When the order, “In place, rest,” came, and the brave fellows had sat down to eat, though they were hungry, some of them got to napping, in spite of it.
It was before daylight, when orders came to leave even their light packs behind—which shows what a hurry they were in—for a forced march.
Over strange roads, in a strange country, to a destination we knew not of—possibly “to that bourne from which no traveler returns,” we marched on all that day. We met regiments of poilus who hugged us and held our hands, joyfully telling us that there was to be a big advance on the Boches lines, and that we were to be “in it” with them.
We got a little more sleep and chow, then were loaded into trucks, and buzzed off—heaven knew where—we didn’t!
We met still other Frenchies, who told us there was to be a big drive on a thirty-five mile front. We laughed incredulously; but began to believe, when we caught sight of a lot of tanks rumbling and waddling along in a stubborn manner, as though they meant business. Our men roared out, “Hooray! there’s going to be another dance and we are invited!”
The roads were filled with all kinds of soldiers—doughboys and more doughboys, poilus in all sorts of uniforms, and then some more; horses prancing and snorting, mules heehawing and kicking, officers shouting sulphurous orders, guns and caissons, trucks and baggage wagons, all floundering along in the rain and mud, like dark rivers of humanity. On they came over crooked country roads that twisted around hills and plunged down into valleys, cut up and stirred up in muddy batter by heavy teams that had preceded us: a medley and jam of horses, mules, teams, guns and men! All this, though in seeming confusion, had a real thread of order and purpose controlling the whole. This confused picture will possibly convey some idea of an army on the march hurrying to get into action.
Some of the units were divorced from their wheeled kitchens, and were savagely hungry,—we were—but wanted to get into the mix-up just the same with both feet. We had a little hardtack and bully beef but that made us mighty thirsty. We succeeded in getting a little water from the cart, and I told our men to keep some for future use. Some of my men had lost their gas masks. That wouldn’t do, and the top had to steal some from the Frenchies—which was unprincipled—but it had to be done.
At last we were in it! As a starter we came upon some Huns hiding in dug-outs with a bunch of machine-guns—and then it was literally—what Sherman called war. But our men were there doing their best, and their best was pretty good!
I saw our Major standing in a ditch handing out ammunition with his own hands, amid a confusing uproar of exploding shells, whispering bullets and sputtering bombs. We thought we knew what gun fire was, but we didn’t know the real thing until then.
Everybody was doing the best he could. There stood Top Sergeant Sutherland shouting with a voice that seemed to come far down from his boots, “Right dress! you lousy sons of guns! Better than that! or I will drill thunder out of you when we get back to camp, if you can’t form a better line!”