Chapter VIII: Introduction: Bravery (2)

“Captain Grenfell was twice invalided home, but on each occasion curtailed his rest in order to get back to the firing-line. He was killed while in command of the left section of the 9th Lancers on May 24, 1915. The Germans had broken through the line, but Grenfell held, and in the words of his Commanding Officer, Major Beale Browne, ‘saved the day.’”

Thus died one of the greatest heroes of the war, a soldier to his fingertips, a born leader, a true gentleman. His men loved him because they knew his worth. In his will he left his Victoria Cross—the most honorable decoration England bestows—to the men of his regiment, “to whom the honor of my gaining it was entirely due.”

AN UNPARALLELED HERO

The Church Elder and Champion Turkey-Shooter Who Killed 25 Germans and Captured a Machine Gun Battalion

Six feet tall, weighing a trifle over two hundred pounds, brawny as becomes a man whose time was divided between blacksmithing and farming, clear-cut and strong of feature, kindly of disposition but positive and resolute by the testimony of keen blue eyes and flaming red hair—that is the general description of Alvin C. York, native of the Tennessee Mountains, extraordinary hero of the Argonne Battle, and modest withal.

There is no story of the great war that reads more like an extravagant fiction; but it is thoroughly attested, its truth unquestionably established by official investigation and by the sworn statements of fellow soldiers as one of the most amazing individual achievements in the four years crowded with deeds of almost incredible heroism and daring.

In a sentence: On Oct. 8, 1918, less than a year after he joined the army, Alvin C. York, as Corporal York, Company G, 328th Infantry, 82d Division, A. E. F., during operations in the Argonne sector, killed twenty-five Germans, captured 132 prisoners, including a major and several lieutenants, and put out of commission thirty-five machine guns—and did it by his “lonesome,” subduing the machine gun battalion with his rifle and automatic pistol.

Now, the thing that gives vivid additional interest to the thrilling story is the fact that its hero was an elder of the Church of Christ and Christian Union—a sect scrupulously opposed to any kind of fighting and firm as conscientious objectors to war—and was one of the most devout and earnest members of his home church, in Pall Mall, Tennessee. And thereby hangs a romance!

He had been one of the young bucks of the region, a typical mountaineer; a dead shot with rifle or pistol; champion of the turkey-shooting matches; breezy, jovial, liberal of oath, free with the demijohn, and not averse to a fight. He was one of eleven children, having seven brothers and three sisters, and when his father (blacksmith and farmer) died in 1911, Alvin, then twenty-four years old, took on the two occupations as head of the family; the older brothers married and went away. But in hours not demanded by smithy or farm he followed the bent of his old habits for the next two or three years, when, yielding to his mother’s entreaties, he gave up drinking and settled into sobriety. The “girl of all the world” urged him to join the church. So he waited a year, thinking the thing over. Convinced that it was the right course to pursue, he joined the church in 1915.

© _Underwood and Underwood._

Sergeant Alvin C. York

As Corporal York of the 328th Infantry he captured 132 prisoners, killed twenty-five German machine-gunners and put out of operation thirty-five machine guns.]

When the United States declared war and conscription came, York was second elder of his church and, naturally, pastor and congregation urged him to abide by the doctrine of the church and claim exemption as a conscientious objector. He was sorely troubled. He believed in his religion, was soulfully committed to it, but he loved his country too—and patriotism is also a religion. He refused to claim exemption, and went with the draft to Camp Gordon in Georgia, but was obviously unhappy in his divided duty. He talked many times on the subject with Captain Danforth and Major Buxton. In addition to much reasoning they cited scriptural passages from the Old and New Testaments, that convinced him there are times when the sword is the instrument of divine justice, and before the 82d Division sailed for France, the conscientious objector declared himself satisfied that he was on the right course, and gave himself wholeheartedly to the duties of the soldier.

And a good soldier he was, cheerfully, promptly obedient to orders, quick in mastering details, and distinguished by the cool, positive conduct of the self-reliant by habit and of the fearless by nature. He was made Corporal of Company G, 328th Infantry, 82d Division, a division made up of representatives of every state in the Union, hence the A. A. (All-America) in its insignia.

EARLY INTO ACTION

Over the sea went the 82d and was speedily in action, doing valorously in the Meuse-Argonne battles. And then, Oct. 8, at 6 o’clock in the morning, the 2d Battalion of the 328th, Corporal York with Company G, set off from Hill 223 with the Decauville railroad as its objective, two kilometers to the west. They had to cross a valley of several hundred yards and climb the ridges of a hill, all the time under machine gun fire from three directions. The guns from one hill had the Americans enfiladed, and Acting Sergt. Bernard Early was ordered to take two squads, and put the guns out of action. Early had sixteen men under him, one of whom was Corporal York.

They set out to climb the hill with a heavy fire from a ridge at their backs, but the density of the trees and brush permitted them to get beyond observation without loss, though bullets continued to cut through the trees as they struggled and stumbled upward through the tangle. They crossed the crest and began the descent of the opposite slope, and suddenly, on the farther side of a little stream they came upon a group of Germans, twenty to thirty in number, seated on the ground for a meal.

© _Underwood, and Underwood._

Home, Sweet Home

Back home again in the Tennessee mountains.]

