Chapter XIII: Introduction: Bravery (7)

Slowly but surely he made progress. Half a mile, then a mile was passed. Holmes took another rest. Then on again, until he came to a church flying the Red Cross. The Germans were shelling this, so he picked up his chum once more and proceeded to another village, where at length he was able to deposit his charge in the careful keeping of the British Red Cross.

In all, Holmes carried his chum three miles, and every inch of the way was attended by danger from the enemy’s fire. It was certainly one of the most unselfish of the many courageous deeds which it is the purpose of this book to record.

In order to rejoin his battalion Holmes had now to make another dangerous journey across a fire-swept zone. His road lay past a hill, at the bottom of which was a British 18-pounder quick-firing gun. The horses were quietly grazing; the gunners and drivers lay around dead. Nearby was a trumpeter, a lad of seventeen, who was wounded. This lad shouted that the Germans were coming. Holmes looked round and saw that the enemy were surrounding the gun. Now, the true soldier has ever had a fondness for guns, and will die rather than let one fall into the enemy’s hands. It was in this spirit that Holmes now performed his second act of heroism.

Placing the trumpeter on one of the horses, he hitched the team to the gun, then thwacked them with a bayonet he had picked up, and swung into the saddle. The Germans were all around; some actually grasped at the reins. Holmes shouted to the horses, and they rushed madly forward. One after another he bayoneted the nearest Germans, while bullets whistled by his ears. The horse Holmes rode had its right ear shot off. For eight miles the ride went on until the rear of a British column was reached and all danger passed. The poor trumpeter had fallen off in the furious rush.

NOT DEAD BUT FIGHTING

Jim Gardener Quit the Trolley to Do His Bit and Did It Thoroughly

“When we went to war,” said James C. Gardener, “I figured it out this way: ‘I’m single and healthy and lots of other fellows are going over, and doggone me if I don’t go along and do my bit.’”

So he went down to the Marines’ recruiting office, in Baltimore, and enlisted. He was sent to Philadelphia and on June 6, 1917, he was one of 250 men put aboard the _Hancock_ which went to New York for orders and on June 13 sailed for France.

Gardener had been a motorman on the Baltimore trolley, and when some months after he went to France the War Department, which did not then publish addresses, reported “J. C. Gardener killed in action” the _Trolley Topics_ wrote an obituary of the motorman esteemed of his fellows; but as there was some uncertainty whether the J. C. Gardener killed was really the Baltimore boy, the obituary was withheld for more definite information. “Jimmie,” however, was mourned by his pals until there began to trickle through from one source and another rumors and reports that confirmed the doubt that the J. C. Gardener killed was really their “Jimmie.”

Then one day, the war over, there walked into a group of trolley-men at the Baltimore car barns a strapping fellow, six feet three, weighing 195, wearing a khaki uniform with three gold service chevrons and three gold wound stripes, a division citation cord for bravery on his left shoulder and the Croix de Guerre with palm on his breast, and the boys were doggone certain that Jimmie Gardener, motorman, was very much alive and able to give an account of himself. The _Trolley Topics_ lost no time in possessing itself of that account, and to that semi-monthly organ of the United Railways and Electric Company we are indebted for some of the details of the fighting experience of this trolley hero whom the great Foch kissed on either cheek.

The _Hancock_, says Gardener was his twice by torpedoes on the way over, which “messed up both ends without crippling her very much.” He first saw action in a position “down below” St. Mihiel. He is quoted:

“It was about 4 a.m. of March 31st that they opened up with artillery. Right ahead of us was a graveyard. The shells first fell on the far side of the graveyard. Then they fell in the graveyard and tore up graves and generally ruined it. Then the shells began to crawl closer to us.

“There were four of us on guard and we reported the coming of the Germans to the officers, and the men were routed out of the dugouts. One little fellow named Roach—we called him the boy scout—was so excited that he put his trousers on backward and got his shoes on the wrong feet.

“He started with a box of ammunition for a gun and ran into another fellow with another box. The collision knocked him down and he rolled clear down a hill to the very place the gun crew was waiting for the ammunition.

“Some of us had been joking and I remember a fellow named Clark who said he wondered which of us would live to take the story back home. A buddy of mine named Hanky said, ‘You fellows write your notes to your mothers and sweethearts and I’ll take ’em back to them.’ Poor Hanky was killed in that fight.

“The fight lasted two hours. The point where I was had thirteen men to defend it. We had two Stokes guns.

“There were five hundred men in the party that attacked this point, or, to be exact, 498, according to the officers. We cleaned up the whole business. Seven of our thirteen men were killed.”

THAT LITTLE FELLOW ROACH

Gardener’s next serious engagement was in the Belleau Wood battle.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Color Sergeant Hardy C. Dougherty

_1st Division, 18th Infantry, Headquarters Company_

He was cited July 18-23, 1918, as a non-commissioned officer of splendid courage, energy and ability. When in command of reinforcements for the first line, he carried out his mission with complete success. Upon being relieved he returned to bring to safety on his back one of the seriously wounded of his detachment.]

“We moved up to the woods gradually. We met Algerian troops belonging to the French Army. These Algerians claimed that they had been kept at the front too long. They were never taken to rest-camps or had any relief. Many of them committed suicide. They said they were tired of fighting. We met some that were running wild, shooting in all directions, and had to take shelter to keep from being hit by stray shots.

