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THE FIGHT FOR THE ARGONNE

Personal Experiences of a "Y" Man

by

WILLIAM BENJAMIN WEST

With an Introduction by

BURGES JOHNSON







    [Illustration: FORD CAMIONETTE DRIVEN BY W. B. WEST]


    [Illustration]


The Abingdon Press
New York      Cincinnati

Copyright, 1919, by
William Benjamin West




  TO THE BOYS OF THE 37th DIVISION A.E.F.
  WITH WHOM I WAS PRIVILEGED TO
  SERVE ON THE ALSATIAN BORDER
  AND IN THE ARGONNE




FIGHTING UNITS OF THE
37th DIVISION
GUARD ARMY (OHIO)
AND THEIR COMMANDING
PERSONNEL ON SEPT. 5th, 1918


37TH DIVISION

MAJOR GENERAL C.S. FARNSWORTH
Commanding.

LIEUT. COLONEL DANA T. MERRILL
Chief of Staff.

MAJOR EDWARD W. WILDRICK
Adjutant General.


73RD BRIGADE OF INFANTRY

BRIG. GENERAL C.F. ZIMMERMAN
Commanding.

145th Regiment
COL. SANFORD B. STANBERRY.

146th Regiment
COL. C.C. WEYBRECHT.

135th Machine Gun Battalion
MAJOR CHARLES C. CHAMBERS.


74TH BRIGADE OF INFANTRY

BRIG. GENERAL W.P. JACKSON
Commanding.

147th Regiment
COL. F.W. GALBRAITH, JR.

148th Regiment
COL. GEORGE H. WOOD.

136th Machine Gun Battalion
MAJOR JOHN A. LOGAN.


62ND BRIGADE OF FIELD ARTILLERY

Commanding officer not announced

134th Regiment
COL. HAROLD M. BRUSH.

135th Regiment
COL. DUDLEY M. HARD.

136th Regiment
COL. PAUL L. MITCHELL.

112th Trench Mortar Battery
CAPTAIN A.S. DILLON.


ENGINEER TROOPS

112th Regiment
COL. JOHN R. MCQUIGG.


SIGNAL TROOPS

112th Field Signal Battalion
MAJOR RUSSELL L. MUNDHENK.


DIVISION UNITS

37th Division Headquarters Troop
CAPTAIN FRANK F. FREBIS.

134th Machine Gun Battalion
MAJOR WADE C. CHRISTY.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                                      PAGE

     INTRODUCTION                                              11

  I. FIVE WEEKS IN A FLIVVER                                   15

 II. ON THE MOVE                                               42

III. OUR INVINCIBLES                                           54

 IV. HOLDING THE LINE                                          71

  V. TANKS AND TRACTORS                                        83

 VI. PEN PICTURES                                              91

VII. MORAL FLASHES                                            112




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


FORD CAMIONETTE DRIVEN BY W. B. WEST               _Frontispiece_

                                                      Facing page

GERMAN AERIAL BOMB (SMALL)                                     24

GERMAN AERIAL BOMB (LARGE)                                     48

MEMORY SKETCH OF A SECTOR OF THE BATTLEFIELD, 1918             54

FRENCH OFFICER--GERMAN OFFICER                                 64

GERMAN WEAPONS                                                 94

VARIETIES OF SHELLS AND BOMBS (PHOTOGRAPHED AT NANCY)         120




INTRODUCTION


It was on the road from Neufchateau to La Foche, where Base Hospital
117 was located, that I first became acquainted with the author of
this book. He evidently knew how to run a Ford camionette, even though
it was not in just the shape in which it left the factory. I remember
that I asked him what he did for a living back in the States--those
service uniforms were great levelers--and he said he was a parson.
"But now you are a chauffeur," I objected. "Well, you see," he said,
"when I first came over they asked me to fill out blanks indicating
what I could do, and in that statement I admitted that I could run a
car. I also said I could preach. They tried me out as a chauffeur and
liked my work so well that they said they would stand pat on that;
they had never heard me preach."

As a matter of fact, I heard Mr. West preach that morning to the boys
suffering from war neurosis, or "shell shock," in Hospital 117. He had
helped them out on former Sundays there, and they sent for him again
and again.

Later, when I was in the Baccarat sector, I met a most interesting and
effective man who was in the Supply Department of the "Y" on week
days, and conducted services in outlying camps every Sunday morning
with great success. He had been a circus acrobat back in the States.
What a revolutionizing influence war is, with preachers chauffeuring
and acrobats preaching! The important point was that they were all
serving whole-heartedly in whatever way they could.

It was in Baccarat that I met West again, running his car,
transporting newspapers or moving-picture machines, or canteen
supplies, or itinerant entertainers such as I, out over any sort of
road toward the front line. His glimpses of the great war were from an
angle of vision that makes what he has to say in this book well worth
reading. His duties took him into every sort of billet, and brought
him into close touch with many branches of the army, as well as with
all sorts of welfare work and workers. I find that he refers, in
passing, to that dramatic moment when we stood on a hilltop and
watched the bombing of Baccarat just below us, while the Boche machine
passed very close overhead. He does not say that he hid behind one
tree and I hid behind another, trying to keep the trunks between us
and the flying shrapnel. Nor does he say that he picked up and carried
home a fragment which landed between us in the road, although it came
just as near to me as it did to him!

This started out to be an introduction to a book. It is really a
personal expression of good will toward one whom I was glad to meet
and touch for a moment in that strange whirlpool of human activity
last summer in France.

                                                  BURGES JOHNSON.

  Vassar College,
  March 3, 1919.




CHAPTER I

FIVE WEEKS IN A FLIVVER


"Halt!"

When above the noise and rattle of the car--for a Ford always carries
a rattle--you hear the stentorian command of the guard, _instantly_
every stopping device is automatically applied.

"_Who Goes There?_"

"A friend with the countersign."

"Advance! and give the countersign."

The guard at charge, with bayonet fixed, awaits your coming. When you
get within a few feet of the point of his bayonet the guard again
commands, "_Halt!_" In the silence and blackness of the night you
whisper the password and if he is satisfied that you are indeed a
friend he says, "Pass, friend." If he is not satisfied you are
detained until your identity has been established.

No matter how many hundreds of times you hear the challenge ring out,
each time you hear it a new thrill runs through your whole being and a
new respect for military authority holds you captive, for you
instinctively know that behind that challenge is the cold steel and a
deadly missile.

It was a splendidly camouflaged camionette that I inherited from
Hughes when I went to Baccarat on the Alsatian border. In all my
dangerous trips, by night and day, it never failed, and I think back
to it now with a tenderness bordering on affection.

My first day on the job I was sent out to five huts with supplies,
driving my own car and piloting the men who were sent out to pilot me.
Although they had been over the roads and were supposed to know the
way, they did not have a good _sense_ of direction and so were easily
lost.

The headquarters of the 37th Division were at Baccarat on the
Alsatian border. Strasburg lay fifty miles to the east and Metz
fifty-five miles to the northwest. To hold this front, an area fifteen
to twenty miles long, was the task of the Ohio boys until they were
relieved by the French the middle of September and sent into the
Argonne Forest.

Over this area were scattered twenty-one Y.M.C.A. huts. The
Headquarters hut was at Baccarat, which was farthest from the front
line--about ten miles back as the crow flies. The other huts were
scattered over the area at points most advantageous for serving the
boys and up to within a few hundred yards of the line. We had
thirty-four men and ten women secretaries. Our farthest advanced woman
worker had a hut all her own at Hablainville, a village where our
troops were billeted and where Fritzie kept everyone on the _qui vive_
by his intermittent gifts of high-explosive bombs and shells.

Miss O'Connor always inspired confidence. It mattered not whether she
was dealing with the hysterical French women when bombs exploded in
their gardens and fields, or whether she was counseling with the
Colonel, at whose table she was the invited guest. Her quiet
assurance, her cordial greeting, her intelligent understanding, and
her keen sally of wit made her always welcome. And the boys thronged
her hut. She did not try to "mother" them--the mistake some canteen
workers made. Nor did she try to "make an impression" upon them. She
quietly lived her life among them. No one could long be boisterous
where she was, and so I always found her hut a rendezvous where men
were glad to resort as they came from the battle or from camp.

Many were absorbed in their reading, of which there was a good
assortment--the daily papers, the magazines and a choice collection of
books furnished by the American Library Association. Other groups were
intent upon chess or checkers, while in the piano corner were the
musically inclined. Sometimes it was a piano or a baritone solo, but
most often the boys were singing "Keep the Home Fires Burning," "The
Long, Long Trail," or "Katy."

One day when delivering to the hut at Neufchateau, I was attracted by
the strains of music that came from the piano in the auditorium--the
"Y" there had a large double hut. I slipped into a back seat to
listen. A group of boys were around the piano while others were
scattered through the building attracted as I had been. At the old
French piano was a small khaki-clad figure, coaxing from its keys with
wizard fingers such strains as we had not dreamed were possible. We
were held spellbound until the musician, having finished, quietly
walked away, leaving his auditors suspended somewhere between earth
and heaven. One by one we walked silently out to our respective duties
of helping to make the world safe for such as he.

One Sunday evening just at dusk, I drove to our camp at Ker Avor. The
boys called this camp their summer home. It surely was an ideal spot
in the heart of a pine forest, high up in the Vosges Mountains. It was
also near enough to the enemy lines--about a mile distant--to make it
mighty interesting.

After delivering our supplies to the hut we went out to where a gang
of soldiers who were off duty had gathered in the forest. One was
playing a harmonica and another was "jigging" and telling funny
stories. Instantly and gladly they swung the gathering into a
religious service, with songs from the "Y" hymn book and a fine snappy
address as a speaker stood on a hummock surrounded by the silent,
thoughtful bunch. The sky was our canopy and with the moonlight
filtering through the branches of the pines, an indelible impression
was registered on every fellow there.

The boys were happy to have us come and showed us about their camp,
including an ingenious little chapel which had been built by the
Germans during their occupancy of this territory in the early part of
the War.

       *       *       *       *       *

My first near view of the Boche trenches came one day when, waiting
for our movie man at one of the huts, I went out "masked and helmeted"
to a hill between our first and second lines. The peculiar "chills"
and "thrills" of first sensations are indescribable. Cautiously and
with some inward trembling I followed Private Van Voliet, of the 146th
Infantry (Colonel Weybrecht's Regiment), across a shell-torn field
where twisted wire entanglements told of former fierce encounters. We
passed a Stokes mortar battery of the 147th Infantry concealed in low
bushes. The boys, lying idly in their dog-tents, wove canes from
willow branches wound with wire and capped with bullets. I was
presented with a cane by Private Boothby and a swagger stick by
Private Rhoades.