The Americans fired and there were a few return shots, but the majority of the surprised Germans threw down their guns and held up their hands in sign of surrender, and the others followed suit promptly, including the major in command of the battalion. They were amazed to find that their captors were American.

Sergt. Early had them line up and was just ready to take them out when, in the expressive words of a survivor, “all hell broke loose.” Machine-guns placed in “fox-holes” that had been pointed the other way were swung round, and from the slope above Early’s detachment, began a fusillade. The German prisoners at once dropped down and lay on their bellies as did some of the Americans, others seeking the shelter of trees. Six of the little detachment were killed outright. Early was shot three times through the body and Corporal Cutting and Private Muzzi were wounded. On one side of York was Private Wareing, on the other Private Dymowski, both shot to pieces, York untouched. This fire reduced the party to eight, York and seven privates. Of the latter, one was pinned behind a tree, the others were guarding the prisoners. That is the testimony of the men themselves. They did no shooting.

“ALL THE TIME I WAS A-USING MY RIFLE”

York, when he dropped at the first fire of the machine-guns, found himself in a little path by a clump of bushes; the machine-guns were peppering from a distance of less than thirty yards, cutting off the tops of the bushes about York. On his return to the United States May 22, 1919, York said to a reporter: “I sat right where I was, and it seemed as if every gunner was a-firing straight at me. All this time, though, I was a-using my rifle, and the enemy he was a feeling the effects of it. One of our boys yelled that it was impossible to get the best of the situation, but I yelled back ‘Shut up!’ I knew one American was better than ten Germans if he kept his wits.”

He had no thought of surrender and “Somehow, I knew I wouldn’t be killed.” Aiming as he used to when shooting off the heads of the turkeys, he spotted Germans in the “fox-holes,” those firing from behind trees or over logs, with deadly precision, himself lying low to have the protection of the German prisoners prostrate between him and the machine-guns. He was not the man to miss a mark at that range. One boche had the indiscretion to rise in order to fling a small bomb at the rifleman. The bomb missed its object; not so the responsive bullet. “I got him square,” said York.

“I WHIPPED OUT MY AUTOMATIC”

“I turned in time to see a Heinie Lieutenant rise up from near one of them machine-guns and with six or seven men come charging toward me with fixed bayonets. They were only twenty yards away from me when I whipped out my automatic and I potted them off one after another.” (This man York, by the way, in a contest with an automatic pistol, hit a penny match-box every shot at forty paces.)

“As soon as the Germans saw the Lieutenant drop, most of the machine-guns stopped firing and the battle sort of quieted down, but I kept on shooting until the Major with the first batch of Germans we had come across, and who was lying on his stomach to avoid being hit by his own gunners, called to me in perfect English that if I would stop shooting he would make them all surrender, so I did. Then I called all our boys, and their affidavits show they came, and we herded the Germans in front of us and started toward our lines. I walked among four German officers and had our wounded bring up the rear. The Major asked me how many men I had, and I just told him, ‘I have a-plenty.’”

On the way they stirred up several more machine-gun nests, one of which put up a fight and York felt it a regrettable necessity to “shoot a man there.” After that when a nest was flushed the Major touched him on the arm and said, “Don’t kill any more, and I’ll make them surrender.” This was done and the hill was pretty well cleared up before they got to the other side and York’s herd of prisoners numbered 132, counted and certified to by Lieutenant Joseph A. Woods, Asst. Division Inspector, as they were reported to the P. C. of the 2d Battalion, 328 Infantry, that same Oct. 8.

PROMOTED AND DECORATED

Now what should be done with a corporal who, with rifle and automatic pistol, outfought a machine-gun battalion and took 132 prisoners in addition to killing twenty-five of the enemy? First they made him a Sergeant. Then somewhat later, after his amazing story was officially examined and verified by affidavits, in the presence of all the officers of the 82d Division, Major General C. P. Summerall decorated him with the Distinguished Service Cross, and said to him: “Your conduct reflects great credit not only upon the American Army, but upon the American people. Your deeds will be recorded in the history of the Great War, and they will have an inspiration not only to your comrades but to the generations that will come after us. I wish to commend you publicly and in the presence of the officers of your division.”

© _Committee of Public Information from Underwood and Underwood._

Major-General R. L. Bullard and His Entire Divisional Staff

Major-General Robert Lee Bullard saw far more actual fighting than many of his colleagues in the old regular Army establishment. He led the First Division in France and later received the honor of being put in command of the Second Army Corps, many of his troops distinguishing themselves at Château-Thierry.]

Then the French, to whom valor is a thing of divine sanctity, awarded him that enviable soldier’s treasure, the Croix de Guerre, and in presenting it to him Marshal Foch, who knows right well what brave deeds are, told him that his was the greatest act of bravery and presence of mind under great stress performed by any soldier of the Allied Armies. Add to this that badge of nobility, the Congressional Medal of Honor.

But with the two crosses on his breast and the medal in prospect, Sergeant York had a light in his eyes and a hesitant smile on his lips when he spoke of a Tennessee girl, “the prettiest in the state,” that rather suggested the idea that in his opinion his proudest distinction would be when Miss Grace Williams became Mrs. Alvin York.

