Title: The history of Company B, 311th Infantry in the World War
Author: B. Allison Colonna, - To be updated
Language: English
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311TH INFANTRY IN THE WORLD WAR ***



[Illustration: Capt. Colonna and Lt. Foulkes at Camp Dix, 1918.]



  THE HISTORY
  OF
  COMPANY B, 311th INFANTRY
  IN THE
  WORLD WAR.

  Edited by
  B. A. Colonna
  with contributions by David Gardenier, Charles Peter,
  and Tracy S. White.

  Statistics compiled by Bert W. Stiles.

  FREEHOLD, N. J.
  TRANSCRIPT PRINTING HOUSE,
  1922



  COPYRIGHT, 1922,
  BY B. A. COLONNA AND B. W. STILES.



INDEX


                                             Page

  Introduction                                  5

  Chapter I--Madison Barracks                   6

  Chapter II--Camp Dix                          7

  Chapter III--The Cruise of the “NESTOR”      11

  Chapter IV--The English Sector               16

  Chapter V--The American Sector               32

  Chapter VI--St. Mihiel and Limey Sector      40

  Chapter VII--Meuse-Argonne                   67

  Chapter VIII--Flavigny-sur-Ozerain           74

  Chapter IX--Homeward Bound                   76

  Alphabetical Roster of Officers              81

  Alphabetical Roster of Enlisted Men          83

  Classified Rosters                          108

  Number of Officers and Men by States        111

  Lists of Casualties                         112

  Decorations                                 114

  Extracts from General Orders No. 6          115



INTRODUCTION


You, my comrades of the past two years, for whom this history is
written, know that I have but small gift of expression at any time,
and least of all for the things closest to my heart. At your request,
however, made when we parted for the last time, I am writing the
story of our company. I shall do my best to put down everything as it
occurred, so far as my knowledge and memory will serve; and I trust
that if the matter is true, you will overlook crudeness in the form.

“Company B, 311th Infantry”--Only a letter and a number? Only one
company out of the hundreds in the National Army? Yes, to outsiders;
but to me, and I trust and believe to you, Company B was a living and
vital being, composed of part of what was best in each of us. Its
official life was twenty months; in that time it was born, grew to
full strength, was trained, travelled some 7500 miles, fulfilled its
destiny--fought, suffered, lost; and finally returned to its birthplace
and was mustered out. But the spirit of B Company is still with each of
us, and not a man but has carried away more than he gave.

Relatively, B Company was a very small part of the army. But to us,
it was the army; just as we shall always think of the war in terms of
St. Mihiel and the Argonne. We have heard of the Marne, Ypres, Verdun,
Chateau Thierry; but every man sees the war through his own eyes.

For this reason, I am writing in the first person. The best I can do
is to relate things as I saw them so I shall not take refuge behind an
artificial impersonality. Probably a good many things were pulled off
that I did not know anything about. And then you may discover that I
knew more about some little matters than you thought I did.



CHAPTER I

MADISON BARRACKS


On May 5, 1917, I reported for duty at the Officers’ Training Camp at
Madison Barracks, New York, with a commission as Second Lieutenant of
Infantry in the Reserve Corps. My call to active duty had cut short my
law course at Columbia University two months before I was to take my
degree.

Having graduated three years before from the Virginia Military
Institute, and served there a year as sub-professor of German and
tactics, I had some idea of the fundamental principles of military
training; but, like almost all the other reserve officers, army paper
work and administration was a closed book to me.

A few days later I was told off to report to Capt. Haynes Odom, U.
S. R., commanding Co. 5 of the 2d Provisional Training Regt. Capt.
Odom was already conspicuous among the batch of reserve officers for
his efficiency and tireless energy and industry. The tall, upstanding
figure, with the mark of the regular army man indelibly stamped upon
him; the head carried well back; the weather-worn, sun-wrinkled face,
the hooked nose, cool hazel eyes; the smile that accompanied alike
a friendly greeting or a merciless balling out; the soft Southern
accent indescribably harshened by thousands of commands given--do you
recognize the Major, boys?

The three long, hot, arduous months of training at Madison Barracks
can be passed over briefly. My cot in the long frame barrack was next
to that of a tall, lithe, black haired lad from Rochester, N. Y., with
the merriest, keenest, black eyes I ever saw. Before a week went by he
stood out above the average candidate. He was young, just twenty-one--I
was at the venerable age of twenty-two. But he had the keenest,
quickest, practical mind I have ever met, and the gift of natural
leadership, which is compounded of courage, intelligence, unselfish
sympathy, and a sense of humor. He had graduated from Cornell in 1916.
Later you knew him as 1st Lieut. Louis Sinclair Foulkes, the best
officer in “B” Company; the best officer it was my fortune to come in
contact with during the war.

One of the training companies was organized as a cavalry troop. We saw
them now and then being led in physical drill by a handsome, muscular
young chap, so alive and vibrant with nervous energy that it was good
to watch him work. He was Roy A. Schuyler, of Schenectady, a graduate
of Union College, and a descendant of that General Schuyler whose
record in the Revolutionary War makes so bright a page in American
history. Brilliant, impulsive, generous, full of the joy of life,
passionately eager to serve; he was a worthy descendant of a long line
of fighting patriots.

In Co. 9 was an earnest, dignified, hard working reserve first
lieutenant, one of the most capable of the reserve officers on the
post. He was a prominent lawyer of Utica, N. Y., and one of the leaders
in the Plattsburg movement. Though well over the draft age, he had
given up his large practice and had gone into the service at the first
call. This was Russell H. Brennan, the first commander of “B” Company.

At last our course drew to a close; the commissions were announced and
we departed for ten days’ leave before reporting to Camp Dix for duty.
Will we ever forget those ten golden August days? The world was ours,
and life was sweet. No one knew what lay ahead, but we all made the
most of our last taste of the old life for some time.



CHAPTER II

CAMP DIX


Most of you saw it for the first time when you rolled into the long
train shed, and hiked up to your barracks through a mile or more of
company streets, in a city of forty thousand men, the hundreds of large
barracks already weatherbeaten with the snows and rains of winter.

We, however, after changing trains several times, finally rolled up
to what was apparently a piano box in a lumber yard, and were there
assured by the conductor that this was Camp Dix. We tumbled off, and
trudged away through six inches of New Jersey dust toward the only
building in sight with a roof on it--camp headquarters. Our bags became
heavier and heavier; our new uniforms were fearfully hot; our new shoes
and puttees, with which we had been dazzling admiring womenfolks and
causing menfolk to grunt with assumed indifference, were abominably
tight and pinchy.

Finally we straggled in to headquarters, to indulge for a couple of
hours in that amusement so familiar to every man in the army--standing
in line for an hour to do two minutes of red tape. When our turn was
over, we went over to a partially completed barracks, where we were
each allowed to appropriate 1 cot, iron. This was the limit of our
accommodation--those who couldn’t get away to some nearby town slept on
the soft side of a piece of bristol board. We walked to the ether side
of camp for all our meals--about two miles, if you didn’t lose your way.

The next morning we attended a rollcall at 9 A. M. There we met Col.
Marcus B. Stokes, the commanding officer; and Lt. Col. Edgar Myer,
second in command. We found that the officers from Madison Barracks,
Cos. 5 and 6, with half of the Troop formed the nucleus of the new
regiment.

Capt. Odom was Regimental Adjutant and to my horror I was at once made
Regimental Supply Officer. The following officers were assigned to “B”
company:

  Capt. Russell H. Brennan, commanding company,
  2d Lt. Roy A. Schuyler,
  2d Lt. Fred S. Fish,
  2d Lt. Wm. D. Ashmore.

For a month the regiment went through the agonies of organization.
Supplies came in by driblets; transportation there was none, save for
two hopelessly over-worked motor truck companies, which put in half
their time trying to separate their trucks from the sacred soil of
Jersey. A great swarm of civilian workmen were toiling feverishly to
get up the barracks. The regiment was moved four times in as many
weeks. The roads were six inches deep in mud or dust.

The first enlisted men in the regiment were three former candidates at
Madison Barracks, who, through no fault of their own, had not received
commissions, but who wouldn’t leave the bunch, and enlisted in the
regiment,--Dave Gardenier, Art McCann, and Jimmie Hooker. McCann and
Gardenier were made regimental sergeants major, and Hooker was my
regimental supply sergeant.

In about a week a number of men came in from various Regular Army
regiments, to form a nucleus of N. C. O.’s. “B” company received
Ertwine, Robbins, and J. M. Newell. These men were shortly afterward
made corporals on recommendation of Capt. Brennan.

From Sept. 19th to Sept. 22d, the men of the first draft came in.
As Supply Officer, my own troubles kept me pretty busy during those
strenuous days. I knew “B” company, however, as a good outfit. Capt.
Brennan’s steady, methodical, tireless work, and the energy and
devotion of his three lieutenants showed results from the first. Lt.
Fish, a former National Guard officer, was an old hand and steadied the
younger officers.

After two months of hard work, the companies began to round out into
some sort of shape. The non-commissioned officers were selected,
with as much care as was possible in the limited time allowed for
observation of the new men. The first top sergeant of “B” Co. was
Eilert, a sturdy and sterling product of the first draft, who had
been a foreman in a large factory. The “top” is, absolutely, the most
essential man in a company. His position is such that he has to see to
the carrying out of all the disagreeable orders, and making the details
for all the dirty jobs, while at the same time he is not protected by
any barrier of rank. He is usually cordially detested and thoroughly
respected by the men, and is about as useful to the officers as a right
hand. We never had a top in “B” Co. who was not absolutely loyal to
the service and to the company commander; never one who shrank from
the most disagreeable duty, nor who gave a thought to his personal
popularity. They were human, of course, and made mistakes like the rest
of us; and sometimes they couldn’t help being placed in a bad light to
the men. But you men--some of you, even, who beefed most against the
tops--if you only knew how many times that same top came to the company
commander or other officers to help out this fellow or that, to suggest
some way of making things easier for the whole company; if you knew
how hard and thankless a job they held; possibly you would have been a
little more lenient in your judgments.

James McC. Newell was the first supply sergeant, and got away with
everything not nailed down. Samuel Tritapoe was Mess Sgt. until Lt.
Wagner recognized his ability and took him for a regimental supply
sergeant, and Warren Sculthorp succeeded to this thankless but highly
important job. The other sergeants, as well as I remember, were
Ertwine, Perry, Anness and Robbins. Joe Levy was soon drafted by
Newell to make the accounts balance; Harold Sculthorpe started on his
culinary career; Sweeney, Rogers, Tom Viracola, Howard Lehy, Hayden and
Long Bill Reid were corporals. Sutton and Weber were detailed at the
regimental exchange where they were a great factor in making it the
best in the division. And last, but not least, deBruin was man of all
work and plumber-in-chief. Red Sheridan also started his lurid career
with “B” Co., and helped deBruin and “Bugs” Wardell to dispose of the
vanilla extract rations.

Toward the middle of October, Lt. Foulkes arrived from Cambridge,
Mass., where he had been sent for a special course in trench warfare.
He was assigned to B Co., and remained as second in command until he
was made battalion adjutant in July 1918.

Now started in the era of transfers. New drafts were constantly coming
in; and as soon as we would get them uniformed and able to negotiate a
“Squads Right” without losing each other, they would be drawn away to
fill up some other division destined for overseas duty before the 78th.
Not once, but a dozen times between September and May did this happen,
leaving the company with its officers and a skeleton of N. C. O.’s,
cooks and orderlies.

On December 6th, Capt. Brennan and I were interchanged, he taking over
the Supply Company and I, “B” Co.

The winter wore on, and spring was upon us, and we seemed no nearer
France than before. Changes took place in officers as well as enlisted
men. Lt. Ashmore went to “A” Co.; Lt. Fish to the Supply Co.; 2d Lts.
Dunn and Merrill and 1st Lt. Vanderbilt took their places with “B”
Co. The time was filled with training and equipping the ever changing
quotas of recruits and drilling them in fundamentals; for the training
cadre of officers and N. C. O.’s there were special courses in bayonet
fighting, bombing, trench digging--how many cold and weary hours were
swallowed up in that trench system east of the regimental area!--and
ever and always wind, mud and snow, or wind, sun and dust.

When the March drafts came in, rumors took a new lease on life. The
77th division was being equipped to leave Camp Upton; our turn would
probably come next. The transfers went out now to fill up, not other
divisions, but our own artillery regiments across the parade ground.
Work on the target range was increased. Ah, the joys of being routed
out of the hay long before daybreak, snatching a hasty breakfast, and
hiking off through the cold dawn, five miles through the barrens to
that wind-swept waste with the long rows of targets.

1st Sgt. Eilert and Supply Sgt. Newell had been selected to attend the
officers’ training school. Sgt. Ertwine, who had shown exceptional
ability while in charge of the recruits’ barracks, was made 1st Sgt.,
and Joe Levy, of course, became Supply Sgt.

It was not all work and no play, though. At night there were movies at
the “Y” huts; the Post Exchange for those who had something left from
insurance, allotments and other ornaments of the pay roll,--or who were
gifted enough to fill a full house or roll a “natural” consistently.
And on Saturday afternoon and Sunday the lucky 25% would be off for
a few precious hours at home or in the city, while the camp would be
filled with visitors to the less fortunate.

April passed, and May arrived with green trees and warm days. We bought
baseball equipment, and each company had a team (I wonder who got hold
of all that stuff finally?). The April drafts had brought the companies
above normal strength. Tents were put up in the company streets to
accommodate the overflow.

These were busy days for Supply Sgt. Levy and Cpl. Jimmie Jones,
Company Clerk. There was a continuous procession in and out the
door of the squad room where Levy had established his headquarters;
recruits going in with blissful visions of emerging in the likeness of
a magazine ad. soldier; departing with murder in their hearts because
their trousers bagged at the knees. And Joe, who remembered last
September when recruits would bum around for a month before getting a
sign of a uniform, had scant sympathy with them.

This was also an era of reports. Reports on how many men we had;
how many shirts each man had; how many extra shoe-laces were in our
possession; how many men had W. R. insurance; how many were yet to be
inoculated and how many times. Twice a day did I have to report for
officers’ meeting; twice a day would the Colonel hold forth on the
reports the general wanted, which company commanders would prepare at
once, personally, in writing; then the adjutant would begin on the
reports the colonel wanted; then the supply officer would chime in with
a few more that he had to have by six o’clock at the latest. Life was a
veritable nightmare of typewritten figures. The supply sergeant of “L”
company actually lost his mind under the strain. Drill was carried on
in the intervals of lining up for another check or inspection. And the
men, quite naturally, looked upon the officers as a set of lunatics who
didn’t know their own minds for ten minutes at a time.

About May 1st, an advance party of some 25 officers and men left
the regiment, so we knew we were soon to follow. Lts. Schuyler and
Merrill were in this party. They attended the A. E. F. Schools at
Chatillon-sur-Seine, and rejoined us about July 1st.

At last the company was filled up to war strength, and equipped down
to the last shoe lace. On Friday, May 17th, all visitors were excluded
from camp. That evening I assembled the company and put the proposition
up to every man in it whether he wanted to go to France or not,
offering to leave anyone behind who wished to remain. I am proud to say
that not a man applied to be left.

Saturday was a hectic day of last preparations. The barracks were
stripped down to their last mattress and swept out. The typewriters
clicked busily until the last minute. Tom Viracola, one of our best
sergeants, who had been tripped on a slight disability by the medicos
at the last minute and was nearly heartbroken, was to be left in charge
of barracks.

