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 ships 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 hardship, 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 rushing 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 ship. 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 friendship, 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.

For some days there had been growing signs and vague hints of a big attack impending. Was this its beginning?

Reporting at once to the head of the column, I found Colonel Lewis and Major Black. The troops were the 2nd Battalion of the 64th Infantry. The Colonel, a trimly built little man, and every inch a fighter, was eating a bar of chocolate. "Here, Chaplain, have a bar of chocolate; I have an extra one. By the way we are going to attack at dawn."

[Ill.u.s.tration: ST. JOAN OF ARC.]

The personification of coolness, how proud I was of him! He was ready; he knew his troops were ready; he was about to lead them to the heights of grim Rembercourt, one of the most prized and fought for positions along our front!

These brave boys of the Second Battalion, going, many of them, to their death, needed us. Good Chaplain LeMay of the Battalion would need a.s.sistance; moreover the 55th Infantry would be in that attack, and they, at that time, had no Catholic Chaplain. Many needed Sacramental Confession; all needed G.o.d's blessing. At once, I decided to cancel the two Ma.s.ses I had planned, and accompany them.

In column of squads the troops moved down the valley. As we were but eight hundred marching against a strongly held hill, every approach to which fairly bristled with machine gun nests, success depended primarily on the element of surprise. We were prepared to pay something for that hill, but if we could rush it, the cost would be minimum.

The alert enemy had thrust forward tentacles of listening posts deep into our neighborhood, and, if a chance star sh.e.l.l revealed us, he would lay down a deadly barrage.

We were favored indeed by a blanket of chill fog, that hung over the valley, but our going in the slimy, sticky clay was labored and slow.

Dawn found us in the shelter of a hill near the old mill north of Jolney. This old stone building overhung the river, and stood at the eastern end of the bridge. Later that day it was occupied by General Wahl, commanding the 13th Brigade, and used as his Headquarters. At this point the column was halted; and Colonel Lewis, Major Black, I, and two privates walked forward about five hundred yards around the foot of the hill to reconnoitre. The railroad leading to Metz paralleled this valley; and, but a few yards ahead, half a dozen box cars, hit by our sh.e.l.ls, were burning.

The river at this point is about one hundred yards wide and at no place over five feet deep. It is spanned by a stone bridge sharply arched, built for heavy strain.

Our objective lay on the opposite sh.o.r.e, a hill, some three hundred feet high, covered with scrub oak and cedar. This hill, which commanded the village of Rembercourt and the entire valley, had been firmly held and desperately defended by the enemy even against Pershing's September attack. Ours was now the coveted honor of wresting it from his grasp, once and for all.

Two courses lay open to our crossing, one, to use the bridge, the other to wade the river. The Colonel discouraged the use of the bridge, as the fog was even then thinning out, and, if the column were discovered, in silhouette, artillery would speedily destroy it. He therefore directed Major Black to have his troops wade the river, keeping on the sheltered side of the bridge.

Holding their guns clear of the water the men waded across in silence, keeping single file. The first man to step into that icy water was the gallant little Colonel, his blue French gas mask at "alert," his "forty-five" and precious bars of chocolate held safely above the water.

I was directly behind him. A long column marching in single file through a muddy stream soon cuts a deep channel; and the last two hundred men to cross made wet work of the wading.

That our thoughts were at least partially human at that time, I now recall the following form of reasoning expressed by a Buddie near by. "I am going to get pneumonia out of this wetting; but, most likely, I'll be killed anyway in this hill attack, so I should worry!"

Just at the river edge, a boy suddenly dropped his rifle and began to alternately wildly laugh and cry. A sergeant quickly placed his hand over his mouth to silence him lest his calls might reveal our presence to the enemy. Gently leading him to one side he left him for the First Aid detail. His poor mind had given out under the terrible strain; sh.e.l.l shock, it was called. No comment was made by the men marching past; they pitied him, knowing it was not that he was a coward or a quitter, but simply that he had gone insane under the deadly reality of it all. Why more did not go mad in that Valley of Death only G.o.d can explain!

Emerging on the far sh.o.r.e, we picked our heavy way across the stretch of swamp, that led toward the base of our objective. Although the enemy was not aware of our presence in force, he was keeping up a desultory sh.e.l.ling of his hill base as a matter of ordinary precaution. Like the flare of June bugs along the roadside in summer, high explosive sh.e.l.ls would burst every few minutes, here, there, and in most unexpected places. Colonel Lewis ordered that the men be kept in as open formation as possible, so that fewer would be hit at a time, and falling sh.e.l.ls be reduced to minimum zones of destruction.

Here we had just a.s.sembled and were forming for the attack when the sheltering fog suddenly lifted. It was now eight o'clock. We had not yet been discovered. The men were ordered to lie in their tracks and await orders.

From the spiritual point of view this delay was opportune; as it offered opportunity of pa.s.sing down the line, to hear confessions and extend to all the boys divine aid.

Surely that halt was a G.o.d-send! The prayer of many a mother, far overseas, had moved the Good Master to give her soldier boy this last chance to pause for a prayer on the threshold of death!

This was pre-eminently the Chaplain's hour! Above all others were his every ministration and word and glance prized and respected.

There were no infidels, no religious scoffers, among those soldiers seriously awaiting the zero hour. In the rear areas and rest billets, the profane and irreligious word might often have been heard; but face to face with Death, Judgment, Heaven or h.e.l.l, the skeptic was silenced.

Boys who might have been hitherto negligent in approaching the Sacraments were now the first to call to me, "Father, I want to go to Confession."

In a time so uncertain, momentarily awaiting orders "Over the Top," to hear each one individually was physically impossible. For just this emergency, the far-seeing, merciful Church of the All Merciful G.o.d has provided a means.