Soon I heard the band playing as it never played before and they came into view marching up the main street of the town. There at the head, limping and dirty, was my big senior captain, Sanders. Farther back I could recognize Green, captain of “H,” stocky and ragged, marching abreast of his company guide. Others I noticed, and the absence of others, and many thoughts flashed through my mind as I watched them marching toward me.
Sanders saw me and knew what to do. I never gave many fancy orders, it wasn’t necessary in that outfit. When the middle of the column was opposite he bawled in a hoarse voice—but they, too, knew what to do—“Squads left—March! Battalion—Halt!” Those heels clicked. Their rifles, like one piece, in three clear-cut movements, snapped down to the “order.” Again he yelled, or tried to yell, “Present, arms!” Again two distinct and snappy movements. Sanders faced about standing at salute and there before me at “present arms”—not much larger than one company should be, stood all that was left of my wonderful Second Battalion!—My heroes of Bois Frehaut!
Note: Many were wholly incapacitated for many days, whose names were not turned in in final reports of “casualties.”
I brought them to the “order” and stood spell bound. It was by far the most touching, the most thrilling, the most awe-inspiring ceremony I ever experienced or witnessed. There they stood—covered with mud, stained and spattered with blood, their clothes, what was left of them, torn and ripped to shreds. They looked emaciated—haggard, but about those erect, motionless figures, those big steady eyes, about their whole proud, manly bearing was something of that true nobility of unselfishness and sacrifice that is beyond description.
These men had suffered the tortures of the damned. They had faced all the engines of terror and destruction that fiendish man could invent. They had endured the shriek, the smash, the roar and pandemonium of hell. They had seen their comrades blown to bits or torn and mangled, and choked by gas. They had listened, powerless to help, through long, ghastly hours, to the pitiful, heart-breaking moans of the wounded and dying.
Yes, they had been tried, they had been tested, they had been weighed in the balance, they had been through a fiery crucible—and they were true gold. For many hard, long, weary weeks they had suffered and endured, and all for what they believed to be the preservation of our country, the advancement of Democracy and the betterment of mankind. I stood there looking, thinking—torn and choked by emotion—thrilled with admiration, and a feeling rapidly growing that I would make my soldiers a speech—an oration. But what could I say? How could I say it? What could anyone in my place say? After several attempts I moved closer and whispered as loudly as I could, “Officers and men, your Major is proud of his Battalion!”
APPENDIX
History will concern itself as nearly as possible with facts. Relative to the World War the world believes and will believe what is stated by those who were in supreme authority and by those whose business it is dispassionately—mercilessly to ascertain and state the truth. Statements or accounts to the contrary, or that do not coincide, are merely ridiculous and can not stand.