A five minute walk brought us to the "alert zone," where gas masks
must be adjusted and ready for instant use. The guard at the crossroad
allowed us to pass with the warning, "Keep under cover or you will
draw the fire of the Boche snipers." So we crawled through a hole in
the camouflaged screen which protected the road from German observers,
and keeping behind clumps of bushes we peered through at the trenches
just across the valley, in which Hun rifles lay cocked and primed for
any American who would dare become a target. I confess I breathed
easier when we got safely back to the "Y" hut.


NIGHT BOMBING

For four nights in succession Boche planes had been trying to drop
bombs on the rail-head where troop trains were being loaded near our
Headquarters. On the fourth night, when returning from a front line
hut with Secretary Johnson, who in America was a professor in Vassar
College, we stopped on a high ridge overlooking the battle line. This
was a favorite rendezvous on my return from night deliveries, as it
gave a wonderful panoramic view of the whole front line for miles in
either direction. The flashes of the guns, the dazzling brilliancy of
the star shells, the long lines of varicolored signals as they went up
from many camps and out-posts, and the flares dropped from scores of
planes, passing and repassing in the darkness overhead, can never be
forgotten. It was a nightly and wonderful Fourth of July celebration,
enhanced by the weirdness and danger of actual warfare.

As we stood this night, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, wearing
our "tin" hats and with gas masks at "alert," suddenly out of the
night loomed a German plane, flying low, the Boche engine
distinguished by its own peculiar throb. As it passed over our heads
it dropped a red flare and proceeded toward Baccarat. Evidently, it
had discovered our signals for that night and was using them. As soon
as its deception was discovered our gunners opened fire, but not until
it had dropped four bombs on the town and gotten away in safety toward
the German lines. The explosions from the bombs were terrific and the
flashes lit up the whole sky. We took refuge behind trees as shrapnel
from our anti-aircraft guns rattled down in the roadway and the "ping"
of machine-gun bullets startled our ears.

When we returned to town we found everything in confusion. One bomb
had exploded in the treetops a half block from our billet and had
wrecked the beautiful mansion of the French mayor of the town. It also
wounded some American soldiers in a nearby barracks. Another bomb
landed between two buildings at Hexo Barracks, killing three of our
boys and one French poilu, besides wounding many and shattering the
buildings. Four horses were killed by pieces of shrapnel, and when
looking over the scene of destruction the next morning I noticed a
hole, clean cut, through a half-inch steel tire on a nearby cart. It
had been cut by a piece of shrapnel about an inch long which had also
gone through spokes and hub and buried itself in the ground.

    [Illustration: GERMAN AERIAL BOMB (Small)]

At four o'clock one day, after the regular round of hut deliveries, a
special order was handed me from our chief for immediate execution. In
ten minutes I was off in my ever-faithful flivver. My order took me to
Reherrey, a village near the line, where a special pass was secured
from the commanding officer, allowing me to go over a dangerous road
exposed to the German guns. From the Y.M.C.A. Hut at Reherrey, I took
with me a new secretary, a Congregational minister from the Middle
West, to relieve McGuffy, the secretary at St. Pole, whom I was to
bring back to headquarters.

When we reached the hut at St. Pole, the secretaries, including
McGuffy, were out at the front with supplies for the boys. While
waiting for them to return we strolled about through the desolate
remnants of this old peasant village. My companion had not been under
fire before, so when the first shell from the Boche "heavies" came
whistling and whining toward us he hastened to the dugout saying,
"This is no place for me." He was ashamed of his own fear and proved
that he was a "regular guy" by joining in the laugh and jibes of the
fellows. Being reassured by the passing of several shells safely
overhead, he rejoined me in our tramp through the village. Every
portable thing of value had been carried off by the Huns and what was
left had been destroyed. Stoves had been broken down and beds and
furniture demolished.

When McGuffy got back we started for Baccarat. It was a stormy night,
black as ink, and we had to go over roads which the bombardment of the
early evening had torn up. It took two hours to go eight miles. When
we arrived we found an anxious group of "Y" workers discussing the
probability of our having been blown to pieces or captured by the
Boche, and they were just about to send out a searching party.

       *       *       *       *       *

No soldiers ever had anything on the boys from the Buckeye State. They
had been sent to the Alsatian border to hold the line against a
threatening foe. Persistent rumors told of a German drive on this
sector. Nothing but our men and guns and a few hastily constructed
wire entanglements stood in their way. And the German army had a name
for sweeping right through such open country and taking what it
wanted. But many things caused Fritz to stop and think. The German
raiding parties were failures. Only two out of a score succeeded in
getting the Americans. That meant that the Yankee out-posts were not
only on the job but also that they were absolutely fearless and able
to capture single-handed superior numbers of the enemy.

Then, one night just as the Germans seemed to be concentrating on a
dangerous salient, eighty of our big guns in a couple of hours coughed
up twelve hundred tons of gas and spit it in the faces of an enemy
that dared to think it could fool with Uncle Sam's boys from Ohio. For
two days after, the Boche were carrying their dead out of that area.

No more threats of a German drive were heard in that sector, but
reports came frequently of Boche prisoners and deserters who offered
to surrender whole companies of Huns if they could only be guaranteed
that the Americans would spare their lives.

Major H, a friend of old college days, was a staff officer of the 37th
Division and was as brave as he was big. His clear brain and military
genius laid out our machine-gun nests. He had studied carefully every
foot of ground and planted machine guns wherever they could command an
enemy advance or night raid. The direct and crossfire of these guns
were so coordinated that many guns could play upon a dangerous enemy
approach. It was a most exciting chess game which was being played
with real armies and men.

The Petty Post was the strategic point of our army out in No Man's
Land, and signals from the post would give warning of any sudden move
of the enemy. Its location was changed from time to time.

On August 27, at 7:30 P.M., we left headquarters in the official car.
Two chauffeurs who knew every shell-hole in the roads and who could
feel their way in the darkness were in the front seat. Major Hazlett
and another major who was inspecting trench conditions and personal
equipment were on either side of me in the back seat. The powerful
motor "purring" quietly waited Major Hazlett's "We're off." Quickly
the eight kilometers to the field headquarters of Colonel Galbraith,
147th Regiment, were covered. After cordial greetings the Major was
closeted in secret conference with the Colonel. In a half hour we were
off again. Major Hazlett alone knew his objective. That night it was
the sector near Heberviller. The captain's headquarters was a little
frame shack eight by ten feet, carefully guarded in the heart of a
dense woods. The sentry at the door demanded the password. In the
weird candlelight were the captain and four aides. We sat on empty
boxes and the edge of a table. Runners coming in out of the blackness
of the forest stood at attention while they communicated their secret
information and awaited further orders. Here investigations were made
and all the latest "dope" on possible enemy action was obtained.

It was gratifying to note the solicitude of the officers for the
comfort of the men. It was early fall and the nights were cool.

"Captain," said the Major, "how are your men dressed?"

"There is no complaint, sir."

"Do they still have their summer underwear?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is getting too cold for that. I will see that a new issue is
granted."

All stood to salute as we took our departure. When again on our way
the conversation of the back seat showed that the interest of these
officers in their men was genuine. For example:

"Harry, those boys do not have any overcoats. Nothing but raincoats
for these cold nights. Whose fault is that? Can't you get some
action?"

"They must have them immediately. I will so report to the Issue
Department."

Many times our car came to a sudden stop as a stentorian "Halt!"
pierced the darkness and our second chauffeur went forward to give the
countersign. One weak-voiced guard failed to make himself heard until
our car was almost past. Major Hazlett was instantly aroused:

"What is the matter with your voice?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Then shout it out. If this happens again I'll have you
court-martialed."

"Yes, sir!" And with a salute we proceeded.

Our last mile with the car was over shell-torn roads and past guards
who dared to pass no man without full proof of his identity. Many
German spies had been caught recently. Through the ruined village of
Heberviller we passed to the old chateau. Here we left the car with
the chauffeurs, and having been armed we started with two guides for
the trenches. Every gun emplacement was inspected to see if orders had
been faithfully carried out--and woe betide the man who failed. The
Major's intimate and technical knowledge of every detail in
machine-gun fighting, won the admiration of the men.

For three hours we walked "duck-boards"[1] through a maze of
connecting trenches, stealthily and silently following our guides and
stopping "dead" when a star shell burst near us. We had secret hopes
of taking prisoner some of the "Heinies" whom we could almost hear
breathing out there in No Man's Land.

As we talked with the men in Petty Post No. 10, the German 77's were
feeling for some vulnerable point just back of our line. We could see
the flash of the gun and hear that peculiar, fascinating "whine" as
it passed over our heads, and finally its mocking challenge as it
found its target. One of the men who was off guard, lay curled up in a
shell hole beside the trench, sleeping peacefully to the music of the
guns. Conversation here was whispered, and even the illuminated faces
of our wrist watches were carefully concealed in our pockets. And
every man knew well the reason why.

The sergeant in charge had a "hunch" that Fritz was coming over at a
certain hour of the early morning. We knew that "dope" coming from
enemy sources is often misleading and decided not to wait for the
"party." The next day we learned that the "party" was not "pulled
off," and our return to camp gave us a few hours of perfectly good and
needed sleep.


AN AIR BATTLE

Boche planes overhead were so common as to excite little interest, but
when in the midst of a heavy anti-aircraft barrage, the French
children playing outside our garage excitedly announced "Trois Boche
avions," we left off "tuning up" our engines and went out to watch
them--three specks high overhead and out of range of our guns.
Suddenly, from somewhere in the sky above, two Allied planes shot
toward the German "birds," and a battle ensued which we could clearly
see, although they were too high for us to hear the sound of their
machine guns.

With terrific burst of speed one of our planes shot toward one of the
German planes and seemed almost to ride on top of it, all the while
pouring into it a stream of machine gun bullets, the smoke of which we
could see. When they separated, ours rose but the German shot
downward, evidently out of control, and we held our breath in anxious
joy as we watched him drop two thousand feet or more. Then as he came
through a cloud and was hidden from the view of our planes, he
suddenly righted and shot off toward the German lines.