“We met many French moving back, too. They said that the Germans were very numerous in the woods.

“That little fellow, Roach, crawled out in a field, dug into a haystack and climbed to the top. From there he could see that Germans were hiding behind bushes farther on.

“He came back and said he was going to raid ’em. The officers said he didn’t have any right to do this without orders. ‘Well,’ said Roach, ‘this ain’t a regular battle, you know. This is just a little private party of my own.’ He said he wanted a dozen men to volunteer to go with him, and the dozen volunteered at once. I never saw a time when volunteers were called for among the marines that any one wanted to stay back. Everybody wanted to go.

“Well, Roach got his men as quick as he could count ’em. ‘Come on, fellows,’ he said: ‘I’m going to have them Germans for supper.’

“We cleaned up fifty of ’em.

“‘Did Roach or any of his dozen men get the _Croix de Guerre_ for that?’ we asked.

“‘Oh, no,’ answered ‘Jimmie,’ ‘as I said, that wasn’t a regular affair. It was only Roach’s own party and there wasn’t nothing official about it.’ It was funny to see our bunch. Roach was a little fellow about five feet seven, and he chose as the second in command of his party a lanky artilleryman who was six feet eleven. The rest of us were just ordinary size, like me.’ (‘Jimmie’ Gardener is six feet three in his stocking feet and weighs 195 pounds!)

“That artilleryman had just drifted into our bunch somehow. They had put him out of the artillery because he had flat feet, and told him to go home. He said he didn’t want to go home. He wanted to fight, and he was going to stay with us whether he belonged with us or not, and he did.

“In a day or two we were put in trucks and hurried forward. We knew now that the Germans were pressing hard in their attempt to reach Paris. The French were falling back. We were run in those trucks directly between the retreating Frenchmen and the advancing Germans, and we got mixed up with the enemy so quickly that we simply tumbled out of the trucks oftentimes to engage in hand-to-hand fighting with the Huns.

“We went right at ’em, and this thing kept up for four days. We had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, nothing to smoke—and everybody longed for a smoke, even fellows who never smoked before they entered the service—and we had no sleep in all those four days and nights.

“A great deal of the time we were in close fighting. There was where the Germans failed. They were all right when they were twenty-five or thirty yards away and could use their rifles, but when it came to the bayonet they turned and fled.

“Sometimes we fought so close that it was impossible to use the bayonet. We had to knock ’em down with our fists first.

“Everybody said the odds were against us in this fighting. While we had some reserves there were only two regiments of us fighting and we were against three German divisions, including the Prussian Guards. But in four days we advanced one and a half miles.

“We suffered terrible losses. When we reached the town of Lucy, where we halted to be reorganized, there were only 150 men left in my company of 335 men.”

THE MAJOR SAID IT

“There was another company whose commander was killed and a major took charge. In the middle of the fighting he had lost so many men that a French officer advised him to retreat. ‘Retreat hell!’ he cried: ‘I’m going on as long as I and one man are left.’ It came near coming true, for when he reached Lucy he had just three men left with him out of an entire company.

© _Underwood and Underwood._

Brave to the Very End

Though physically wounded—often mortally—the spirit of the French soldiers never perished, but immortalized their efforts in conflict.]

“We saw some horrible things in Lucy, At one house we found an old French woman, She said she was with her three daughters—16, 18, and 20 years old—when the Germans came, and they had remained there without any protection from the Huns who took charge of the house. We asked where her daughters were and she said they were upstairs and she guessed they were asleep.

“Several of us went to learn the fate of the girls and we found all three stretched out with their throats cut from ear to ear, and their bodies horribly slashed. The Germans had deliberately butchered them when they were forced out of the town.

“When we told the old lady of the fate of her daughters she was stricken with heart trouble and died in a few minutes, but before she died she asked that we bury her with the three girls in the little grove near her home. We did it although we were under fire the whole time, and eight of our men were killed while burying those French women.

“The next day we pushed on and got through the woods. That was the hottest fighting of all. The Germans used more artillery, and when the day was over the number of men in my company had again been reduced to about 150. Some companies had only a dozen or fifteen men left.

“One of the fellows killed that day was a fellow from South Baltimore who used to be a chum of mine before we went to war. His name was Halle. He said to me that morning: ‘Jim, I feel I’m going to get knocked off to-day. Never tell my people that I was killed. Just tell them that I am somewhere in France.’ He was killed and I haven’t told his people and never will, but they found it out through the War Department.

“We next went to the Marne. There we fought in the river. It was tough luck for a fellow to be wounded there, for as he sank down he was drowned. It was often close fighting, bayonet to bayonet in midstream, and must have been a pretty sight for people to look at if there’d been any spectators there, but it wasn’t very pretty for those in the fight.

“After the Marne battle our company’s ranks had to be filled again. Once more we had been reduced to about 150.

“Next we went to Château-Thierry and fought there for nine days, which was followed by a three-day hike to Soissons, which we reached on July 18, 1918. The next day we went over the top at 3 a.m.