About nine o’clock the company was formed for the last time at its
old home. Packs were heavy with the regulation equipment, tobacco,
and gifts from home. As I was signing some last papers under the arc
light, “C” company moved out silently. I gave “Squads left, march,” the
company wheeled out and we were off for the station.

The road was lined with soldiers from the Depot Brigade as we passed.
Here and there we saw a familiar face, and though the movement was to
be kept as quiet as possible, there was many a husky “so long, fellows”
and “good-bye, 311, good luck,” to cheer us on our way.

Packs were heavier every step, and what with the extra rations,
typewriter, etc., we were glad to have a half hour’s rest at the
station. Then the word came to fall in again--how many times were we
to hear those weary words, “Fall in”--and the company filed along to
the day coaches awaiting them. Equipment was removed, and all made
themselves as comfortable as they could for the night.

Early in the morning the train pulled out. As dawn broke, we made out
the names of some of the New Jersey towns we passed through. Many a
lad saw his home town for the last time as we rolled through it in the
chill of that May morning.

At Jersey City we detrained and passed through the station to the
ferry. Several civilians asked us where we were going; but the men
realized the importance of secrecy, and all the curious ones got was a
gruff invitation to “put on a uniform and find out.”

Then we were jammed on a ferry boat. It was some jam, too, leaving
those who hadn’t been trained on the subway gasping.

Down to the street, on between the great warehouses, and into a
spacious covered pier. Here was the point of embarkation, where we
had been told every service record was examined, every man inspected;
the focus of all the red tape that had been driving us insane for the
past two months. To our very agreeable surprise, however, the loading
was handled by two or three business-like men in civvies, who merely
checked each company on the boat by the passenger lists as fast as the
men could hike up the gangplank.

We were met by Lt. Gibbs, battalion adjutant, who led us below, pointed
out three decks each about the size of our Camp Dix orderly room, and
announced that these were B Co.’s palatial quarters. I gasped, and
remarked that we were much obliged, but suppose someone should want to
turn around, where would he be, and howinell was Geoghegan going to get
in one of those little canvas napkins they called hammocks, anyhow? He
replied that I ought to see “C” company’s place, and melted away in a
fashion peculiar to Bn. Adjts. when leaving Co. Cmdrs. S. O. L. A few
moments later we heard him consoling Capt. O’Brien on the deck above by
telling him that he ought to see “B” Co.’s place.



CHAPTER III

THE CRUISE OF THE “NESTOR”


By the time the space and hammocks were assigned to platoons and
squads, the ship was under way. Orders were to keep below decks until
out of the harbor; and for many, their last look at America was a
glimpse of the harbor front through a port hole.

At this point Lt. Gibbs reappeared, with the cheerful order that
life preservers would be donned at once, and kept on for the rest
of the voyage. For the next ten days all waddled about feeling like
motherly hens. The apparatus I drew seemed particularly dirty, and most
unbecoming to my figure, which is built close to the ground anyway.

Breakfast had been nothing more than a cracker and bully beef, snatched
at odd moments. The good ship hadn’t started to roll much yet, so all
looked forward to dinner with a robust interest. Then it evolved that
this was an Australian transport, the “Nestor;” and as such, sailed
under the British flag; and hence and therefore, the next meal would be
tea at 5 o’clock. Eternity passed, and about half an hour thereafter
the steward came around, and in queer, clipped cockney English
introduced us to “dixies” and “flats.” Another half hour, and the first
messes to be served saw their hash-grabbing detail returning, bearing
through aisles of famished Yanks--bread and cheese and tea! A planked
steak would have been more to the point, we felt, and a towering,
raw-boned countryman in a corner,--Lory Price, I imagine--opined
dismally that we were being mistaken for an orphan asylum. However,
what there was aroused the boys sufficiently to take a less morbid
view of life, and as the officers departed to the cabin, cards and
books appeared, and the mystic words were softly chanted: “Natural,
bones”--“Read ’em and weep.”

But there was not what you might call a festive air to that first
evening; nor to many thereafter. Of course, for some fellows who had
no one dependent on them, who were setting out foot loose for a great
adventure, there was nothing to interfere with the thrill of the
unknown before them. But the majority of these men had been taken out
of their civilian life but two or three weeks before; they were among
strangers, and in an absolutely foreign environment; their new uniforms
still uncomfortable and scratchy, and army regulations and discipline
an incomprehensible set of shibboleths. Far down in each heart the
love of their country burned, steadily enough for the most part; white
hot in some; in others, but recently kindled. All hid it diligently,
of course, from the general view. They had been so fed up with windy
orators, with politicians waving the flag with one hand and keeping
the other on exemption certificates, that the real thing was jealously
concealed.

As I made my final inspection that night, looking out from the
companion-way over the rows of close slung hammocks, I wondered what
their occupants were thinking; what forms of dear ones were present to
their minds; to what homes their thoughts went back--a Harlem flat,
a Jersey farmhouse, a great hotel, a tiny pair of rooms in Jersey
City; comfortable, well-off American homes; tenements in the foreign
districts--each one dear for its memories, each one the home to fight
for. Would we have time to train these men into a fighting machine, or
would we be thrown in at once to stop the great Hun drive in Flanders,
then at its height? How many of us would see these homes, these dear
ones again?--But a company commander has little time to indulge in
reflections; and thoughts of the morning report, and how to distribute
the chow more evenly, and a large budget of orders I had to read, soon
chased away everything else.

The NESTOR carried the 1st and 2d Bns. and Headquarters Co. of the
311th Inf., a Machine Gun battalion, and Brig. Gen. Dean, our brigade
commander, and his staff. Our colonel was in command of the troops on
board, such things being below the dignity of general officers. He was
in his element; he had an officers’ meeting the first thing, and dished
out about 4 square acres of orders to be read and put into effect at
once.

[Illustration: 1st Platoon, Flavigny, France, 1919.]

Now no one knows better than I how many orders you men received, and
how it was often beyond human power to obey all of them. But I call any
company commander to witness that we got them coming and going. The
Co. Cmdr. is the one man who can’t pass the buck on responsibility.
We had to take the bushels of orders we received, eliminate those
utterly impossible, select from those remaining what seemed essential
and what we thought the Major and Colonel would deem essential, and
then get those things done by the company--that is, issue orders to the
1st Sgt. for details, Supply Sgt. for supplies, Mess Sgt. for mess,
officers for drill and instruction, company clerk for paper work, and
then see to it that the whole is carried out. And then one usually
amasses a balling out for something or other that he has left out.

One of these orders was the censorship order, of which we had heard so
much. Instead of having all letters censored at post offices by clerks,
some genius had decided to follow the British plan of having officers
censor their own men’s mail. Thus at one brilliant stroke a situation
was created which embarrassed men and officers alike, imposed an
irksome and continual task on over-burdened officers, delayed the mail,
and was in every way sweet incense in the nostrils of the little tin
gods of the red tape; the exponents of the theory of How Not to Do It.

The principal morning sport on the trip was the ship’s inspection. The
holds of that old tub received such a scrubbing and cleaning as they
had never had before. In spite of the close quarters, everything was
kept quite fresh and clean. It gave me a vast respect for the women who
do such work all day for paltry wages. At 10:00 A. M. the call would be
sounded, and all except the day’s orderlies would be massed on decks in
their boat drill stations, and a merry little crush it was. Then the
lords of the earth would solemnly parade along in single file, preceded
by a bugler, who blew a seasick “Attention” at each deck. Everybody
would then step on everyone else’s feet, and make a little lane for the
procession. The adjutant, the ship’s captain, the colonel, the ship
supply officer--poor old Gibbs was the goat for that job--would play
“follow my leader,” and look into corners, and sniff importantly, and
everything would be very formal and terrible, and grand.

The rest of the day would be taken up with physical drills--one company
using the deck at a time--and fire and boat drills. It was given out at
first that four long blasts of the boat’s whistle would be the signal
for “Abandon ship.” This was changed later by the ship’s captain, but
somewhere along the line there was a hitch, and the information never
got down to the company commanders. About five nights out, at about
10:30 P. M., the whistle began to toot, once--twice--heads began to
appear over the hammocks; thrice--the hammocks began to be agitated;
four times--two hundred and thirty odd hearts gave a leap, four
hundred and sixty feet hit the floor, and B Company started up the
gangway, with three sergeants, who shall be nameless, leading the way
to victory. Lt. Foulkes, who was on fire watch, judged hastily that it
must be all a mistake somehow, and calmed the riot with his .45 and a
few choice remarks in the vernacular.

Then the chow--oh, the chow; oh, the Gawd-forsaken chow. It was doled
out as breakfast, dinner, and tea. It was none too much in quantity.
There were here and there newly made n. c. o.’s who were not above
holding out more than their share. And our American stomachs were
several times abruptly introduced to strange dishes. First it was a
weird looking mess that tasted like an explosion of mustard gas. How
did we know it was currie? Few had sufficient faith in human nature
to down their portion. Then one day a ghastly odor tainted the noonday
air, and we were introduced to tripe. The latter was finally buried
with military honors, and I arrived on the scene just in time to save
the ship’s cooks from being the star actors in a similar ceremony.

“Tea” was bread and cheese and tea. We thought of the days of plenty at
Camp Dix and reflected that the culinary end of this war business was
hardly a success so far.

The officers were fed well and in civilized fashion in the cabin,
which didn’t help matters much for the men. Also some members of the
boat’s crew took advantage of the situation by running a sub-rosa
restaurant in the forecastle, gouging such as had the price. Of course
the Americans thought right away that they were holding out part of our
rations for this purpose, and international relations began to get very
strained. The officers were finally informed, and the practice stopped.

There were ten or twelve other ships in the convoy, which was headed by
the battleship Montana. At last one morning the latter was missing, and
we knew that we must be nearly across. Precautions were redoubled and
life preservers were not removed even at night.

On the morning of May 31st we sighted land--a welcome sight indeed.
Capt. Breen at once identified it as dear auld Ireland, and was much
disgusted when we learned later that it was Scotland. We had sailed
around the north of Ireland, and were dropping down the Irish sea to
Liverpool.

This was the submarine zone indeed. Destroyers appeared from the
horizon and hovered on the outskirts of the convoy. A great silver
dirigible swung lazily from the clouds and floated along above us. The
Irish coast came into view on our right.

At about 2:00 P. M. there was a scurry among the destroyers. The
dirigible descended above a spot some half mile off our port bow. Guns
began to speak from the transports and destroyers. It only lasted for
about five minutes, however, and we couldn’t see any visible results.
But we were told that a sub had been spotted and destroyed.

Late that night we took the pilot aboard and proceeded up the Mersey.
Few of us slept a wink. After the long strain it was good to see
ourselves surrounded by the lights of shipping, and to see the shore
on either side, though as few lights as possible were shown even then.
However, we could open the portholes, and the long, long line of docks
slipped by until we wondered if this great harbor had any end. At last,
about 2:00 A. M., we docked and settled down to wait until morning for
a glimpse of Merry England.

The next day we waited around until 1:30, when we disembarked. We were
marched about half a mile through the streets to a railroad terminal.
The people hardly glanced at us. They were well used to soldiers by
that time. Not a cheer, not a sign of curiosity. Another herd for the
slaughter house. A few wounded soldiers, in their flaring “blues,”
looked us over with some professional curiosity.

At the railroad station we were halted on a cobbled street for a weary
three hours’ wait. There was an English-American Red Cross canteen
there, and we bought them out of buns in short order and distributed
them to the companies. An aviator appeared on the scene and amused us
for a while by doing all sorts of acrobatics--loops, whirls, twists
through the air--such as we had never seen before.

Finally we were formed and marched into the station, and boarded
the funny little English coaches, and were locked up in different
compartments. Canteen girls gave each of us a printed letter of welcome
from King George, and finally we jolted out of the station, rolled
along between factories and munition plants--manned mostly by girls and
women--and so out into the countryside.

That was a wonderful ride through England on the last day of May. It
was a perfect evening, the air soft and balmy; light until ten o’clock.
It was like a toy country to us, beautifully ordered and groomed, with
little villages here and there, and green hedgerows, and usually one or
two Tommies on leave walking down the lane with their sweethearts--that
made us homesick already. And the train sped along, stopping only once
for us to get out and have some coffee and a drink of water; and we
were all thrilled and excited and felt a little tickly in the stomach,
as you do before a big football game. We were fast drawing near the
greatest game, now being played to a finish.

As the night wore on, and it became dark, and we couldn’t look out the
windows any more, our cramped quarters were anything but comfortable.
Also, sanitary arrangements on European trains are conspicuous by their
absence. When at last, at 2:00 A. M., we were told to detrain, we were
pretty thoroughly uncomfortable.

After the usual hubbub of detraining--“which way’s comp’ny form?”--“I
dunno”--“First squad”--“Ninth squad”--“Where’s me bayonet?”--“Oh,
thanks”--“D’ja get the can open all right?”--We departed into the
night, filing past a little station out into a dark road, and then at
a good round pace on through silent, dark streets, for about a mile.
There we were introduced to our first billet.

It was a large empty stone house in a row of similar ones. Bare
floors, bare walls, but clean, and not so bad. After a vast amount of
unnecessary fussing about the company got itself settled. Sixty men
were to leave at six o’clock under Lt. Foulkes.

That night and early the next morning we heard for the first time the
distant rumble of the guns in France.

In the morning we discovered that we were in an embarkation camp at
Folkestone, near Dover. A beautiful place it was, something like
Atlantic City, only everything seemed more permanent, and the boardwalk
was lacking. The camp was a section of the town set apart for the
purpose. Everything was well ordered. These Englishmen had been at
the game a long time, and after some chafing and fussing around
we discovered that though no one displayed any particular “pep,”
nevertheless things really got done quite well; in the British way, of
course. But woe be unto the ambitious Yank who sought to alter anything.

Most of the company had not even been in the service long enough to
master the manual of arms, and part of the day was used in instilling
the rudiments of this essential into them. Time was still left for
a short ramble about Folkestone, however; and the promenade, town,
pubs, Tommies and Waacs were all investigated enthusiastically and as
thoroughly as time and opportunity permitted.

The next morning the battalion was formed at 6 A. M. and marched
along cobbled streets to the pier, where we were sardined into a fast
channel steamer, and donned those confounded lifebelts again for a
short farewell wearing. Then, with an American destroyer racing along
on either side, we slipped swiftly down under the Dover Cliffs, then
swerving out and across the channel to Calais. A dock, a Red Cross
train on the other side of it, a fisherman in a little boat alongside
us--France at last.



CHAPTER IV

THE ENGLISH SECTOR


The company filed off the boat, and crossing the dock stumbled into
formation down the railroad track by the hospital train, and was
introduced to a bit of backwash from the drive. Some English wounded
were being carried from the train to the boat by German prisoners. We
looked curiously at the latter. These were the Huns we were taught to
hate, whom we were to kill. They were husky, blonde chaps, in faded
greenish gray uniforms, with their little flat caps. They paid scant
attention to us, but carried the English very carefully and gently.
Maybe the Tommy who walked near by with fixed bayonet had something to
do with it. At any rate, I didn’t feel any very lusty rage or horror
at them, and though one or two of our men cursed at them under their
breath, it didn’t seem at all convincing, but rather forced. Most of
the wounded men whose faces I saw glared at us with the usual British
“What the devil do you mean by looking at me, sir?” so I suppose they
were officers. I don’t blame them for not liking to be stared at. One
or two fellows couldn’t help groaning when their stretchers were lifted.