The next day the same thrilling scene was staged a little to the south
of us. But this time there was no disappointment. The rapid
"pu-pu-pu-pu-pu" of the machine gun told us that our pilot's gun was
working perfectly, and a burst of flame from the enemy plane told also
how true was his aim.

There can be no more thrilling moments in life than when you are
watching bodies out of control hurtling through space and are
breathlessly anticipating the crash. Your heart suspends operation,
even for an enemy. Hun though he was, he was still a hero of the air,
and chivalry prompted a decent burial on the banks of the beautiful
Meurthe. The wrecked plane furnished souvenirs for the many who saw it
fall.


HAND GRENADES

The hand grenade is a mighty dangerous weapon, but also a most
effective one when wisely used.

At Merviller I was delivering a load of supplies to the Y.M.C.A. hut.
A quarter of a mile to my right a deafening explosion was accompanied
by a mass of debris thrown high in the air. "A German bomb!" was the
first thought. And we waited expectantly to see where the next one
would strike. When there was no second, I drove around to investigate.
On a side street I found a crowd of soldiers and French civilians
already gathering. The Red Cross ambulance had "beat me to it," and
the surgeons were already working over the mangled bodies of four
American soldiers. The street was littered and unexploded hand
grenades lay everywhere. Two soldiers had been carrying gunny sacks
filled with grenades when one accidentally exploded, it in turn
exploding others until the wreckage was complete. A military
investigation would report the cause of the accident and the damage
wrought, and thus an incident of war would quickly become history.


THROUGH A GERMAN BARRAGE

On my last Sunday with the flivver I drove with Secretary Armstrong to
our hut at Pettonville. In the forenoon we helped Secretary Reisner in
the canteen. Then we closed, ate a lunch, and, loaded down with cakes,
raisins, cigarettes, and tobacco, started for the trenches. As we
neared the front line the Germans began shelling the woods toward
which we were headed. While we did some lightning calculating, we
never slackened our pace but went through to the battalion
headquarters. There a sniper volunteered as guide to the trenches. We
passed several company headquarters and gave out our supplies to the
men as they stood in the line with their mess kits.

When we left the first-line trenches we walked or crouched through
woods, where the bark of the trees toward the enemy was riddled and
broken by bullets, shrapnel, and shell; then through trenches which
had been abandoned but which ran far out into No Man's Land and
furnished splendid avenues to our Petty Posts. No. 4 was the first,
and was so exposed that only one man at a time was permitted with the
guide. Secretary Armstrong went first. While we were examining the
graves of German aviators who had been killed when their planes
crashed to earth, a rifle bullet whistled over our heads. We had been
seen by a German sniper, so we quickly crouched low behind the trench
wall. I found myself right over the grave of one of the Germans, and
was rewarded by finding on it a piece of German shell, grim paradox of
the fortunes of war.

We continued through the trenches to P.P. No. 5. This was our nearest
point in this sector to the enemy front line. It was difficult to get
through because of the mud and water in the trench. In some places,
because of exposure to the enemy guns, we had to crawl on our hands
and knees. At the post were eight men, two at the observation post and
the rest in a dugout nearby. The men at the P.P.'s are on guard
forty-eight hours, and off twenty-four hours. After ten days they are
relieved and go back for ten days' rest.

This special post was raided four times during that week. One report
said three hundred Germans came over but the men at the post said
about sixty. One attack was a surprise and they got four of our men.
The other times the Germans were routed with varying losses. The
P.P.'s are only observation posts and are not intended to be held in
case of raid, but usually our boys were eager to give Fritz all that
was coming to him, and they seldom failed no matter how largely
outnumbered.

There were no signs of fear among our splendid fellows, and while it
required courage to be a mile or more beyond the supporting line,
lying out in No Man's Land, yet the very danger and the adventure of
it made a mighty appeal to the full-blooded Yank, and there was never
a lack of volunteers.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Duck-boards are sections of boardwalk laid in the bottom of the
trenches to keep the soldiers up out of the mud. These sections are
about ten feet long and two wide, and made by nailing cross pieces to
two scantling.




CHAPTER II

ON THE MOVE


"Over there" excitement was the normal condition, and the real soldier
was never satisfied unless he was in the thick of the fight. Even
"holding the line" on the Alsatian border was tame, and the news of
Chateau-Thierry made the Ohio boys "green with envy." Their more
fortunate guard comrades of the 26th and 42nd Divisions had covered
themselves with glory. Where would the next American blow be struck?

"Anything doing up at the front?" was the first question shot at every
dispatch rider or truck driver who came "along the pike" from the
north. "The whole d---- country is full of Yanks!" "Ten divisions
packed in between Toul and Nancy." "Never saw so much ammunition in
my life." "Couldn't get through for the traffic." Such reports kept
the boys of the 37th on tiptoe of expectation. Would they get a chance
for the "big push"?

Imagine, therefore, the peculiar thrill of every man when about
September 11, it was announced officially that the division was to be
ready for an immediate move. The boys were to be "stripped" for
action. Every unnecessary thing was thrown into the salvage pile.
Military trains were placed on the sidings in the railway yards at
Baccarat to be loaded with men, horses, and equipment. These trains to
move off on schedule time, about two hours apart, until the last had
taken its departure.

For two nights steady streams of French troops, ammunition wagons,
guns, and army trucks had poured into Baccarat on their way to relieve
the various units of the Ohio Division. Four horses, two abreast,
would be hitched to an artillery wagon on which was mounted a
camouflaged '75 (three-inch gun). The heavy guns were drawn by six or
eight horses, two abreast, with a rider for every two horses.

The Y.M.C.A. headquarters were on the corner where the two main
streets of the town crossed. One night about ten o'clock we stood on
the curb watching two lines of men and wagons, one from the south and
one from the west, as they came together at this corner and flowed on
through the town. It was a fascinating and weird night scene. Suddenly
we heard a Boche plane. When it passed overhead it dropped a star
shell which lighted up that whole section of the town and revealed the
long lines of French infantry and artillery. The burned out shell
dropped just across the street from us. Evidently, German spies had
given notice of the movements of troops and scouting planes had come
over to get information and take pictures. These were closely followed
by bombing planes which tried to destroy the bridge over the Meurthe
and thus hinder the movement of troops, but their bombs went wide of
their mark and our anti-aircraft guns made it so hot for them that
they could not get near enough to do any material damage.

Many Chinese troops in French uniforms passed through Baccarat the
next day. With military precision our boys, relieved by these French
and Chinese troops, poured into the town and were quickly loaded on
the troop trains.

Three days before the move a secret order had come to the chief of our
"Y" division to be ready to move with the troops. Immediately all our
secretaries were notified to close their huts and prepare their stock
for removal. "Y" trucks were dispatched to bring the secretaries and
all stock on hand in to the central warehouse. Where the hut was a
tent--and four of the seventeen huts were canvas--our expert, who had
traveled for years with Barnum & Bailey, went with the trucks and
brought in tent and all.

The army, desiring to have the "Y" supplies and men at the front with
the boys, put one or two cars on each train at our disposal. For
twenty-four hours without let up the "Y" trucks, manned by a score or
more of secretaries, rushed boxes of chocolate, cakes, raisins, cocoa,
cigarettes, tobacco, matches, and other supplies essential to the
comfort of the boys, from the warehouse to the trains.

It was an exciting game to have each car loaded when the signal to
move was given. Sometimes it was a close shave, as, for instance, when
our car on one train having been loaded we were offered a second car
which was accepted. We worked feverishly to get it ready for the move.
It was half filled--only ten minutes remained before the train was to
leave. Our big French truck was being loaded at the warehouse as fast
as willing hands could throw the boxes on. Word was dispatched to rush
the truck to the train--it arrived in three minutes. The train was
being shifted ready for the move. Our expert driver (a racing pilot in
the States) was game, and followed the train, stopping where it
stopped, while the boxes fairly flew from truck to car.

Finally the French train officials ordered our truck away that the
train might pull out. Our manager said, "Un minute, s'il vous plait,"
while the boxes continued to fly. The Frenchmen, becoming excited,
waved their arms and cursed and threatened in their own tongue. What
we could not understand did not frighten us, and the merry chase
continued until, in spite of our interference, the train began to
move, and with a few parting shots at the still open door, our men in
the car placed them as best they could, closed the door and swung from
the moving train.

It was great sport, and to hear the cheers of approval from our boys,
for whom all this energy was being expended, was ample reward for our
fatigue and loss of sleep.

The movement of troop trains was always a special target for Boche
bombing planes, and several times during the night Fritz tried to
"get" us. Each time, however, he was successfully driven off by our
anti-aircraft and machine guns. Whenever we heard the planes overhead
and shrapnel began to burst around us, we would scurry to cover
underneath the cars, which gave us protection from the falling pieces
of shrapnel and the machine-gun bullets.

Troop trains had a never waning interest for civilian and soldier
alike. The French freight cars are about half the size of our American
cars. The box cars were filled with horses and men. The horses were
led up a gangplank to the door in the center of the car and backed
toward each end of the car with their heads facing each other. Four
horses abreast, making eight in the car, completely filled it, leaving
only a four-foot alleyway between them, where the men in charge of
the horses made themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted.
Sometimes the men were crowded so tight into the cars that they could
neither sit nor lie down. Usually, however, they had more room, and in
every open doorway they sat with their feet hanging outside. A jollier
bunch of fellows never donned uniform.

    [Illustration: GERMAN AERIAL BOMB (Large)]

The flat-cars were loaded with gun carriages, ammunition wagons, and
field kitchens. On one car of every train were three mounted machine
guns with their crews, in readiness for any daring Boche plane that
might swoop down on them. Most of the trains that traveled by day were
camouflaged with branches of green leaves broken from trees or bushes.

When the last train had departed at three o'clock in the morning, we
had a jollification banquet of canned fruit and fish with bread and
coffee, first having gone in noisy procession through all the
sleeping quarters and routed out all who were snatching a "wink of
sleep."

On the day previous Armstrong went ahead with two of our canteen
workers, O'Connor and Baldwin, and a camionette load of supplies and
cocoa and set up a temporary canteen, ready to welcome the troops when
they arrived at Ravigny. Dr. Anderson in the Ford Sedan also went
ahead to choose suitable headquarters and a warehouse in which to
store our fifteen carloads of supplies.