“Ten minutes later I went down with a wound that crippled my ankle. I was gassed, too, and suffered shock. When I came to my senses in a hospital I had two other wounds that I didn’t know anything about. They told me that as the ambulance was carrying me to the rear it was struck by a shell which killed some of the other wounded men and presented me with a couple more wounds for good measure.

“Outside of having been in a bunch of hospitals in France and America that’s about all I know about the war,” concluded “Jimmie” Gardener.

“You haven’t told why you got the Croix de Guerre and the palm branch,” we suggested.

“Oh,” said “Jimmie.” “I was awarded the Croix with the six other fellows for cleaning up that bunch of 498 Germans in the quiet sector I told you about. The affair they gave me the palm for was rescuing a lieutenant who was wounded in the Belleau Wood fighting.

“I don’t know who the lieutenant was, but he was a newspaper man who had entered the fighting forces and he was out in advance of the line when he was wounded. Several of us volunteered to go out and bring him in, but we did not know exactly where he was. It was during the night and very dark. Along about four o’clock, as I was crawling along, I fell plumb into a shell-hole, and there he was with his leg shot off.”

“SORT OF SWIMMING-LIKE”

“I put my coat around him and bandaged his leg up as well as I could. Then he got his arms around my neck and I held on to him with one hand and dragged myself, sort of swimming-like, along the ground with the other.

“I had only an hour and a half before daybreak when the Germans would be able to see us, and in that time I managed to make about twenty yards to another shell-hole. We lay in that all day. The lieutenant suffered a great deal. I gave him what water I had in my canteen.

“When night came on we started again and before morning had made the rest of the distance—about sixty yards—to our trenches. The lieutenant got well. They say he is a great writer of books and things. He belongs in New York State somewhere.”

“Were you kissed when the Croix was presented to you?” we asked.

“Yes, General Foch pinned the badge on our coats and then kissed us on both cheeks. We were all smiling when the kissing was going on.”

WHEN THE LIGHT FAILED

One Soldier Tells What It Is Like to Have Eyes Shot Out

You may not think this a story of heroism; but if it does not fall into that class we do not know where to place it. There is no attacking a plane in mid-air and sending it crashing to earth; no leaping into trench and gathering a score or so of prisoners with the tilt of a bayonet; no running to stand on a parapet and hurl hand grenades against a rain of bullets; nothing to set your blood into a gallop to grip you and make you take off your hat to the man about whom Private Jesse A. Whaley, Co. K, 310th Inf., A. E. F., is writing. And this is what Whaley wrote as it appeared in the New York _Sunday Times_:

“It is dark, the ground is damp and cold. There are men stirring about cleaning their rifles and there is a queer look on their faces. One private is sitting huddled in the trench; he is cold, he is hungry with that gnawing feeling in his stomach which comes from lack of food for many hours. He moves restlessly, thousands of things pass through his mind; home, loved ones. Suddenly a whistle sounds at our right and there is a rushing of men. There is but a second’s wait; it is the signal for the fight. It is now midnight, the men move to and fro, they disappear. When we come upon them again they are all lined up waiting for the barrage to start just outside of the wood. Does it seem possible that these men are the same who just a few minutes ago were sitting in the trench back in the wood? The barrage starts and the scene is lit with the strangest light our eyes ever saw. There is a roar in our cars, and suddenly all is dark with a blackness the eye cannot pierce. A flare breaks in the sky, lighting the strange scene which lies before us. To our right lies a valley in which are many more men. We see flashes of rifles, and now and again a flare shoots up, disclosing a clump of bushes which means almost certain death to those who approach it.”

A DASH STRAIGHT AHEAD

“The line moves steadily forward and a man from the back of the line rushes forward and breaks through with his rifle at the charge. It is the private who sat huddled in the trench. He makes a dash for the bushes, followed by other men. Men drop all along the line, but the clump of bushes is reached, and the men who made it are hidden from our view. Between us and the bushes men are lying where they fell, never to be walking mortals again.

“Suddenly the roar grows louder, and we can hardly hear each other shout, although we are standing side by side. The ground trembles and great holes are dug up by the flying shells. We hear the whine of the deadly fragments and the whiz of machine-gun bullets as they pass us on all sides. It seems death to move, but we go forward so we can see what is happening on the other side of the bushes. As we go we stumble over the bodies of men lying where they fell, some partly blown to pieces. At last we come upon the men again, and the lines are very thin. The private we have been following is still untouched, but something has happened to his rifle and he is down on one knee working fast and furiously until he has fixed it and loaded it. Just as he fixes it we notice another man less than a hundred feet away, and by the light of a flare we see that his uniform is not like that of our private. He is a German, and holds in his hands something that looks strangely like a small soup can with a stick attached to it. It is a deadly hand grenade. Before the American can dodge he throws it, the American starts forward to make another dash, and then the grenade explodes with a roar which shakes the earth, and the American falls, hit in the head. Slowly he rises to his feet in a dazed way and reaches for his rifle. He gropes for it without seeming to realize that it has been blown far out of his reach. He stands up straight and wipes his face, which is running with blood; he pushes his hair back, then takes a step to the left and falls over the body of a dead comrade, killed perhaps by the same grenade and at the same instant.

© _National Service Magazine._

Remembering Their Fallen Comrades

Members of the United States Marine Corps carving stones with which to mark the graves of their former brothers in arms.]

