Like thousands in that hellish war, he had made the supreme sacrifice, had unflinchingly laid down his life to save others. He was a true American soldier. I hope they still keep flowers on his grave.
I could see the very mound there on the end as we passed, for already a faint, cold brightness was breaking through the mist. On we marched, up and off the road, through the labyrinth of grave-like trenches, till at last we reached the broad maze of our most advance wire. New paths or openings had just been cut and men of the Battalion Scout Platoon were waiting to guide us through.
It was still impossible to see more than twenty-five or thirty yards through the fog, so with compass in hand I led the column through no-man’s land like a skipper would pilot a ship, among shell holes, through small gulleys, clumps of scrubby brush and patches of dead weeds, and as we neared and entered enemy wire, past ghastly, stinking objects that reminded us most keenly of the attempts our predecessors had made to do what we had to do. I also reflected, when I saw the head drop off of one as a man jarred the wire it hung over, that my own carcass or the carcasses of a king or even a queen, or of some wealthy notable, would look no better if it had been lying or hanging out in the weather for about two months with these horrible objects that had once been fine young American soldiers. (During the time we occupied the sector patrols had brought in and we had buried a number of these bodies.)
There was almost a mile of no-man’s land at the point where we had crossed it, for we traveled on the lowest ground because the mist was denser there. But at last we had come to the acres of wire before the enemy outpost position called Belle Aire Farm, in French “Ferme de Belle Aire.” This was several hundred yards in advance of Bois Frehaut, the main position, which occupied higher and rising ground. Part of the battalion, led by Captain Green of “H” Company, which was to lead on the right, moved around to the east to take their places ready for the attack. The rest cut through the Belle Aire wire, one detachment cutting in on the flank to bayonet machine gunners, for we worked quietly at this stage, and we worked fast, taking advantage of the now rapidly thinning mist. This whole thing had been planned by us to outguess the enemy and in so far as possible to avoid casualties, for dead and wounded men can not take and hold positions such as that.
It was at this point that I saw two of my men knocked over by machine gun fire, the first to fall in this affair, and as we hugged the ground waiting for our flanking party to reward those machine gunners, I could have dictated quite a story, had there been any one to take it down, on the subject of Militarism and War in general. I wondered how many wars there’d be and how long they’d last if the people who profit by them or hope to profit by them had to be up there with us. I was in a nasty mood, as I usually was, when I thought of most any phase of the war except of the glorious men who personally faced the real danger and who did the actual fighting. I doubt whether that story, as I would have dictated it then, would be very popular with people who didn’t honestly and actually suffer in or because of the war, or with those who think they believe in militarism and war.
We were not delayed long. Then with Belle Aire Farm behind us, we rapidly deployed and took up our formation in platoon and half platoon columns facing and about one hundred yards from the wire of the main position. The entire command took cover in shell holes, in depressions, behind mounds or clusters of dead weeds ready to spring forward in force at the proper moment. I had time to make sure that all was in readiness as planned and get back to the center. The mist had lifted and enemy machine gunners near the edge of the wood, especially those with nests in trees, were blazing away recklessly.
Promptly at six fifty-five (all watches had been synchronized) our big guns, miles behind us, almost simultaneously began to bark and boom. Then came the shells, a low moaning roar at first, the sound rising in pitch something like a slowly operated steam siren whistle, then increasing in volume and shrillness till it seemed like a mighty tornado coming right at us. The noise was so great and so sudden that it was almost unbearable. Then they began to explode all along, most of them just in front of us. Words are utterly inadequate to describe this awful cataclysm as it felt and seemed to us.
We had figured that the enemy would drop his barrage first in front of Belle Aire Farm. That’s why we had gotten through that position so hastily and it was fortunate that we advanced as far as we did even at the risk of being too close to our own barrage, for almost immediately the dirt and rocks began to fly behind us—not in front of the Belle Aire wire, but right on the position itself. Some one had been telephoning. We were too close to our own barrage, but I knew it would advance in a few minutes, and the enemy barrage was entirely too close behind us. Talk about being between two fires. A curtain of fire from our own artillery just ahead of us and a wall of the most intense and concentrated fire from batteries guarding Metz falling immediately in our rear, the shells passing each other not far above our heads. A few from each side fell short.
To be killed or rendered unconscious is easy, but to have to live through a situation like that right out in the open is beyond all power to describe. Our chances for survival and success hung in the balance, the suspense was maddening. The enemy barrage would soon be lowered in front of the main wire—right where we were. It might be lowered any second. I decided that if he lowered it we would rush into our own barrage rather than stay where we were, for as many of us as possible must get through that wire.