I stopped only long enough to see a dressing applied and a stretcher brought, and then hastened down the path to D Cos. headquarters, where a phone had been installed. I found Fleischmann shooting off all the fireworks that would go off—about one in ten—and his first sergeant grinding the bell handle of the field phone like mad. To make things pleasanter, our artillery dropped a couple of shells neatly among our outguards. We sent back runners to B. H. Q., and the shells stopped.
We never found out who was responsible for that one-pounder. Our own was far in the rear, and the outfits on either side—the 90th Division on the right, the 312th Inf. on the left—disclaimed any knowledge of it. So headquarters solved the problem, as usual, by telling us we were green at this game and didn’t know what we were talking about.
It seemed so pitifully unnecessary about Harris. He was such a handsome, bright, intelligent and cheery little chap, a favorite with all the company; and we carried him off with half his face torn away, moaning and unconscious. I never dreamed he could live. But somehow they pulled him through and I have just had a card from him today, from Walter Reed Hospital, where he is yet.
The nearest first aid post was at Bn. Hdq., and we had to carry all our wounded back those two long kilometers through the woods, with only the rough dressings that we could apply on the spot. For our rations we had to go back another two kilos, to Rgt’l Hdq., making four kilos each way, nearly all the way through woods and under shell fire. The continual wetness, exposure and loss of sleep made us easy prey to dysentery, and this weakened us a great deal. Under these conditions, to have to carry a stretcher or a can of stew several kilos in the dark was—well, it was just hell. I think the ration parties had the worst job, though their loads were not so heavy as the stretcher bearers’ were. The latter were held up by sympathy for the poor devil on the stretcher. There isn’t much inspiration in a can of slum or a bag of bread.
Joe Levy had charge of the ration parties, and a thankless job it was. The Major arranged to have the chow brought as far as the line of resistance in a limber; but when shells were banging about—which was pretty generally the case—either the limber didn’t get up that far, or the chow was dumped down and abandoned. Worst of all, we only had enough thermos cans to carry one ration for the company; so the ration detail had to go back, get the chow, bring it up and distribute it, collect the cans, lug them back to the kitchens, and then return to the outpost line. It did seem absolutely inexcusable that this had to be done, all for lack of a few cans. It cost us several unnecessary losses in killed and wounded, and after all had done their turn at this detail, weakened from diarrhoea and exposure as we were, it made us very low physically.
The night of the 23rd passed comparatively quietly for the outpost line, though the line of resistance was well bucketed, and the ration party had a hard time. Shells landing near the kitchen transformed several thermos cans into sieves, and made the shortage worse than ever. Besides, Regt’l Hdq. decided that the kitchens were attracting enemy shell fire in their direction, and ordered them moved another kilo back, to the brigade reserve.
Our orders were to do no patrolling in front of the line of outguards, as this was to be done by the battalion scouts under Lt. Drake. I believe this was a mistake, and if I had it to do over again I should send out patrols every night. It makes all the difference in one’s confidence and peace of mind, and no information can equal that gained at first hand.
At about 3 P. M. on the 24th, as I was dozing in our bivvy, Lt. Col. Budd’s face peeped in. He and a Major from Division Hdq. were inspecting the outpost line. I was glad to see someone higher up than myself dodging shells. It might have been wrong in theory for him to be up there, but I surely appreciated it. I did the honors for our sector, asked for more thermos cans, and got a couple of cigars from the Lt. Colonel. He brought the news that the 90th Division on our right was pulling off a battalion raid that night, covered by a barrage, and to lie close.
About three times a day I would go down to chew the rag and swap dope with Capt. Fleischmann. It was funny that I nearly always met him on the way, coming over to do the same with me. The idea always struck us at the same moment. Somehow it seemed to help share the responsibility, and cheered us up a lot.
The barrage started about 11 P. M. The Boche replied with a counter barrage, and he had a very fair range on our outpost line. In five minutes the shells were ripping the tops off the trees all around, and the air grew acrid from the bursting lyddite. He was just about 50 meters too high, and it was his shorts that did the damage to us.