“But that soldier was not killed—he was blinded for life. He is myself.”

That is the story of Jesse A. Whaley, told by himself while an inmate of the Red Cross Institute for the Blind, where the blinded soldiers are aught trades and occupations in which the sense of touch serves for the lost eyes. To grip gun in a charge against the foe is possibly no more heroic than to grip life, resolutely to serve though blind.

THE “CLOUD OF BLACKS”

Terrible Effect of a Charge of Senegals Upon German Officer’s Sensibilities

Perhaps the most vivid and ecstatic description of a fight for trenches that was written in the course of the war or has been written since was from the pen of Rheinhold Eichacker, a German officer on the Western front. It was published in one of the German papers from which it was translated for the benefit of the New York _Times_. It deserves a permanent place in the historic record of desperate deeds of courage as an example of thoroughly adequate treatment, in literary form, of what may be styled “compound heroism.” The passionate frenzy of a personal experience could not be made more graphic with mere words as tools.

The occasion was less feelingly covered by the German Army report, which said:

“After a lengthy artillery preparation, white and colored Frenchmen attacked our positions in heavy force. They succeeded in getting a foothold in some of our most advanced trenches. A furious counter-attack drove them back again in a hand-to-hand encounter. Nothing else of importance.”

But let us have Rheinhold Eichacker:

“At 7.15 in the morning the French attacked. The black Senegal negroes, France’s cattle for the shambles. After a seven-hour suffocating drumfire that, according to all human reckoning, should not have left a mortal man alive. But we still lived—and waited. Six meters under the sod lay our ‘waiting rooms.’ Burrowed into the ground on a slant. ‘Courage bracers,’ they call them out there.

“At 7.15 the enemy shifted his fire backward upon our reserves. Our pickets sounded the alarm. We sprang to arms, with our gas masks in place. For a few seconds the trenches resembled an antheap. There was feverish hurrying, running, shouting, and shoving. Just for seconds. Then everybody was at his post. Everybody who was alive. Every one a rock in the seething waves. Every one determined to hold his position against hell itself.”

“LET THEM COME”

“A gas attack! Several hundred pairs of wide-open warriors’ eyes fixed their glances upon the ugly, smoking cloud that, lazy and impenetrable, rolled toward us. Hundreds of fighting eyes, fixed, threatening, deadly. Let them come, the blacks! And they came. First singly, at wide intervals. Feeling their way, like the arms of a horrible cuttlefish. Eager, grasping, like the claws of a mighty monster. Thus they rushed closer, flickering and sometimes disappearing in their cloud. Entire bodies and single limbs, now showing in the harsh glare, now sinking in the shadows, came nearer and nearer. Strong, wild fellows, their log-like, fat, black skulls wrapped in pieces of dirty rags. Showing their grinning teeth like panthers, with their bellies drawn in and their necks stretched forward. Some with bayonets on their rifles. Many only armed with knives. Monsters all, in their confused hatred. Frightful their distorted, dark grimaces. Horrible their unnaturally wide-opened, burning, bloodshot eyes. Eyes that seem like terrible beings themselves. Like unearthly, hell-born beings. Eyes that seemed to run ahead of their owners, lashed, unchained, no longer to be restrained. On they came like dogs gone mad and cats spitting and yowling, with a burning lust for human blood, with a cruel dissemblance of their beastly malice. Behind them came the first wave of the attackers, in close order, a solid, rolling black wall, rising and falling, swaying and heaving, impenetrable, endless.

“‘Close range! Individual firing! Take careful aim!’ My orders rang out sharp and clear and were correctly understood by all the men. They stood as if carved out of stone, their lips tightly pressed, the muscles of their cheeks swollen, and took aim. Just like rifle range work. The first blacks fell headlong in full course in our wire entanglements, turning somersaults like the clowns in a circus. Some of them half rose, remained hanging, jerked themselves further, crawling, gliding, like snakes—cut wires—sprang over—tumbled—fell.

© _Underwood and Underwood._

Spahis Winding Their War Bonnets

Famed for their fierce charges, these French colonial troops were helpless in the face of prolonged shelling.]

“Nearer and nearer rolled the wall. Gaps opened and closed again. Lines halted and rolled on again. Whrr rratt—tenggg—ssstt—crack! Our artillery sent them its greeting! Whole groups melted away. Dismembered bodies, sticky earth, shattered rocks, were mixed in wild disorder. The black cloud halted, wavered, closed its ranks—and rolled nearer and nearer, irresistible, crushing, devastating! And the rifles were flashing all the time. A dissonant, voiceless rattle. The men still stood there and took aim. Calmly, surely, not wasting a single shot. The stamping and snorting of thousands of panting beasts ate up the ground between us.”

“HELL SEEMED LET LOOSE”

“Now the wave was only 300 paces from our defenses—from their remnants—now only 200—100—irresistible, seething and roaring—50 paces!—‘Rapid fire!’ I roared, I shrieked, through the swelling cracking of the rifles. A hurricane swallowed my voice! Hell seemed let loose at a single blow, raging, storming, obliterating all understanding! Shoving and stamping, shrieking and shouting, cracking and rattling, hissing and screeching. A heavy veil hung over the wall. In this cloud pieces of earth, smoke spirals, black, red, white, yellow flashes, quivered and flared. Rattling, rapping, pounding, hammering, crackling. And the shots fell unceasingly. Clear and shrill the rifles, heavy and roaring the shells.

