Now we drew near a large barbed wire enclosure filled with men. It was a P. W. pen, where prisoners were collected on their way to the rear. A couple of detachments of them were going in as we came by.
We turned off here to the left, toward the front. About a kilo down this road we hit a traffic jam—a regular one. This road was badly cut up, and poor road discipline soon did the rest. Some truck or ambulance had tried to pass another, and both had stalled. Others, arriving from both directions, instead of lining up behind on the right of the road, pressed up as far as they could go, until the road was so completely jammed that even we on foot could not get through. Belts of barbed wire that ran up to the road on either side prevented us from going around. So there we were.
It was a most cosmopolitan collection. French 75’s, Ford ambulances, a general’s Cadillac, rubbed shoulders with lumbering lorries, sturdy steel ammunition Quads, and limbers. A French transport wagon driver cracked his long whip and argued volubly with the chauffeur of a tank, who spat and regarded him contemplatively. Field kitchens, huddled in the jam, held the food that was so desperately needed up front.
At last a Colonel of Marines blew in from somewhere, and plunged into the mess. He got it thinned out enough for us to filter through on the outskirts. And then—Glory be—we turned off the road into an open space, with no barbed wire and comparatively few shell holes. Here we found part of the 312th Inf., and the battalion stacked arms and fell out.
We slipped off our packs, and fell to on monkey meat and hard bread with a will. The sun had come out, and we lay around and soon got warm and dry, and felt nearly human again.
All too soon we fell in, and set off again. We threaded our way across the jam—now nearly as bad as ever—and spent the afternoon drifting down a little valley at right angles to the road we had just left. Nobody seemed to know just where we were going, or why. We heard later that a jumbled order somewhere between Division and Brigade Hdqs. had caused us to spend this day in a wild goose chase.
The Colonel and Regt’l Hdq. had not been seen since the morning. We hiked a few hundred yards, waited awhile, then moved on a bit again. We passed, and were in turn passed by artillery, supply trains, infantry. We sweated and chafed under our burdens, and wondered what t’ell, but supposed it was all part of the game.
At last, about 6 P. M., we came to the head of the valley. There we spied the Colonel and his car, on a road up on the top of the hill. We climbed up to the road, pushing a stalled rolling kitchen ahead of us. We were urged to “Step out,” and showed our military discipline and Christian forbearance by not saying what we thought of this request. We got on a good road that led over the hill and up toward the front. Along this we hiked a little way, then turned off to the left, and up a lumber road that led straight up the hill into the woods. It was nearly dark; the road was so steep that I could never understand how six inches of liquid mud stayed on it. The climb up this road soon put our feet into their usual muddy and wet condition. We turned off into the woods, the Bois de Hoquemont, and were told that we would bivouac here for the night.
Our kitchens pulled up along the main road shortly, and the cooks, tired as they were, got to work at once. The rations consisted mostly of dehydrated vegetables. They say they are good if you can soak them for twenty-four hours. A stew and coffee were soon under way.
I toiled back up the hill and found a message to report at once to the regt’l commander. On a hunch, I had Schuyler get a detail out and bring up the chow right away. Sure enough, at the officers’ meeting we were ordered to make combat packs and be ready to move again in twenty minutes. We got our coffee and slum, though; and the half cooked stuff tasted pretty good at that.