But “C” Co. is moving off, and we swing into column of squads and
hike off behind them, our great heavy packs, religiously packed with
all the items prescribed for us and much besides, getting heavier
and heavier. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Calais was quiet; the
cobbled streets apparently peopled only by a few little gamins of
both sexes who greeted us with the cries that accompanied us through
France--“Souvenir,” “Bis-keet,” “Chocolat.”

We passed through the outskirts of the town and into a dusty, sandy
road between green dikes or ramparts dotted with anti-aircraft guns.
Then we passed by a group of weather-worn barracks, dusty and dreary,
labeled--doubtless by some wag, we thought--“Rest Camp,” surrounded by
wire fences.

We cross a canal, turn to the left, and pass along to another--“Rest
Camp No. 6.” The leading company turns in at a gate in the wire fence;
we see American uniforms and campaign hats; one or two officers in
overseas caps, strange looking to us then; then we pass in through the
gate and realize that this is our temporary destination.

We were billeted in tents, about 12 feet in diameter--and about 20 men
to a tent. Sand everywhere. A hideous open latrine next to the mess
hall. After the usual hurly-burly and confusion, we finally kick other
companies out of our tents, are in turn kicked out of theirs, and,
after a long wait, get--“tea.” Oh, how Americans did love that word!

The officers were lodged in luxury--the five of us had a whole tent,
with some boards to sleep on. We ate at the British officers’ mess,
where meals and very good beer and wine were served by Waacs. The next
thing was an officers’ meeting, and that night a talk by an English
major. He cheered us up by telling us that very few ever came back, and
narrated several choice tales of sudden death in unusual and gruesome
forms. He was apparently bent on removing from our minds any impression
that we were in for a pleasure trip. We afterwards heard that he was
severely criticised by other British officers for trying to get our
wind up first thing.

The next morning our equipment was cut down. We could only keep what
we could carry on our backs. The contents of our barrack bags, the
extra equipment, the complete outfit that had been subjected to so many
inspections, upon which we had turned in reams upon reams of reports at
Camp Dix, were ruthlessly collected, dumped into trucks and carted off
to Heaven knows where by a Q. M. 2nd Lieutenant. No count was taken, no
papers signed. The omniscient powers, who had deviled our lives out to
collect this stuff, hadn’t told us anything about this little ceremony.
So underwear, socks, extra pairs of shoes were a drug on the market;
and we simply couldn’t give the cigarettes away. A great quantity were
turned over to the Y. M. C. A. canteen. Of course, we never saw our
barrack bags again.

The next day we formed with rifles, belts and bayonets, and marched
about four miles out into the flat, flat country; past windmills
and hedges and a little estaminet here and there, until we came to
a British gas house. Here some English and Scotch sergeants issued
English gas masks, and after a couple of hours gas mask drill we went
through the gas house, and started back to camp. On our way we stopped
by at an ordnance hut where our American Enfields were exchanged for
English Enfields, with their stubby looking barrels and heavy sight
guards. In our army issuing or exchanging any piece of ordnance
property is like getting married, and when a rifle is involved it is
like five actions at law and a couple of breach of promise suits.
Here we filed in one door, shoved our rifle at a Tommy, beat it for
the other door, grabbed an English weapon and bayonet, and the deed
was done. I happened to be in command of the battalion that day, and
somewhere I suppose the British government has a couple of grubby slips
of paper on which I’ve signed for 1,000 gas masks, rifles and bayonets.
The transaction would probably have been a fatal blow to a U. S.
ordnance officer. Being only a reserve officer of infantry, it seemed
to me pretty sensible.

Back in camp we were pretty much left alone, and some there were who
lost no time making an acquaintance with the estaminets of Calais. In
thirty-six hours we had learned enough English to discourse glibly of
“tuppence ha’ penny,” and I even overheard Price offer to “Shoot you a
bob,” and somebody promptly took “six penn ’orth of it.” But this was
nothing compared to our excursions into the unexplored fields of the
long suffering French language. By that evening most of the men seemed
quite proficient in a few such indispensable phrases as “Vin rouge tout
de suite” or rather “Van rooge toot sweet,” “Encore,” “Combien,” and
“Oo la la, ma cherie.”

The next morning--Wednesday, June 5th--we left Rest Camp No. 6, and
glad we were to leave it, for a dirty, hot hole it was. We hadn’t
been bombed, though the town got its usual raid, and the camp was
complimented the next night by the Boche.

The hike to the station was long and hot and made without a rest. Of
course, not knowing as much as they would later, the men’s packs were
tremendous. The overcoat, blanket, 100 rounds of ammunition and extra
shoes and rations alone are a good load, and when one adds several
suits of underwear, extra toilet articles, Jenny’s sweaters, Aunt
Sarah’s wristlets, a couple of cartons of cigarettes and pipe tobacco,
and some chocolate, it gets tremendous. Little Effingham’s pack as
usual, was down to his heels, but he stoutly refused assistance, also
as usual. The company arrived at the station feeling like a dyspeptic
bear with scarlet fever.

We were forthwith introduced to the famous “Hommes 40, Chevaux 8.” It
was seldom that bad, but even 25 or 30 men are a tight fit in those
little cattle cars, as you all can testify.

We rolled out of Havre, pursued to the last by the children and orange
sellers, who seemed to spring up from the ground everywhere in Northern
France.

This first trip was short. We passed from the low country into a gently
rolling terrain, and at about 1 o’clock arrived at Marquise, where we
detrained.

We were met by a couple of Scotch officers from the 14th Highland
Light Infantry. They guided us up the road to the village where we
were billeted, about two miles away. On the way one of them, Captain
“Jimmie” Johnston, told us that their battalion was detailed to act as
instructors for the 311th Infantry.

The first little crossroads village was our billet--Rinxent. The
command “Fall out t’ right of th’ road” sounded quite welcome to the
overloaded marchers and we watched the rest of the battalion march by
enroute to their billets at Rety, two kilos further.

The company was scattered along the road in small billets of from
ten to forty men. Company headquarters was established in the corner
estaminet. This was our first introduction to French billets. The usual
procedure consisted of:

1. Protest to billeting officer or N. C. O. at putting human beings
into such a place. Unsuccessful.

2. Long argument with house holder, he speaking French very fast and we
speaking American very loud. Usually ended by the argument of a five
franc note to the frugal French peasant.

3. Cleaning out the stable, chicken house, or barn, with voluble
protests from f. F. p.

4. Making sundry discoveries during the first night.

5. Pitching pup tents in nearest field.

We got permission to use a field about 100 yards square for a drill
ground and two platoons pitched pup tents there.

The first night a few of the boys became slightly excited over the
privilege of visiting the estaminets, and tried to drink up all the vin
rouge and cognac at once. The consequence was that the dispensers of
good cheer were put under the ban for several days.

Now the training of the company began in earnest. The majority of the
men had had only the most hasty smattering of the elements of squad
drill; many could not shoulder arms properly. Two platoons would use
the drill field while two drilled on the roads outside. The training
schedules called for a good nine-hour day of drill and ceremonies,
varied occasionally by short practice hikes by company or battalion.

Lewis guns were issued to us here. A few officers and n. c. o.’s
had taken courses in the use of this weapon at Camp Dix; company
and battalion schools were at once started, the latter conducted by
Scottish n. c. o.’s from the 14th H. L. I.

In addition, there were battalion, regimental and corps schools for
bayonet, gas defense, liaison (for the runners), bombing, rifle
grenade, musketry and several more. From this time until we left
France there were always a number of men away at schools. Of course
this was necessary, but it broke up the training of the company as a
whole. Also, we were brigaded with the British, and some men would go
to a British school and qualify as instructors, only to come back and
find that the American system was being used, and vice versa. Both
systems might have their good points, and did have, but the rate at
which orders and instructions and ways of doing things changed from
day to day was enough to bewilder old hands at this game; and we were
greenhorns.

“Jimmy” Johnston helped a lot. He was in command of what was left of
the 14th battalion, Highland Light Infantry--about four squads. Of
medium height, rather stocky build, with a bonny, handsome face and
bright blue eyes under his Scotch cap, Jimmy was one of the finest
fellows and best officers that ever stepped. He had been through the
Gallipoli expedition, and two years on the Western front; had been
reported killed in action, and gone home on leave to be greeted as one
risen from the dead.

Jimmy had been through the mill. He knew. Always with a word of
encouragement, to avoid dampening our American energy, he would help
along with quiet hints and canny suggestions that were worth their
weight in gold. When we came staggering along under heavy packs, he
said nothing, but strolled along with his little cane and admired
the landscape. When orders would come in thick and fast, each one
contradicting the last, and all to be executed at once, Jimmy would
intimate verra, verra cautiously, that if we used our own judgment we
should get along somehow, and that C. O’s and chiefs of staff had to
keep themselves busy, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt ’em. Like
most Scotch officers he seemed to live mostly on whiskey, and throve on
the diet.

On June 11, Major Odom went to a Corps school, and I was left in charge
of the battalion. Of course, that evening orders came in to move next
morning. We had just begun to get in our English transport--the little
limbers and the cranky rolling kitchen with which we were to become so
familiar later. Up to then we had cooked on our American field ranges.

At 7 o’clock next morning we pulled out and marched down to Rety.
There we fell in behind the 2d battalion, and started on our first
full day’s hike. The packs were still heavy, and those full cartridge
belts--Lord, how much 100 rounds of ammunition can weigh after a
while! As usual with green troops, the leading element set too fast a
pace. Rests seemed but a minute. Finally, on a long, long up grade, we
halted for lunch. After chow and an hour’s rest, we pulled on, picking
’em up and putting ’em down. On, over broad white roads; turning off
into narrower roads shaded by rows of tall trees, turning into the
highroad again. We passed stragglers from the 309th and 310th Infantry,
so knew that the whole 78th Division must be in France and on the move
near us. The hills were higher, the women were older. We came to a
village; three estaminets, two stores, a school house, a blacksmith’s
shop, a sign. “Brunembert.” Regimental Hdqrs. and Supply Co. are halted
there. We keep on; on the other side of town “C” and “D” companies meet
their advance party guides and turn off; we hike on half a kilometer,
half way up a hill, turn off to the right, hike around the hill, and
finally, at about 3 P. M., plumb tuckered, the company is split, two
platoons going to one farmhouse, the other two to another, at Haute
Creuse.

Haute Creuse itself was only a crossroads, with one poor cottage.
Battalion headquarters was there. The company billets were a good
quarter of a mile apart. In addition, when I inspected the billet
assigned the 3rd and 4th platoons, I found a remarkably dirty old
barn, with a cesspool and manure heap outside that was awful, even
for France. The only spring was near the pool. So the next morning we
moved these platoons over to the other billet, pitching pup tents in a
beautiful field just on the other side of the barnyard.

That afternoon an old duffer in an English major’s uniform came ambling
along. He expressed great anguish at our not using the billets assigned
to us. It meant nothing to him that our comfort, health, convenience
were served by our using our own tents. The plan was that that lousy
old typhoid trap should be occupied, and so it must be done. And he, it
appeared, was the “area commandant.”

So I said “Yessir,” and tipped Sgt. Ertwine off to have some men make a
great show of striking tents, and resolved privately to take a chance
yet. Jimmy Johnston came along later and told me that area commandants
were a tribe of dud officers who were given that job to keep ’em out of
mischief.

I was hauled over the coals three or four times about it. The old Major
wrote to his General Hdq., and they wrote to our hdq., and it came down
the line to our Colonel, whose soul shivered before the wintry blast.
But finally Lt. Col. Myers took it up and obtained permission for us to
stay where we were.

At Rinxent a number of second lieutenants, just commissioned at the
Officers’ Training Camp at Langres, had joined us. We had a captain
and five or six second lieuts. attached to “B” Co. The captain, who
was commanding the company in my absence at bn. hdq., was a peculiar
individual, with very fierce and imposing mustachios, and a manner to
match; but an absurdly incongruous weak and husky voice, due to throat
trouble. The lieuts. were rather a good bunch; men who had been n. c.
o.’s in outfits that had come over during the preceding year, and some
of whom had been in the trenches already. We were fortunate in keeping
one of them, Lieut. Bivens Moore, in the company; the others we lost by
transfers from time to time.

Training was resumed again; schools ran in full force. Officers and
men were continually going off to sundry corps or army schools in the
vicinity; at St. Omer or points near by. Harold Sculthorpe went off
to a cooks’ school, and we didn’t see him again for many a month. Sgt.
Peterson was made Brigade Postal N. C. O. We received our first mail
from home, and nobody can ever tell how welcome it was. Letters were
the one slender thread that connected our new life with the old. A
bit of mail cheered up a soldier for days; a disappointment when mail
came in without one for him made him blue for a week. It was pleasant
to see the earnest faces of fellows like Sgt. Schelter, and Corporal
DeGrote beaming when they heard from their wives and little ones.
With the impatience and eagerness of the newlyweds, I was of course
sympathetic. And as for the majority, who were waiting for letters from
the best little girl in the world, they were either insufferable in
their glamourous egotism, or serio-comic in their suffering, according
to whether the lady had seen fit to be kind or cool when she took her
pen in hand. Certain ones, too, who shall be nameless, would receive
letters in sundry handwritings, with a variety of post-marks. Don
Juans, these; gay and giddy Lotharios in the old home town.

We were billeted at a typical French farm of the larger type. As you
turned in off the road through the gateway, a black dog chained in a
little stone dungeon just inside barked fiercely. This poor beast had
been chained in that one place for so long that he knew nothing else.
He was half blind; and one day when I unchained him and took him for a
walk down the road, he was desperately frightened; and as soon as he
got back he made a dash for his kennel, and refused to come out.

The long, two story house took up most of the left hand side of the
courtyard. The officers had two rooms here, one of which we used for
a mess. The family lived mostly in the big kitchen, where a little
fire burned on the great hearth. On the other two sides were stables,
some of which were used as billets, storeroom and orderly room. The
manure heap adorned the center of the courtyard. Behind lay a small
but important yard, which in turn opened on the big field where two
platoons were in pup tents around the border, and where the company
formed.

The people here were dull, homely, grasping and churlish. I do not
recollect ever having been given a pleasant word by one of them; but
of complaints and claims for damages there was no lack. They seemed to
resent our presence from the very first; we were apparently as much
intruders to them as German troops could have been.

The men soon began to resent this attitude, and to reciprocate in kind.
Soldiers are apt to be heedless, and are of course a nuisance to the
people they are quartered on; but at Rety they had greeted us in the
main as friends, and we in turn tried to give as little trouble as
possible. Here our notions of being the welcome young warriors got a
good severe jolt.

We on our side took some time to learn how to conduct ourselves. How
were we to know that a French peasant would far rather have you walk
over him than over one of his fields? Why was it a crime to cut down a
stunted dead tree for the company kitchen? And where, oh, where were
the pretty mademoiselles?

But even in Northern France all the people were not like this. Remember
the old woman just down the road, who lived with her daughters in the
cottage which was battalion headquarters? They were very poor, and
worked very hard; all the long summer day--and it was light from 4:30
A. M. to 9:00 P. M.--they were busy, indoors and out. Her three sons
were in the army, one a prisonier de guerre, two at the front. When one
of them, only a young lad, came home for a few days’ permission, he
went out every morning at 6:00 o’clock and worked until dusk. How many
of us would have done as much? And the old lady and girl always had
a smile and cheery word, and would give soldiers a drink of milk and
insisted on having officers going to bn. hdq. stop for a cup of coffee.
Even the pretty little goat in the yard grew friendly with olive drab,
and would romp with us like a dog.

