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.