It was while going over this course that Gustave Fleischmann stepped in a hole and broke his leg. It was a bad break, for I saw his foot and lower leg go out sideways at a right angle, in spite of his leggings. He was game enough, though, and smoked a cigarette while waiting for an ambulance and surgeon. We heard from him several times from English hospitals, but he was never able to rejoin the company.
We also lost another very valuable man in Corporal Edward Johnson. This man could have claimed exemption for either dependents or a weak heart. He refused to do either, and we managed to get him passed by the medicos for foreign service. The daily hike up that hill, however, and the strenuous life generally, were too much for him, though he kept at it until he was worn down to a very dangerous point. I made him go before the surgeon, who at once ordered him transferred to a depot brigade. I know that Johnson was not liked by some of you men on account of his conscientiousness. I believe, however, that when you look back upon it you will appreciate his honest, unselfish and unceasing labor for his squad, platoon, and company.
That countryside was beautiful at this time. It rained often, but in showers; not the continuous drizzle that came later. Maybe it was because we took more notice of such things than usual, not knowing if we would see another summer, but the green fields, fresh in the early morning and cool and sweet at night, and the hedges, and the pretty little bits of woodland along the creeks and ravines, all seemed lovely as never before.
In the next town, just over the hill, was an Australian rest camp. We got along with the Aussies much better than with Tommies, and every night numerous visitors went down to cultivate the entente cordial with the assistance of the town estaminets.
Our first payday in France came about this time, and what with back pay coming in, and the high rate of exchange, and being paid in francs, some of the boys waxed rather too exuberant over the flowing bowl. What with Janicki and Effingham trying to clean up Brunembert, starting in with a couple of Tommies and ending with an abrupt thud when they got around to “D” Co. headquarters; and sundry members of the Irish brigade making a Donnybrook Fair out of the highways and byways, I had a busy night.
Another night we shall remember is that of July 4th. Sgts. Ertwine, Perry and Anness were going up for commissions at the Officer Candidates’ School at Langres, and the officers gave them a farewell supper that evening. The company was, I understand, also celebrating the national holiday conscientiously. When the festivities were at their height, we heard the squealing of bagpipes, and the curious bump-bump-bumpetty-bum of the Scottish drummer, that nobody on earth but a Jock can keep step with. The band of the H. L. I. had been serenading the Col. and were going back to their billets.
All turned out to see them pass, and as they swung up the road, Lt. Foulkes, in an inspired moment, detailed Supply Sgt. Levy to bring ’em back for “B” Co.
In five minutes the pipes returned, with Joe marching at their head twirling the drum major’s baton. They turned into the courtyard, and were taken into our midst with a mighty burst of cheers, skirling of pipes, and thunder of the drums. That was a scene I shall never forget—a wonderful setting for a musical comedy. The dark courtyard, fitfully illumined by the glare of a few lanterns and torches—the crowd of olive drab figures around the Scotties in their kilts, with one in the center doing a Highland fling. The visitors were already fortified, but additional liquid refreshments were hastily procured for them, and a testimonial taken up in the way of a collection. In the meantime the drummer, well on the shady side of sober, rendered several ballads. We reciprocated with Irish songs by Peter and others, and a breakdown by Kitson. It was well on towards midnight when they left; and next morning the Major wanted to know “what the hell was B Company up to last night?”
Another pleasant time was had by all one day while I was at the front. Someone at staff hdq. felt an idle curiosity to see how fast the division could turn out, if it had to. Accordingly the order went forth—march at 2:00 P. M. Thinking the Boches had broken through and we were “for it,” there was a mad scurry and scramble; the kitchen pulled to pieces; rations hastily issued; and the company, under Lt. Dunn, reported to the Brunembert road about half an hour after the time set, and about two hours sooner than had seemed possible that morning. After fussing about a bit, the companies were marched back to their hastily abandoned billets.
All the time we were in the English area, rations were short. The British ration must have been much smaller than ours, or else there was a hitch somewhere. Our men were used to three square meals a day. The British only had porridge, tea and bread and jam for breakfast; a regular meal—stew or meat and vegetables—in the middle of the day, and tea and bread and cheese at night. This didn’t go far to relieve the aching void that every American soldier cherishes under his belt. We spent thousands of francs from the company fund buying potatoes and whatever else we could to eke out the ration. But even so, there was never any difficulty in following the advice of those doctors who say to stop eating while you still feel hungry.