For several days we used whatever little fields we could for drill;
every square foot of land that was suitable seemed to be under
cultivation. This was unsatisfactory, to say the least. Finally Col.
Meyers arranged for us to have the use of the top of the great hill. It
was a splendid place to drill--after you got there. But oh, that hike
up that young mountain and down again, twice a day! Will we ever forget
it?

When we had been here about a week, Major Odom returned, and a day
or so later Lieuts. Schuyler and Merrill rejoined the company. They
were all primed with the new wrinkles they had picked up at school at
Chatillon, and took over the first and third platoons respectively.
Schuyler’s conscientiousness, high spirits and inexhaustible energy
made him a great asset to the company. Merrill was an equally hard and
willing worker, and though young, was one of the brightest men in the
regiment. He had graduated from the school at the head of his class,
which included majors, captains and lieuts. from all over the A. E. F.

We were stationed about 50 kilometers behind the lines; and had the
Germans made one more drive on Calais that summer we should have
undoubtedly gone into action. No lights were shown at night, and it was
seldom that we did not hear the droning buzz of the great Boche bombing
planes winging their way to bomb Calais or Boulogne, or maybe some
nearer town, Desvres or St. Omer.

At the beginning of July details of officers and n. c. o.’s were
sent up to the front lines for four day tours of observation. Sgts.
Ertwine, Perry and I went on the first one, and were in the line with a
battalion of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Our experiences, while
interesting, hardly belong here. Lieut. Foulkes went up the next week
and landed in the midst of an attack, so he saw plenty of action. Then
Lieut. Schuyler went up with an Australian outfit, who didn’t let him
pine for excitement during his stay. It was an excellent system, and we
saw at first hand how things were really run in the trenches.

When I returned from my tour, an orderly brought around late that night
some red covered books and leaflets, and we were told that these would
be put into effect the next day. These were the new system of combat
formations, involving an absolutely new extended order drill, and
formation of the company. Lieut. Moore had drilled a few times in these
formations; the rest of us knew no more about them than the company
cooks did. So next morning we sallied forth, books in hand, and worked
the formations out step by step. Everyone was quick to see that this
was something like business, as of course our old army regulations
were absurd when it came to using the new special weapons, such as
automatic rifles, hand and rifle grenades, and so on. So the new
formations were mastered remarkably quickly.

A bayonet course with trenches, “shell holes” and dummies was
installed, and a sergeant of the Northumberland Fusileers was
instructor. He was a good one, too; but as usual, we were up against
it, as he taught some things slightly differently from the American
methods.

It was while going over this course that Gustave Fleischmann stepped in
a hole and broke his leg. It was a bad break, for I saw his foot and
lower leg go out sideways at a right angle, in spite of his leggings.
He was game enough, though, and smoked a cigarette while waiting for
an ambulance and surgeon. We heard from him several times from English
hospitals, but he was never able to rejoin the company.

We also lost another very valuable man in Corporal Edward Johnson.
This man could have claimed exemption for either dependents or a weak
heart. He refused to do either, and we managed to get him passed by
the medicos for foreign service. The daily hike up that hill, however,
and the strenuous life generally, were too much for him, though he
kept at it until he was worn down to a very dangerous point. I made
him go before the surgeon, who at once ordered him transferred to a
depot brigade. I know that Johnson was not liked by some of you men
on account of his conscientiousness. I believe, however, that when
you look back upon it you will appreciate his honest, unselfish and
unceasing labor for his squad, platoon, and company.

That countryside was beautiful at this time. It rained often, but in
showers; not the continuous drizzle that came later. Maybe it was
because we took more notice of such things than usual, not knowing if
we would see another summer, but the green fields, fresh in the early
morning and cool and sweet at night, and the hedges, and the pretty
little bits of woodland along the creeks and ravines, all seemed lovely
as never before.

In the next town, just over the hill, was an Australian rest camp. We
got along with the Aussies much better than with Tommies, and every
night numerous visitors went down to cultivate the entente cordial with
the assistance of the town estaminets.

Our first payday in France came about this time, and what with back pay
coming in, and the high rate of exchange, and being paid in francs,
some of the boys waxed rather too exuberant over the flowing bowl. What
with Janicki and Effingham trying to clean up Brunembert, starting in
with a couple of Tommies and ending with an abrupt thud when they got
around to “D” Co. headquarters; and sundry members of the Irish brigade
making a Donnybrook Fair out of the highways and byways, I had a busy
night.

Another night we shall remember is that of July 4th. Sgts. Ertwine,
Perry and Anness were going up for commissions at the Officer
Candidates’ School at Langres, and the officers gave them a farewell
supper that evening. The company was, I understand, also celebrating
the national holiday conscientiously. When the festivities were at
their height, we heard the squealing of bagpipes, and the curious
bump-bump-bumpetty-bum of the Scottish drummer, that nobody on earth
but a Jock can keep step with. The band of the H. L. I. had been
serenading the Col. and were going back to their billets.

All turned out to see them pass, and as they swung up the road, Lt.
Foulkes, in an inspired moment, detailed Supply Sgt. Levy to bring ’em
back for “B” Co.

In five minutes the pipes returned, with Joe marching at their head
twirling the drum major’s baton. They turned into the courtyard, and
were taken into our midst with a mighty burst of cheers, skirling
of pipes, and thunder of the drums. That was a scene I shall never
forget--a wonderful setting for a musical comedy. The dark courtyard,
fitfully illumined by the glare of a few lanterns and torches--the
crowd of olive drab figures around the Scotties in their kilts, with
one in the center doing a Highland fling. The visitors were already
fortified, but additional liquid refreshments were hastily procured for
them, and a testimonial taken up in the way of a collection. In the
meantime the drummer, well on the shady side of sober, rendered several
ballads. We reciprocated with Irish songs by Peter and others, and a
breakdown by Kitson. It was well on towards midnight when they left;
and next morning the Major wanted to know “what the hell was B Company
up to last night?”

Another pleasant time was had by all one day while I was at the
front. Someone at staff hdq. felt an idle curiosity to see how fast
the division could turn out, if it had to. Accordingly the order went
forth--march at 2:00 P. M. Thinking the Boches had broken through and
we were “for it,” there was a mad scurry and scramble; the kitchen
pulled to pieces; rations hastily issued; and the company, under Lt.
Dunn, reported to the Brunembert road about half an hour after the time
set, and about two hours sooner than had seemed possible that morning.
After fussing about a bit, the companies were marched back to their
hastily abandoned billets.

All the time we were in the English area, rations were short. The
British ration must have been much smaller than ours, or else there
was a hitch somewhere. Our men were used to three square meals a day.
The British only had porridge, tea and bread and jam for breakfast; a
regular meal--stew or meat and vegetables--in the middle of the day,
and tea and bread and cheese at night. This didn’t go far to relieve
the aching void that every American soldier cherishes under his belt.
We spent thousands of francs from the company fund buying potatoes and
whatever else we could to eke out the ration. But even so, there was
never any difficulty in following the advice of those doctors who say
to stop eating while you still feel hungry.

July 14th was Bastile Day. We were turned out for a ceremony to
celebrate it. The ceremony consisted of marching to Brunembert in
the rain, squads left, right dress, present arms, order arms, squads
left, and hike back in the rain. I can’t say my bosom dilated with
enthusiasm, nor did the spectators--a dozen children, two estaminet
keepers and the usual “orangee” girls--emit any rousing cheers.

I see by the Regimental History that the Duke of Connaught and General
Pershing “honored us with a visit” at this time, but said visits were
practically painless for “B” Company, as we didn’t even see the dust
from their automobiles.

By this time the regimental transport was complete--or as nearly so
as it ever was; all furnished by the British. Each battalion was now
functioning as a separate unit, and Lt. Gibbs had his hands full
with the supply and transport. He was accordingly made bn. transport
and supply officer, and the Major selected Lt. Foulkes as battalion
adjutant. So we lost the best officer in “B” Company, and I believe
the best line subaltern in the regiment. I know he hated to leave the
company, and there wasn’t a man but missed him from that time on. He
always had a soft spot in his heart for us, as Bn. Adjt. and later
as Regimental Adjt. Foulkes was one man I was never disappointed in.
McMahon, his striker, went with him. Mac was a good scout too.

By July 18th we had skirmished over every inch of the big hill; hiked
over all the roads within a six mile radius; bayoneted about 500
“Boche” gunnysacks apiece, and made ’steen triangles at musketry drill.
We got another march order, and after the usual bustle of cleaning up
we pulled out with full equipment on July 19th at 9:00 A. M.

It was only a four mile hike this time, to Lottingham, the nearest
railway depot. There we were parked in a little yard off the road,
and saw the 309th and 310th Inf. go by to entrain. We waited about an
hour, and I broke up a very promising crap game, to my secret regret.
I afterward chucked the bones out of the car window, much to Dunn’s
disgust.

At 11:30 we were packed into a train, which rolled off in the usual
nonchalant manner, at an average speed of six miles per hour. We passed
through some pretty enough country during the afternoon, and speculated
wildly on our destination, as usual missing it completely.

At 8:30 P. M. we pulled up at Ligny alongside an American Red Cross
train, with a couple of real American nurses in it. How good they
looked to us! The car windows were nearly all shattered, and the cars
scarred with bullets and shrapnel. This was a bit of the real thing.

The battalion detrained, formed on the road, and we hiked off through
the long summer twilight, guided by Vafiadis, our advance party detail.
We were being introduced to the Arras-St. Pol road, with which we were
to become well acquainted shortly. We went on, over the railroad tracks
at Roellecourt, stopped for a ten-minute rest at dusk and watched the
cows come home down the hill--another homesick sight for the country
lads--and hiked on and on. At last, well after dark, we turned off up
another road; past a bit of woods, then off to the right past a large
farmhouse, and Vafiadis pointed out a little plot about as big as a
Harlem flat and said we were to billet there. I remarked “likell” and
pushed ahead into a nice grassy field where we pitched pup tents for
the night. I knew there would be an awful yowl from the owners in the
morning, but let it slide.

Next morning we found that this was St. Michel, and that St. Pol, quite
a sizeable town, was only a quarter of a mile away. Pup tents were
pitched up the hill from the field, in the woods, along a rough lumber
road. The kitchen was installed under some trees near the farmhouse,
which was deserted. We found a lot of kitchen utensils--the place had
been an estaminet--and put some of ’em to use. The day was spent in
resting and getting cleaned up and settled. In the evening some went
into St. Pol.

That night we found out why the place was deserted. St. Pol was a
railroad center, and quite convenient for the Boche bombers. No bombs
landed in camp that night, but they were hitting all around, with a
roar and a jar that gave a fellow a queer sensation in the stomach.
Being bombed is such a helpless, hopeless sort of process.

Earlier in the war St. Pol had been under long range artillery fire;
and between that and the air raids there were plenty of shell holes all
around. There were some among our pup tents, and a couple of huge ones
just across the road in the woods.

Company headquarters was established in the attic of the farmhouse,
battalion headquarters being on the first floor. Regimental Hdq. was at
Foufflin-Ricametz, about 4 kilos away.

In a couple of days a vitriolic and voluble French woman descended
upon us. It appeared that we had broken into the house, used her
things without permission, taken eggs the hens had laid, used several
priceless old boards from the barn to make a mess table, walked on the
grass, and disturbed the manure pile. I never did believe she and her
husband ever lived there; but we put everything back, and ate in the
mud until Thompson and Farry found some boards elsewhere. These two
French people made life as miserable as they could for us while we were
there, continually claiming damages and protesting at everything we
did, it seemed.

Most of the inhabitants of St. Michel and St. Pol slept at night in
long dugouts tunnelled underneath the hills. They were very damp, foul
close holes, with little cubicles scratched out of the walls to sleep
in. They weren’t taking any more chances with H. E.

Our “intensive training” was continued here. We were rejoiced that we
hadn’t that awful hill to climb, and somehow we got away with using the
field to drill on. The mornings were taken up with problems, and before
long we were well acquainted with those woods; then there was bayonet
drill, bombing, the everlasting gas mask drill, musketry, physical
drill, and so on. The afternoon was devoted to special drill for Lewis
gun, V. B. and hand bombers, runners, etc., while the rest of the
company did problems or musketry. We stood retreat and reveille along
the lumber road--oh, yes, and that 15 minutes of manual of arms before
retreat every night.

Usually it rained here. Drill went on just the same, though. We could
hear the thunder of the big guns at night, and the crash and roar from
the droning bombing planes let us know that this was in grim earnest,
and it behooved us to make the most of our time.

Regimental, brigade, and divisional problems began to be all the
rage. Since nobody below majors ever get any information as to what
these are all about, the troops were usually represented by flags.
In good weather these things are just a bore; when it rains, they’re
considerably worse.

On August 3d, the H. L. I. detachment left us, and we completed our
training on our own.

About two weeks after our arrival at St. Michel, the word was passed
that Elsie Janis was coming to visit the division. Of course that
afternoon was marked by a good old Northern France soaker. How it
rained! We hiked about three miles through it, and were packed into a
courtyard with five or six thousand other shoving, soaking doughboys.
Miss Janis had our band to help her out, and a little platform with a
bit of canvas overhead, which kept off a little of the rain. Half of us
couldn’t see her except for occasional glimpses; officers and men were
drenched right through and through. Besides, Miss Janis was physically
about all in from overwork, and had a peach of a cold--a real A. E. F.
cold, not the kind that amateur singers always use for an alibi. The
bunch was sore at being hauled out in this weather for anything short
of going into action.

And yet, from the first moment that girl stepped on the platform, she
had the crowd with her. We were fed up, lonesome in a strange land,
sick of hearing a foreign tongue, longing to see a regular girl again.
And here was a bit of real America before our eyes; pep incarnate--a
snappy, clean cut, clean girl from home, laughing with us, making us
laugh at ourselves and in spite of ourselves, jazzing it up in the
rain. And we sloshed and squnched back to St. Michel, singing:

  “Beautiful Elsie, beautiful Elsie,
  “You’re the only, only girl that I ado-o-re.”

On August 5th the battalion left St. Michel at 9:00 A. M. in full
marching order. We were going to occupy a trench sector for a practice
tour.

As you all know now, the trench systems of each side during the war
were in triplicate, or maybe quadruplicate. There was the system
actually being occupied against the enemy. A couple of miles back was
another complete system, to be defended in case the first was taken;
and, if time permitted, yet another behind this.

We were to take over a sector of the G. H. Q., or second system, just
behind Arras. While this was partly a regular item on our training
schedule--the last one before actually going into the line--it was also
contemplated that in case the Boche uncorked another drive on Arras, we
should occupy this line and bar the road of the enemy should he break
through, as he had done in the spring further north.

After a long 12 mile hike up the Arras road, we turned off to the
right, past a long train of British motor lorries, of which there
seemed an inexhaustible supply. On through roads ever rougher and
narrower we went, and halted at last in a clearing in a patch of woods.
The officers went out to reconnoitre the sector and have their company
sectors assigned, and the company stacked arms in the wet woods--it was
raining, of course--and wondered if we’d get any chow.

