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.