Lieutenant Baxter, whom I have mentioned before, and a private called Upton patrolled across an almost impossible shell-beaten area to establish connection with the battalion on our left. They both went out cheerfully, and both, by some streak of luck, got back unhurt. Baxter, on returning, reported to ask if there was any other duty of a like nature that he could undertake right away.
One night, when we were shifting a company from support to a position on our left flank, a heavy bombardment came on. A number of the men were killed and wounded while moving up. One sergeant, by the name of Nestowicz, born in Germany, was badly hit and left for dead. I was standing in the bushes on the side of the valley waiting for reports when I saw this man moving unsteadily toward me. I asked him what the matter was, and he replied that he had been hit, his company had gone on and left him, and he had come up to ask me where he could find them. I said, "Hadn't you better go to the first aid, sergeant?" He said, "No sir, I am not hit that bad and I want to go back to my company. It looks as if they'd need me."
Sergeant Dobbs, of B Company, badly wounded by a hand grenade, wrote me a letter, saying that he was well enough to come back, but the doctors would not let him come, and could not I do something about it. I took a chance and wrote, telling the medical authorities I would give him light work if they let him come back to the outfit. Dobbs turned up, was wounded again, and the last I heard of him was a letter written in late October, saying that he had never had the opportunity to thank me for getting him back. Mind you, getting him back merely meant, in his case, giving him the chance to get shot up again before he was thoroughly cured of his first wound. He finished by saying that he was in bad trouble now, as part of his nose had gone the last time he was wounded and they would not even keep him in France, but were sending him back to the United States. His last line was the hope that he would get well soon so he could get back to the outfit.
There was a young fellow called Fenessey from Rochester, New York, in B Company. He was being educated for the Catholic priesthood. As soon as war was declared he enlisted and came over with the regiment. He did well and was a good man to have around the command because of his earnestness and humor. He was eventually made corporal of an automatic-rifle squad. His rifle was placed in the tip of a small patch of wood guarding a little valley that ran back toward the center of our position. These valleys were important, as down them the Germans generally delivered thrusts. The Huns, one morning, strafed heavily our position. Fenessey's automatic rifle was destroyed and he was hard hit, his right arm torn off and his right side mangled. Fenessey knew he was dying. The strafing stopped, the first-aid men worked in, and Fenessey was carried to the rear. They heard him mumble something, listened carefully, and found he wished to be taken to his company commander. They carried him back to Lieutenant Holmes. When he saw Lieutenant Holmes, he said: "Sir, my automatic rifle has been destroyed. I think the company commander should send one up immediately to take its place." Fenessey died ten minutes later.
Quick promotion, unfortunately not in rank, simply in responsibility, occurred all the time. Of the four infantry company commanders which had started, only one was surviving when we left this sector. In each case a lieutenant took command of the company and did it in the finest shape possible. Lieutenants Cathers and Jackson were killed here at the head of their platoons, and Lieutenants Smith and Gustafson died from the effect of wounds. Lieutenant Freml, who was killed in a raid, had numerous narrow escapes.
I remember one time we were going together over the top on a reconnoitering party preparatory to redisposition of the troops. Freml had as his personal orderly a very bright little Jew from San Francisco—Drabkin by name, who had kept a junk-shop. The little fellow seemed to run true to former training, for he always went around festooned with pistols, "blinkers," notebooks, and everything conceivable. A shell hit beside them, Freml being between this man and the shell. Freml was untouched, but the man was torn to pieces.
One young fellow seemed, for a while, to bear a sort of charmed life. Unfortunately this did not last, and he was killed in the battle of Soissons. He was very proud of the things that had happened to him. One night, while I was inspecting the front trenches, he said to me, "Major, I have been buried by shells twice to-day. The last time I only had one arm sticking out so they could find me. All the other men in the dugout have been killed and I ain't even been scratched."
It was here that Lieutenant Ridgely earned for himself the nickname of the idiot strategist, which he went by for a long while in the battalion. The Huns were putting up a pretty lively demonstration on our left. A message reached me that they were attacking. I made my preparations to counter-attack, if necessary, and sent runners to the various units concerned to advise them of this plan. The runner who was bringing the message to Ridgely's platoon lost it in the shuffle. Runners are made to repeat messages verbally to take care of contingencies just like this. However, this does not always work, and when he got to Ridgely, the only message he could remember was, "The Major orders you to counter-attack, and help the troops on our left."
It seemed a pretty forlorn business to counter-attack with one platoon, but neither Ridgely nor the platoon considered this was anything which really concerned them. They hastily formed up and moved to the left. They got over and found that the Germans had been successfully repulsed and that they were among our own troops. The Captain in charge of the company told Ridgely to go back. Ridgely thought for a moment and said, "No, my Major's orders were to counter-attack to assist the troops on the left," and it was only with difficulty that they persuaded him that he must not stage a little private adventure then and there against the German lines.
In this sector we experienced our most severe gas attacks. It is a thoroughly unpleasant thing to hear gas shells coming over in quantity. Often an attack begins much as follows: It draws toward morning; the digging parties file back toward their positions. Suddenly shelling begins to increase in volume. Private Bill Smith notes a sort of a warbling sound overhead and remarks to Private Bill Jones, "Gee, Bill, they're gassing us." Next, reports come in from various sections that they are gassing Fontaine Woods, Cantigny Woods, and the valley between. You stand out on some point of vantage and listen to the shells singing over and bursting. As day dawns you see a thick gray mist spreading itself through the valley. The men have slipped on their gas masks. The question now is, what's up? Just meanness on the part of the Huns, or is it part of some ulterior design to straighten the salient and nip off the two points of woods we are holding? How heavy is the gassing to be? How quickly will the wind carry it away? A thousand and one other questions.