Part 8 (1/2)
On it comes!--and now black puffs appear in its path, the dynamite sh.e.l.ls of our guns finding their range. Boom! boom! rat-ta-tat-boom-rat-ta-tat is the music that greets our ears and every hill is a tremble under the shock of thousands of rounds of fire.
In such an emergency our orders are clear. We must remain perfectly motionless: we will not be seen unless we move about. We must not fire at him; he must know neither our location nor what arms we have.
The tons of steel being hurled into the air must meanwhile fall in splinters to the earth. Here is where our steel helmets prove so serviceable, protecting the head not only from falling splinters, but from bullets of the machine gun the Foker flyer is now vigorously firing earthward.
Now a new and welcome sound greets our eyes. Coming on the wings of the wind out of the south is the strong deep ba.s.s of Liberty Motor music--the all-American made--which, though arriving in quant.i.ty late in the war, proved at once its superiority to all others. Our ground guns have driven the Foker high into the air; which, evidently noting that the on-coming s.h.i.+ps are merely observing and not fighting planes, comes steadily on!
How vividly I recall that stirring afternoon! We were on a hillside, just above Thiacourt, directing the work of a burial detail. As the Foker reached a point directly over us he dove full in our direction.
There was nothing for us to do, no shelter to take refuge in, just an unprotected slope of the hill.
Whether it was the fact that we were a burial party and he wished to spare us--and this explanation I like to believe--or whether, by firing on us, he might betray his presence, and thus defeat his main purpose, which was to destroy the balloon anch.o.r.ed in the neighboring valley, I will never know; but _this_ I _do_ know--at a point directly above us, and where he could most easily have killed us with machine gun fire, he suddenly changed his course.
Gliding down the valley, he raced full upon the observing balloon and hurled incendiary sh.e.l.ls into it, setting it on fire; then, coming about, he dashed away to the north, escaping over his own lines amid a shower of leaden hail! ”Ill blows the wind that profits no one”--the position of undertaker, we at first hesitated in accepting, had saved our life; burial boys were, after this, more reconciled than ever to their work!
Air craft battles, although of frequent occurrence along our front, were always watched with keen delight. Our fliers were chiefly of the 108th Squadron from the fields of Toul and Colombey-le-Belles.
It was in our area, on the banks of the Moselle, that the heroic and gallant Lufberry fell, fighting, to his death. He is buried in the little cemetery of Evacuation Hospital No. 1, near Toul.
Eddie Rickenbacker, Reed Landis, Tuper Weyman, Elmer Crowel, Bernard Granville, Douglas Campbell, these and others were the gallant Aces of our Army, flying and fighting daily over the front.
On September twenty-eighth Douglas Campbell fell in flames at Pannes. In the cemetery of the old church there he is buried. It was with special interest we cared for his grave, inasmuch as his home was in Kenilworth, near our own Chicago.
Infantry contact flying was necessarily hazardous. It meant flying at an elevation easily in reach of rifle fire.
Usually at mess, the evening before, the flyer, chosen for this mission, would be notified. His companions, too, would hear of the selection; and often indulged, in their own grim humorous way, of reminding him of the fact! The man next to him at the table would softly and weirdly hum a strain from Chopin's Funeral March, setting its music to the solemn words, ”Ten thousand dollars going home to the States!”
It was this trait in Buddie's character, however, ability to make the best of things, to see the smooth and not the seamy side of Death's mantle, that made him the most intelligent, cool, and resourceful of all fighting men. His buoyancy of disposition and resiliency of spirit gave him a self-confidence and initiative that made him rise superior to all hards.h.i.+p, and, as it were, compelled circ.u.mstances to side with him.
The 10th Field Signal Battalion, commanded by the brilliant and big-hearted Major Gustav Hirch of Columbus, Ohio, was a favorite rendezvous of mine. The nature of work of these Signal men appealed to me; and their nomadic habits co-ordinated happily with my duties, frequently requiring me, along the changing front, ”to fold my tent with Arabs and silently steal away.”
They had direct charge of the Intelligence Maintenance of War work, and const.i.tuted the axes of liaison between the various Units of the Division.
Their skill in the transmission of messages was most remarkable. Masking their operations in the language of secret signs and ciphers, they made use of the telephone, telegraph, radio, wig-wag, panel, carrier pigeon, blinker, and last, and perhaps most dependable of all, the living runner. The duty of the latter consisted in carrying messages to or from exposed positions when no other means would do. Usually a volunteer from any branch, he was selected because of courage, agility and ability to get through somehow, no matter how great the opposing odds. I was present in an Observation Post near Jolney talking to Colonel Lewis, when a runner came rus.h.i.+ng across No Man's Land through a leaden hail, saluted, handed a message to Captain Payne, and fell unconscious at his feet. There were no greater heroes of the war.
Operators and linesmen ”carried on” under conditions demanding the greatest courage--remaining to the last in exposed positions like the wireless heroes of a sinking s.h.i.+p. I have known lines to be sh.e.l.led and blown to pieces a dozen times during the day, and just as often repaired by daring linesmen.
Frequently sharing their mess and dugouts, I cultivated the friends.h.i.+p, not only of their generous Commander, but of Captain Cash, of Abilene, Texas; Captain Jim Williams, of Troy, Alabama; and Lieutenant Phillips of Brooklyn, New York--three of the most beloved of soldiers. Lieutenant Andy O'Day, of Detroit, also with them, was heavily ga.s.sed at Jolney.
Attached to the Battalion, too, was a brilliant young man, Lieutenant D'Orleans, French Army. He was from Brittany, had won the Croix de Guerre, and spoke English, if not fluently, at least interestingly.
CHAPTER IX
REMBERCOURT
On Sat.u.r.day night, November ninth, I had repaired to my dugout near Bouillonville, planning to say two Ma.s.ses at distant points the following morning. I retired early to s.n.a.t.c.h a little rest.
At midnight, Lieutenant D'Orleans rushed into the dugout and roused me, hoa.r.s.ely whispering,--”Chaplain, a big movement is on!”
Rolling from my blanket I hurried outside. The night was intensely dark; but there, in the valley before me, I could make out a long column of troops.