“I FEEL A HEAP STRONGER SPIRITUALLY”

And what could he say to the Church of Christ and Christian Union Pastor and members waiting to welcome him home to Pall Mall and into renewed fellowship? Probably what he said to the reporter who asked him a leading question. When he was drafted he had no real idea what the fighting was about. “But when I got to camp,” he said, “and my officers told me we were fighting for democracy and peace on earth and for the protection of the small nations, then I knew it was no sin to kill. In fact, I feel a heap stronger spiritually than before I went over to fight. No man could go through what I did without the help of God. I feel He gave us our great victory because we were in the right.

At a reception given York by the Tennessee Society of New York, Major General Duncan, who commanded the 82d Division, said this:

“It is a unique distinction for me to have on one side of me the Admiral who safely conducted all of our troops overseas and on the other side one of the most distinguished soldiers the world has ever produced. His deeds are of the character that will go down in history for our boys and girls to read of and admire.

“York was awarded his medals for having been the leader of a small party which brought in a large number of prisoners after he had killed twenty-five. When I heard of his feat I ordered a full investigation, which resulted in the award of the Congressional Medal. I am happy to see your society doing honor to a man who so thoroughly deserves it.

“I hope your unprecedented policy of banqueting a non-commissioned officer will be forever followed and honor done to the man who carries the gun—the man who goes over the top.”

THE NEMESIS OF FLAME

A Vision of Inferno from which Even a Dante Would Have Shrunk——“What Hell Must Be Like”

© _International Film Service._

Liquid Fire—The War’s Most Terrible Weapon

It was introduced by the Germans and later adopted by the French. The inflammable liquid was carried in tanks on the backs of soldiers and the flames were expelled through a nozzle at the end of a short hose.]

As a rule the experience of one “caught in his own trap” is regarded with a good deal of satisfaction by human nature in general. The spectacle of anyone “hoist with his own petard” seems quite in the line of poetic justice, and there is not much sympathy with the victim. But there are instances when the merited recoil punishment is too ghastly, too appalling to permit of any other sensation than that of horror, and a French correspondent on the Somme has recorded such an instance. One detachment of the French line was under heavy and concentrated fire, and the commanding officer thought it advisable to withdraw the men to a better position, about fifty yards in the rear. The correspondent quotes the statement of the soldier left behind to watch and signal the movements of the enemy. He says:

“I fixed myself about fifteen feet up in the crotch of a big tree and seized a telephone which was connected with the nearest battery. From there I could see a German trench at the edge of a little wood, about eighty yards from the trench my comrades had vacated.

“For nearly an hour nothing happened. Occasionally I noticed heads peering from the Boche trench, trying to see into the empty trench which was hidden from them by a slight rise of the ground just before it. They would have been a splendid mark for a sniper, but I had other work this time. Suddenly a group of about forty Boches crept from the wood, rapidly followed by the best part of a company. I telephoned: ‘Enemy advancing led by a detachment of flamenwerfer,’ for I had recognized the devilish apparatus carried by the foremost group. When the latter were about eighty feet from the empty trench, they halted in a hollow just below the rise of ground, and then, with appalling suddenness, a dozen jets of white and yellow flames darted up to fall plumb into the trench. The dense smoke hid the Germans from me for a time, but, thanks to my mask, I was able to gasp information to the battery.

“A few moments later I had a glimpse of what hell must be like. Our gunners had the range to an inch, and a torrent of shells burst right among the flame-throwers, exploding the containers. Great sheets of flame shot up, one jet from a container just grazing me, burning my clothes so that my ribs were scorched rather badly. But it was impossible to escape. The ground was a sea of fire. In the midst of it the Germans, like living torches, were dying horribly. One man spun round like a top, not even trying to run away, until he fell in a pool of flame. Others rolled on the ground, but the blazing liquid ran over them everywhere, and I could smell the sickening odor of burning flesh.

“I don’t think any of the fire-throwers escaped. Their screams, heard despite the cannonade and rifle fire, seemed to continue terribly long. The company behind them was panic-stricken. As the smoke lifted, I saw them moving back to the wood, and our _mitrailleuse_ did severe execution, spreading added slaughter over that scene of horror.

“I was nearly fainting with the fumes and the pain of my burns. The Captain sent a patrol, which found me hanging limply in the tree fork. They had trouble getting me, but luckily the Germans were too staggered to interfere.”

HE JESTS AT SCARS

A Bomb Thrower and Tank Master Who “Paid His Way in Huns”

It is very hard to pick out definitely any single name and exclaim “Here is the Hero!” Not that that man would not be a hero, but that he is not the only hero, and definite naming of some seems to exclude all the rest. If this book shows anything, it shows that in the horrors of the vast conflagration—in the terrible, awe-inspiring strain of the fighting on earth and on water, and underneath, and above—practically all the millions involved proved themselves heroes. Many of them found no chance to show their valor in lone ventures, and not all of them lost the lives they were so ready to give up. But they were heroes—all of them—though no papers heralded in brave headlines their deeds of glory, and no medals shine forth the commendation of the superior officers. All we need to see is the mud-stained uniform—and that look in the eye. This book is really a dedication to the innumerable heroes we do not name—heroes to be perhaps ever nameless in human documents.