A "Y" MOTOR CONVOY

At eleven in the forenoon, after spending the morning packing and
loading, our convoy started. All drivers knew the route to Ravigny, to
which point all troop trains had been dispatched under sealed orders.
First in line were our pilots in an Indian motorcycle and sidecar.
They carried our official passes which they presented to each guard en
route. Then after all had passed they proceeded to the next guard.
Second in line was a Ford touring car with our chief of transportation
and other officials. Next came a camionette loaded with food supplies
and cooking equipment, and after it the Renault truck (the writer
driving) loaded with office supplies, cash boxes, and personal
baggage. Last of all was a big three-ton truck with a miscellaneous
load and trailing a small truck loaded with garage tools. This was our
traveling repair shop in charge of our mechanician. The rest of the
staff with their personal baggage went by train.

Ravigny is a small town but an important railroad center from which
troop trains were re-routed to various points on the front line. Our
division was ordered to proceed to Riccicourt, a deserted and partly
destroyed village about twelve miles west of Verdun and about five
miles south of Avoncourt, where our boys went "over the top." The
women canteen workers, much to their disappointment, were ordered by
the colonel to remain at Ravigny, where they could get accommodations
and be saved the danger and distress of the battlefield.

At Riccicourt officers and men were billeted in every building that
afforded any protection from wind or rain. The mass of troops,
however, were on the move and bivouacked or quickly set up their
dog-tents, wherever the order to "fall out" was given. Every road
leading to Avoncourt was filled with the motor transportation of many
divisions. Heavy rains at times made the roads impassable, but in some
way traffic was maintained.

The Y.M.C.A. workers with the 37th Division were the first on the
field. They were the farthest advanced; they had the largest stock of
supplies and the most workers of any organization in that sector at
the beginning of the drive. From this center a supply station was
established at Avoncourt, where hot chocolate was served day and
night to the men as they were going to and from the line of battle.
Hot chocolate and supplies in large quantities were also furnished
free to the field-hospitals.

All secretaries who could possibly be spared were dispatched with
packs on their backs, bulging with chocolate and tobacco for the men
actually on the firing line. As these secretaries trudged past the
long lines of soldiers waiting to "go into action" they would be
greeted with a chorus of "Three cheers for the 'Y'"--"You can't lose
the Y Men," etc.

When in answer to the requests, "Can't you sell us a cake of chocolate
or a pack of Camels?" it was explained, "We can't carry enough for
all, and these are for the wounded and the men on the firing line,"
there came invariably the enthusiastic reply, "That's right--they need
it more than we do."




CHAPTER III

OUR INVINCIBLES


Twenty years to make a soldier! Well, that depends upon the kind of a
soldier you want. There were two kinds in the Argonne Forest from the
latter part of September to November in that last year of the great
war.

Four long dreadful years the Forest had been the impregnable
stronghold of the Kaiser's minions. The last word in the perfection of
trench warfare had been spoken by them. The most elaborate
preparations for the housing of their men and officers had been made;
dugouts of every description, from the temporary "hole in the ground"
with a wooden door and a "cootie" bunk to the palatial suite sixty
feet underground with cement stairs and floors, and with bathrooms,
officers and lounging quarters, all electrically lighted and well
heated.

    [Illustration: MEMORY SKETCH OF A SECTOR OF THE BATTLE
    FIELD 1918]

Machine gun nests had been planted in every conceivable point of
vantage from a camouflaged bush on the hillside to the concealed
"lookout" in the tallest treetop. Cannon of every caliber had been
placed throughout the woods and under the lea of each protecting hill
or cliff. A system of narrow-gauge railroads sent its spurs into every
part of the Forest, delivering ammunition to the guns and supplies to
the men, even connecting by tunnel with some of the largest dugouts.

The Boche had not held this stronghold undisturbed. The traditions of
the battlefield, passed from lip to lip, told of numerous and costly
offensives by the French and English, but always the same story of
failure to take or hold the Forest.

When the American offensive was ready to be launched the French were
eager to gamble, first, that our dough-boys could not take the
"untakable," and second, that if by any miraculous procedure they
succeeded in breaking the German line, they could not _hold_ what they
had taken. This did not mean that they doubted the courage or the
ability of our men, but that they did have knowledge of the
impregnable nature of the German stronghold.

On that eventful morning near the end of September, the rainy season
having started and the mud of the Argonne vying with the mud of
Flanders, our guns began to cough and roar. For three terrific hours
they spoke the language of the bottomless pit and caused the very
foundations of the earth itself to quiver. Germans taken prisoner by
our men afterward acknowledged that they had never heard anything so
terrifying in their lives.

Having sent over their letter of introduction, our boys followed in
person with a shout and a dash. Over the top and through the wire
entanglements of No Man's Land they fairly leaped their way. Hundreds
of tons of barbed wire had been woven and interwoven between posts
driven into the ground. These posts were in rows and usually stood
about three feet out of the ground. The rows were four feet apart.

Then through the trenches of the German front line they swept, and out
across the open country which lay between them and the Forest. The
marks of the four years' conflict were everywhere visible: the
blackened and splintered remains of trees, the grass-covered
shell-holes, the ruined towns and the wooden crosses, silent markers
of the tombs of the dead. Besides these were the fresh holes in the
fields and on the hillside where our guns had literally blasted the
whole face of the ground.

The shell-holes ranged from the washtub size made by the 75's to the
great fissure-torn holes made by the big naval guns, and which would
make an ample cellar for an ordinary dwelling house. I have seen
horses which had fallen into these great holes shot and covered over
because they could not be gotten out without a derrick.

In the Forest proper our boys encountered machine-gun nests, artillery
pieces of every caliber, and the Boche with whom the woods were
infested. Besides the opposition of an active enemy, were the natural
barriers of deep ravines, stony ridges and cliffs, and in many places
an almost impassable barrier of dense underbrush and fallen limbs and
trees.

Through all of this, however, our boys pushed that first great day,
ignoring every danger which they were not compelled to conquer in
their rapid advance. When they emerged from the Forest they swept down
the hillside, through the gas-filled valley, and stormed the ridges
beyond. On the crest of one of these ridges was Montfâucon, a strongly
fortified position, said to have been one of the observation towers
of the Crown Prince during the four years of the war. Having
surrounded and taken this stronghold, they swept on through the next
valley and having reached their objective ahead of schedule, dug
themselves in while the fire of German guns pierced and depleted their
ranks.

Whatever military critics may say, our hearts thrill with pride for
these heroes, who being given an objective took it with an impetuosity
which caused them to even outrun their own barrage. And having taken
it, to hold on for days at whatever cost until the heavy artillery
could be brought up to support their line and make a new gain
possible.

When the first surprise shock was over and the enemy realized that the
Americans were really taking their impregnable fortifications, and
opening the door for the defeat and bottling up of the whole German
army, their resistance stiffened to desperation, and our boys had to
literally hew their way to victory.

In reciting my experiences with the 37th Ohio N.G., Major General C.S.
Farnsworth, commanding, I am but echoing those of every other division
engaged in that wonderful Argonne battle.

The tragedies of the Argonne will never be fully written or told. Men
who have witnessed the butcheries of war are liable to be silent about
the worst they have seen. It is the unspeakable.

"Sergeant O'Connor!"

"Here, sir," coming to salute with a snap.

"There is a machine-gun nest in the top of a big tree a mile from here
on the left of the road leading over the hill. Silence it."

"Yes, sir!" again coming to salute and turning to carry out the order
of his captain. He knew the danger, but executed the order.

When this tree was pointed out to us we understood how difficult had
been the task. The limbs had been shot off, but the great trunk was
unhurt. About forty feet from the ground the limbs branched and there
a nest had been built for the machine gun, which commanded the forest
trail and the surrounding country.

On the morning of the third day of the "big push" five "Y" men started
with heavy packs of supplies to find our brave lads of the 37th who
were somewhere in the line. We were given as guides two privates who
were returning to the front for more prisoners. They had brought in
many prisoners that morning. I was interested and drew one of them
into conversation.

"How many prisoners did you have?"

"A bunch of fifty. We captured so many that first day it was hard to
get them all back quickly to the retention camps."

"I suppose they were all disarmed."

"O yes, all weapons were taken from them and they were searched for
secret messages or information which would be valuable to our army."

"Were they allowed to keep any of their belongings?"

"Only the clothes they wore and their caps. Sometimes they would also
keep their gas masks and canteens."

We were on a forest trail. The mud from recent rains covered our
leggings and our heavy hobnail shoes. We came to a crossroads in the
heart of the Forest. Our wounded on stretchers were everywhere. I can
see now the bandaged eyes of the gassed patients, the armless sleeve
or the bared breast with the bloody dressings. I can see the silent
forms of those who would never fight again.

But my heart thrills as the white armband with its red cross comes out
sharp and distinct in the picture. Our doctors and surgeons were the
miracle-workers of that awful field of slaughter. And the ambulance
men were the angels of mercy to thousands whose life blood was wasting
fast away.

The "Y" man with his pack always received a sincere welcome. There was
a smile of gratitude as a piece of chocolate was placed in the mouth
of one whose hands were useless, or a cigarette and a light given to
another whose whole frame was aquiver from the shock of battle. There
were the eager requests of the Red-Cross men for extra supplies for
the boys whom they would see when Mr. Y-Man was not with them.

"A dead Hun is the only good Hun"--this was a war definition, and true
at least while the battle was on. Everywhere through the Forest were
Boche made "good" by American bullets. Near a dead German officer was
a group of our boys looking over the "treasures" which his pockets
held. There was also a photo of a French officer. Evidently, the Hun
had earlier in the war killed the Frenchman and taken his picture for
a souvenir. Was it poetic justice that the Hun should fall victim to a
Yank bullet, and that the photo of his captive, together with his own,
should be taken by his American slayer and given as souvenirs to a
Y.M.C.A. secretary?

I was one of a score of "Y" men who followed Farnsworth's division
into action, establishing hot chocolate stations and carrying on our
backs great packs of chocolate, cigarettes, and tobacco which we gave
away to the boys on the battlefield. There we met the wounded who,
having received first aid, were being carried on stretchers back to
the field dressing stations, where the army surgeons were working
feverishly under trees or in protected valleys. From here continuous
lines of stretcher-bearers with their precious burdens moved back to
the field hospitals.

On the edge of the Forest near Montfâucon and about three miles back
of the line was the nearest field hospital in an elaborate system
of German dugouts. The location was well concealed on a hill thickly
covered by forest trees and a dense tangle of underbrush. Much time
had been spent by the Boche soldiers in making it not only secure but
attractive. Rustic fences protected the wooden walks leading to the
main entrance. A maze of paths as in a garden, connected the various
entrances (doorways). Long flights of wooden steps led down fifteen,
twenty, and even thirty feet underground. The deepest cave was
connected by a tunnel with the railway system that had branches
everywhere through the Forest.

