But soon the wounded began to filter in through the trenches—poor fellows, some walking quite erect with head or hand bound up; others stooping doubled up with pain or fear, their khaki coats spotted with great brownish stains, their faces and hands bloody. Then came the litter-bearers, staggering through the slippery mud up the hill, steadying themselves by a hand pressed against the trench walls as they bore their heavy burdens—still forms stretched flat, immobile, covered with an O.D. blanket from which protruded a pair of spiked shoes with the toes turned up. When we returned to the regimental P.C. these pathetic figures increased in number, for near it a first-aid dressing station had just been established. The stretchers lay upon the ground with the doctors stooping over them. The ambulances came up one by one, were filled as fast as the wounds were dressed, and dispatched to the rear. To our left was a division of French Colonials, Senegalese as black as ink. Their wounded were also coming in, and one of the most striking pictures I saw that day was one of these negro giants borne like a bronze knight on the shoulders of four prisoners—a group reminiscent of the statues on some mediaeval tomb. By now the prisoners were arriving in squads; then they were brought in by droves. In the first lot I counted no less than a hundred and forty; in the second over a hundred, and still they steadily poured in. Most of them were serious-looking men of middle age, who certainly seemed glad to be through with it, flinging down their helmets with gestures that plainly said: "Thank God, that's over." A few were slightly wounded but the great proportion wore new uniforms, clean, unspotted with mud, showing clearly that they had given up without a struggle; in fact, had dressed to go into captivity. Their sergeants lined them up in double ranks, under the watchful eye of their own lieutenants, while our men looked on with frank curiosity. Then they were questioned by our own Intelligence officers and marched off to the rear, shambling off with stooped shoulders under the guard of a few alert and rosy-cheeked young New Englanders.
All day long they continued to pour in, and that evening, at Rarécourt, the accommodations provided were so inadequate to the numbers that had come in, that I saw hundreds of them huddled together, crowded into temporary pens, fenced round with barbed wire, passing the night in the drizzling rain—living evidence of our victory."In The Story of the 168th Infantry we read: "Suddenly, with the instantaneity of a lightning flash, the whole north seems to rise up in flames and hurl itself forward—like an agile, hungry tiger leaping down upon its prey. With a thunderous, dismaying roar it fall upon the Chamois, raining steel and destruction. There is no need to waken anyone; air and earth tremble with the concussion of bursting shells, and the men at the front, in the support, back in town, all find themselves on their feet without being conscious of the force that placed them there. In the trenches every post, save those of the lookouts is instantly abandoned. Terrified bodies come rushing, slipping, stumbling, splashing to the dugouts, dodging bits of flying debris, ducking showers of dirt, their path lighted by flashing explosions. Already the wires connecting the front with the reserve are out, and all communication is suspended. From each G. C. rockets shoot heavenward, to be answered almost immediately by the alert artillery—half French, half American. Guards at dugout entrances breathlessly watch and wait, eyes and ears strained for the slightest variation in the deafening turmoil that may signify a shift in the barrage and give warning of the approach of the enemy. Soon the bombardment resolves itself into one steady roar in which it is impossible to distinguish the individual detonations. The heavy concentration of enemy shells is turning the whole Chamois system into a hecatomb of horror and confusion. Trenches that were, cease to be and leave in their place gaping craters which in turn are torn afresh. Carmine flashes from the northern sky translate themselves into carmine splashes and pools on the furrowed soil. A heavy cloud of smoke and dust, like a gigantic pass to enshroud those torn bodies whose spirits have fled, obscures the waning moon. Awed and shaken, the men crouch in the dark, oppressive dugouts, waiting for the signal that will send them forth to determine their fate. And while no man of them would avoid the responsibility about to be placed upon him, sudden memories crowd to the fore to make life seem more dear. An attempted jest, a bit of forced laughter, falls unheard from the lips of a comrade, for the pounding of the guns is equaled only by the wild pounding of their own hearts and the heavy breathing of their trembling bodies. A sickening sensation thus to be caged helpless like a hunted animal which awaits only the finishing stroke. At any moment one of the larger shells may bury them all—they have the alternative of forsaking the inadequate shelter and being blown to pieces in the open trench—or the outnumbering force of picked Stosstruppen may fall upon them before they have an opportunity to defend themselves. The suspense is enough to drive one mad. For a half hour there is no diminution of the fire. On the front line the enemy continues to rain a devastating storm from his field pieces, while the heavier guns, the 210's are directed on the support, and churn up the trenches about the headquarters of Companies B and D. The communicating boyaux have long since been obliterated, and with all wires severed the front is completely isolated.
Shortly after five, as the first cold streaks of dawn are rifting the morning sky, the observers at the dugout mouths perceive a slight shifting of the barrage and immediately pass down the information. "Every man to his post," shout the commanders."
"American Expeditionary Forces, France. August 1, 1918.
