For an instant of horror the company gazed at the spot. I sent Sgt. Hill to the first aid pillbox for stretchers, put the others to work again, and hastened up to see the situation. The shell had landed just between the 1st and 2nd platoons. Lt. Schuyler was already having the wounded carried into the edge of the woods near by, and had the rest of the 1st platoon take cover there. Poor O’Hara was lying dead right by the shell hole. It had burst nearly underneath him, and a fragment of shell had torn its way through his temple and right out through his steel helmet. His brains were oozing out through the hole.
Seeing that nothing could be done for him, I went over to the woods. Lester Farry, our mechanic, as fine a man as ever walked, was sitting up between Lt. Schuyler and Sgt. Reid, with a big hole in the side of his head. He never uttered a word of complaint; just sat still while they bandaged it; and the stretchers came up and took him off. He died in hospital six days later.
Curcio had a great hole in the upper part of his leg. Donohue had an ugly bit of shell in his back, and Bogucki, Fielding, and Hauber were wounded, but less seriously.
This was a nasty introduction to shell fire, because the whole company saw the thing happen. Their behaviour, however, was excellent. Doggedly the men continued at the work, and soon we had enough cover to at least be in while the shells burst near by.
Our gallant friend, the Engineer Lieutenant, had promptly vanished, and I never saw him again. I withdrew the first and second platoons behind the hill, and we kept on the job until 6 P. M., as ordered. At about 5:30, A Co. came along over the hill, and the Heinies sped them on their way with a few gas shells, which made them scamper.
As we turned in our shovels at the dump, every man mustered up a grin as he passed by; and though it had been one hell of a party, the old morale was still on deck.
On the top of the knoll where our position was, the Germans had had an anti-aircraft gun, gaudily camouflaged. Some cooks from an artillery outfit had found a lot of ammunition belonging to it, and, dragging it into Vieville, had amused themselves during the day by shooting Fritz’s own H. E. in his general direction. This apparently annoyed Fritz; and just as I got back to our bivvies at the tail of B Co., two ash cans—whoppers—arrived at the gun’s former position, right in the midst of A Co. Our comrades promptly departed to the woods until the next morning.
The cooks sent up a good chow—steaks and coffee—and we got to sleep in our holes as best we could.
The next day—Thursday, September 19th—was rainy. We dug our shelters a little deeper, and wished this war thing were over. I found a German translation of one of De Maupassant’s novels, which I read through, but for the life of me I can’t remember a bit of the story.
In the afternoon the chaplain, Lt. Cressman, came around, and O’Hara’s platoon was allowed to attend his burial service in the little cemetery in the edge of the Bois St. Claude, east of Vieville.