    [Illustration: FRENCH OFFICER]

    [Illustration: GERMAN OFFICER]

When we found the head surgeon we told him we had chocolate for his
patients. He took us to one of the wards where thirty men were crowded
into four small rooms. The odor of death was in the air. The labored
breathing of unconscious men cast a gloom that was hard to shake off.

"How do you stay here and keep sane?" I asked the doctor in charge.
For five days and nights he had scarcely slept, and all he had to eat
was what he prepared for himself on a little stove in the six-by-ten
room that served for office and living quarters of himself and his
assistant. "The boys are wonderful," he said, "and one forgets himself
in trying to save them."

As we went from cot to cot with a piece of chocolate for each,
gripping the hands of some and looking into the eyes of others too far
gone even to speak, we knew he had spoken the truth. No complaint
escaped their lips. The light of a great new dawn kindled in the eyes
of many, and their smile of gratitude for the kindness done them made
the small service rendered a sacrament sacred on the field of battle.

Returning one evening after a wonderful but terrible day with the boys
on the front, we worked our way along a ridge where our 75's were
belching fire into the ranks of the enemy. We were giving out the
last of our supplies to the crews who were manning these guns. I
stopped to speak to an infantry major who was directing the movements
of his men by telephone and messenger from a former German dugout
where he had taken up temporary headquarters. When I came up he was
standing by a gun looking out over the battlefield and watching the
stretcher bearers returning from the "line." He had tried in vain to
get more artillery sent forward to support his men who were being
mowed down by the merciless fire from the Boche machine guns and
cannon. At first his voice choked with emotion, and then revenge took
possession of him as he cursed the Hun for bringing upon the world
such slaughter. It seemed as if his great heart would burst as he
realized the suffering and the sacrifice of _his boys_ whom he had
ordered to _hold_ at any cost. His voice choked as he cried, "My God,
but they are punishing my boys."

As we walked on in a driving rainstorm and through mud and underbrush
and wormed our way amid wire entanglements, we came upon a field
kitchen and were invited to supper. We gladly accepted and sat down in
the rain to potatoes and meat, bread, butter, and coffee, with a
dessert of pancakes and syrup. It was a meal fit for a king, and no
food ever tasted quite so sweet. It was about fifteen miles to our
hut, and darkness had overtaken us. While we were eating, an empty
ammunition cart drawn by four horses came along, and the sergeant in
charge offered us a ride. The offer was gladly accepted because we had
no guide, and for two hours we bumped over the rough forest trail.

On the way we overtook many of our wounded, who after receiving first
aid had attempted to walk back to the camps in the rear. Wherever we
found them we gave them a lift to the nearest rest camp or ambulance
station. Some whom we were privileged to help seemed completely
exhausted and unable to drag any farther.

When at last the forest trail opened into the highway the going was
faster. When within three miles of Avoncourt we were stopped by a
tieup in traffic. After a few minutes' wait, seeing that there was no
sign of advancing, we decided to walk on. For two solid miles the road
was blocked, the rains having made the roads almost impassable. We
worked our way in and out past ammunition wagons, Red Cross
ambulances, officers' cars, and army trucks. Just before midnight we
reached our huts at Avoncourt, where hot chocolate was being served to
never-ending lines of tin-helmeted, khaki-clad wearers of the gas
mask.

Through this town, now leveled to the ground by four years of
intermittent bombardment, we groped our way to a temporary "Y" supply
hut, where we hoped to spend the night. Upon opening the door we
discovered that every available foot of space on the bare ground
floor was occupied by "Y" men rolled up in their blankets. They were
so exhausted from their long hikes to the front, or their continuous
serving at the chocolate canteen, that they could sleep anywhere. We
quickly decided to continue our tramp another eight miles to the base
headquarters, which we reached at three in the morning drenched and
exhausted and literally covered with mud. After three hours of good
refreshing sleep we were up again and ready to serve our boys--the
invincibles.




CHAPTER IV

HOLDING THE LINE


"On to Berlin," was the cry of the whole Yank army. And the boys were
impatient of every delay that kept them from their goal. They all felt
like the colored private from Alabama who was asked to join a French
class: "No, I don' want to study French. I want to study German."

After the hisses had died down some one asked, "Why is it you want to
study German rather than French?"

"I'se goin' to Berlin."

Then the hisses gave way to cheers.

It was that same spirit which caused Corporal Cole, of the Marines, to
say: "The marines do not know such a word as 'retreat.'" That was the
spirit which brought the curt reply from Col. Whittlesey when the
Huns asked his "Lost Battalion" to surrender.

The American army was a victorious army. It had never been defeated.
It had faith in its ideals. Those ideals were neither selfish nor
arrogant. It wore no boastful "Gott mit uns" on its belt. It desired
only the opportunity of striking low that nation which dared to
dictate terms to the Almighty as well as to men. It braved three
thousand miles of submarine peril to meet such an enemy.

Even an invincible army has to breathe and eat and sleep. They can
hold their breath long enough to adjust a gas mask, but the mask tells
us that even in gas they must be enabled to breathe. In the heat of
the chase when the Hun is the hare, they can forget for a time that
they are hungry, but the field kitchen testifies to the fact that
hunger undermines courage and that an efficient army must be a
well-fed army.

To see men curled up in muddy shell-holes with the sky for canopy,
peacefully sleeping, while cannon are booming on every side and shells
whining overhead, is sufficient evidence that sleep is not a myth
invented by the Gods of Rest.

While the spirit of the boys was willing to go right through to
Berlin, their flesh asserted its weakness. Their first dash over the
top was invincible, and we were told that in ten hours they swept
forward to their goal sixty hours ahead of schedule. There they dug in
and for four days _held the line_ in the face of a murderous and
desperate German fire.

During those four awful days I saw no sign of "yellow," but everywhere
relentless courage.

"Hello, Mr. Y-Man, don't you want to see a fellow that has three holes
through him and still going strong?"

"You don't really mean it, do you? Show him to me. I want to look into
the eyes of such a man." They led me over to a bunch of soldiers who
had just come out of the line and there in the center of an admiring
crowd was my man, happy as a lark. His three wounds--one in the left
breast, one in the thigh, and a scalp wound--had been dressed, and
while these wounds had glorified him in the eyes of his comrades, _he_
was ready to _forget_ them.

Even though a hundred shells exploding near by miss you, and you
become convinced that Fritz does not really have your name and
address, yet each explosion registers its shock on the nerve centers.
If this be long-continued, the nerves give way and you find yourself a
shell-shock patient, tagged and on your way to one of the quiet back
areas where you can forget the war and get a grip upon yourself again.

Holding the line in open warfare costs a heavy toll in human life, but
here again our boys showed their invincible spirit. Not once did I see
a Yankee that showed any eagerness to get away from the line. The
mortally wounded accepted the sacrifice they had been called upon to
make without bemoaning fate, and remained cheerful to the end. Of
course when a man was "_facing West_" he longed for the loved faces
and the heaven of home. We who had our own "little heaven" back in the
homeland knew and instinctively read those sacred thoughts and prayers
and gave just the hand-pressure of deep sympathy.

To have _spoken_ of home at such a time would have been to tear the
heart already breaking, with a deep anguish that would interfere with
their possibility of recovery. So the cheery word of hope and faith
was given, and any final message quietly taken and faithfully and
sacredly fulfilled.

The wounded men whom we met coming out of the line who were not
"facing West" were with one accord hopeful of speedy recovery, not
that they might "save their own skin" and get back home alive, but
that they might get back into the fight and help to put forever out
of commission that devilish military machine that had threatened the
democratic freedom of the world.

Then again there were the boys who had miraculously escaped being
wounded, and after days in the very bowels of hell, which no pen can
picture and no tongue recite, had been released from the line and were
working their way back to the food kitchens, the water carts, and the
rest of the camps. One such doughboy, I met near Montfâucon, about
midway between the front line and an artillery ridge where our 75's
were coughing shells in rapid succession upon the entrenched foe. His
water canteen had long been empty and the nourishment of his hard tack
and "corn willie"[2] forgotten. His lips were parched with thirst and
bleeding from cracks, the result of long-continued gun fire. His body
was wearied by the heavy strain, his cheeks were gaunt from hunger
and his eyes circled for want of rest. His whole bearing was of one
who had passed through suffering untold, and yet there was no word of
bitterness or complaint. His gratitude for a sup of water from my
canteen was richer to me than the plaudits of multitudes, and the fine
courage with which he worked his painful way back to rest and
refreshment caused my heart to yearn after him with a tenderness which
he can never know.

Where a division is merely holding the line, there being no aggressive
action on either side, except night-raiding parties, men can stand it
for a longer period. Under such circumstances a company would stay in
the front line for ten days, part being on guard while the others were
sleeping. At the end of the ten days they would be relieved by a fresh
company and return to a rest camp in the rear. The boys hardly
considered it _rest_, as there was constant drilling, besides camp
duties and activities of many kinds.

Out in No Man's Land we had our "listening" and "observation" posts.
These posts are set as near the enemy line as possible. It is very
hazardous work, and requires steady nerves and clear heads. Each squad
in a post remains for forty-eight hours, and each man of the squad is
on actual guard for four hours at a time.

Where men are _on the line in aggressive warfare_, the action is so
intense that they cannot stand up under long-continued fighting. In
the Argonne fight our Ohio division was on the front line for five
days after going "over the top." Then they were relieved by a fresh
division, which took their places under cover of the night.

As our boys came out I stood all night with another "Y" man on a
German narrow-gauge railroad crossing, giving a smoke or a piece of
chocolate to each man as he passed. The enthusiastic expressions of
the great majority bore ample testimony to their keen appreciation.
"You're a life-saver," is the way they put it.

Now let me give you a glimpse of the fine courage and noble manhood of
the boys who were actually facing the foe in the front line. I have
been with them in many positions and under varied circumstances even
up to within three hundred yards of the Boche line. First a great
word--_A Yank never feared his enemy._

The most horrible stories of Hunnish brutality and barbarity only
served to intensify the Yanks' desire to strike that enemy low. One of
our splendid fellows, a private of the 102nd Infantry, came frequently
into our station at Rimaucourt where I was a hut secretary during the
first month of my stay in France. I felt instinctively that he had a
story which he might tell, although he had the noncommittal way of an
officer on the Intelligence Staff. Through several days of quiet
fellowship the story came out.