“And now came the gruesome, inconceivable horror! A wall of lead and iron suddenly hurled itself upon the attackers and the entanglements just in front of our trenches. A deafening hammering and clattering, cracking and pounding, rattling and crackling, beat everything to earth in ear-splitting, nerve-racking clamor. Our machine guns had flanked the blacks!

“Like an invisible hand they swept over the men and hurled them to earth, mangling and tearing them to pieces! As an autumn storm roars over the fields they swept in full flood over the ranks and snuffed out life! Like hail among the ears of grain, their missiles flew and rattled and broke down the enemy’s will! Singly, in files, in rows and heaps, the blacks fell. Next to each other, behind each other, on top of each other. Hurled in heaps, in mounds, in hillocks. Fresh masses charged and fell back, charged and stumbled, charged and fell. And there were always fresh forces! They seemed to spring from the very earth!

“We had losses; heavy losses. Here a man suddenly put his hand to his forehead and swayed. There another sprang gurgling to one side and fell, as flat and heavy as a block of stone. S-s-s-t—it went above our heads. The French were throwing shrapnel against our trenches, hissing, cracking, and in volleys.

“Hell still rages. The blacks get reinforcements. Finally the whites themselves charge, a jerky, rolling, bluish-green mass! In a powerful drive they get over the first rise in the ground. Now they have disappeared. Now they bob up, as out of a trap door. Here and there the ranks shoot forward in great leaps, the officers ahead of all, with their swords swinging high in the air, just as in the pictures! A splendid sight. Now they reach the bodies of the blacks. They halt for a few seconds, as if in horror, then on they roll over the dead, jumping, wallowing, dozens falling.”

“WE STILL STAND FIRMLY”

“Our nerves are strained to the snapping point, gasping, bleeding, feverish! We dare not waver. ‘Steady, men! Steady!’ We must calmly let them come as far as the wire entanglements, as the blacks did. The blacks? Where are they? Disappeared! Only they left their dead behind. The same thing will happen to the whites. We are waiting for them. The death-spewing machine guns are lying over there. They lie there and wait until their time comes. Steady, steady! They lie there and wait impatiently—but yet they are silent— Now!—No—I am raving! ‘Rapid fire!’—I hiss—My neighbor staggers—I only listen and wait, wait and listen, for only one thing. Something that has to come, must finally come, has to come! Great God, otherwise we are lost! Be calm, be calm! Now they will begin reaping! Now they must begin to rattle, our machine guns, our faithful rescuers—now—at once! What can they be waiting for? Why, they are there in the wires already. Hell and Satan! No man can endure that! They are hesitating too long—the enemy is almost in the trenches! Ah! At last! A rattling—a hoarse crackling—Heaven help us, what is that?

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Private M. B. Ellis

_1st Division, 28th Infantry, Company “C”_

Cited for extraordinary heroism in action. When south of Soissons, July 18-22, 1918, as a member of the 1st Division he showed unusual courage in carrying supplies and in attacking strong points at Breuil, Plaisy, and Berzy-le-Sec.]

“A devilish howling rises hoarsely from over there, lacerating, bestial, shrieking! The blacks, the devils! How did they reach our flank over there? That’s where our machine guns are. It cannot be. There! Hell! They are carrying hand grenades, are in their rear! Heaven help us! And the whites! They are at our breastworks. Already they are in the trenches, fighting like wild beasts. Horror makes them crazy. Help is coming to us from the left. The second company has fallen upon their flank. The French run like hunted animals. A shell bursts in their midst, catches twenty or thirty of them and throws them in the air like toys. They run still further, through the air, bowling along on their heads, gruesomely—and fall in heaps to the ground. Heads, legs, twitching bodies! The French run until back of the bodies. The rest of them are cut to pieces, or made prisoners. But now our men must come back.

“We struggle for breath. Wounded men writhe around and moan and groan heavily. The trench is bathed in blood. Far more than half of the company has been slain. We are only a handful. I assemble the valiant men and distribute them among the trenches. They stand resolutely, breathing hard and gasping.

“A furious rattling and buzzing and hissing calls us again to our posts. They are charging anew. Now the whites again, in front, on the side. They are on our flank! Back of them the blacks in frightful clusters. ‘Bring the sandbags!’ The sandbags fly from hand to hand. A wall rises in the midst of the trench. The other half was overrun long ago and is a knot of struggling men. A piece of wood hits me on the shoulder—crack—I cry out! A shot lands in the midst of our ammunition—it was our last. This way with the hand grenades! We have got to smoke them out!

“A roaring hurrah! Heaven help us, aid is at hand! The Fourth, and the Fifth—I know the men—and some of the First, too—all mixed up—dispersed troops rallied again. Now, up and at them! The French defend themselves furiously. They hold the trench. The dead are heaped up before their ramparts—but keep it up! A wild passion takes possession of me. My revolver and my dagger have been lost in the fighting. I seize a bottle. Hell sends it to me at the right moment. Like an animal mad with hate I rush forward. My bottle lands, crashing and splintering, on a wooly skull, with a distorted grimace. A hot shock rushes through my shoulder—a shock—a wrench—I grasp at the air—grasp something convulsively—throw myself in the air—and fall in a heap. A confused mist dances before my eyes.”

