July 14th was Bastile Day. We were turned out for a ceremony to celebrate it. The ceremony consisted of marching to Brunembert in the rain, squads left, right dress, present arms, order arms, squads left, and hike back in the rain. I can’t say my bosom dilated with enthusiasm, nor did the spectators—a dozen children, two estaminet keepers and the usual “orangee” girls—emit any rousing cheers.
I see by the Regimental History that the Duke of Connaught and General Pershing “honored us with a visit” at this time, but said visits were practically painless for “B” Company, as we didn’t even see the dust from their automobiles.
By this time the regimental transport was complete—or as nearly so as it ever was; all furnished by the British. Each battalion was now functioning as a separate unit, and Lt. Gibbs had his hands full with the supply and transport. He was accordingly made bn. transport and supply officer, and the Major selected Lt. Foulkes as battalion adjutant. So we lost the best officer in “B” Company, and I believe the best line subaltern in the regiment. I know he hated to leave the company, and there wasn’t a man but missed him from that time on. He always had a soft spot in his heart for us, as Bn. Adjt. and later as Regimental Adjt. Foulkes was one man I was never disappointed in. McMahon, his striker, went with him. Mac was a good scout too.
By July 18th we had skirmished over every inch of the big hill; hiked over all the roads within a six mile radius; bayoneted about 500 “Boche” gunnysacks apiece, and made ’steen triangles at musketry drill. We got another march order, and after the usual bustle of cleaning up we pulled out with full equipment on July 19th at 9:00 A. M.
It was only a four mile hike this time, to Lottingham, the nearest railway depot. There we were parked in a little yard off the road, and saw the 309th and 310th Inf. go by to entrain. We waited about an hour, and I broke up a very promising crap game, to my secret regret. I afterward chucked the bones out of the car window, much to Dunn’s disgust.
At 11:30 we were packed into a train, which rolled off in the usual nonchalant manner, at an average speed of six miles per hour. We passed through some pretty enough country during the afternoon, and speculated wildly on our destination, as usual missing it completely.
At 8:30 P. M. we pulled up at Ligny alongside an American Red Cross train, with a couple of real American nurses in it. How good they looked to us! The car windows were nearly all shattered, and the cars scarred with bullets and shrapnel. This was a bit of the real thing.
The battalion detrained, formed on the road, and we hiked off through the long summer twilight, guided by Vafiadis, our advance party detail. We were being introduced to the Arras-St. Pol road, with which we were to become well acquainted shortly. We went on, over the railroad tracks at Roellecourt, stopped for a ten-minute rest at dusk and watched the cows come home down the hill—another homesick sight for the country lads—and hiked on and on. At last, well after dark, we turned off up another road; past a bit of woods, then off to the right past a large farmhouse, and Vafiadis pointed out a little plot about as big as a Harlem flat and said we were to billet there. I remarked “likell” and pushed ahead into a nice grassy field where we pitched pup tents for the night. I knew there would be an awful yowl from the owners in the morning, but let it slide.
Next morning we found that this was St. Michel, and that St. Pol, quite a sizeable town, was only a quarter of a mile away. Pup tents were pitched up the hill from the field, in the woods, along a rough lumber road. The kitchen was installed under some trees near the farmhouse, which was deserted. We found a lot of kitchen utensils—the place had been an estaminet—and put some of ’em to use. The day was spent in resting and getting cleaned up and settled. In the evening some went into St. Pol.
That night we found out why the place was deserted. St. Pol was a railroad center, and quite convenient for the Boche bombers. No bombs landed in camp that night, but they were hitting all around, with a roar and a jar that gave a fellow a queer sensation in the stomach. Being bombed is such a helpless, hopeless sort of process.