It was during the time when the Boche were smashing their way toward
Paris. It takes more courage to face a foe when he is on the
aggressive than when he is being _held_ or _driven back_. Our hero's
company was meeting an attack. He had previously lost a brother,
victim of a Boche bullet. The spirit of vengeance had stealthily
entered his very soul, and secretly he had vowed to avenge that
brother's death with as great a toll of enemy lives as possible, if
the opportunity came to him.

No man ever knows what he will do under fire until the test comes, but
be it said to their glory, our boys never failed when the crucial hour
came. (They were soldiers not of training but of character.) Quietly,
with unflinching courage, our boys awaited the onslaught. Finally when
the command to fire was given our friend selected his men--no random
fire for him. One by one he saw his victims drop until he had
accounted definitely for six. The next man was a towering Prussian
Guard. A lightning debate flashed through his mind and stayed
momentarily his trigger finger. Was a swift and merciful bullet
sufficient revenge, or should he wait and give his foe that which he
so much feared, the cold steel? The momentary hesitation ended the
debate, for the Guard was almost upon him. Quickly he prepared for the
shock, and, parrying the Hun's first thrust, he gave him the upward
stroke with the butt of his gun; but the Hun kept coming, and he
quickly brought his gun down--his second stroke cutting the head with
the blade of his bayonet. The Prussian reeled but was not finished,
and as he came again our friend pricked him in the left breast with
the point of his bayonet in an over-hand thrust of his rifle. Still he
had failed to give his foe a lethal stroke, and as he recoiled for a
final encounter he resolved to give him the full benefit of a body
thrust and drove his bayonet home, the blade breaking as the foe
crashed to the ground.

There is a sequel to this story which we must never forget. Whatever
may have been the undaunted heroism of our boys when in action, each
one of them not only "had a heart" but also a conscience. And while
_war_, which is _worse_ than Sherman's "hell," suspends for the time
the heart appeal and stifles the conscience, the reaction is almost
invariably the same.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] "Corn willie" was corned beef carried in small tin cans and eaten
cold when on the march.




CHAPTER V

TANKS AND TRACTORS


The infantry is the most mobile of any division of the army. Men can
go where horses and guns find it impossible. They can file silently
through narrow passes or a maze of forest trees and underbrush. They
can scale cliffs. They can dodge shell-holes and negotiate muddy roads
and morasses. They can move slowly or quickly at will and can
therefore take difficult positions where it is impossible quickly to
bring up artillery support.

The Ohio boys were in the line exposed to the merciless and cruel
machine-gun and artillery fire of the enemy. It was said that the
Germans had one machine gun for every two of our rifles. The conflict
was desperate. The enemy realized that their cause depended upon
their practical annihilation of the American troops. These fighters,
who with such courage and disregard of danger had taken this part of
the impregnable Hindenburg line, now threatened their supporting
lines. It is no disgrace to acknowledge that during those awful
initial days of the Argonne drive we paid the price that an army
advancing must pay. Of course it was heart-breaking to see the long
lines of our stretcher-bearers coming out of that belching brimstone
line with the punctured and broken bodies of our boys. But it was
glorious to know that the line had not wavered. _How long could they
last?_ And how speedily could artillery be brought to their aid? These
were the momentous questions that quivered on every lip and that gave
imperative urgency to the commands and appeals of the officers who
watched with choking emotion the slaughter of "their boys."

As we gazed over the valley we saw to the left a line of
slow-crawling tanks. They were about as long as Ford cars and as tall
as a man. They were the French "baby tanks" coming up to help our boys
clean out the machine-gun nests. It was perfectly fascinating and
almost uncanny to watch tanks in action. There was no visible sign of
life or power, nor any seeming direction to their motion. They crawled
stealthily along, bowling over bushes or small trees or flattening out
wire entanglements. Steep banks or deep gulleys were taken or crossed
with equal ease. As a tank would creep up the side of a ridge it
seemed to poise momentarily on the crest, the front part extending out
into space until the center of gravity was passed, when the whole tank
plunged down headlong. We instinctively held our breath until we saw
it crawling away on the opposite side.

The tanks parked behind a hill. We worked our way through the
intervening valley, up the hill past the tank position, and on toward
the battle-line, giving out our supplies to all we met or passed.
Before we had finished, a Boche plane flew overhead, took a photo of
the tank position, and got away to the German lines before our
aviators could give chase. We were warned to retreat to a safe
position because the German guns would shell this area as soon as the
returning scout brought in news of the location of the tanks. Our
first concern, however, was the service we might be able to render the
boys. Personal safety was a secondary matter, especially since death
lurked everywhere. So we continued across a shell-torn slope, toward
the enemy line, going from shell-hole to shell-hole and giving a word
of good cheer, a bit of chocolate, and some smokes to the boys who had
taken temporary refuge in these ready-made "dug-ins" (a shallow
protection).

Having ministered to the wants of our own boys, we felt the brave
French pilots and gunners of these tanks were also deserving and as
we approached each tank on our return trip a small iron door in front
of the pilot opened, and the courteous appreciation, of which the
French are masters, told us that our remembrance of them had been
wisely chosen. Fritz was unintentionally good to us and waited until
we had finished our task in that sector and retraced our steps across
the valley before he began to shell it. By that time the wounded had
also been cared for and removed and the tank position changed. For
once Heinie's shells were wasted.

For ten wonderful days my duties took me (on foot, by touring-car, by
truck, and by ammunition wagon) from the "rail-head" six miles behind
the trenches where our boys went "over the top" on that first historic
day of the Argonne drive, up to within a half mile of the day's
farthest advance.

I saw artillery pieces and heavy cannon emplacements everywhere back
of the line. I saw these guns after their first terrific bombardment,
unlimbered and moved up to their new positions. The heaviest guns,
including the big naval guns, were especially well concealed in woods,
in orchards, and well camouflaged in fields. So well hidden were they
that I passed within a few rods of multitudes of them, as I traveled
the roads, without detecting their presence until I would either hear
the discharge of their shells or see them as they were being
unlimbered. To move a heavy gun in mud is no small task. For more than
an hour one day I was held up in a truck and watched a dozen experts,
with block and tackle and "caterpillar tractor" move a twelve-inch
monster from its hidden foundation up a slight incline toward the
roadway. It was an hour well spent, for it gave me an object lesson
concerning the difficulty with which great field pieces are moved
under unfavorable conditions.

By way of contrast, I watched at another time a crew of eight men
unlimber an eight-inch gun and move it about fifteen feet from its
foundation beside a railroad track to a flat car, which could carry it
at express speed to some other point of vantage. This told the great
value of railroad spurs leading up toward the enemy lines.

At one place our boys told me of one of our "mysterious" guns, mounted
on a specially prepared flat car, which made nightly trips out to
different points of vantage for firing on some enemy position,
returning again under cover of the darkness to its secret hiding
place.

Having seen the battlefields and behind the lines of both the Allied
and the German forces; and having noted the military efficiency of the
German preparation and their care in carrying out even the minutest
details; and having observed the skill in preparation and the accuracy
in use, especially of the French artillery; and having been thrilled
and pleased by the quick and ingenious adaptation of our American
army to the best and most efficient use of every type of weapon, I am
thoroughly convinced that an intelligent army, governed by Christian
ideals, is an invincible army, no matter what temporary advantage
military preparedness may have given to the enemy.




CHAPTER VI

PEN PICTURES


GERMAN SNIPER IN CRUCIFIX

At Chemin des Dames, near Soissons, one night about the middle of
April, four Americans (one of Italian birth) belonging to the 102d
United States Infantry, made up a raiding party. Their objective was a
crucifix out in No Man's Land, about four hundred yards from their own
trench and within two hundred and fifty yards of the German trenches.
The crucifix was a monument containing a secret inner chamber reached
by a small spiral stairway. A Boche sniper concealed in this crucifix
had taken too large a toll of American soldiers at that point in the
line. The four night raiders left the American trench at one o'clock
in the morning. They crawled on their bellies through snow for one
hour before reaching the sniper's post. Seven yards per minute is a
snail's pace, but pretty good time in No Man's Land, where you must
remain motionless each time a star-shell lights up the darkness around
you and makes your discovery possible.

The Italian won the privilege of entering the crucifix to capture the
sniper. His weapon must be a silent weapon, for a shot would expose
the presence of the whole party. He chose a razor, and when he emerged
from the crucifix he brought with him, as proof that he had
satisfactorily executed his order, the Hun's rifle, fieldglasses, and
identification card. Needless to say, no further trouble from Boche
snipers was experienced at that point. The return trip was made with
less caution and they were discovered. When within fifty yards of
their own lines a heavy machine gun barrage opened upon them. It then
became a race for life, but they reached the safety of their own
trenches without a scratch.


GERMAN INFERNAL MACHINES

In the German dugouts all through the Argonne Forest and on the
battlefields were found a multitude of death-dealing devices intended
to invite the curiosity of the Yankee souvenir hunters.

In one dugout near the edge of the Forest we found a
mysterious-looking box which we let severely alone. I had seen the
diagram of a similar box, which had been carefully dissected by a
member of the Intelligence Squad. This German trap was a finely
polished box about fourteen inches long by six inches at its widest
part, and disguised as a music box. It had polished hinges and lock
and an alligator handle in the center of the top. It had also a
monogram in one corner. Inside the box were two squash-shaped grenades
about nine inches long and filling the whole center of the box. In
the big end of the box was a compartment filled with chaddite, a
yellow powder, eight times as powerful as dynamite. Attached to the
grenades were four friction handles so connected with the alligator
handle on top as to explode the bombs when the box was lifted. In
event of the frictions failing to work, or the intended victim opening
the box some other way there was a two-second fuse inserted in the end
of each bomb, and extending into the chaddite compartment, to be set
off by the removal of the lid.

A hand grenade was used by them which our boys called potato-mashers.
The head of the potato-masher was a can made of one-sixteenth-inch
brittle steel. The can was about seven inches long by four and
one-half inches in diameter. Around the inside of the can was a layer
of small steel cogs. Inside these a layer of small steel balls. The
next layer was of small ragged-edged scrap steel pieces and the next,
poisoned copper diamonds. The center was filled with chaddite. On
one end of the can was a hollow steel handle about eight inches long.
A string passing through this handle was attached on the inside to a
touch fuse imbedded in the chaddite; the other end of the string was
tied to a button on the handle. By pulling the button the fuse was set
off.