On November 11, 1918. the American Army had 80 fully equipped hospitals in the United States with a capacity of 120,000 patients.

There were 104 base hospitals and 31 evacuation hospitals in the American Expeditionary Force, and one evacuation hospital in Siberia.

Army hospitals in the United States cared for 1,407,191 patients during the war; those with the American Expeditionary Force cared for 755,354—a total of 2,162,545.

Up to the end of July about 15 per cent, of the entire civilian medical profession of the United States went into active duty as medical officers of the army.

HUBBELL BAGGED ’EM

A Lone Corporal Captures 31 of the Enemy in a Morning Frolic

One of the most spectacular of the valorous deeds in the Champagne engagement was the single-handed performance of Corporal Fred D. Hubbell, a Marine, from Toledo, Ohio. He captured and brought in for delivery nine German officers and twenty-two privates as the result of a morning’s pastime. It was during the attack on Blanc Mont, and in some way Hubbell got separated from his company, and in casting about to recover ground he saw the head of a German soldier pop from a dugout entrance and promptly duck down again. Hubbell felt a keen interest and determined to explore. But let him tell his own story, as he did in an interview reproduced by the _Marine’s Magazine_.

“It was in the morning that the —th Company went forward and had almost obtained their objective when they ran into a series of dugouts occupied by German artillery officers. A few prisoners were taken from one of the dugouts and one of them said that there were no more there. About half an hour later, the company having been under machine-gun fire from our left, I happened to be crouching alone behind the entrance to a dugout waiting for a counter-attack that was reported to be coming, when I saw a Heinie stick his head out of a dugout.

“I immediately told him to put up his hands, but he jumped back down the doorway and I heard him speak a few words of English and so called to him to come out, which he did. He said that there were at least thirty men in the dugout beside himself, whom he thought would surrender also, and a couple of officers. I told him that there were plenty of Americans around and that they might as well surrender because there was no chance for them to get away, and for them to leave their firearms all in the dugout and come out at once and they would not be harmed. He returned to the dugout and said he would go down and get them to come out. He went down but did not return.

“After a considerable length of time I yelled down and threatened to throw a hand grenade and waited for them to come up but none came. As there were several entrances to the series of dugouts I was afraid that they would catch me from behind, so I moved off to the left under some shelter where I could get a different view of the entrance and I had only been there a short time when another Heinie stuck his head up and I yelled at him, thinking they were all coming out. After waiting several minutes I became leary that I would be caught from behind and started for help.

“While on the way I passed another entrance to the series of dugouts and came upon one of the officers with his pistol in his hand evidently coming out looking for me. I yelled at him to throw up his hands, but he did not, instead, fell backward down the stairs in his haste to get away. Then I ran to the dugout entrance with a grenade in my hand and ordered them to come out or I would throw it down, and they came up at once. The German private who spoke English, whom I first caught showing his head out of the doorway, came up and stood by and passed on the orders to the officers and men to leave their firearms below and hold up their hands. Then they all filed out and gave themselves up. There was one major, one captain and seven lieutenants and twenty-two men in the party.

“The private told me on the way to the rear that when he told the officers there was only one American outside they were furious and refused to surrender, and therefore would not come up, and ordered the private to sneak out of one of the dugouts and shoot me, but the private refused. All the privates were willing to give up, but the officers were not so anxious. They evidently had been caught in their dugout by the barrage and could not get away without a great deal of risk.”

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Corporal Sidney E. Manning

_42nd Division, 167th Infantry, Company “G”_

While in charge of an automatic rifle squad near Croix Rouge Farm, northeast of Château-Thierry, July 27, 1918, he was wounded nine times before he rejoined his platoon. He prevented the enemy from closing in and continued to advance in the face of the most terrific fire by enemy machine guns.]

OTHER DOUGHTY CHAPS

But there were numerous single-handed exploits in that thrilling Champagne campaign, and among them are the following instances of the courage and initiative that characterized the American boys on the front.

Private John J. Kelley, of Chicago, Illinois, during the same attack as that in which Hubbell took part, crossed through the barrage of his own artillery, killed the operator of a machine gun which was firing into his line, wounded another with his pistol and took eight prisoners. Private Samuel S. Simmons, of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, with Private Lambert Bos, of Granite, Idaho, and Private Joe N. Viera, of New Bedford, Massachusetts, volunteered and attacked a machine-gun nest in advance of their front line. They killed the crew, then descended into an enemy dugout and captured forty prisoners.

Another instance is that of Corporal Horace P. Frye, of San Francisco, California. The position of his company on the hill east of St. Etienne was being continually swept by enemy machine-gun fire at apparently close range. Acting entirely upon his own initiative he determined to locate the source of the enemy fire and accordingly crawled forward unnoticed through 150 yards of open field, located the enemy guns and after throwing several hand grenades into their position he charged them and captured two machine guns and eleven men, with which he returned to his own lines through machine-gun fire.

WAS HE A COWARD?