It was dark when we had had supper from our one lunged rolling kitchen
and filed off to take up our position. “B” Co. was battalion support.
The trenches were only dug about waist high; there were no dugouts or
cubby holes to sleep in; not even a firing step to keep you out of the
mud. We splashed and squatted through the pitchy blackness; no lights
were allowed, of course. We reached our post finally, and settled down
in the bottom of the trench in abject misery. The only lights were from
the star shells that the Germans were sending up from their real lines,
only a few kilos away; and the rumble of artillery fire there ahead
reminded us that we were pretty close to the real thing.

While I was making my final inspection, I saw a light come flashing
down the communication trench towards us. This was against all orders,
so I snarled out a peremptory command to put it out. The light didn’t
pay any attention. This was the last straw; I thought that so long as
we had to go through this performance it was going to be done right,
with nobody privileged to cross their fingers and say they weren’t
playing. I wallowed off in the direction of that flash light, wet
through and getting pretty sore. I hailed it; I adopted a false,
feigned politeness; I remarked that this was not puss in the corner,
nor was I talking for my health, and if they couldn’t douse that glim
I had a .45 that could. The light went out abruptly. I asked if he was
simulating a steamboat on the Mississippi. I finally got quite near and
demanded whoin’ell that was anyhow. And it was the Colonel. Yes, of
course.

The best of it was that he had issued the order against lights himself
about two hours before, and couldn’t very well blame me.

An order came round to send a detail after some corrugated iron at
point “G24a7.3.” I stumbled around until I walked on a sergeant, Bill
Reid, and so I made him the goat, and told him to take a detail and
go to it. The place was about 300 yards away over a couple of fields.
Bill and his detail floundered off, and roamed about until 3:00 A. M.,
when they hailed a figure in the darkness as “Hey, buddy.” It was Lt.
Col. Myer, at regimental hdq. at Hermaville, a couple of kilos away. He
steered Bill back to the company, where he arrived at dawn--without the
iron.

During the day the sun shone at intervals, and we scraped out cubbies
in the side of the trench, and tried to get a little dry. Barney
O’Rourke, who had been missing since the night before, showed up under
guard, somewhat the worse for wear. He had wandered off to Hermaville,
met an Irish Tommy, found a hospitable estaminet, and subsequently
had severely rebuked an officer from Rgt’l. Hdqrs. who undertook to
reprove him. Regt’l Hdq. was all for having Barney shot at sunrise or
something, and of course I got a call. At the courtmartial, though,
we got him off with a month’s hard labor and a $10.00 blind, which
was really quite all that happy-go-lucky, golden-hearted son of Erin
deserved. He never did the month at that, or rather we all did. But he
dug me a company headquarters when he came back, and it would have been
fine only someone walked through the roof.

We were relieved that night by “E” Co., 24 hours before we expected. We
marched back to the clearing in the woods, had supper at the rolling
kitchen, pitched pup tents and had a comparatively dry night’s sleep.
Jerry came over and tried to drop an ash can on the kitchen, but didn’t
succeed.

They let us sleep late next morning, and we started for our billet at
10:00 A. M., leaving the 2d bn. to the joys of make-believe trench life.

Right here I want to say a word about our experience with
court-martials. There has been much criticism of military justice as
administered in the A. E. F., but the 78th Division was fortunate in
having as Judge Advocate a most capable, honest, experienced, broad
minded man, Major George G. Bogert, formerly Professor of Law at
Cornell, I believe. His assistant, Lt. John J. Kuhn, was an equally
fine type of lawyer and gentleman. I know of no accused man who did not
get an absolutely square deal from them, and from the courts-martial
before which they appeared.

Well, here we are back in St. Michel, rocked to sleep every night by
the free fireworks from our aerial visitors. We had hardly rested from
our trench experience before I was ordered to take details from each
company to the rifle range. Part of “B” company had gone a week before,
and their tales of woe had in some measure prepared us.

We had no guide. As we hiked through Foufflin-Ricametz, I stopped off
and Capt. Wagner showed me our destination on a map. We plodded on
and on, through about 20 villages, all alike, and all with a maze of
crooked little streets that weren’t on any map. We passed by a lot of
Canadian artillery back for a rest. The Canadians had been badly shot
up before we got to France, and were being reorganized and recuperating
that summer. They, the Anzacs, the Australians, the Scotties, and the
Guard regiments were the shock troops of the British Army.

Finally we came upon a welcome sign, “Target Range,” and we bivouacked
in woods behind the slope whereon the targets were. The next day we
plugged away at 200, 300 and 500 yards at four rickety swivel targets.
It rained, of course; but we finished in the afternoon, and hiked back
to St. Michel. It seemed even longer than before, though we took a
short cut by a back road; and we were for once glad to see the lonely
tower of St. Michel rising above the woods outside St. Pol.

I returned to find Major Odom on the eve of departure for another
school. From this time, then, until he returned on August 20th, the
company was commanded by Lt. Schuyler, who carried out his additional
duties with characteristic energy and conscientiousness.

On August 12th, the whole regiment was on the move; and this time
we were leaving St. Michel for good, though a small detail was
left to guard the baggage. Sgt. Haynes, who had hurt his leg in
bayonet practice, was left behind with water on the knee, and never
succeeded in rejoining the company. Our faithful company clerk, too,
Cpl. Jimmy Jones, broke his ankle, and was sent to a hospital in
England. Fortunately for me, we had Cpl. Stiles ready to step into
his shoes. From this time on Stiles handled the company paper work
in a most efficient and conscientious fashion. Most fellows never
have any idea of the long hours, day and night, that a company clerk
puts in, struggling with the labyrinth of forms, records, reports
and correspondence that are vital to the running of the company.
The greater part of the paper work that was done at Camp Dix by the
officers and Co. Cmdrs. was turned over to the Co. clerks in France,
and many a night Stiles and Jones have pored over that field desk, by
the light of a candle, keeping us straight with the authorities. If
records ever went astray, or passes went awry, it was not their fault.
“B” Company was certainly most fortunate in its company clerks.

It was a long, hot march that sunny August day up toward the front, and
the company pulled into Lattre St. Quentin pretty well tuckered. I had
been taken up in a British staff car as we passed through Regt’l Hdq.,
and, with the other two battalion commanders, was taken to reconnoiter
the sectors of the front line which we were to take over. Each
battalion was to be brigaded with an English regiment, and to hold the
front lines for a regular tour of duty as the last step in the training
schedule.

The 1st Bn. was to go in with the 1st London regiment. The officers
of this brigade and regiment received me very cordially. Our proposed
battalion sector was just outside Arras. The town itself was within
the English lines, which ran along the eastern outskirts. The position
was well organized, and the trenches were in good shape, as this part
of the line had been practically stationary for a year. The outfit we
were to relieve were in high glee, as they had been in the trenches for
8 months straight. It was a “quiet” sector, but Jerry buzzed a few
shells quite unpleasantly close while I was roaming about.

I rode back in luxury in the staff car to find the battalion billeted
and asleep. We had arranged for officers and platoon sergeants to go up
in a couple of days to reconnoiter their respective positions.

Lattre St. Quentin was a village of some sixty houses, about 20 kilos
from Arras. “B” Co. was billeted in the barn behind the house where Bn.
Hdq. was located, and in the house next to it down the road.

During the next few days we had a platoon competition in the battalion.
“B” Co. was represented by the 4th platoon. The event was won by the
“C” Co. 3d platoon, but all the contestants did well.

There was a nice “vacant lot” by the billet, and we had some good fun
kicking a football and staging several baseball matches there. The
weather was fine, and we were in great fettle.

On August 14th orders arrived promoting Lt. Col. Myer to Colonel and
putting him in command of the 129th Infantry. This was a great loss to
the regiment. Myer was the best officer we had, thoroughly efficient,
devoted to his profession, always on the job, an excellent judge of
men, and an adept at picking out the essential things that counted. He
placed the good of the service first, and himself last, and he had the
trust and respect of every officer and man in the outfit.

The officers and platoon sgts. left on the evening of the 15th for
the front line via a little narrow gauge railway, returning the next
morning. All was now in readiness.

But at noon on the 16th, orders arrived postponing the relief. On the
17th, rumors began to fly that we were to go to another part of the
front. Then we were ordered to turn in the Lewis guns, with which we
had become quite familiar. Somehow it leaked out that we were to go
South to the American sector. This rumor became a certainty when we
turned in all our British rifles and ammunition, receiving instead
American Enfields. Our overcoats and other supplies that we had left at
St. Michel were brought over in motor trucks. The details guarding them
said that Jerry had bombed the old billet to a fare-you-well the night
after we left it.

Our joy at moving was heartfelt and unbounded. Those who had been south
to schools or on other duties told us what a “bon secteur” it was.
And the prospect of drawing American rations and being with American
troops and transport again was welcomed with acclaim. To tell the
truth, we were rather fed up with being under the wing of our British
Allies. Their ways were not our ways; we would feel better when with
our own kind. Theoretically, we were brothers in the great cause.
Practically, in the mud and sweat and thousand petty aggravations and
misunderstandings, we had undoubtedly gotten upon each other’s nerves.
The average Tommy looked upon us as a bunch of greenhorn Yankees, who
had all made fortunes during the first three years of the war and were
now over in France three years late spending them and raising the
price of vin rouge and “oofs.” We looked upon the average Tommy as a
degenerate, tea drinking, saluting bellyacher. The Australians and
Canadians were our sworn buddies, however, and we liked the Scotties.
Maybe this was because the only British combat troops we had been in
touch with were these organizations. To me, the few English combat
troops that I encountered seemed a fairly decent bunch.

[Illustration: 2d Platoon, Flavigny, France, 1919.]

It was with light hearts, then, that we pulled out of Lattre St.
Quentin on a beautiful summer morning, at 10 o’clock, August 20th. It
was only an 8 mile hike to Tinques, a rail head on the Arras road. We
turned into a big held and I halted the battalion while I went to find
the R. T. O. in charge of entraining.

All was bustle and hurry. Things were being rushed through in the
American fashion. Nobody knew where the R. T. O. was; everybody was too
busy to know anything. At last I saw Lt. Gibbs on top of a flat car
loading wagons. He shouted that our train was across the platform and
was due to leave in 20 minutes. I dashed back to the battalion, hurried
it across the tracks, entrained them and sure enough the train pulled
out just as I got the outfit aboard. As I was finishing, a dapper U. S.
Major of the Division Inspector’s Dept. toddled up and said it was the
worst entraining he had ever seen, and why weren’t the men marched up
to the cars in column of squads? I saluted the boob wearily and swung
aboard just as the train pulled out.

Now came our longest rail journey in France. For two days we bowled
along pretty steadily. We swung around by St. Pol, with a farewell
glimpse of our old billet, and then south, through Amiens, up to the
outskirts of Paris. Hearts beat high, and had the train stopped for
five minutes at a likely looking place, I was prepared to see the
battalion make a break for la vie Parisienne. The only stop, however,
was for a few minutes to get routing orders from a business-like
French R. T. O. From these orders I learned that our destination was
Passavant. It might as well have been Timbuctoo for all that meant to
me; but I had learned by this time that these French trains, with all
their misery and sin, did get you to the proper place at last, so I
didn’t worry.

The houses of Paris fell behind, and we rolled east along the famous
Marne river. At Haute Creuse and St. Pol we had read in the Paris
editions of the “New York Herald” and “Daily Mail” of the desperate
fighting along here in July, in which the mettle of our American
regulars and marines had been put to so stern a test; and the next
morning, a beautiful, bright day it was, too, we began to pass through
towns whose names were yet ringing all over the world. The familiar
signs of nearing the front began to appear--the roofless houses, shell
holes, and so on. Then we began to see debris lying about--discarded
bits of equipment and uniform, empty bandoliers, then here and there a
new grave, marked by a helmet, and sometimes a little cross. Presently
we went right through Chateau Thierry--one of the first trains since
the battle. From our cars we saw the little firing posts that the
Americans had scratched out in the side of the railroad embankment.
Here and there a grave showed where one had died where he fought. Some
German helmets over graves on the south side of the river showed where
perhaps some of the enemy had gotten across before they fell under the
fire of the Springfields.

But the most impressive and inspiring sight of all to Americans were
the hills that stretched up to the North of the river. A long steep,
smooth, stretch broken only enough to allow of cover for reserves and
machine guns--a position that looked absolutely impregnable if defended
by modern weapons. And up these heights, defended by the flower of the
German army, flushed with recent success, our countrymen had swept
forward, carried the position, and hurled the foe back. It must have
been some scrap.

The Marne here is about as large as a good-sized American creek. There
were quite a few dead horses and men still bobbing around in it. The
countryside had not been under fire for very long, compared to the
Arras section; some crops were still standing, and a few people at
work reaping them already. I am sorry to say that one of our men was
thoughtless enough to grab a pile of new cut hay from a field during
a stop. I happened to see him and of course he put it back, and got a
summary out of it. I mention this to remind you that in most of our
trouble with the French peasants we were at fault to some extent. Of
course, it isn’t pleasant to sleep for several nights on the floor of a
jolting cattle car. But neither is it enjoyable for poor Jacques to see
his hay miraculously preserved from the H. E.’s, laboriously gathered,
and then have a doughboy coolly annex it and roll away in a train.

We rolled on through the sunny August day, east to Chalons-sur-Marne,
then southeast, away from the battle front. Night came on, and dragged
along toward dawn. At about 2:00 A. M. we stopped at a little way
station for hot coffee, ready for us in great G. I. boilers. The French
corporal in charge of the station gave me a cup out of his own private
pot, cooking over a smelly little oil stove, thick as mud, black as
night, reeking with cognac, altogether very satisfactory. I wished
every man could have had such a shot.

Early in the morning we passed the walled heights of Chaumont, A. E. F.
headquarters. On past the picturesque battlements of Langres, centre
of the Army Schools; then east again. The country was more rugged and
less highly cultivated. Here was a place where one might get off the
road without stepping on Jacques’ garden. It looked more like home.
The woods were sure enough ones, not little, severely confined, neatly
trimmed groves such as they had in the north, with every tree numbered
and recorded.

Best of all, we were in the American sector. The M. P.’s at the
stations were doughboys instead of Tommies or poilus. Here an American
ambulance hustled along the road; there a good old 3-ton Q. M. truck
lumbered along. Overseas caps were sprinkled about the stations. No
more now of “What is the name of this bally station, old top?,” and
“Kesky eessy, Mossure.” We could yell: “Say, buddy, what t’ell burg’s
this?” like civilized persons.

Off on a branch line, around hills, over a long, white stone bridge,
and the train slid up to the long platform at Passavant station.



CHAPTER V

“THE AMERICAN SECTOR”


The battalion tumbled off, very greasy as to face and stiff as to legs.
The rolling kitchens were unloaded; the Colonel and Lt. Gibbs appeared
and disappeared. We saw our own supply company hard at work in the
adjacent field. In a few minutes it was “Fall in,” and we hiked across
the railroad and down into the centre of the little town.

At the town square we halted, and lay around for an hour in the shade
waiting for our French guides to take the companies to their billets.
There was a cool fountain splashing in the center of the square, but
it was marked “Non potable,” so we had to wait until we could get some
chlorinated water from our lister bags. Oh, that chlorinated water!
Will we ever get the taste of the stuff out of our mouths?