It is hard even where men were given the opportunity for individual bravery to pick them out. Official records are brief, and, in the main, the men themselves refuse to tell. But _Scribner’s Magazine_ has uncovered one of these hard-to-get heroes. He calls himself Lieutenant “Z.,” and it is only between the lines that we read of his endless sacrifice, courage, and death-defying accomplishments.

The story is taken from letters written by him in the trenches. At the very beginning of the war he had enlisted as a trooper in a newly-formed cavalry regiment. All winter they waited to be called to action. Spring came—and yet no call or need for horsemen. They therefore volunteered to dismount, and were sent to Flanders. He himself joined the “Bombing Squad.”

© _New York Herald._

Forward With Hand Grenades

A strong arm, a keen eye, and a disregard for danger are the requisites for the man who throws grenades or bombs.]

Bomb throwing, he soon found, is “quite a ticklish business, needing care and accuracy. A badly thrown bomb may kill one’s own men remarkably easily, and in the hands of inexperienced men I should call them good allies for the Germans.” But his own efficiency speaks for itself. In some ten days the records named him as wounded, and he writes a hasty letter home to say that he is well. “My wound is only a scratch on the arm,” he complains, “and I did not show it to the doctor until our return to these billets. It is ridiculous to return me as ‘wounded.’

LIVING NINE PINS

“We went into the trenches on Saturday night last, and came out Thursday morning just before dawn. Four days and five nights practically without sleep, and being shelled by Jack Johnsons more or less the whole time. It is a one-sided game, with the odds with the artillery. We sit and hold a trench, being the nine pins while the guns roll the ball at you. You can do nothing but swear softly. No Germans actually attacked our trench, but they tried to do so on each side of us. But on Tuesday afternoon about 6.30 p.m. I got a little of my own back from them. I had just returned with a sack full of water bottles from a stream near by behind our trench, where we dodge snipers, when the call suddenly came for ‘Bomb throwers to the front’ and the rifles and machine guns started a terrific popping. I was in shirt sleeves, and just slammed on my ammunition equipment and skedaddled off with my rifle up the trench towards the racket, incited by a great eagerness to get into the thick of it.

“After a long time, as it was a long way, crouching and running and crawling I got to where I could see our men throwing bombs into the Germans. You could hear nothing for the noise, for it seemed as if every German rifle, Maxim, and big gun was turned on that spot; their shrapnel was going ‘Brrangg’ overhead and their shells going ‘Whangg’ all about. I took a few shots at the devils with my rifle, by way of resting and getting my breath, and then I got hold of a box of bombs and started to crawl and drag it up there. The box was heavy and, to my delight, another young chap, a Strathcona, came and helped me. We dragged and humped it along, over bumps and across shell holes and over our dead, until we got to the extreme point where the Germans were retreating up their trench and being bombed by our men unmercifully. There I found my own Sergeant of our bomb throwing squad, to my great relief.

“I had never thrown a live bomb in my life but soon found out, as it is quite a simple affair and they were lovely bombs for working. You could see a clump of German bayonets huddled like sheep, over their parapet top, and you chucked a bomb into it and prayed for the explosion. When it came the bayonets wavered and wabbled and then disappeared. If the bomb did not explode you waited and backed up because those plucky Germans lighted it again and threw it back. And so on and so on. I _know_ I got 3 bombs into them fairly and squarely and heard them explode and saw the bayonets flop down. We finally got to a place at a turn in the trench, an angle, and our men, the —— something or other, were firing directly across us, excitedly of course, and they killed about 12 of our men there, two of them being of my squad and within a few feet of me, and two more were wounded. I was by that time about played out and the bombs were all exhausted, so we sat down to wait for more, and when they came I could not get up, for I had cramp in both of my legs and had to be rubbed and rubbed. That must have been about 8 p.m. But I could drag around, so I dressed two wounded men and helped to fill sand bags and pass them along until 10 p.m. I should judge. About 10.30 p.m. the only officer present told us the thing was over for the time and no more could be done, and we crawled back, as the rifles and Maxims and shrapnel and Jack Johnsons were just as busy all the time. The Sergeant and I got back to our own trench after 11 p.m. and I was more than tired. Never have I been so played out in my whole life. We lost three killed, two wounded, and another who went off his head later, out of nine, including the Sergeant, out of our bomb throwing squad. And I had not a scratch. Just a bump on the breast bone from something kicked up by a Jack Johnson. It was a bad thing for the Germans but we lost a lot of good men there.

“Our troop was 38 strong but now only 26 are left. We were in the foremost British trench of the British front here and our Troop had the post of honor. So we ought not to mind anything.”

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant John F. Nugent

_42nd Division, 165th Infantry, 83rd Brigade_

He was recommended for the Distinguished Service Cross for three days’ fighting in the Château-Thierry Sector. He was mentioned for having maintained liaison under heavy bombardment, as well as having performed first-aid work.]

“PAID HIS WAY IN HUNS”

Our bomb thrower was twice promoted for bravery, and finally was offered a commission in his regiment “for setting traps for Fritz when he goes a-sniping.” A bomber is called on to do a lot of work besides bombing, such as crawling about at night sniffing trouble, and likely points where Huns may be blown sky high. He would like to get a quick promotion but “at any rate,” he writes, “I can truthfully say that I have already blotted out enough Huns to pay for my scalp, if that business deal comes to the point of record. And it is a most cheerful and fortifying sensation. I would like my epitaph to read ‘He paid his way in Huns.’”