The Singular Confessions of a Hollander Who Gave His Life for France

What is a coward? Is there any such thing as absolute bravery or absolute cowardice? When we characterize a particular person as a coward for failing to do, or refraining from doing, some specific thing are we quite sure that in the circumstances we would have acted differently? These are questions that suggest themselves when one reads what purport to be excerpts from the diary and letters of a confessed—or rather self-stigmatized coward, one Jan R——, a Hollander. He had lived in France some years, and soon after the outbreak of war became a naturalized citizen in order that he might join the French Army as a volunteer—not because he wanted to, but because he was ashamed to stay out.

The _Atlantic Monthly_ published all that was suitable of the available material in a long and intensely interesting article which is a curious record of psychological study and introspection. It is highly probable that the experience was by no means unique. A candid statement by the most daring of our heroes possibly would contain the admission that there were moments when the reflections of the Hollander were similar to his own.

Jan R—— tells of morning awakenings from troubled sleep with “the oppression that something horrible was about to enter into his existence.” He felt a pang in his breast that he “should have to take part in the fighting. There was no escape.” He suffered a fear, a shifting fear that he “could sometimes suppress but never drive out.” The life in the training camp somewhat eased his emotions as he mingled with so many others, and at times he even got “flickerings of a desire to fight,” but it was not the real thing, he assumed; it was “more in the nature of artistic imagination.” In the distance was the rumbling and thudding of heavy gun fire, and as he heard it he felt “a strange respect and admiration, mingled with fear for the men in the first line of trenches.”

© _Kadel & Herbert._

American and French Aviation Officers at an American Hangar

American aviators were among the first from the United States to do their part in the great war. There were a great many things that the French could tell our boys, and the men of the two countries coöperated in this as well as many other branches of the service.]

“Before long our turn for the trenches will come. Most of the fellows are wishing for the time to come. At least that is what they say. I am dreading it. I am in earnest when I say that my life is of little value, even to myself. Yet I fear the trenches. Yesterday evening transports of wounded soldiers came past us repeatedly. Hearing the wailing and the groaning, seeing all the bloodiness made me sick.... The fear of the front suddenly overtook me. I violently reproached myself for having been so stupid as to enlist. There I was in the midst of this insane murder! And by my own free will!”

HE GOES TO THE FRONT

Finally his turn came for the front. One of his comrades was a youth named Gaston.

“The dear boy has become very much attached to me. He believes that I am a strong support for him! Must I weep at this, or laugh? Gaston has told me in great confidence that he gets occasional attacks of cowardice. And he asked me whether I did not despise him. He is terribly afraid that the fellows will notice it, but he did not mind confiding in me. Why in me? He says it is because he admires my imperturbable calmness so much. What could I reply? It seemed best not to tell him how things stood with me. Apart from the difficulties such a confession would cause me, I concluded that it would also be better for him to believe in my courage.”

THE BOY REGARDED HIM AS A HERO

“A hero! But there are real heroes and make-believe heroes; and they are not always easily distinguishable. I do not hide from myself that I belong to the make-believes. And yet, it is remarkable that I did not find the second week at the front as terrible as the first. It is not as bad there as it seems. When once you get accustomed to the idea that you may be dead in a day, or in an hour, or in a minute, and when you are clear as to your future, your mood is relieved from constant depression. Involuntarily you become kind and helpful to those about you, you do not get vexed over trifles, you are ready to make all sorts of sacrifices. Of course, if, in the midst of such a condition, a grenade suddenly drops into your trench, if you see three or four of your comrades getting killed, your misery returns, no matter how good an outward appearance you may keep up. At least, for a while. But then again the thought comes that getting wounded means rest and safety, and good care. And death? that is still less terrible. One boasts of reaching one’s destination along the shortest road! Is not death every one’s final destination?...

“It is peculiar that one can get so accustomed to danger.

“I have tried to account for it, and it appears to be like this: at first our thoughts are almost incessantly occupied with the frightful things that are about to happen. Then moments come—only a single one at first—in which our thoughts wander away, involuntarily, and dwell on something else. Suddenly fear returns. But the periods of repose become more frequent and of longer duration. And when they are disturbed by fear the painful shock becomes gradually less violent. Neither does fear itself ache so hard. And then the time approaches when one is conscious of fear only on occasions when there is a violent fire, or when men fall. That is my present condition. There seems to be a further stage in which one is rid of fear for good. So far I shall not get.”

One day he got a wound in the hip and was sent to the hospital. The nurses have gotten the idea that he is a hero. He accounts for it thus:

“A friend of Gaston’s is a distant cousin of one of the nurses. Gaston inquired after me, and apparently used that occasion to do a good deal of boasting. At any rate, some greatly embellished stories of my _sangfroid_ have been going the rounds here. Without having to lie, I could say that all this was invented, or at least highly exaggerated. The consequence was that I was looked upon, not only as a hero, but as a giant of modesty as well. It is very annoying. However, to be honest, I must confess that now and then this undeserved praise gives me a feeling of satisfaction; I have always known that I was weak-minded.”

HE IS PROMOTED

“Back to the trenches and made a Corporal. A small thing, eh? Just the same, it made me happy. I was touched by the friendly spirit of the fellows. Gaston shook my hand at least six times, muttering, ‘Ah, _mon vieux_, _mon vieux_, how I have missed you!’ This does one good. And I had better not get lost in the question as to how much of all this attachment I deserve.”

