“And a new knife for the nettoyers” (moppers-up), put in Scanlon.
“And a square white patch of cloth sewed on our backs, so our own artillerymen can recognize and not blow us up,” finished John Laurent.
“I’d rather be here, leaning against this tree,” said Chatcoff, “than in little old New York, backed against a telephone pole, trying to push it into the North River.”
“Yes,” agreed Seeger, “this is the life. The only life worth living is when you are face to face with death—midway between this world and the next.”
For one week the Legion had marched each night fifteen kilometers to the front, dug trenches and returned to camp in the early morning. Again that night we went out, and daylight, September 25, found us established in a badly demolished trench from which we emerged at the time set for the attack, 9:15.
The four hours between daylight and the attack were passed under a furious bombardment. Many were killed or wounded while we waited to go over the top.
The French had, unknown to the Germans, brought up their 75 cannon and dug them down in another trench 25 yards behind us. The din was terrific. Smoke screens and gas shells nearly blinded us. Men were uneasy and dodged. The captain caught a fellow flopping. “Here, you young whelp, don’t you know that noise comes from our own guns behind?”
Pera, a Tunis Jew, tore open his first aid bandage and we filled our ears with cotton to deaden the noise.
The attack was carried out by seven long lines of soldiers advancing two yards apart, each line about 100 yards behind the other.
The Colonials and Moroccans had the first line, the Legion the second. Owing to the Germans’ concentrated fire on our trenches and on the outlets, each man did not get out two yards from the next. Frequently the other man was dead or wounded. But the objective was the Ferme Navarin, and at 10:30 it was in our possession.