In Company F it was all praise for Captain Mike and praise and regrets for Lieutenant Young. I did not need to have them tell me anything about their liaison group, as I saw them at work—from the Corporal in charge, John H. Cooke, who, though wounded, stuck at his job, to Harry P. Ross, John J. Carey, Leon Duane, John Gill, William Grimson, Harry McLean. Sergeant Major Michael J. Bowler did good work looking after the wounded. Tom Kenney carried in Lieutenant Anderson and I saw James Bevan do good service in the same line; also Marquardt, Goble, Gray and Harry Rubin. First Sergeant Joseph Blake was a cool leader, as also Charles Denon, Leo McLaughlin, and Tim McCrohan. Of those who were wounded and stuck, the name of Sergeant Eugene Cunningham was mentioned, as also John Butler, Edward Callan, John Catterson, Albert Curtis and James Brennan. Pat Frawley (one of the best soldiers the regiment ever had), was wounded and stuck, was knocked senseless and still stuck. Others who distinguished themselves in hand to hand fighting were Patrick McGinley, Peter Sarosy, Thomas McManus, Malcolm Joy, always lively in a fight; and on the Roll of Honor the popular vote placed Sergeant Phil Gargan, whose kitchen was ruined (“wounded at Lunéville, killed in Champagne,” said Phil); James P. McGuinn, Oscar Youngberg, William Gracely, Hugh Haggerty, Lewis Edwards, Michael Gettings, Joseph McCarthy, John J. Tyson, James Moran, Edward Moore, James Kelly, Cornelius Behan, Ned Boone, James Branigan, Tom Cahill, James Coogan, Joseph Coxe, Morris Fine, Dick Leahy, Nat Rouse, and, to end once more with a good Irish name, “Pat” Levine.
Company E added to my extended list the names of James A. Donohue, Walter Dowling, Ray Dineen, and most of all, Fred Gluck, who rendered heroic service as litter bearer. At Headquarters the Colonel himself spoke enthusiastically about the good work of young Joe Hennessy, who was on the road at all times on his motorcycle, oblivious of danger even after being wounded. I found that Company M was carrying Corporal Dan Flynn as A. W. O. L. on its records. Dan had gone up to the Second Battalion on paper work and finding that a fight was on he got himself a rifle and stayed there till it was over.
We are all well satisfied with the spirit of every man in the regiment during the last fight. I had but one recommendation to make to Colonel McCoy. The Company litter bearers are left to the selection of the Captains. Now the Captains are chiefly interested in front line work and they refuse to spare a good rifleman for any other task. But the litter bearers have a task which is most trying on morale and physique, and it will not be easier if it comes to open warfare, where they will have to stand up when the fighting men lie in shell holes. The litter bearers acquitted themselves well in this fight, but I feel strongly that nothing is too good for the wounded. I want the Colonel to insist that one man in every four be a picked man who will go and keep the others going on their work of human salvage until every man drops in his tracks. I would select in every four men one of our solid Irish, of the kind that with death all around, hears nothing but the grace of God purring in his heart.
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.