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.