    [Illustration: GERMAN WEAPONS]

Imagine the destruction wrought by one of these exploding in a company
of soldiers. I have seen many of them through the Argonne, but we had
been warned of their danger and chose other weapons as souvenirs.


A YANK TAKEN PRISONER

This story was from the lips of a doughboy whose home was in
Philadelphia. I had piloted Mr. Cross, of the Providence Journal,
through the surgical wards of Base Hospital No. 18. This was the Johns
Hopkins Hospital Unit located at Bazoilles (pronounced Baz-wy). One of
the nurses said, "Have you seen Tony in Ward N? He has a wonderful
story."

So we went to Ward N, and in a private room at the end of the ward
found our hero, who was rapidly recovering and anxious to be of
further service to the land of his adoption. His right eye was gone. A
German bullet was responsible for its loss. Thus wounded and unable to
escape he had been surrounded and taken prisoner by the Boche who
forced him to walk on ahead of them.

"When I was unable to drag along as fast as they demanded, I was shot
at by one of the Huns, the bullet making a flesh wound in my left leg.
They then decided to kill me and shot me through the heart, as they
supposed. I was left for dead, but the bullet had missed my heart. For
six days I lay out in an open field, living but unable to move."

Then his voice lowered as he told us the awful nauseating story of how
he endeavored to quench the unbearable thirst of those terrible days.
At last he was found by our men who had conquered and driven back the
Hun.

This brave Italian boy had suffered as few are ever permitted to
suffer and live, but his fine spirit was still unconquered. He was not
seeking pity. He told the story because we asked for it. He told it as
though it was the merest incident of his life. There was no word of
complaint at having suffered the losses which would cripple him for
life.

It is the same old story that all have told who have witnessed the
splendid courage of our men. I have seen thousands in the hospitals
and on the battlefield, many of them literally shot to pieces, and I
have yet to hear the first complaint. And only in two or three
instances have I heard even a groan escape the lips of a man, unless
he was under the influence of ether.


"ALLIED AIR FLEETS"

Having watched with keen interest the rapid growth and development of
the Allied air program, I was ready to be properly thrilled by the
maneuvers of our American squadrons operating in conjunction with the
army in preparation for the great Argonne drive.

I have seen three fleets in the air at one time over Avoncourt after
that wonderful offensive had been launched. Part were Liberty bombing
planes with their loads of destruction for German military bases. Part
were the speedy little "Spads" which were used as scout planes. They
were very light and small and capable of terrific bursts of speed.

I could appreciate the importance of the bombing planes, for I had
once been privileged to help load one of the monster Handley-Page
British bombing planes. It weighed seven tons, including its load of
sixteen 100-pound bombs, and was manned by two pilots and a machine
gunner.

I am conscious even yet of the thrills that pricked my spine, as this
monster with nineteen companions spurned the earth in a mad, rushing
leap out into space and sailed away into the night to let the
inhabitants of German towns know that "frightfulness" was a game at
which two could play.

The Liberty motors were highly praised by our pilots, and I am ready
to add my testimony to the steadiness and reliability of the "ship"
which was under so much discussion and investigation over here.

On October 10, with Lieutenant Wilson, of the 163rd Aero Squadron, in
a two-seated Liberty I took a "jump" over the Meuse Valley. As we
bumped over the ground in our first sudden dash, and then birdlike
rose quickly into the air, my sensations were not the hair-raising
variety so often described by the thrilled amateur. When we "banked"
however, on a sharp turn, I had my first real sensation--I quickly
braced myself lest I fall overboard. At thirty-five hundred feet the
fields looked like green-and-brown patches, the forests like low
bushes, and the railroads, highways, and rivers like tracer lines
across the face of a map.

From that altitude the earth was beautiful. The enchantment of
distance had blotted out the rubbish heaps. The yellow waters of the
turbid streams glistened in the sun and the very mud itself, which the
day before had prevented my flight, was now but a smooth, golden
surface.


"A PUBLIC HANGING IN WAR TIME"

On July 12 it was rumored that a soldier had been sentenced to be hung
the next day at ten o'clock for an unspeakable crime. The gallows was
already built on the edge of the camp at Bazoilles. I saw it on my
afternoon trip and knew that the report was true. Being interested in
the psychology of such a scene on the men present, I put aside my
inward rebellion at so gruesome a sight and arranged my trip so as to
be present. I reached the camp at nine forty-five and was the last man
admitted. The gallows was built in the center of the semicircle facing
two hills which came abruptly together, leaving a large grass plot at
their base. This formed a natural amphitheater. About two thousand
soldiers, both white and colored, were seated on the grass inside a
rope inclosure. A company of soldiers from another camp had been
marched in to act as guards, and they formed a complete circle
standing just outside the ropes and extending down to the gallows on
either side.

Many French civilians and visiting soldiers lined the edges or looked
down from points of vantage on the hillside. I stood on one side about
one hundred feet from the "trap." At nine fifty a Red Cross ambulance
drove up, and the prisoner, his hands bound behind him, alighted, and
accompanied by a guard and the officials, walked up a dozen wooden
steps to the platform. He was escorted to the front of the platform,
and in a clear, strong voice spoke to the almost breathless crowd. He
acknowledged with sorrow his crime, and urged upon all the necessity
of being true to God and their country. He stepped back on the "trap,"
the black cap was drawn over his head, the noose placed about his
neck, the "trap" sprung, and with a sickening thud he dropped to his
doom. For twenty minutes, from nine fifty to ten ten, his body hung
there before he was pronounced by the attending surgeon officially
dead.

I never witnessed a twenty minutes of such deathly silence. Two guards
fainted, and the effect on the crowd was indescribable. I overheard a
colored fellow say, "I never want to do anything bad again as long as
I live."

The body was immediately cut down, placed in a coffin, and taken in
the ambulance to its burial. It was a silent, thoughtful company that
went out from that tragic scene.


"THE AMERICAN DEAD"

"Will we be able to locate the body of our boy?"

So often has this question been asked me that I must take a moment to
answer it.

I watched two American military burial plots grow from the first lone
grave to small cities of our noble dead. One was at Bazoilles, half
way between Chaumont and Toul. The other was at Baccarat near the
Alsatian border. Each grave was marked with a little wooden cross
bearing the name and rank of the soldier, and beside each cross an
American flag.

Many were buried in French cemeteries. At Neufchateau a section was
set aside for the use of our American army. When I visited it there
were about one hundred new-made graves all plainly marked, and fresh
flowers on each grave.

Of course most of the French cemeteries were Catholic, and Protestant
bodies could not be granted burial within the walls. A touching story
is told of an American Protestant soldier buried close outside the
wall of a Catholic graveyard. During the night French civilians tore
down the wall at that place and rebuilt it around their comrade of a
different faith. It was a beautiful symbol of the new dawn of peace
when all nations and all creeds shall recognize the common brotherhood
of all God's children.


FRANCE A GREAT SCRAP HEAP

Now that the war is over, France is a vast junk heap of arms and
equipment that cost a mint of money and the brains and lives of
millions of men.

For generations to come the soil of France will be disclosing to the
peasants who till her fields, the fragments of war's destructive power
and the bones of heroes who bled and died.

On the battlefields I saw innumerable quantities of equipment,
together with guns and ammunition, which had cost millions to produce
but were valueless in so far as their future use was concerned. I saw
the Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries Garden in Paris packed with
one thousand captured German guns and more than a score of Boche
planes and observation balloons. On one great pile were three thousand
Boche helmets, carefully wired together and closely guarded so that
souvenir hunters could not slip them away. It seemed a terrible price
to pay for object lessons for the great celebrations commemorating the
overthrow of autocracy. But having paid the price it was right to use
the trophies.

As the boys went into battle they left behind them great salvage piles
of things they would not need in the fight. As they came out of the
battle they left great piles of salvage which they fervently hoped the
world would never need to use again.

With the world's war bills mounting into the billions, and the value
of the salvage piles an almost negligible amount, the material waste
of war is appalling. If it will teach the nations to be as generous
toward the great reconstruction program as they were toward the
overthrow of that autocracy which threatened the world's freedom, then
the waste of war has not been in vain.

At Bar le Duc I saw great warehouses under management of the French
government stacked to the roof with auto tires and tubes. I had driven
with our Division Y.M.C.A. chief, Dr. Norton, from Neufchateau to
exchange an auto load of tires which our half dozen cars had worn out,
for an equal number of new tires. And I knew that these great piles
formed but a small percentage of the hundreds of thousands of rubber
shoes needed for the vehicles of war.

I visited the great Renault automobile plant at Nancy, which the
French government had taken over for a repair station. Literally
thousands of army trucks and official cars were passing through this
station in a constant stream, either to be quickly repaired or thrown
into the junk heap. Our own case was typical. Our Renault truck had
broken down at Luneville, twenty miles from Nancy. No local man could
make the repairs. Through our American army headquarters at Nancy we
applied to this French repair station. At eight o'clock next morning I
was on hand to pilot a heavy wrecking truck to our car. A towing
hawser was attached; their second pilot took charge of our truck, load
and all; and before noon we were safely landed at the repair station.
A hasty examination by a Renault expert revealed the fact that ten
days or more would be required to make the necessary repairs. A day or
two was the longest time they could allow any car to remain. So after
searching in vain for another garage that would undertake the
repairs, we towed the truck to our Y.M.C.A. garage and stored it, that
it might be salvaged at some future time.

France is full of broken-down trucks, touring cars, and ambulances; of
worn out engines and the rolling stock of her railways. From the
English Channel to the Persian Gulf her battlefields are littered with
brass and iron and wood and steel. Besides these there are the great
piles of garments of wool and rubber and leather, and the wasting
stores of army blankets and cots and surgical supplies.

Into the larger salvage piles will go the multitude of tents and
temporary wooden barracks for the housing of the fighters from all
nations, who for four dreadful years held that "far-flung battle
line."

A part of this larger salvage pile will be the temporary hospitals. In
less than a year America alone built and equipped hospitals which
were capable of accommodating a million wounded.

Then from the battle-line to the Atlantic coast we must think of the
vast supply stations and warehouses, the great engineering plants and
repair shops. America not only built in France the greatest ice plant
in the world but she made _every_ preparation on a gigantic scale.