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant Charles S. Hoover

_32nd Division, 158th Field Artillery Brigade_

During the offensive action near Brabant-sur-Meuse, Sergeant Hoover was in charge of two trench mortars. Wounded by shrapnel and knocked down by the explosion of bombs, he fired the one mortar that was undamaged until it was destroyed.]

Finally comes the touchstone of character. Jan R—— wrote:

“In the early morning of the 13th the cannonading was resumed, and again we had hours of exhausting expectation. Toward noon we noticed that an unusual event was coming. The captain shouted something. I could not understand a word. Gaston understood: the wire entanglements in front of the first line of trenches had been shot to pieces. We had to hold ourselves ready. There was incessant telephoning.

“‘They are coming!’ some one yelled.

“I could not restrain myself any longer and looked over the edge of the trench.

“They were coming indeed; I saw them. In broad, irregular rows they were running toward us. Straight toward me, it seemed. And behind them, there came others, and still others, evermore. The German guns were silent now. And then suddenly ours began to roar with redoubled vigor.

“Holes, narrow clefts, and fissures were torn in the massive gray billows that came rolling toward us.

“‘Not a single one will get through!’ I heard some one shout.

“But behind the first wave came a second one, and a third one behind that. I saw them approach, losing in vigor, yet remaining strong.

“We were ready. In that moment I felt no fear! Like the others, I was burning to fly out of the trenches. Suddenly a strange silence came, and then the call: ‘_Attaquez! Attaquez!_’

“We clambered up, jumped over the edge of the trench, and ran forward. In front, to the left, to the right, everywhere there were French soldiers, storming forward.

“I saw the Germans coming nearer, in their dirty gray uniforms, in rows, in heaps, and in smaller groups, some even singly. I saw the glistening and flickering of their bayonets. I heard them yell and shout. My heart thumped so hard that I had difficulty in breathing. Around me our men were shouting loudly. I was shouting too, and felt relieved when I heard my own voice, however indistinctly. Now and then a rifle-shot could be heard. We were running fast. ‘_En avant! En avant!_’

“Suddenly I became aware of a desire to hold back a little, and thereby to postpone, if only for a single second, the terrible moment of the clash. I happened to be pushed by a comrade behind me and I flew forward again.

“At last we had reached the Germans. Six steps in front of me I saw Gaston bayoneting an officer. Not a second later the poor chap fell himself—hit by a rifle shot, as I learned later.”

“BRAVO, CAPORAL”

“Suddenly a big German stood before me, a deathly pallor on his face, his mouth drawn, his eyes crazed with fear. His terror gave me courage and a feeling of superiority. I jumped on him. He tried to defend himself, but, with all my strength, I plunged my bayonet into his body. ‘_Bravo, caporal!_’ I heard some one call. Scores of my comrades ran past. I tried to catch up with them, stumbled over a body, and fell, with my head to the ground. But immediately I got up again and ran forward, more slowly however; my legs felt weak and powerless. Forward again! The attack had been repulsed. The German guns began thundering again; we had to return to our trenches.

“I took the death of Gaston (and of many others) more calmly than I had feared. This is not so surprising after all. Death may strike any one of us at any moment. We have accepted that chance. But if that is our attitude toward ourselves, why should we not have it toward our friends?

“But it still seems strange to me that I can not reach a definite judgment on my action in this last fight. Certain it is that the circumstances absolutely required my doing what I did, even leaving entirely out of consideration the fact that to every one his own life is dearer than that of a stranger. I can not hesitate in the choice between a French soldier and a German soldier. But it is equally certain that killing men runs counter to my nature and is absolutely irreconcilable with ideas which I had always accepted without question. Efforts to remove the contradiction between these thoughts must inevitably fail. It is in this way that I seek to explain the fact that at one moment I am cheerful, and sing with the rest—that I am invariably rejoicing over my good luck in the last fight, not merely having escaped without even the slightest scratch, but having had besides the good fortune of killing two Germans; while the next moment I sit worrying silently, asking myself, ‘How did it come to be possible that you are taking part in this frightful war—as a volunteer?’”

He was to receive an answer on another plane. The story of Jan R—— seems to have concluded with the three words, “Fell at Souchez.”

TWO HEROES OF HILL 60

Oxford Graduate and Green-Grocer’s Assistant Win Their Spurs in the Same Crisis

Sir John French has described the fight for Hill 60 as “the fiercest fight in which British troops have ever been engaged.” The hill is southeast of Ypres. Its possession was essential to the British, for it dominated the surrounding country. The Germans held it, commanding excellent artillery observation toward the west and northwest. For months the British had been working to mine it. After much hard work the sapping was complete and one hundred tons of explosives placed in position.

Saturday, April 17, 1915, was the appointed day for the great event. The explosion was timed for seven o’clock in the evening, and, according to program, up went the hill—Germans and all. It was like an earthquake. Simultaneously the artillery opened on the spot and poured in shells at the rate of five a minute. At a quarter past seven the infantry attack was launched, and the British were in possession of the ruins.

Then came the second phase—the holding of Hill 60, which was the hardest task of all, for the German reinforcements came to the assault by the thousands; but as fast as they came rifle and gun fire mowed them down.

During the next few days the Germans continued to attack ferociously, so much importance did they attach to the position.