Wounds, yes, and minor disabilities, but he writes, “I don’t need my left side to throw bombs and the Lord has spared my right side for a special purpose. I have got more than my share of Huns as it is and I firmly intend to get some more. Three of us, with sufficient bombs, accounted for 46 dead Huns, 26 wounded and 22 prisoners in one single afternoon. This was a redoubt which they surrendered, after they had had enough.”

He was finally sent away to an Officers’ Training Camp and after six weeks came back to the front as first lieutenant. In the meantime, though, his regiment had been remounted and was doing patrol duty. Patrol duty did not suit Lieutenant Z. He therefore joined the Machine Gun Corps, and spent several months in a “Tank Menagerie.” At Messines Ridge he led a division of the “Rhinos” into battle. The Military Cross he won there is only small evidence to the steadfast heroism he displayed that day.

He was well acquainted with conditions by that time. His description of a battle at the Somme shows that:

“I was only fifteen hundred yards from our front line, and the place taken was on an upward slope, so all was in full sight. At the given moment, 4.45 p.m. of a lovely summer evening, up they went, ‘over the top,’ famous Celtic regiments, all together, a long and gallant line. Bayonets sparkling in the sun, up the slope they go! Behind me our massed batteries are making one great crashing roar till your temples throb and throb, and ahead of our men the very earth is heaving and moving amidst a fog of green and black and yellow and gray smoke. Now, No Man’s Land, so long a desert, is full of life and death and joy and misery. White vicious balls of shrapnel puff above; or deadly black and green ones, and below the great spouts and mushroom columns of jet-black smoke spring up like fungoid growths here and there. The shrill rat-tat of machine guns and the pop-pop-pop of rifles can be heard. On the little figures run and jump, and the bayonets gleam and sparkle, and the first line disappears into the trench ahead, and you are left to imagine what follows. Still, No Man’s Land is well populated. Wave after wave is speeding straight ahead. The ground is dotted with immovable dots, and others which can crawl. A bright magnesium star shoots up well ahead, and the batteries lift their fire without checking. The waves all surge forward and out of sight at last, and No Man’s Land is left to its misery. Then you see the stretcher-bearers out there among the great grinding ‘crumps’ and the shrapnel, calmly picking up their men, and back they come slowly. You watch one group of five. Four bearers and a mangled something which is alive. A monster spout and cloud springs up near. They swerve and crouch for a few seconds and on they come. Another black death entirely hides them from view, and you wonder. No! Here they come. So slowly and steadily through the cloud, and you say to yourself: ‘Hurry, hurry; for God’s sake run!’ But they don’t. They walk slowly and carefully with their burden, straight and the shortest way. Some win home and some do not. Other men are carrying others, and some hobble and limp and stagger by themselves. And all the while the big shells burst and the shrapnel sprays the ground.

“No Man’s Land is again a desert, dotted with dots of death.”

A GO WITH A TANK

On June 6th he was given orders to lead a tank through battle. He must have had brave folks at home to write:

Sergeant Grady Parrish

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

He reorganized his platoon and personally led it in the attack on Côte de Chatillon. By his daring acts he broke up a heavy enemy counter-attack on his front, thereby setting to his men an example of exceptional heroism and devotion to duty.]

“When you get this, I shall have been through the mill and either all right, in hospital, or blotted out, so don’t worry. As soon as I can I will write and let you know the news; if I can’t, some one else will. We hope to make a page of history, and go into it with light hearts and great confidence. This place is Bedlam, the lions about to be fed, the parrot-house at the Zoo, and a few other noisy places combined. I went through gas last night near dawn, and had no respirator (forgot it). Held my breath till I nearly burst and blew up, and made record time. Beyond a harmless whiff picked up when I exploded for air, which has made smoking less of a pleasure, no harm done.

“Good-by. I have had a long run out here, and I must not complain, and I have thoroughly enjoyed it and would repeat it, every bit of it, if it were necessary.”

The next letter speaks for itself:

“IN BELGIUM, June 10th, 1917.

“DEAR M.:

“Your letter found me in hospital and was most delightful company. My trouble is not much, just a bullet through fleshy part of right forearm and a graze in the side, and I am up and about and going back to my lot in a day or two. We were an active part in the great drama of the 7th, and what with the bursting mine-earthquakes and the tempestuous bombardment, one was lucky to be left with one’s senses. I, personally, was very successful, reaching all my objectives and getting slap into the blue-gray devils, Bavarians, and blazing away like a dreadnought. Oh! The sights which were seen! Luck, good and bad, was with me, for my bus caught on fire in action just where the thing was thickest, and I ordered the whole crew out, with fire-extinguishers, to put it out. Out we went and got busy. I left my crew on the sheltered side (more or less), but my corporal, without orders, got on top, while I went to the exposed side, vociferously ordering the corporal down, and we got the blaze out between us.

“Meantime one of my crew was bowled over. We got him back inside and later he came to and is recovering. Where I was the bullets were splattering around me and hitting old ‘Squash ’em Flat’ and splashing me with fine sprays of broken metal, and there it was I got my trifling wound and scratches, but it was only bad Bavarian shooting that kept me and my corporal (who was untouched) from being turned into human sieves. After that, we carried on, and as I had finished my job to the last letter, we came on home, and I brought the old thing back safely.