At last a guide came along, but only to take off “C” Co., which was
billeted at the little village of Rochere, about 4 kilos outside
Passavant. Finally our guide appeared, and “A” and “B” companies hiked
off down a narrow street, skirting the great chateau, then up a long
hill, under the railroad bridge, and into our billeting area, a little
“suburb” of the town across the railroad tracks.

At once we noticed a difference in the people. This town was far behind
the lines. No air raids had visited it; lights could be shown at night.
And the people seemed actually glad to see us. Instead of lowering
brows, grudging admission, furious protests, we met pleasant smiles,
bon jour’s, readiness and willingness to accommodate us. Even when we
swept out the stables and outhouses where we were billeted there was no
objection. Oh, boy, this was something like it!

The rolling kitchen was put to work in a field on the outskirts, and
Wilson, deBruin, Lusier & Co. got busy. Everyone was pretty tired, but
after chow things looked much brighter.

That night occurred an incident which shows how thoughtless soldiers
are. A couple of men, who shall be nameless, patronized the estaminets
far too freely. When they had acquired a skinful of vin rouge apiece,
they went forth and nobly robbed a hen roost, and had a chicken dinner.

Now had this happened a week before, there would have been immediate
and voluble protests to the authorities, and a bill for damages as long
as your arm. And on our side, I fear the matter would have been looked
on as righteous retribution, and the officers would have received very
little assistance in investigating the affair.

But this was different. Wilson and some others found the little girl
at their billet and her mother in tears over their loss. The offenders
were promptly trailed and spotted, and reported to Lt. Schuyler. And
nobody felt more ashamed than they when they woke up in the guardhouse
the next morning. Meanwhile, that same evening a hasty collection had
been taken up in the company, and the French lady reimbursed a good
many times the value of her loss. I understand she wouldn’t take all
they collected; but next day I met a couple of the boys, Wilson and
Weber, I think, coming back from town with the little girl between
them, proudly bearing the finest bonnet that Passavant “epiceries”
could produce, and enough chocolate to satisfy a dozen youngsters.

The days at Passavant were about the brightest spot in our stay in
France. The training schedules were on hand again, of course. Chauchats
were issued to replace the Lewis guns of the English sector; much to
the disgust of the auto riflemen, who had worked so hard learning the
Lewis, and found the Chauchat but a crude affair comparatively. But the
weather was beautiful; there was a stream to wash in, and a lovely lake
about a mile away where you could have a swim--the only time we enjoyed
this luxury that summer. The people were pleasant; we were getting
American rations; all went well.

It was too good to last long. On August 27th we got a march order, and
at 1:00 P. M. the next day we pulled out, down the hill to Passavant,
up hill through the town, and fell in behind the second battalion for
a long, long hike through the summer afternoon and evening.

Six o’clock came, and seven. Still no sign of camp. It was growing
dark. The men were good and tired; but “B” company held to its record
as the best marching company in the outfit, and plodded along doggedly.
I felt uncomfortable every time I looked back at my four platoons; I
felt that I ought to be hiking with them instead of on the Major’s
horse; knowing, however, that I had a couple of hours hard work ahead
of me after we camped, I turned back to the road ahead, and wished the
Major were back.

At last, at 8:00 P. M., when it was quite dark, we turned off to the
left, crossed several fields, and came to a number of frame barracks.
These had bunks within them--about half enough to accommodate the men,
but we were glad to lie down anywhere. After the usual turmoil we got
supper under way, and as fast as chow could be obtained and swallowed,
we hit the hay--some in barracks, others in pup tents in the fields
outside. We had done about 20 kilos that day.

The next morning we pulled out at 9 o’clock, hiked into Fresnes, the
village near by, and then out on a good wide road, heading generally
west. The Colonel, who was making the hike in an automobile, had a
theory that no man needed more than a pint of water on any march,
and the march discipline was to be very strict. The everlasting rain
started again; it was hike, hike, hike. Who that hasn’t done it can
ever understand the awful, soul tearing grind of a long hike with
full pack? After the first hour, the pack gets heavy on the back and
shoulders. You see the feet of the fellow ahead--up and down, up and
down, remorselessly, steadily--doesn’t he ever get tired? If he can
make it, you can. Some buckle or piece of equipment gets loose, and
goes jingle, jingle, jingle, and slap, slap, slap against your leg. It
gets irritating. You are sweating and hot and dirty and uncomfortable.
“Close up!” You mentally damn the officers, who haven’t any rifles;
the ones who ride horses, doubly damned; and as for those birds in
the autos--ahem! How long to the 10 minutes rest? Then it starts to
rain. It beats into your face. You damn the boob who wished upon the
Americans that prize inanity of equipment, the overseas cap. It is
ingeniously designed to give the eyes and face no protection from sun,
wind or rain, and at the same time efficiently to direct water down the
back of your neck. On, on, on, plod, plash, squnchy, sqush. The Major
looks at his watch. You eye the side of the road for a likely looking
place. At last: “Fall out t’ right th’ road.” You stumble over and
plump down on the ground. Oh, blessed moment! you ease the load on your
shoulders; your feet are tingling with happiness at being off duty;
after a few breaths you fish out a cigarette or the old pipe, and light
up for a few puffs. You lean back--

  “Fall in!”

Oh, murder! You know it hasn’t been four minutes, let alone ten.

Toward noon we passed through Bourbonne-les-Bains, quite a sizable
town; and as we went plugging along by the railroad station there was
Major Odom. He was carried off by the Colonel in his car, but took
command of the battalion that night, and I was glad to get back to “B”
Co.

Up that long, long, steep street we plugged along, rested, then pushed
on well clear of the town, and halted beside a pretty green meadow in
the woods for lunch. After we finished our hard bread, corned willy
and jam, and were lying about in heavenly idleness for a few minutes,
Roy Schuyler’s eye fell upon the bn. adjutant’s horse; a dignified and
rotund, rather elderly mare, indulging in a roll while her saddle and
bridle were off. In a minute Roy was on the astonished beast’s back.
Encouraged by a couple of hearty thwacks from a club, Mary started on
a very creditable imitation of youthful gamboling. It was a gallant
sight for a summer afternoon. Often since, the picture has come back to
me--the prancing horse, the laughing young rider with one hand in her
mane, the other brandished aloft. But our time is up; Mary must resume
her saddle, and we our packs, and off we go.

The shadows lengthened; the sun dropped down behind the hills, and the
long French twilight set in. Still no sign of our guides to indicate
our billet was near. Village after village came into view, raised our
hopes, and dashed them again as we plodded on. At last, at about 6:00
P. M., we slogged into Merrey. There the Colonel was waiting, in his
car. He remarked cheerfully that he had had quite a hunt for billets,
but had found a splendid spot. We hiked through the village, and turned
off the road into the splendid spot--a pine grove, very wet and rooty
as to floor, and no water around. We were satisfied to get off our
feet, however. After the usual procedure of getting kicked out of X
company’s area, and kicking Y company out of ours, we rigged up shelter
tents or sleeping bags. Of course the water carts weren’t on hand, and
dinner was held up. There are two recurrent occasions in a soldier’s
life when the seconds drag most fearsomely; the interval between a
shell’s landing and bursting; and the interval between the end of a
hike and chow.

Some of the boys went off to wash their feet in a pretty little pond a
couple of fields away. That pond concealed some dark secret beneath its
placid bosom. Whew! Didn’t it stink when disturbed?

At reveille we rolled out of our blankets, pretty stiff and cold, but
rested. Packs were rolled again, and we fell in at 9:00 A. M., Major
Odom again commanding the battalion, and were off on the last lap. This
was to be a short one, only about five miles. We passed a large field
with a number of Boche prisoners at work, and at about 11:00 A. M.
crossed a railroad, turned off the road to the right, and came upon a
cantonment just outside of Breuvannes, where the battalion was billeted.

While these frame barracks were not so picturesque as other billets we
had had, they were infinitely better adapted to our uses. There were
bunks for all, mess halls, a parade ground large enough to form the
battalion, and a fine level drill field near by, along the railroad
track. A good-sized creek ran close by, and Breuvannes was only 5
minutes walk away. A pretty enough little village, with five or six
stores and estaminets. Also there was a Y hut, where you could see
movies at night if you got there soon enough.

The 42d Division had been here until the day before, resting and
replacing their losses from the fighting in July. A bn. of the 5th
Marines had preceded them, and that evening I ran across a Marine
lieutenant who was following up his outfit. My own alma mater, the
Virginia Military Institute, furnished a number of officers to the
Marines, and I was particularly interested in news from them. This
officer told me of the death of several of my old school fellows at
Belleau Woods. When he said that only one in ten had come through out
of his own company, however, I thought he was pulling a long bow.

The next morning, August 31, we resumed the familiar drill schedules.
Every effort was made to teach the use and mechanism of the new
Chauchats. Special training went on as usual, and we practiced the
formations of the O. C. S. U. (Offensive Combat of Small Units) on all
the bushes and trees in the vicinity.

Barney O’Rourke and I spent one day on a pilgrimage to Bourmont, where
the courtmartial heretofore referred to took place; Barney quite
prepared to be shot at sunrise, and I suspect a little disappointed at
the affair ending so undramatically.

The drill field furnished a very fair baseball diamond, and several
inter-company contests were staged. We played one ten-inning thriller
with “A” Co., in which Joe Fahey finally pitched us to victory,
supported by an able cast. We had the makings of a good football team
under way, too, and I remember I had most of the skin off my right arm.
But more serious business was on hand, and our athletic activities had
to be temporarily laid aside.

On Sept. 4, we prepared to move. The battalion was formed at dusk, and
at 9:00 P. M. we filed off for our first night march in France. It
started raining promptly, of course. Wasn’t it dark! In an hour you
literally could not see your hand an inch before your nose. No lights
or smoking were allowed; and even a chew was risky, as you never knew
who you’d hit when you let fly. Now and then a glimmer of light from
some cottage fire would show the shadowy forms of the last squad of “C”
Co. in front, hastening on into the darkness. I walked into an ungainly
quadruped and requested the rider to get his damned mule out of the
road; and was immediately and discourteously informed that I had better
keep my mouth shut and drive on. I recognized Major Odom’s voice and
drove on.

Rain, hike, rain, slog, mud, mud, sweat, damn. Halt and fall out and
sit in the mud for ten minutes and feel the rain percolate. Fall in,
and hike again, your cold, wet clothes clinging to you.

Eight weary hours of this. At last, just before daybreak, we turned
off the road through the gateway of a once palatial estate, and hiked
across a park to a grove where we were billeted. The fifteen miles we
had covered seemed like 30. We were done in enough to fall asleep,
many without unrolling their packs. The rain, however, found us out,
trickled in at every corner, and morning found us miserable enough.

No word was vouchsafed to us as to when we should move again; and this
playing at secrecy cost “D” and “C” Cos. their meal. It was more luck
than good management that gave me the hunch to rout out our weary cooks
and have chow at 11:00 o’clock. At 12:00 o’clock orders came in a great
hurry that we were to clear the crossroads at 2:30. We did it at 3:00.

Our new lieutenant-colonel, Arthur Budd, had joined us the night
before. During the first halt Lt. Foulkes came galloping up on old
Mary, and his former platoon--the first--chortled with glee every
time daylight showed between Louis and the saddle. Col. Budd promptly
treated me to a cold and fishy stare, and inquired if it was the custom
for “B” Co. to yell at officers when they passed. I hastily delivered
a brief resume of Louis’ career with the company and the estimation in
which we held him, intimating that he was regarded as one helofa good
fellow, and that no mutiny was breaking out. Meanwhile I had hastily
sized up our new acquisition as a goof. I had reason to revise this
estimate, and that shortly.

The rain let up this evening, for a wonder, and the march wasn’t half
bad, except for the mud under foot, which we were pretty well used to.
We passed by a sizeable cantonment of Chinese labor troops, and Diskin
wanted to fall out and leave his laundry. We had only the most vague
idea of where we were; in fact, our notions of French geography were
of the crudest anyhow. Bill Reid, from his six-foot eyrie, solemnly
announced that he saw the Alps ahead, and had the 1st platoon craning
its respective necks for an hour.

Just as darkness fell, we ran into an ammunition train, the tail end of
the 42d Division. We pushed on behind them up a hill into the village
of Viocourt, where our old dependable of the advance party, Sgt. Hill,
met us and pointed out our billets, in lofts and stables on both sides
of the “street.”

We all knew pretty well by now that we must be in for action soon.
The St. Mihiel salient meant nothing more to us than it did to folks
at home then. The general impression was that it was to be a drive on
Metz; and this wasn’t so far out of the way, at that.

By this time it didn’t take us long to make ourselves at home in a
strange place. We had bagged a good place for the rolling kitchen, and
the billets weren’t so bad. Between showers we got in some drilling,
and a couple of hours on an extemporized 30-yard range that Lt.
Schuyler put up one morning before breakfast. Everyone tried his hand
at the Chauchat for a magazine full. This was the only chance we had to
fire this gun before we had to meet the enemy with it. The men armed
with pistols punctured a few tin cans after a vast expenditure of lead.

There was a beautiful meadow below town, and on Sunday, the 8th, we
staged a couple of good ball games. On Monday we had a company problem
through the woods beyond the meadow, and Tuesday we got in the target
practice.

Wednesday morning the Major assembled the Co. cmdrs. and ordered us to
be ready to march at 1:30. After the usual bustle all was ready for
the road, two days’ rations being carried. Our kitchen and cooks were
attached to the regt’l supply train.

It had been raining all the morning, but old J. Pluvius had only been
practising for the real show. We started off in a steady downpour,
which speedily became a regular deluge. The wind rose to a gale, which
drove the sheets of water directly at us, penetrating right through
slickers and clothing. In 15 minutes we were all wet to the skin.

It was only an hour’s march this time. At 3:00 P. M., we came to a
crossroads just outside Chatenois. There stood a long line of motor
trucks, stretching away in either direction as far as the eye could
see. The embussing was well handled, and in 20 minutes we were packed
in, 20 or more to a truck, jammed as tight as they could be, every man
wet through and chilled. Even our incorrigibly optimistic regimental
history says, “We shall never forget this day because of its miserable
and nasty weather.”

These busses were driven by Chinese in the French service. With their
impassive Oriental faces looking out over their great sheepskin coats,
they looked fitting agents of destiny; grave Charons, bearing us on
the last lap of our progress toward our fate.

At 4:00 o’clock we were off, with a jerk and a clank of gears and a
steady rumble. On and on, over the long French road, rolling on through
rain and wind, steadily, inevitably; each lorry nearly touching the one
in front. Darkness fell; the long gray train rolled on, not a light,
not a sound save the rumble of the trucks. We got colder and colder;
more and more cramped. Capt. Fleischmann and I spent most of the night
each cherishing the other’s icy feet in his bosom. On and on, through
gray, silent towns, past the ghostly figure of a lonely M. P. at a
crossroads; through fields, woods, villages, all wet and quiet in the
falling rain.

Just as the daylight began to thin the inky mist, the train halted, and
the word was passed along the line to debus. Wet, shivering, miserable,
“B” Co. struggled hastily into clammy shoes and slung their heavy,
soggy packs. As we formed on the side of the road, the busses started
again, and rolled swiftly off into the shadows ahead, leaving us on the
road, with heavy woods on either side.

We marched down the road to an open field on the left. Here a railroad
track entered the corner of the wood. We turned off up the track, and
about 300 yards along we came upon the 2nd battalion bivouacking. We
went on just beyond them, and were allotted our own share of squishy
ground and drenched underbrush.

