“I think it is ‘Jack,’ our colt!” I said to Lieutenant Nickerson. “I think so too,” he replied. But we had no time to investigate; we had more serious business, for the uproar of battle had already begun.
With other regiments we moved forward and were halted behind a small clump of trees. But not for long, for the Boches wanted the ground. Gas shells came whistling over us and we quickly adjusted our gas masks. We were so grotesque that again a laugh was heard along the line, and jokes were exchanged.
“Even the officers,” said Sutherland, “have to hide their glory in these things.”
“I hate ’em,” said Sam Jenkins; “they interfere with a good aim!”
Then came the thunderous roar of guns from our rear, and the replies of the enemy, who had not, as yet, got our range. Followed the chatter of machine-guns and the mingling rifle fire of contending men on our front. Some of our men upon trees, observing, reported long lines of German infantry in sight. Then broken French troops appeared, slowly and doggedly falling back.
The German lines sweeping onward, we open on the mass with our light guns, machine-guns and rifles. Our gun fire, increasing in intensity and deadly effect, did not halt them. On they came, their green-gray uniforms blending with the smoke and mists. All our weapons sharply spoke, but still the foggy columns advanced their heavy guns from the rear scarring and pitting the ground on our front. Explosions threatened our annihilation, while lurid flames sprang up on all sides. We clung to the ground as though fearing that we might go up in some of the explosions or be consumed by the flames.
Then the welcome order came to “Charge!” and we went forward in open formation at quick time. I noticed Chaplain John in line. You could always reckon on him to care for the wounded, though he carried no arms. The Boche doesn’t like cold steel and he breaks as we rush upon him with yells and gleaming bayonets. We had one thought and one purpose: we must beat and drive the enemy. We were but a small part of the advancing line that was in the attack. We were near enough to see shells from our guns explode on their front, and men, and fragments of men, hurled in the air, leaving gaps in their ranks. Our gun fire was immense. For an instant the gray mass wavered and then fell back.
A hoarse shout went up from American throats, “We’ve licked them!” But the French, more experienced in battle, were not so confident. The enemy have only halted to reform their shattered line. We also halted and then the order came to fall back to conform to the rest of the line.
We reformed our line, disordered by the advance; stretcher bearers gathered the wounded. Others limped to the rear with reversed rifle for crutches, or were helped by comrades.
Soon the enemy opened fire again with violence. Muddy, despite his fear, came barking and nipping at my puttees. “What’s the matter?” I heard some one inquire. “Where is the Sky pilot?” He had been left behind helping a wounded or dying man. Muddy pulled at my coat. A look from Jot, and I followed the dog through the screen of sulphur-white smoke that hung over the field. I advanced cautiously and the dog, as though understanding the necessity for silence, did not bark. I followed, slowly peering into every shell hole and depression as I cautiously went forward, with bullets humming on every side and an occasional exploding shell. Then I saw a prostrate form beside a dead man stir.