SOMETHING OF A MYTH

“Our game sounds comfortable and protected, but that is a myth. It is a mystery how ever any of us got there or got back. You feel very important because you are heralded, followed and encircled by miniature geysers of earth, smoke and biff-bang! Your own infantry flees from you as if you bore the plague. A good many of our lot got into serious trouble, and quite a few faces of chums are missing to-day. The day for the British Army was a veritable howling success, and the Boche fought here with no spirit at all. They bolted like rabbits, throwing away rifles and equipment, some back to Berlin and some to us, hands up, and Kamerading. Our casualties were very light, indeed, owing to the absolutely artistic work of the artillery; and with our airmen the combination is unbeatable. These wonderful airmen! Like meteors in the sky, they swoop and fly, entirely regardless of everything but the job on hand.

“Our men fight so cheerfully and whimsically and sarcastically. There is no vestige of hate toward the Boche, only an abiding disgust and hearty contempt—a feeling as toward a mongrel who has fairly gone and got hydrophobia and must be killed to save valuable human life. We are really most jubilant over the past three days’ work, and every one is smiling and happy and cracking jokes. Gramophones are whirling at top speed, bands are playing in the camps, pipes are skirling and moaning and quickening the pulse, and the Hun is licking his wounds in silence over there to the east, in silence and afraid.”

The War Office took cognizance of the little affair:

“LONDON, July 12th, 1917.

“TO ——:

“Beg to inform you that Lieutenant Z., Heavy Branch Machine-Gun Corps, was wounded June 7th, but remained at duty.

“SECRETARY, WAR OFFICE.”

On June 20th the Military Cross was awarded to Lieutenant Z.

EPIC OF THE FOREIGN LEGION

Its Wonderful Story Will Stand as One of the Vital Things of the War

The self-redeemed have always had the world’s sympathy—sometimes they have won the world’s acclaim. Visitors to that shrine of French honor and glory, the famous Hôtel des Invalides, may now see the battleflag of the Foreign Legion, draped between the flag of the Cuirassiers who fell at Reichshofen, and the standard borne by the Garibaldians in 1870-1871—not only draped in that honorable association, but wearing on its folds the cross of the Legion of Honor. And those who know will tell visitors that that flag was the flag of the redeemed.

It was said with shame and contempt at first that the Foreign Legion was composed of the riff-raff, scalawags and murderous upstarts of the nether world. So it was, but events proved that “there is a spirit in man” that can throw off degraded conditions and rise to the performance of nobly heroic deeds and sacrifices. This Legion, made up of renegades and social outcasts from all quarters of the globe, men beyond the pale of the law speaking a various language, tendered its services to France in 1915, was recognized by the President of the Republic, accepted by the Commander-in-Chief and admitted to the army on an equal footing with the regular regiments of the line. The pariahs became soldiers of France.

It was an extraordinarily nondescript assembly—all nationalities, all colors, from the black of the negro to the blonde of the Saxon, having but two things in common, their former outlawry and the “spirit that quickeneth,” and through the quality of that spirit they squared their debt to life,—for the Legion dissolved in the fire that met the “drive” in September, 1915, so soon after it entered the service. As one of the few survivors wrote: “War did its worst thoroughly with the Legion. We had the place of honor in the attack, and we paid for it.” Right good words.

There is all the material for an epic in the glory of the Foreign Legion. A great deal has been written about it, but the best is yet to be written—some time when the war is further away, and out of its horror the things that glow will rise into clearer view. Really, it is a great thing when the reject of the social order spring from their fugitive haunts and rush to death in defense of the higher civilization. In the meantime there is the moving story, graphically yet simply told, by Legionary Morlae, a survivor, published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ for March, 1916.

The Legion was placed in the van, and Morlae’s company formed the front line of the extreme left flank.

Infinite care had been taken with the preparations, every detail provided for, even to the extent of arming twelve men from each company with long knives and hand grenades for use in their assigned duty as “trench-cleaners”; this duty was to enter the German trenches and caves and bomb-proofs and “dispose of such of the enemy as were still hidden therein after we had stormed the trench and passed on to the other side.”

JUST BEFORE GOING INTO ACTION

“One hour before the time set for the advance, we passed the final inspection and deposited our last letters with the regimental postmaster. Those letters meant a good deal to all of us, and they were in our minds during the long wait that followed. One man suddenly began to intone the _Marseillaise_. Soon every man joined in singing. It was a very Anthem of Victory. We were ready, eager, and confident: for us to-morrow held but one chance—Victory.

_Courtesy of Scribners._

A Platoon of the Foreign Legion

The legion of adventurous spirits who fought for France, made up of renegades and social outcasts from all quarters of the globe. It had the right of honor in an attack and went through the bitterest fighting on the Western front.]

“I had written to my friends at home. I had named the man in my company to whom I wished to leave my personal belongings. Sergeant Velte was to have my Parabellum pistol; Casey my prismatics; Birchler my money-belt and contents; while Sergeant Jovert was booked for my watch and compass. Yet, in the back of my mind, I smiled at my own forethought. I knew that I should come out alive.

