Americains, si jeunes, si forts, si gentils,” as the troop train passed by.
“Looks as if they knew about the big battle we were in,” said Lawrence Reilly.
“Not a bit of it,” said the grizzled Sergeant Harvey. “I have seen the Paris papers and nobody but ourselves knows that the Americans were in the Champagne fight. These people think we are fresh from the rear, and they are giving us a good reception on account of the American Divisions that hammered the Jerries three or four days after we helped to stand them up. Isn’t that so, Father?”
“I think you’re right, Sergeant. For the time being what you fellows did is lost in the shuffle.”
“Who were these other guys?” asked Mike Molese.
“They say it was the 1st and 2nd Divisions up near Soissons and the 26th and 3rd around Chateau Thierry.”
“How is it these fellows manage to get all the press-agent stuff and never a thing in the paper about the 42nd?” asked Tommy Murphy.
“Well, those other fellows say that it is the Rainbows that get all the advertising.”
“Well, if I ever get home,” said Bobby Harrison, “I’ll tell the world that none of those birds, regulars, marines or Yankees, have anything on the Rainbow.”
“Oh, what’s the difference?” said the philosophical John Mahon, “as long as it is American soldiers that are getting the credit.”
“Do you subscribe to those sentiments, Kenneth?” I asked John’s side partner, Hayes.
“I certainly do, Father.”
“Then I make it unanimous. This meeting will now adjourn with all present rising to sing the ‘Star Spangled Banner.’”