When she entered the war she went in to win, even if it would take ten
million of her men to finish the job. Had she done less, the final
chapter would not yet have been written, and a different story might
needs have been told.


HOSPITAL BARRACKS

Day by day I watched the magic growth of the wooden hospital barracks
at Rimacourt with accommodations for fifteen thousand men, and was
interested in the engineering feat by which an abundance of fresh
water was pumped from drilled wells in an old chateau to a great
reservoir on the mountain side, and piped from there to every building
and ward.

I watched the same process at Bazoilles as, nestled in the wonderful
Meuse valley, that great hospital grew from a single base (the Johns
Hopkins Unit) until it included seven bases and was able to care for
thirty-five thousand wounded.

I spent one night there ministering to the wounded as they were
unloaded from the great American Red Cross train. I watched the
process with pride and amazement. So well organized was the army Red
Cross that when a train was announced the ambulances loaded with
stretcher bearers were rushed to the unloading platform. In seven
minutes three hundred helpless men were gently taken from their
comfortable berths in the train and carried on stretchers to the
platform from which the ambulances speedily bore them to the waiting
wards.

During the night of which I speak five trainloads of gassed men from
the Chateau-Thierry fight were thus unloaded at Bazoilles.




CHAPTER VII

MORAL FLASHES


This chapter is plainly labeled so that anyone who chooses may escape
it.

A preacher without a preachment is a paradox. We do not fear the
paradox, much less the criticism of the over-religious. But we frankly
believe that the solution of the moral and spiritual problems of the
soldier, as the army attempted to solve them, gives a hint to the
churches which dare not be ignored.

The soldier was more truly religious "over there" than he was before
he "fared forth" on his great adventure. And the reason was not merely
in the fact that fear of death drives men nearer to God. That reason
has been present in every war. The history of all wars proves that war
engenders such hatred, recklessness, and immorality that fighters
have come out of the conflict more godless than when they entered. The
veterans of our own Civil War bear abundant testimony to the
debauchery of youth during the four long years of that struggle.

What is the story of the morality of the American army during the
struggle just ended? Already statistics have been compiled showing
that the percentage of disease resulting from immorality was so small
in comparison with the percentage even in civil life as to be almost
negligible. If we could compare the army life of the present with the
army life of the past, I am confident the contrast would be even more
startling.

Our army was a clean army--an army whose actions and modes of life
squared with the highest standards of moral and religious teachings.
That there were notable exceptions no one will deny.

Why were our soldiers in this bitter world conflict better and
stronger than the soldiers of previous wars? The answer I want you to
think about (there are other answers) is that the army and navy
officers, from President Wilson down, planned wisely and sanely to
meet the physical, mental, and moral needs of our boys both at home
and over seas. And the results achieved proved the wisdom of the
endeavor. _Had the plans been less comprehensive the results would
certainly have been far less gratifying._

My own experiences cause me to draw the same conclusions that many
others have drawn. "Over there" man stood out before his Maker, his
very soul uncovered, and prayed with a frankness he had never
expressed before. And God revealed himself. We may not understand the
psychology, nevertheless one soldier saw, or thought he saw, Christ in
a shell-hole stretching out his hands in forgiveness and blessing.
Another saw God the Father giving absolution as his straining eyes
caught a glimpse of the crucifix. Another felt "The Presence" as the
inward quietness which follows action crept over him. Whatever the
form, the effect was the same. Men met God face to face and lived.

A captain of infantry coming out of the Argonne fight on September 30,
said: "I have never been a professed Christian. I have always
considered the testimony of so-called Christians as the imagination of
religious fanatics. But I saw Christ up there, and I shall never scoff
again." A private standing near turned to me and said: "We all felt
the same way about it. It was mighty real to us."

Not many decades ago preachers used death as their most telling plea
for sinners to be converted. The tragic death of a "sinner" in a
community where evangelistic services were being held was always held
up as the special warning of God. The crude way in which this truth
was presented does not, however, disturb the fundamental fact that
death does have a sobering effect on human judgment and human will,
and that in the presence of death souls do more naturally seek after
and find God.

A private of Company I, 165th Infantry, was in Base Hospital No. 117
suffering from shell-shock. He said: "There were only seven of my
company left. We killed our share of the Huns before they got us, but
the slaughter was awful. To see all your comrades shot down around you
and then to lie helpless on the field--minutes seemed ages. And
decisions were registered in heaven which we can never get away from."
This boy had been gay and frivolous at home, with two automobiles at
his command and plenty of money to use as he wished. He had never been
forced to the serious consideration of the problems of his soul-life
until he squarely faced those problems on the field of carnage.

I was asked to speak at the Y.M.C.A. hut at Rebeval Barracks, where a
veterinary hospital occupies the same inclosure as Base Hospital No.
66. My audience was made up largely of East Side New Yorkers. The
secretary, Stuart, of Jamaica, said to me before the meeting: "Give
them the straight punch. You know how." He led the song service and
put plenty of "pep" in it. All the boys were singing who could. The
rest were "hollering" and thought they were singing. Even the French
soldiers and civilians who could not understand stood at the windows
interested spectators. The message was a straight-from-the-shoulder
presentation of the life of Jesus Christ and the claims of God upon
the lives of all men. Their keen and close interest showed their
respect and their spontaneous applause at the close was proof that the
message had at least registered. Now, no one is so foolish as to
believe that those "rough horsemen" went out from that meeting to give
up all their bad habits, but no one will dare deny that their
expression of approval and appreciation was an acknowledgment of
Christ himself and that they were for the time at least better men.

A meeting in a converted hay-loft in Brouville was suddenly announced
by the Y.M.C.A. secretary. The big stone building was used to billet
the soldiers. Their "bunks" filled almost every available foot of
space. In one corner a group were playing cards. In the middle of the
room a lank, angular figure was "coiled" about a mandolin, coaxing an
old hymn from its strings. Some were sleeping, others were chatting,
and a few were reading by the light of tallow candles. The secretary
announced the meeting. It was Sunday evening. Song books were
distributed. The mandolin player volunteered to "pitch the tune."
Three or four hymns suggested by the fellows were sung heartily. A
brief petition asked for forgiveness and blessings on the boys who
with undaunted courage would soon go into action. A few verses of
Scripture served to introduce the message of the hour. Quietly but
earnestly the practical side of a man's religion was presented. The
card game, which up to this time proceeded without disturbance, was
now voluntarily abandoned and the players' attention riveted on the
speaker. When it was over they quietly returned to their game, more
thoughtful, because they had themselves chosen to hear the truth.

The Y.M.C.A. hut at Reherrey was a mile and a half behind the line.
Briggs was the secretary. His fine, erect carriage and soldierly
bearing brought him many an unconscious salute from the buck private.
He was a Billy Sunday convert. "I have drunk enough rum to float a
battleship" was the way he told of his wild career. The boys at
Reherrey loved and respected him. His Bible class was the most
enthusiastic I saw in France. When he announced a Sunday evening
service the hut was filled. Candles served as chandelier and desk
lamp. With a sergeant who was a live wire at the piano and Briggs as
song leader, the singing of the fellows not only "raised the roof" but
it also raised the spirits of the men.

About half way through the talk a terrific explosion told us that
Fritz was getting busy. Quietly all candles were blown out. It was a
military order. Aside from this not a man stirred. The message went
right on, punctuated by the exploding shells. There was no fear but an
intense interest in the great call of God to the duty of the hour. At
the close the men pressed forward to grip the speaker's hand, and as
we walked out under the stars, a widow's only son acknowledged that he
had long been the victim of the drink curse and had broken his
mother's heart. "I have taken my last drink," he said; "I will
write to my mother, _but she cannot believe me_. Won't you write her
too and tell her that her son has given himself to the Lord Jesus
Christ?"

    [Illustration: VARIETIES OF SHELLS AND BOMBS
    (Photographed at Nancy)]

The most impressive thing to me about the religion of the soldiers was
its wholesomeness. "Over there" a man dared to be natural. The mask of
pretense was torn off. Men were not hypocrites in the face of death.
They were free; and that freedom showed itself in their religion as
well as in their pleasures. The soldier whom I met in the front line
trench with "_I need Thee every hour_" printed across the front of his
gas mask, was not considered a fanatic.

And when an American Bishop consented to share a Sunday night program
with Elsie Janis, the famous vaudeville actress, the great Bishop
became suddenly _greater_ in the estimation of Christian and
non-Christian alike, and the passionately expressive "Elsie" had a
new and wholesome interpretation put upon her fun and her jokes by the
magic which that combination wrought.

My plea is for that type of Christianity, so pure as to be above
reproach and question and so genuinely human as to enjoy the wit and
humor and even the frivolities of life, its Christliness lifting its
pleasures out of the mists of evil into which we have permitted the
devil to drag them, and placing them side by side with the more
serious considerations of our life work.

My observations teach me that the effort of the army to solve the
fundamental problem of the soldier's spiritual life met with a large
measure of success.

The army took millions of our boys from every walk of life. It sent
two and a quarter millions across the sea. It fed them an abundance of
plain but wholesome food. It gave them plenty of hard exercise to
convert that food into hard muscle. It demanded _attention_, so that a
keen mind directed a strong body. It provided the leisure hour with
huts where the touch of home suggested the writing of millions of home
letters which otherwise would never have been written. Concerts,
lectures, reading rooms with books and magazines and games of all
kinds were furnished to all--free. Even something _homemade_ to eat
and drink, in addition to the regular canteen supplies, which covered
practically every legitimate desire of the men, could be purchased at
reasonable cost.

Having done all this for his body and his mind, it took a broad view
of his spiritual needs, and carefully selected chaplains from the
various denominations and creeds and sent them with the boys as their
spiritual advisers. So splendidly was the choice of religious leaders
made that often on the battlefield a Protestant minister or a Jewish
rabbi would borrow a crucifix and bring the word of comfort to a dying
Catholic; or a priest would read the Bible or the Prayer Book to a
dying Jew or Protestant. On one occasion a woman canteen worker aided
a Jewish rabbi to give absolution to a Catholic boy in a Y.M.C.A. hut
when a priest could not be secured in time. In all this is there not
more than a hint for the Church of to-morrow?

These our boys, now men, have come back to become the great leaders of
our new civilization, and they will be intolerant of dogmatic
denominationalism, and well they may. The church that holds their
respect and commands their allegiance must have a world view of
Christianity and a Godlike love for the lives of all men. And the
theology of to-morrow must be as broad as the teachings of the Bible.





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