“I recalled to myself the numerous times that I had been in imminent peril: in the Philippines, in Mexico, and during the thirteen months of this war: I could remember time and again when men were killed on each side of me and when I escaped unscratched. Take the affair of Papoin, Joly, and Bob Scanlon. We were standing together so near that we could have clasped hands. Papoin was killed, Joly was severely wounded, and Scanlon was hit in the ankle—all by the same shell. The fragments which killed and wounded the first two passed on one side of me, while the piece of iron that hit Bob went close by my other side. Yet I was untouched! Again, take the last patrol. When I was out of cover, the Germans shot at me from a range of 10 meters—and missed! I felt certain that my day was not to-morrow.

“Just the same, I was glad that my affairs were arranged, and it gave me a sense of conscious satisfaction to think that my comrades would have something to remember me by. There is always the chance of something unforeseen happening.

“The strain was beginning to wear off. From right and left there came a steady murmur of low talk. In our own column men were beginning to chaff each other. I could distinctly hear Subiron describing in picturesque detail to Capdevielle how he, Capdevielle, would look, gracefully draped over the German barbed wire; and I could hear Capdevielle’s heated response that he would live long enough to spit upon Subiron’s grave; and I smiled to myself. The moment of depression and self-communication had passed. The men had found themselves and were beginning their usual chaffing. And yet, in all their chatter there seemed to be an unusually sharp note. The jokes all had an edge to them. References to one another’s death were common, and good wishes for one another’s partial dismemberment excited only laughter. Just behind me I heard King express the hope that if he lost an arm or a leg he would at least get the _médaille militaire_ in exchange. By way of comfort, his chum, Dowd, remarked that, whether he got the medal or not, he was very sure of getting a permit to beg on the street-corners.”

Here is a significant touch to be remembered. An hour before midnight as they passed down to the front trenches the men in the supporting trenches regarded them enviously in the darkness, demanding to know why these men should be going into battle ahead of themselves. And the answer came, “Nous sommes la Légion.” “A-a-a-a-h la Légion!” That was the satisfactory explanation. “Our right to the front rank seemed to be acknowledged. It did every man of us good.”

It was the recognition of the right to redemption!

OVER THE TOP AT DOUBLE-QUICK

There had been heavy artillery fire through the night, increasing in intensity as the hour of the morning appointed for the attack approached. The Germans, informed by their airmen of an unusual commotion in the enemy first line, began shelling that point, and the uproar was terrific when the signal was given for the Legion to go over the top. Says Morlae:

“I felt my jaws clenching, and the man next to me looked white. It was only for a second. Then every one of us rushed at the trench-wall, each and every man struggling to be the first out of the trench. In a moment we had clambered up and out. We slid over the parapet, wormed our way through gaps in the wire, formed in line, and, at the command, moved forward at march-step straight toward the German wire.”

As they moved forward at double-quick, men fell right and left under bursting shell, and the rain of bullets from the machine guns; but through all the appalling uproar Morlae could hear the clear, high voice of his captain shouting “_En avant! Vive la France!_”

STEADILY ON ACROSS A WALL OF FIRE

They went steadily on, supported by the fire of the rows of “75’s,” the fire-curtain in front outlining the whole length of the enemy’s line clearly, accurately. But above them was blackness, the low-flying clouds mingling with the smoke curtain; and out of that blackness “fell a trickling rain of pieces of metal, lumps of earth, knapsacks, rifles, cartridges and fragments of human flesh. The scene was horrible and terrifying. Across the wall of our own fire, poured shell after shell from the enemy, tearing through our ranks. From overhead the shrapnel seemed to come down in sheets, and from behind the stinking, blinding curtain came volleys of steel-jacketed bullets, their whine unheard and their effect almost unnoticed.... With me it was like a dream as we went on, ever on. Of a sudden our fire curtain lifted. In a moment it had ceased to bar our way and jumped like a living thing to the next line of the enemy. We could see the trenches in front of us now, quite clear of fire, but flattened almost beyond recognition. The defenders were either killed or demoralized. Calmly, almost stupidly, we parried or thrust with the bayonet at those who barred our way. Without a backward glance we leaped the ditch and went on straight forward toward the next trench, marked in glowing outline by our fire. I remember now how the men looked. Their eyes had a wild, unseeing look in them. Everybody was gazing ahead, trying to pierce the awful curtain which cut us off from all sight of the enemy. Always the black pall smoking and burning appeared ahead—just ahead of us—hiding everything we wanted to see.” And so on to the next trench ahead, what was left of it, where bayonet and gun-butt did their work speedily and then on, leaving the finishing touches to the “trench cleaners.”

The American Legion—men who were serving in the Canadian Army—presented to the Cathedral the flag of the United States and the flag of Canada. They were first placed on the altar and after a short service were carried to the north transept.]

Later of a sudden the German artillery in front ceased fire, and from the trench ahead the German troops “were pouring out in black masses and advancing toward us at a trot.” They thought it was a counter-attack and set themselves to meet it. But then the French artillery suddenly stopped firing and the supposed counter-attack was seen to be a surrender, the enemy coming forward in columns of four, officer leading, with hands up. As the prisoners were being escorted to the rear, the German artillery, aware of its mistake, resumed fire, viciously throwing shells among the masses of prisoners.

