Father Duffy's story

by Francis Patrick Duffy

The survivors were a sorry remnant of the splendid battalion that had so gallantly swept across the Ourcq that morning. But they had carried out a soldier’s task.

Their’s not to reason why,

Their’s but to do and die,

Disputes may arise about the orders that sent them in but they will not affect the place in the martial annals of their race and country which was made on that day of tragic glory by the Shamrock Battalion of the old Irish regiment. Laurels grow from the graves of the dead. Laurels, too, encircle the brows of every man who fought that day on Hill 152.

Still further news of tragedy waited for them. Their gallant Major was dead. Major McKenna had tried to recall his Company when the word came to countermand the attack order. But his wild Irish had rushed to the attack with too much eagerness for that, and the situation was beyond mending in this way. They could not retreat under the fire of the machine guns on the hill which could mow them down as they recrossed the river with nothing gained from their sacrifice. They had to go ahead and put these guns out of action. When he had seen how things were going, the Major started back along the Ourcq to consult with Colonel McCoy. A shell came over knocking the Major down and wounding his Adjutant, Lieutenant Cassidy. When the Lieutenant, with Sergeant Major Joyce and George Strenk, ran to pick him up, they found him dead, though without a wound upon his body. They bore him in sorrowing, as every man in the regiment sorrowed when the news went round, at the loss of a brave and beloved leader whose talents fitted him for a high destiny if life were spared him, but to whom had fallen the highest destiny of all, and one which he had always expected would be his—that of dying for his country.

His Company Commanders had been informed of his death not long after it happened, and Captain Hurley had taken general direction of the fight when Ryan was wounded. Hurley came back to report on the situation to Colonel McCoy, and while talking to him was badly wounded by shell fire. The Colonel had already made up his mind on the matter and Major Donovan, with the 1st Battalion, was crossing the river to effect a relief.

But meanwhile another battle, scarcely less fierce, had been going on on the western slopes of the brook. On Saturday afternoon Major Anderson, with the 2nd Battalion, had received orders to proceed from Courpoil, north through Beuvardes, and maintain close liaison with the 3rd, which was to go to the river and get contact with the enemy. Anderson marched his men up to a place north of the forest of Fere at the southwestern extremity of Villers sur Fere. Scouts were sent out to examine the ground toward the river, while the Major and his four Captains went to the town to interview the French Commander, who told them that it would be impossible to cross the Ourcq without artillery preparation, owing to the strong position held by the enemy. They obtained information about the dispositions and plans of the 3rd battalion and then returned to their commands.

About half past three in the morning Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell came with the information that the attack was to be made at 5:45 and that they were not to remain in support, but to advance to the attack at the left of the 3rd Battalion. Anderson aroused his men and formed them in the field north of the forest with Companies E and F in the front line, E being on the right, and G and H behind them. They advanced in approach formation through the fields until they reached the southern slope of the crest just south of the river, where orders were received for the battalions to halt.

This advance was made under heavy shell fire and at serious cost. Early in the advance Charles B. Wethered and William Hurst were killed by the same shell, which also wounded Haggerty, Dearborn and Strang; and nearer to the river Company H suffered a tremendous loss by the severe wounding of Captain James G. Finn, whose leg was so badly gashed that he had to be carried from the field. The place where the battalion was to cross was to the west of the little brook. To their left was Fere en Tardenois, which was being systematically attacked by the French troops. Our people had time to admire the method in which these seasoned warriors went about their business. They had dug in during the night so that they could place their fire against three sides of the town, but they evidently had no intention of going over the river until the fire of the machine guns had been fairly well blanked. Some of their men were engaged in drawing fire from the German nests, while others were sniping at them from their shelters.

Our men got the advantage of the French thoroughness when, as they came over the crest, they were liberally spattered with bullets from two or three detached houses on the left just outside Fere en Tardenois. Our one pounders were directed at them; but the French gave those hornet’s nests their coup de grace when they pulled up one of their 75’s which they had handy, right into the front line and sent a few shells straight as rifle bullets into the houses. Captain Kelly sent my old friend, John Finnegan, with a patrol to see if any of the enemy were left in the houses. John came back with the report that there were no Germans there but dead ones.