A limited number of fires were allowed, and we made ourselves as
comfortable as we could under the circumstances. I was detailed on
O. D. and spent a busy day dissuading the regiment from straggling
all over the road and open fields. All knew that a big attack was in
preparation, and that it was important that the concentration be kept
under cover from the enemy’s aircraft. But some men apparently couldn’t
compree that we weren’t roosting in that bally old dysentery generator
of a wood for sheer sport.

Showers fell intermittently during the day, but nothing like the
previous day’s deluge. At about 4 P. M. there was an officers’ call,
and we were warned to march at 7 P. M. Co. Commanders were issued maps,
and we learned that our present bivouac was in the Bois de la Cote en
Haye, east of Tremblecourt.

About 5 P. M., six French tanks came clanking down the road, did a
Squads Left, waddled across the fields and disappeared over the brow
of the hill, toward the rumble of intermittent artillery fire in the
distance that meant the front.

The 312th Inf. was bivouacked on the other side of the railroad track,
and the rest of the division was hidden in the woods near by. Across
the main road was a great artillery ammunition dump, big enough to blow
up ten divisions if a bomb ever hit it. But I kept this to myself, and
what a soldier doesn’t know doesn’t worry him. He has enough to worry
about anyhow.

The kitchens came up late in the afternoon, and we got outside of a
ration of hot slum before dark.

By 6:45 P. M. we had rolled packs, and were ready to hit the road
again. I went to sleep on the ground, with my pack on my back, and was
awakened by Dunn to find it nearly dark, and the battalion ready to
move off.

It seemed hours before we got out of the wood into the open field.
We would go forward a few steps along the track, and then stand and
wait for ten or fifteen minutes. The road by which we had arrived
was crowded with transport and artillery, and we turned off on a
bypath through the woods. It was now quite dark, and blind work it
was blundering along, touching the man ahead to keep from losing him,
slipping and tripping in the wet underbrush. It is remarkable how
exasperating a pack and rifle become under such circumstances. However,
the excitement of anticipation buoyed us up, and “B” Co. wallowed
through the wood, across a mushy field, and scrambled up a slippery
embankment on to a strange road, much more cheerfully than now seems
possible.

Once re-formed on said road, we hiked along briskly in column of
squads. Soon we overtook a long column of transport wagons, trucks and
artillery. Road discipline was something apparently unknown; every
vehicle seemed to be trying to pass every other one. The consequence
was of course wondrous confusion, and here and there a total jam,
through which we had to thread our way in single or double file as best
we could.

When we got clear of the last jam, the company ahead had gained about
15 yards, and was consequently as completely out of sight as if they
had been in Timbuctoo. We passed through a village in hot pursuit of
them. At the crossroads, by sheer good luck I turned off up the right
one. After a long hour’s stern chase we were relieved to see the
bobbing forms of Headquarters Co. show through the gloom ahead.

At about 10:30 we came upon Sgt. Hill waiting for us by the roadside,
with the welcome news that our temporary destination was only a couple
of kilos off. We toiled up a long hill, and turned off the macadam into
a rough road that was a series of four inch ponds. We plashed along to
the edge of a large wood, and Hill showed us a pile of empty bandoliers
and boxes, where the Marines had been issued ammunition and grenades
about an hour before. They had just pulled out, and were going over the
top at dawn.

A hundred yards or so, and we turned into the woods, on a road which
was from ankle to knee deep in all varieties of mud, from sticky to
liquid. We moved on, stumbled over a railroad track, and finally Hill
said we were at our bivouac. The trees and underbrush grew so thick
along the road that we blundered about a bit before we found a couple
of places where we could force our way through. As each man reached a
place where he could sit or lie down, down he flopped, and the rest of
the company walked over him. The woods already had some occupants, and
more and more poured in every minute.

At last “B” Co. had distributed itself on the ground, and was preparing
for a dismal wallow until morning. In spite of wet, mud and chill some
were already asleep. We were just within the artillery zone, and the
jar and grumble of the guns ahead was occasionally punctuated by the
roar and scream of one of the heavies nearer by. This, however, was
only normal artillery fire, such as we had been accustomed to at St.
Pol and Lattre St. Quentin, and we settled down to wait for the big
show. Some of the more energetic started to pitch their pup tents.

Just as I dozed off, some idiot shouted “Gas!” Our long hours of gas
drill, and many vivid and gruesome lectures on the subject, promptly
bore fruit. In fact, the good seed shot up like Jack’s beanstalk.
The cry was re-echoed by a dozen, then a score of startled voices.
Everyone reached into the familiar canvas satchel that he cherished
on his bosom, donned his mask more or less expeditiously, and sat
expectantly awaiting developments.

In the midst of the rumpus I heard Lt. Foulkes’ voice from the road
bawling for the company commanders. I thought sadly that the lad had
probably lost his mask, or the gas had caught him suddenly and he was
raving. However, for sake of auld lang syne, I took a long breath,
and shouted, “Whatsmatterwhydontyouputonyourmask?” I replaced my
mouthpiece, and started blundering toward Louis’ voice, hoping I might
be in time at least to view his remains.

During the next two minutes I walked on every man in “B” Co. at least
once, and probably on most of “A” and “C” Cos. Then Foulkes roared my
name within five yards of me.

“Where’s the gas?” I demanded.

There wasn’t any gas.



CHAPTER VI

ST. MIHIEL AND LIMEY SECTOR


The Major was waiting for us up the “road.” He informed us that the
156th Brigade was the alert brigade. We were not to pitch tents nor
unroll packs, but lie on our arms ready to reinforce the front line
division should occasion demand it. The barrage was due to start at 1
A. M.; at 5 A. M. the infantry was to go over the top.

I waded back with this gladsome news, and we lay in the mud and wet
leaves and shivered and wished we could smoke, and waited for the show
to start. Word had passed that there was a big French railroad gun
about 30 yards away, and a pleasant time was anticipated by all.

At 1 A. M. the sullen jar of the usual cannonade was shattered by a
tremendous crash. And that crash lasted solid for four hours. I shall
not try to describe a real A-1 barrage to men who have been there.

The railroad gun came across according to plan too. Every five minutes
her mighty roar and scream would announce the departure of a G. I.
can towards Metz, and then would come the clanking of the cars as the
recoil drove the train back along the track against the logs piled
behind it. After an hour or so we got accustomed to the barrage and the
glare that lit up the sky ahead; but as often as we drowsed off, the
thunder of this mighty gun would shake the earth beneath us, and jar us
into consciousness.

The night wore on, and the gray morning light crept into the woods;
and still the thunder rolled unceasing. I watched the glow of my wrist
watch hand creep to five o’clock. There was a slight lull as the
artillery shifted to their rolling barrage schedule. Then she started
up again with renewed fury. We knew the doughboys were off. The A. E.
F. was starting its first show on its own. The overture was over, the
fiery curtain raised, the act begun; and we were awaiting our cue.

Morning broke, cloudy, but little or no rain, and about 7 o’clock it
quite cleared off. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could, and
prayed for our kitchen.

I went wading through the mud along the road to look for it. There
were several Marines about, belonging to the skeleton organization,
left behind to act as a nucleus in case a whole outfit was wiped out.
I passed a Marine lieutenant whose face looked familiar, and after a
moment recognized “Happy” Mason. He had been a cadet at V. M. I. with
me, and had helped me wind a red silk sash around my middle for many a
dress parade. It was a far cry from the Blue Ridge to the Bois de la
Rappe, and from dress parade to the St. Mihiel drive.

We had a glad reunion there in the mud, and he invited the “B” Co.
officers to share his breakfast. Their rolling kitchen, or “galley”
as they called it, was on hand, and they had hot coffee and peach
turnovers!

Those Marines were regular guys. When they heard our transport wasn’t
up yet, they turned to and fed as many of our men as they could, until
their supply ran out. They had been through the mill before, at Chateau
Thierry and Belleau Wood. As one of them said “Better help the other
fellow now. Tomorrow’s a hell of a way off here.”

The Marines have had an awful lot of joshing, of course, about their
press agent stuff--“Ace high with the Satevepost,” and so on. But
these were certainly a fine bunch, and gave us a lift when we needed
it. Naturally, those of them who did the fighting did the least of the
blowing about it afterward.

The sun came out to look at the battle after awhile, and we got warmed
and partially dried. Also the kitchen arrived, and a hot dinner was in
prospect.

About 11 A. M. bulletins began arriving from the front, and were read
out to us. All objectives were being taken according to schedule, and
the number of prisoners and guns captured mounted by leaps and bounds.
We were not allowed out of the woods, but even from the trees on the
outskirts one couldn’t see much except a great cloud of smoke and dust
slowly rolling up the slope of a range of distant hills.

The wet exposure and irregular eating of half cooked food had already
started to tell on us. Dysentery was appearing; nearly all the company
suffered with constant diarrhoea from this time on.

The afternoon dragged on; still no call for the alert brigade. We were
allowed to pitch pup tents, but no fires were allowed; the wood was too
wet and smoky.

Night fell; we crawled into whatever shelter we had, and
surreptitiously smoked, and talked, and listened to the rumble of the
guns until we got to sleep.

At about 1:30 A. M. a battalion runner fell over my feet and lit on
Lt. Dunn. After a few hasty remarks we stopped for breath, and were
informed that the battalion was to form on the road right away. Stiff
and sleepy, I stumbled out into the dank night, routed out Chiaradio,
my staunch little runner and striker, and broke the glad news to
Robbins and the company runners. The woods were soon in a bustle as we
rolled packs, donned equipment, and filed out by platoons into the mud
of the road.

By 2 A. M. the battalion was standing ankle deep in the slushy mud
in column of squads, the Major at our head. Half an hour passed. Not
a sound except an occasional “su-luck-slosh,” as someone shifted his
heavy pack, or tried in vain to find a less liquid footing. The leaden
minutes dragged by. Three o’clock; no move. Half past four--the company
ahead moved off, and we sloshed along behind, but only to the edge of
the wood. Dawn broke--another gray and misty dawn. Oh, that awful wait
in that awful hole! It was quite light before, at 5 o’clock, we finally
moved out, and, splashing and sliding over a muddy field, finally hit
the road and were off toward the scene of action.

As we were stretching the kinks out of our legs on a fairly good road,
we passed a U. S. Coast Artillery outfit; a 12-inch gun. Some of the
crew came out to the roadside from the emplacement, and Capt. O’Brien
recognized his old outfit, in which he had served as an enlisted man
years before.

On we go toward the distant booming of the guns. We wind around hills,
hike across a valley, over another long hill. Then the road runs along
the bottom of a long, long valley. During the ten-minute rests we
snatch a hasty breakfast from our reserve rations, with growls from
those who don’t get in on the jam.

Now we begin to see traces of the battle--an overturned wagon,
abandoned in the ditch; a train of ammunition trucks crossing the road
ahead of us; a motor truck repair shop, hastily set up in a little
cabin along the road, from which came a smell of hot coffee that
tantalized our cold stomachs. Further on we passed a field hospital;
great white tents pitched in a sheltered dell, with red crosses glaring
on the tent flies.

At the next halt, a Ford ambulance came down the muddy road with a load
of wounded. It stopped by us, and the driver went around behind to see
to one of the occupants. The canvas curtain was pushed aside from the
top, and a head lolled out--a face of ghastly yellow paste, surrounded
by dirty light brown hair. The poor chap was evidently badly gassed. He
retched violently time and again, spat out some blood, stared vacantly
at us with glassy, miserable eyes. The driver put the head inside
with a kindly “All right, buddy; nearly there now;” and the old Henry
started off again with a jerk, and a groan from within.

As we resumed the march, a youngster from the 5th Division overtook us.
He wore an M. P.’s brassard, and no equipment but a .45 and a canteen.
We with our heavy packs and ammunition envied him. He was sleepy
eyed and jaded, but still enthusiastic. Ever since the drive started
he had been on the job escorting prisoners from front line division
headquarters to the pens in the rear.

By 9 o’clock we had done twelve miles under our full pack, ammunition,
and two days’ rations, with a breakfast of a little corned willy and
hard bread and chlorinated water; the whole preceded by three hours’
standing in eight inches of liquid mud. We felt pretty well done in,
for a fact. The auto riflemen were the worst off, having their heavy
Chauchats and several big magazines of ammunition besides. One of them
lightened his load by the ingenious means of “forgetting” his bag of
magazines at a halt. When Lt. Schuyler discovered it, the culprit was
promptly accommodated with a double dose to carry.

But this was the exception. As I shifted about, hiking first with one
platoon and then another, I always found a set of determined grins, and
a cheerful “Oh, we’re all right. How’s the rabble up ahead?”

We had been passing through the rear area of the former Allied sector.
Now and again a trench system--trenches, barbed wire, emplacements,
all complete--stretched away on either hand. Here and there were great
stretches of barbed wire filling gullies and ravines.

At 10 o’clock we crossed a stone bridge and started up a long, long
hill. At the top we found that we were on a ridge that had been the
front line before the attack. Shell holes covered the whole place. To
our left, the ground fell away in a long dip, and we saw the ground
over which the first wave had attacked. The battle was now far away
over the horizon.

For a couple of kilos we hiked along the road on top of the ridge.
It had already been repaired roughly, and all sorts of traffic
was passing over it. Once it had been bordered with trees, set at
regular intervals, like most self respecting French roads. Now only a
shattered, blasted stump stood here and there.

A few men began to straggle from the outfits ahead, but “B” Co. stuck
to it gamely. On that day not a man fell out.

Now we drew near a large barbed wire enclosure filled with men. It was
a P. W. pen, where prisoners were collected on their way to the rear. A
couple of detachments of them were going in as we came by.

We turned off here to the left, toward the front. About a kilo down
this road we hit a traffic jam--a regular one. This road was badly cut
up, and poor road discipline soon did the rest. Some truck or ambulance
had tried to pass another, and both had stalled. Others, arriving from
both directions, instead of lining up behind on the right of the road,
pressed up as far as they could go, until the road was so completely
jammed that even we on foot could not get through. Belts of barbed wire
that ran up to the road on either side prevented us from going around.
So there we were.

It was a most cosmopolitan collection. French 75’s, Ford ambulances,
a general’s Cadillac, rubbed shoulders with lumbering lorries, sturdy
steel ammunition Quads, and limbers. A French transport wagon driver
cracked his long whip and argued volubly with the chauffeur of a tank,
who spat and regarded him contemplatively. Field kitchens, huddled in
the jam, held the food that was so desperately needed up front.

At last a Colonel of Marines blew in from somewhere, and plunged into
the mess. He got it thinned out enough for us to filter through on the
outskirts. And then--Glory be--we turned off the road into an open
space, with no barbed wire and comparatively few shell holes. Here we
found part of the 312th Inf., and the battalion stacked arms and fell
out.

We slipped off our packs, and fell to on monkey meat and hard bread
with a will. The sun had come out, and we lay around and soon got warm
and dry, and felt nearly human again.

All too soon we fell in, and set off again. We threaded our way across
the jam--now nearly as bad as ever--and spent the afternoon drifting
down a little valley at right angles to the road we had just left.
Nobody seemed to know just where we were going, or why. We heard later
that a jumbled order somewhere between Division and Brigade Hdqs. had
caused us to spend this day in a wild goose chase.

The Colonel and Regt’l Hdq. had not been seen since the morning. We
hiked a few hundred yards, waited awhile, then moved on a bit again. We
passed, and were in turn passed by artillery, supply trains, infantry.
We sweated and chafed under our burdens, and wondered what t’ell, but
supposed it was all part of the game.

