The Brighton Boys at Chateau-Thierry

by James R. Driscoll

They Went Right to Work Dislodging the Huns from the Houses.

In every conceivable point of shelter, from every thicket, bit of woodland, hollow or knoll around the village there were enemy machine-gun units, with here and there larger calibre quick-firing fieldpieces, sending a perfect hail of lead and iron across the fields at those ever-advancing boys in khaki.

But it mattered little to the boys in khaki how fast and furious came this death-dealing rain of bullets, for they kept right on into the village, and they went right to work dislodging the Huns from the houses, using rifle, hand-grenades, bayonets and pistols. The enemy sought every means of protection; they fortified themselves behind walls which the American artillery had left standing, or behind piles of débris the shelling had made. They poked their rifles and machine-guns out of windows, and cellar-entrances, and down from roof tops. They made street barriers of parts of ruined buildings, and thus contested every inch of ground until the Americans were upon them and when they could no longer fight, they surrendered. Some ran away while some went down fighting, for they had been told it was better to die than to be taken prisoner by the cruel Americans.

When the village of Bouresches was clean of Huns, their artillery made it hot for the conquerors. So marines and the doughboys found it their turn to seek shelter. They did this so well that after hours of shelling they had hardly lost another man.

Meanwhile, the troops not needed to defend the village from counter-attacks of the enemy, rapidly re-formed and turned to make the first assault on Belleau Wood, a hill crowned with a jungle of trees and thickets. This stronghold of the enemy had for three days proved impregnable. After the artillery had hammered it a while, tearing to pieces half the trees on its southern edge, a reorganized regiment of marines made a final charge, yelling like Indians, and gained the crest. Then they swept through the forest, broke up the enemy machine-gun nests and drove nearly double their number of Huns out of the place. This was the bloodiest hand-to-hand fighting, for they had to use the bayonet almost exclusively. Even at this game the Americans proved themselves superior to the enemy, not only man to man, but when fighting in formation. Necessarily it was a scattering fight, but it illustrated the personal valor and intelligence of the Yanks.

Thus, on June 11, 1918, the German strongholds at and near Château-Thierry sector were captured, and their line pushed back over three miles. Never again were the Huns to advance, but always to retreat until the war ended. They had, as it were, run against a stone wall from the top of which now floated the Stars and Stripes.

Corporal Stapley had been among those to charge into and capture Bouresches. He had, of course, been in the ranks with his platoon, dashing forward, dropping on the ground, hearing the bullets sing above and around him; then going on again, blinded to everything but the mad desire to come up with those machine-gun nests and to destroy the men and guns which were trying so hard to destroy him and his comrades. And reach the positions of the gun nests they did. But as some of Stapley’s squad charged a group of six Huns pivoting a gun around and working frantically with the mechanism, Clem was aware that only three other men were with him. He dimly remembered seeing one or two of them fall, and fail to get up again. But there was no time to think of this now. With bayonets leveled, his comrades followed their fleet-footed corporal and were upon the boches before they could shoot. “Kamerad!” called out one fellow, lifting high his hands, and the others, throwing down their weapons, followed suit. Another marine squad followed without an officer. Clem took command of this also.

“Two of you hold this bunch here! Kill them if they get gay! Come on—the rest of you!”

They ran on. The houses of the village were close at hand and in among these they went. Two of the men had originally qualified as grenade-throwers. Clem told them to blow up anything that looked like a gun nest. The others were to use rifle, bayonet and pistol only. It was necessary to shout these orders above the rattle of guns and yells of the charging marines on every side. The words were hardly out of Clem’s mouth before the long, jacketed barrel of a machine-gun was poked out of a cellar entrance on the street not fifty feet ahead of them and the fire began to streak from its muzzle toward a group of marines coming down a cross street. One of Clem’s new men lighted his grenade, dashed forward, bowled it over-hand with a skill that would have done credit to an expert cricketer. A mass of dust, dirt and mangled objects blew out of the cellar and that gun nest was no more. The little squad rushed on. Opposite a square stone building from a window of which came a burst of flame and a ripping sound. Clem saw some steps to the right which might lead to this nest. He shouted to his men and leaped forward. At the top step he glanced about. Three of his squad lay on the ground. Two were following him. The heavy door was fastened. Clem drew back the butt of his gun to break the lock, but one of the others fired into it, and as they threw their bodies against the door it burst open.