At last they gained the communication trench that led to their objective, the Navarin Farm. The trench was filled with dead or wounded Germans; and when they got to the final trench, it was wholly unoccupied. The French gunmen had done their work thoroughly. The men advanced into open position and dug in separately, smoked, chaffed each other, now and then made a dash to a neighbor’s hole, taking cheer in the fact that the charge was over and the object won.

But of the Legion such a pitiful few were left that it passed as a fact, surviving only as a memory; its war-sealed flag with the cross of the Legion of Honor, hanging in the Hôtel des Invalides, being the testimony of its service well done.

DARE-DEVIL FIGHTERS FROM THE PARIS SLUMS

As an addendum to this account of the final action of the Foreign Legion, brief reference to the _Bataillon d’Afrique_ is quite appropriate. This battalion was organized by the French government in 1832 for the purpose of bringing under indefinite military discipline the city roughs, Apaches, sneak-thieves, pickpockets, swindlers, forgers and other offenders of the lower world. All the social refuse whom the authorities despaired of making useful to civil life were sent to join this battalion, which differed from the ordinary battalion consisting of 1,000 men, in having no numerical limit. It was maintained in Africa. These soldiers were young daredevils, keen, brave, daring, and veritable terrors in a fight. This was so characteristic of them that the best French officers were eager to have command of them, especially as they were devotedly obedient to their officers.

When France was forced to defend herself against Germany at the outbreak of the Great War, there were 5,000 of the Bataillon d’Afrique, 3,000 garrisoned in Tunis and 2,000 in Morocco. They were summoned to France, and the first detachment of several thousand landed at Marseilles early in August and were at once hurried north and into Belgium. One battalion was surrounded at Charleroi by a detachment of the Prussian Guards, and the situation looked very black and desperate. But that did not affect the fighting spirit of the battalion (the Joyeux) except to give it intensity. The Joyeux buried their flag that it might be in no danger of falling into the hands of the enemy and, with fixed bayonets, by sheer force and will-power cut their way through the encircling guardsmen. This battalion was part of the heroic rearguard in the retreat from Belgium. At the battle of the Marne it took terrible revenge for its discomfiture by the Guards at Charleroi, when the Joyeux in their turn surrounded a regiment of the Prussian Guards, which did not cut a way out.

They gave a fine account of themselves, that is, those who had survived the earlier campaigns in the final grand offensive of the Allies.

Captain Cecaldi, who led the Joyeux in many campaigns, said of them:

“The place of the Joyeux is where the powder talks, face to danger. They ever give proof of a calm energy, devilish courage, attentive obedience. They fight always with a good humor. In the midst of shells and bullets, in the hardest part of the struggle, they make droll and witty remarks. And when the end comes the Joyeux know how to die nobly.”

“DOC OF THE FIFTH”

The Conversion of the Rev. J. H. Clifford, “Y” Worker, into A Hero Among Marines

Not every one understands that a soldier of the Lord has in him the material out of which to make a very effective soldier where shot and shell play havoc. The young men of the Army, Navy and Marines who went over to France to offer their lives in defense of their country’s ideals, discovered, in the experiences of the trenches, a something that rather cheapened in their estimation the forms and didactic solemnity of conventional religion. They had learned a more intimate thing, and it is the testimony of many clergymen that the “boys” found words only too cheap where works were in order. They had no hankering for sermons. They had caught an intimate understanding from the Unknown. They did not want to be preached to.

Therein lies the secret of the affectionate familiar devotion of the men of the regiment to “Doc of the Fifth.” It is a story that has been told widely in the press, and has been requoted in numerous periodicals, but it is a delightful instance of what may be called the quiet heroisms of life.

The Rev. John H. Clifford, minister of the Baptist Church in Tucson, Arizona, felt the urge to service on the other side when the United States began sending its boys to the fighting front. He promptly tendered himself as a “Y” worker, was accepted and sent abroad. His assignment carried him to the 5th Regiment of Illinois in the Vosges. He went prepared to do his duties as a minister of the Gospel and a servant of man.

He wore the blouse and tunic of the chaplain, insignia that indicated to some of the “Boys” that superior altitude of moral pretension and holier-than-thouness they were unwilling to acknowledge too cordially. So when he tried to begin his work with the men of the 5th, he was greeted by the declaration, “We don’t want any damned parsons around here,” and for two weeks they held aloof, ignoring the efforts to establish religious services.

But the Rev. John H. Clifford wasn’t a clergyman merely, he was a man—and he understood men. And this valuable asset incited a course of action destined to win the confidence and affection of those under his care. Instead, therefore, of standing on dignity and attempting to command the respect supposedly “due to the cloth,” he went to the men. He joined them in their hikes. He entered into their interests. He was ever ready to do his share and bear the equal hardships with them. They began to warm toward him, and finally, as one of the Marines put it, he was “adopted as a Leatherneck,” and he became to them “Doc”—“Doc of the Fifth.”

Entering the service as a “Y” worker, Rev. Clifford later became attached to the Fifth Marines and remained with that organization throughout its fighting. The men became so fond of him that they named him “Doc of the Fifth” and attached the Globe, Anchor and Eagle to his collar.]

SO THEY MADE HIM A MARINE