DEAR MOTHER,--Yesterday I had a wonderful experience; I saw an actual battle from a hill. I lay in a big field of crimson clover, all in blossom, on the top of a sunny hill. It was a beautiful Summer day, hot and brilliant. White butterflies fluttered everywhere; the air was full of the hum of bees; far overhead I could hear two larks singing. Below was a broad valley, a checker-board of yellow and green, ripened wheat fields and green clover; with here and there patches of velvet woods. There were old farmhouses along the road which dipped over the rolling fields and wound away through the tiny forests. On the right was a toy-like village with a big church steeple rising out of the center of it, controlling the whole country. Then suddenly, our barrage began, like a mighty thundering behind me. The air was filled with the whine and shriek of thousands of shells and the sleepy road in the valley became an inferno. Dust clouds rose hundreds of feet; trees shook, trembled and fell; a shot hit the old tower and it crashed over. Relentlessly, the barrage kept up, beautiful to watch because of its dreadfulness; then it began to roll steadily forward, so that every square yard seemed to be covered. Then like a flash it stopped—the world was deathly still; so still that the hum of the insects became prominent again. Out from the woods below filtered a long thin line of brown American troops, their bayonets flashing in the sun. There came the monotonous rat-tat-tat of the Boche machine guns from the further woods; still they kept on, here and there a man went down, his bayonet making an arc of fire as he fell. Behind them came another wave, and another, and another, till every field was full of advancing men. They entered the woods and the fields were empty again, and—as if someone had pushed an electric button, the deafening barrage began anew, sweeping the woods clean before the hidden infantry. Suddenly the barrage stopped and from the woods came a long grey column of about 600 BochePrisoners, a snake-like line, that wound away down the dusty road to the rear. The attack was over for the day—the woods that had so menaced our advance with their machine gun nests all clean and free. To-night we shall be on the march once more—still going forward, close on the heels of the Crown Prince's veterans. All my love, TREVENEN." August 15, 1918 "I passed through several villages which have come into our hands only within the last week,--every one of them the scene of fierce and bloody fights. You can have no idea of the devastation, the complete desolation, of these pretty French villages which the artillery of each side has reduced to a battered mass of ruins; where the roofs and walls of the houses are still standing they are pitted with shell holes; of the rooms inside, perhaps one corner is left untouched with pictures on the walls, furniture standing, and in some places the tables set with dishes and the remains of a meal still there; the other corner is a heap of rubbish, piles of stone and timber which have fallen from a gaping hole in the roof above. The roads are full of shell holes, gardens destroyed, fruit trees sawed down, and the beautiful shade trees shattered and torn by the hail of shells and bursting shrapnel they have suffered. Everywhere along the roads and in the houses are scattered old rifles and uniforms, equipment of all kinds left behind or abandoned in the struggle, piles of shells and empty shell cases, guns and cannon destroyed or deserted, everywhere waste, ruin and destruction that makes one sick to look upon. How I pity the poor French inhabitants who will return to find their homes shattered masses of stone, in ruins as complete as if a mighty earthquake had leveled each house to the ground. Yet the French will come back and immediately set about restoring their houses as best they can. In Chateau-Thierry the inhabitants followed the troops so closely that two days after the last German had been driven back from the town the French families began to come back.
Surely no people with such indomitable courage as that can ever be crushed or conquered."
"We had revised our idea of an offensive, and decided that, with all its disadvantages it had its good points, an admission never found in the best-seller versions of warfare. In a quiet sector, life is fairly comfortable, with deep dugouts, trenches, and all that,--but you get stale. There is a nervous strain and various other unpleasantnesses, yet no results are ever apparent. You simply get stale. It begins to look like an endless job.—But in a drive it's different! You can see the results of your work. When you go into action over dead Boche horses which are still warm, you realize that you are advancing. You are doing what you enlisted to do, and doing it hard. There is a chance for the enthusiasm and dash of other wars—so hopelessly lost in the deadlock of trench warfare. The roads teeming with armed men, columns of artillery stretching for miles, fields alive with troops infected with the spirit of the advance, prisoners streaming back, great panoramas of open country, changing scenes, excitements, quick alarms; all of these jumbled together produce a state of exhilaration." In James Cooke's book, The Rainbow Division, we read: "There is a strange transformation that the soldier undergoes. The report of any gun, at first, makes him jumpy, but the report of his own guns—these being nearer usually—make him jumpiest of all. But when he becomes acclimated, becomes accustomed to the work at the front, there is nothing that adds to his peace of mind and contentment like the crack of his own guns near at hand. When your own guns are belching a heavy torrent of steel over your heads, you, if you are a seasoned campaigner, sleep a sweet sleep that know no dreams. Lt. Thompson's feeling of isolation increased as he saw GC 9. The untried lieutenant recalled: The sight that greeted us brought an immediate and positive reaction. "Desolate" was the only name for it. A mass of rusty barbed wire was sitting on crisscrosses of posts that seemed to grow from the ground. Ghost-like trees to the right were splattered with shell scars. Some had fallen into the mass of twisted wire and upturned earth. Others were broken off at various heights, like so many match sticks. The expanse of desolation sloped up a gentle rise. The German trenches were hidden behind the crest some two hundred yards away. As he toured the line, Thompson was overpowered by a sickening stench. French intelligence was examining the body of a dead German soldier to find documents and to confirm the dead man's unit for order of battle information. The young officer became so violently ill that he staggered back to the dugout, where he was still overwhelmed by the smells of death, unwashed bodies, human excrement, rotting equipment, and spoiling food. He watches as the ever-present "Slum" was served to the troops, who had no rags to clean their mess tins. An old wad of newspaper or crust of bread was used to wipe the greasy mess-plate that a few minutes before had held stew. All the lessons in military hygiene that Thompson had learned were invalid once in GC 9. A few minutes later, he looked at his wooden bunk, one of many in a tier, and underneath the bottom bunk stood ankle-deep water. On a small table a single flickering candle illuminated the dugout, and all Thompson could feel was a sense of isolation and desolation."