Part 6 (1/2)
Evening found us at the near approaches of Saint Marie farm. As the area from this point forward was drenched with gas, and therefore no place for ”Jip,” who stubbornly refused to wear his mask, I decided to leave him and continue forward on foot. Making my way to a dugout, then Company Headquarters of the gallant 19th Machine Gunners, I happened upon a young gunner named Costigan.
”Will you look after 'Jip' for me, Buddie?”
”I will be glad to, Father,” he replied. ”Your sister used to be my teacher in the Ogden school, Chicago!”
How small the world was! To find that Bois-le-Pretre was just around the corner from Chestnut and North State Street!
Grim and terrible, however, was the work just ahead. Entering that forest was like going into some vast fatal Iroquois Theatre saturated with death-dealing gas. It was even then being swept by a tornado of screaming, bursting sh.e.l.ls, scattering far and wide fumes of mustard and chlorine, a single inhalation of which meant unspeakable agony and death. But our brave boys were there with souls to be prepared, and poor mangled bodies were there, reverently to be buried!
It was supreme test for the gas mask! That frail piece of rubber alone stood between us and death. The slightest rent or leakage would be fatal, as injury to the suit of the deep sea diver. These masks had been issued in sizes 3, 4 and 5. Some fitted better than others; others bound painfully about the temples. We had been trained to adjust them quickly from ”alert” to the face in seven seconds, and woe to him who breathed before the clasp was on his nose, the tube in his mouth, or the chin piece properly in place. Under ordinary conditions, they were supposed to filter the poisonous air for thirty-six hours. It was extraordinary conditions, however, rising either from faulty adjustment, rubber strain, or mechanical injury that usually proved their undoing.
On that October day I had remained in the gas waves but four hours and felt I had escaped without injury. Such, however, proved not my good fortune. My mask had evidently not functioned properly and that night of torture to body, head and eyes was accounted for in the simple words of the kind Doctor Lugar:
”Chaplain, you are ga.s.sed.”
A few days' nursing and care at the Field Hospital restored strength and vigor needed for a new and even more interesting encounter.
On the afternoon of Sunday, October 25th, I had held services at three o'clock in a dugout at Vieville-en-Haye. Carefully hidden in a forest immediately south of this village were then located three of our large guns. The boys had proudly named them, ”President's Answer,” ”Theda Bara” and ”Miss McCarthy.” They were throwing high explosive sh.e.l.ls along the Metz highway. The enemy was frantically replying with eight-inch Howitzers from points some six kilometers north, dropping sh.e.l.ls at two-minute intervals into Vieville-en-Haye and its environs.
As there was much gas along this front, I had left ”Jip” at home and was using a Harley-Davidson cycle side-car Lieutenant Trainor of Headquarters had kindly loaned me--further giving me daring Corporal Plummer of Aurora, one of the most skillful of his chauffeurs.
Following the services our next work was a trip to Vilcey-sur-Trey, some four kilometers away, at the eastern approach of Death Valley. Emerging from the dugout our plans were quickly outlined. Taking advantage of the regular two-minute intervals between falling sh.e.l.ls, we planned to first let one come over, then make a quick dash up the front street and get out into the shelter of Death Valley before the next one fell.
Rev. Mr. Muggins, Y. M. C. A. secretary, a very estimable and highly respected man, shook his head.
”Chaplain, you can hardly make it.”
”How about it, Corporal?” I said to Plummer.
”Sure, we can make it,” he replied.
”Let's go,” I said, and quickly slid into the side-car.
We let a sh.e.l.l come over, saw where it burst, then dashed up the street.
Skillfully avoiding heaps of brick and mortar scattered along the way, quicker than it takes to tell, we traversed two blocks and reached a point just opposite the ruined church. Here we rushed full into an ugly crater, our machine fouled and our way was blocked!
We knew a German gun across those fields was even then trained on this spot and would pay its respects in about one minute. Plummer tried to kick and shake life into the machine; I did the praying. Just before lay ruins of the old church. I thought of the countless times Holy Ma.s.s had been offered there, and humbly I asked G.o.d to spare me and my boy, to turn aside from us the stroke of death--but,
”Not my will but Thine be done.”
”Boom!” Across the fields came the sickening report! Ordering Plummer to throw himself to the ground, I was in the act of alighting, and was partly free of the machine, when the sh.e.l.l burst, about one hundred feet away. My right arm seemed to burn; but I was alive, and flat on the ground. Breathlessly we waited, like a boxer in his corner, until the next sh.e.l.l came over. This struck about a block away. At once we sprang to our feet and rushed into the shelter of Death Valley. Plummer was unhurt; but I was slightly bleeding from right arm and left leg. They were but scratches; and most humbly I thanked G.o.d for sparing us.
”Well, Chaplain, they winged you this time,” said good Captain Cash, Abilene, Texas, Medical Corps, when I reported. My right forearm was broken, but nothing serious enough to make me an ambulance case.
CHAPTER VII
THE GREATER LOVE
I never recall those really worth while times without being reminded of a certain Lieutenant whose name I do not feel at present free to reveal.