At last, about 6 P. M., we came to the head of the valley. There we
spied the Colonel and his car, on a road up on the top of the hill. We
climbed up to the road, pushing a stalled rolling kitchen ahead of us.
We were urged to “Step out,” and showed our military discipline and
Christian forbearance by not saying what we thought of this request.
We got on a good road that led over the hill and up toward the front.
Along this we hiked a little way, then turned off to the left, and up a
lumber road that led straight up the hill into the woods. It was nearly
dark; the road was so steep that I could never understand how six
inches of liquid mud stayed on it. The climb up this road soon put our
feet into their usual muddy and wet condition. We turned off into the
woods, the Bois de Hoquemont, and were told that we would bivouac here
for the night.

Our kitchens pulled up along the main road shortly, and the cooks,
tired as they were, got to work at once. The rations consisted mostly
of dehydrated vegetables. They say they are good if you can soak them
for twenty-four hours. A stew and coffee were soon under way.

I toiled back up the hill and found a message to report at once to
the regt’l commander. On a hunch, I had Schuyler get a detail out and
bring up the chow right away. Sure enough, at the officers’ meeting we
were ordered to make combat packs and be ready to move again in twenty
minutes. We got our coffee and slum, though; and the half cooked stuff
tasted pretty good at that.

Then we again donned our equipment, and plashed down the sloppy road
on weary feet. The night was very dark, and the road, as usual, jammed
with transport, our kitchens among others. As we threaded our way
through, we got mixed up somehow with a company of Marines going in
the same direction. Finally the jam thinned out, and we turned off
on another road, though we had to sort out B company and the Marines
almost man by man. And so we plodded on.

It is remarkable how much a man can do after he thinks he is all in. We
picked ’em up and put ’em down for three hours. At last we drew near
some woods. Our orders were to proceed to Bois d’Euvezin and bivouac,
and show no lights. Well, we couldn’t see a map, and didn’t know where
we were on one anyhow, so this wood looked pretty good. At any rate, we
turned off the road and headed for it.

Easy enough for a staff officer to look at a map and say, “Bivouac in
these woods.” Unfortunately, there was a 30 foot belt of wire fringing
this particular one. Orders are orders, though, so we scrambled through
somehow, and pushed in far enough to hide from any further marching
orders that night. Then we flopped down, any place at all, and dropped
off.

It seemed but a couple of minutes before the sun came prying through
the leaves and under my eyelids. I rolled over, and saw Lt. Col. Budd,
sitting up with his back against a tree, wrapped in his trench coat--no
better off than we were. Right away my morale went up.

An American outfit is never so weary that it doesn’t furnish a few
inquisitive souls. Already curiosity was driving the doughboys out of
the woods, by two’s and three’s, to see what was around. Just over a
knoll they found a little fragment of history. A German machine gun,
cunningly camouflaged; across it the body of a big “Feldwebel,” or
German top sergeant, with a bayonet wound through his body; a couple
of yards away a dead Marine, riddled with machine gun bullets, still
grasping his rifle with the bloody bayonet fixed.

At 9 A. M. the outfit was rounded up, and we were off again. As we
plugged along the road in column of squads we thought with some disgust
of the night marches we had made a hundred kilos behind the lines.
Fortunately this hike was short. In an hour we entered another and
larger wood, the Bois d’Euvezin sure enough, this time. Here we found
the rest of the brigade, and bivouacked in the woods just off the road.

The woods were full of German dugouts, evacuated by the enemy only a
day or so before. Most of these were preempted by various headquarters.
We settled down to make the most of our rest. For a wonder the sun
was out; and despite the mud under foot, we were soon fairly warm and
dry--and oh, how hungry! It was well along in the afternoon before the
water carts pulled in, though, and we got our hot slum and coffee.

The Y. M. C. A. kicked through with a canteen, and after some trouble
in keeping the men from mobbing the place, crackers, chocolate and
tobacco were sold.

That night our gas training blossomed forth again. The Boche dropped a
couple of shells around and our over-anxious sentries promptly bawled
“Gas!” The alarm would be taken up and spread through the brigade, and
by the time things quieted down they were off again. We finally got
some sleep by the primitive but effective expedient of promising to
blow the head off the next guy that raised the cry.

Next day a great bunch of orders were dumped on me to read--all about
the new censorship regulations. After wading through these, the
officers were summoned to go up on a reconnoitering party to look over
the sector which we were to take over that night.

We set out, and after a couple of hours’ stiff hiking arrived at a
very elaborate system of dugouts, in the edge of a wood, the Bois St.
Claude. Here was the Regt’l Hdq. of the 61st Infantry, 5th Division,
which we were to relieve. About five hundred meters north lay the
little village of Vieville-en-Haye. Descriptions of this charming
hamlet are superfluous, as we all had plenty of opportunity to
contemplate it thereafter.

It was early afternoon, and the Boche was behaving rather well; only
occasionally slamming an .88 into the village in a perfunctory sort of
way. From the northeast, however, came an intermittent crackle of rifle
and machine gun firing, where the outposts were snarling and chattering
away at each other.

We sat around for an hour while the regt’l hdq’s made their
arrangements. I found out that the C. O. of the 61st was an old friend
of my father’s--his father had been in my father’s company at V. M. I.
in the Civil War.

At last the dope filtered down to the Co. Cmdrs., and we were given ten
minutes to reconnoiter our positions. We then had to make haste back to
the regiment, so that we could be ready to start again at dark. Packs
were made, the platoons gathered together, and at 7:30 P. M. we filed
out onto the road and were off on the last lap of our journey to the
battle line.

Hardly were we clear of the woods when we halted, for some unknown
reason. We sat and lay on the grass by the roadside, among shell holes,
and listened to the drone of airplanes above us. It was an eerie,
ominous sound; and though we were pretty sure the motors were not the
deep voiced monsters of the enemy, still we were relieved when they
drew off without dropping any H. E. into our midst.

In half an hour we started, this time in earnest. It was rough going,
and blind work at best. We stumbled up a ravine, out onto a road,
skirted a wood lined with artillery, and so drew near our position
south of Vieville-en-Haye.

The 1st battalion was in support, the 2nd holding the front line, and
the 3rd brigade reserve. I never did know where the battalion was that
we were relieving. A and B Cos., however, were to hold the crest of
a slight swell of the ground about 300 meters south of the village.
Trenches there were none; but there were plenty of shell holes, and the
company was posted so as to command the terrain in front with Chauchat
and rifle fire; two or three men to a shell hole. The 4th platoon found
a little stretch of trench which they improved for themselves. A Co.
was on our left; C and D Cos. were posted about 700 meters to our right
rear, behind Regt’l Hdq.

We had gotten pretty well settled, when just before dawn a battalion
runner came up, with the cry that haunted me day and night, “Commanding
Officer, B Co.” Hard on his heels came the Major. Two companies of the
2nd battalion had lost their way and were temporarily missing, and B
Co. was to go up and hold the line of resistance at once.

So B Co. was routed out of its bivvies, and donned packs and
ammunition, and set off in double file. I was to report to the C. O. of
the 61st Inf. front line battalion at Vieville.

We hiked down to the road, and up to where the houses began; then
through a spacious barn, climbing over a dead horse, and arriving
finally at the northern outskirts of the town. Not finding the Bn. Hdq.
I had the company take what cover they could in the road and barn while
the Major and I strolled up to the top of the hill beyond to have a
look ’round.

Near the top of this long hill were two German concrete pillboxes,
nicely turfed over. We found one of these occupied as a first aid post;
in the other we found a machine gun company hdq. Nobody knew any dope
about where we were wanted, but they said that Bn. Hdq. was about a
kilo away to the right.

Just then Heinie started his morning strafe of Vieville-en-Haye. Three
or four whiz bangs came hurtling over our heads, and landed in the east
end of the village, right where B Co. was lying. I saw no necessity of
our doing a Casabianca, and hastily obtained permission from the Major
to take B Co. back to its former position until we knew where to go. As
I shuffled down the hill, hitting the dirt now and then when one landed
close by, I chanced to look back just in time to see a shell hit the
first aid pillbox and pivot it neatly around, so that the door faced
us instead of the enemy. It didn’t take long to start B Co. toward our
bivvies, very much disgusted with the morning’s work, but glad to stop
playing target for a while. Fortunately, no one was hit.

The 2nd Battalion located its wandering sheep later in the day, so we
were not called on for that errand again.

The regiment’s task was now to organize and strengthen our sector of
the line. The main line of resistance, as indicated on the map, was
being held and dug in by three Cos. of the 2nd Battalion, H Co. holding
the outpost line about two kilos in advance.

Our kitchens were established in the woods behind Regt’l Hdq., and
started work on the old standby, slum. The rough roads leading into
these woods were all ankle deep in mud, and the ration detail wasn’t
any bed of roses.

The day we spent in deepening our bivvies as best we could, though our
intrenching tools made little impression on the hard and stony ground.
Whoever salvaged a man-sized pick or shovel was lucky. While it was
light, we kept down under cover as much as possible, for the German
observation balloons were peeping sinisterly over the horizon, and we
didn’t care about drawing attention to our position.

On Wednesday, September 18th, at about 1 P. M., A and B Cos. received
orders to report to the Engineer Dump at 368.3-240.3, as a working
party. Several enemy observation balloons were up, and it was a clear
afternoon; but orders were orders, and off we filed.

At the dump we met an Engineer Lieutenant--very stout, very bullheaded
and very incompetent. I asked where we were to work, and he replied he
didn’t know--over there somewhere--pointing in the general direction of
Germany. Having had enough of that sort of business in the morning, I
told him to toddle right off and find out where he was to take us. He
got quite huffy at this, but finally set out, and returned with some
definite information. We drew picks and shovels, and hiked away after
him; I being forced to hurt his importance again by refusing to march
the company along in single file on the sky line.

Our task was to dig a communication trench, already taped out, from
the point where the line of resistance entered the Bois Gerard back
over the brow of the hill. The first platoon was in plain view of the
enemy’s observation balloon, the other three were just behind the rise.

We posted sentinels, and set to work, absolutely out in the open, no
cover save a few shell holes. For ten minutes we dug. Then it came. A
whistle, scream and slam, just over the hill; another; then a fierce,
deadly whir, right in our ears. We hit the dirt, and a second later Lt.
Dunn called to me “Captain, there’s a man killed here and I don’t know
how many wounded.”

For an instant of horror the company gazed at the spot. I sent Sgt.
Hill to the first aid pillbox for stretchers, put the others to work
again, and hastened up to see the situation. The shell had landed just
between the 1st and 2nd platoons. Lt. Schuyler was already having the
wounded carried into the edge of the woods near by, and had the rest
of the 1st platoon take cover there. Poor O’Hara was lying dead right
by the shell hole. It had burst nearly underneath him, and a fragment
of shell had torn its way through his temple and right out through his
steel helmet. His brains were oozing out through the hole.

Seeing that nothing could be done for him, I went over to the woods.
Lester Farry, our mechanic, as fine a man as ever walked, was sitting
up between Lt. Schuyler and Sgt. Reid, with a big hole in the side of
his head. He never uttered a word of complaint; just sat still while
they bandaged it; and the stretchers came up and took him off. He died
in hospital six days later.

Curcio had a great hole in the upper part of his leg. Donohue had an
ugly bit of shell in his back, and Bogucki, Fielding, and Hauber were
wounded, but less seriously.

This was a nasty introduction to shell fire, because the whole company
saw the thing happen. Their behaviour, however, was excellent. Doggedly
the men continued at the work, and soon we had enough cover to at least
be in while the shells burst near by.

Our gallant friend, the Engineer Lieutenant, had promptly vanished, and
I never saw him again. I withdrew the first and second platoons behind
the hill, and we kept on the job until 6 P. M., as ordered. At about
5:30, A Co. came along over the hill, and the Heinies sped them on
their way with a few gas shells, which made them scamper.

As we turned in our shovels at the dump, every man mustered up a grin
as he passed by; and though it had been one hell of a party, the old
morale was still on deck.

On the top of the knoll where our position was, the Germans had had an
anti-aircraft gun, gaudily camouflaged. Some cooks from an artillery
outfit had found a lot of ammunition belonging to it, and, dragging
it into Vieville, had amused themselves during the day by shooting
Fritz’s own H. E. in his general direction. This apparently annoyed
Fritz; and just as I got back to our bivvies at the tail of B Co., two
ash cans--whoppers--arrived at the gun’s former position, right in the
midst of A Co. Our comrades promptly departed to the woods until the
next morning.

The cooks sent up a good chow--steaks and coffee--and we got to sleep
in our holes as best we could.

The next day--Thursday, September 19th--was rainy. We dug our shelters
a little deeper, and wished this war thing were over. I found a German
translation of one of De Maupassant’s novels, which I read through, but
for the life of me I can’t remember a bit of the story.

In the afternoon the chaplain, Lt. Cressman, came around, and O’Hara’s
platoon was allowed to attend his burial service in the little cemetery
in the edge of the Bois St. Claude, east of Vieville.

In the meantime I had been called to Btn. Hdq., where Mr. Morse, our
faithful old “Y” man, had brought up some chocolate and cigarettes. He
was supposed by the regulations of the “Y” to sell them, but he refused
to take any money from the Co. Cmdrs. at first, intending to account
for them out of his own small pay. When we understood this, we insisted
on paying for the stuff out of the company funds. The news got out
that the “Y” was charging for chocolate and tobacco, and caused some
bitterness, under the circumstances. But thereafter Mr. Morse made some
arrangement whereby the stuff was issued free.

As for Mr. Morse himself, I think we should here express something of
our appreciation of his faithful and unselfish devotion to the men
of the battalion. A man well past the prime of life, he shared our
hardships, hiked with us--not sticking like grim death to a Ford as
some of his confreres were prone to do--; slept in mud and rain with
us. Right under shell fire he would come plugging on up with his little
bag of smokes and chocolate. The Red Cross, the Salvation Army, were
only names to us. But the “Y,” which we cussed out so frequently,
surely did us proud when they gave us Mr. Morse.

That night the 1st, 3rd and 4th platoons went out as separate working
parties. Apparently the deaths of O’Hara and Farry had demonstrated
even to our friends the Engineers that sporting about in sight of Hun
balloons in the daytime was magnificent, but not war.

The Boche had the range, though, and shelled the area all night. The
1st platoon ran on an average schedule of dig two minutes and duck
five. The 3rd was in no better case, and Barney O’Rourke got an ugly
little piece of shell through his foot. He hobbled off between Hill
and Weber, adjuring me as he left “Don’t let th’ byes get up too soon
afther they bor-r-rst, sor-r-r.” And thereafter we didn’t.

Rifle bullets were cracking by over our heads now and then, and the
rumor got about that snipers were concealed in the nearby woods. The
whole sector had of course been in German hands five days before, and
all sorts of tales were current about death traps found in dugouts, and
lurking snipers, lying close in the daytime in cunning shelters, well
provisioned, who came out at night to pot a few of us and eventually
escape by underground passages.

Most of these tales I recognized as old friends originally met with
in the Sat. Eve. Post. But digging was quite unpleasant enough as it
was, and the source of the impression was not so important as the fact
that it existed. So Osterweis, Woolley and I went forth to bag the
franctireurs. We waded through a vast deal of mud, but couldn’t flush
anything except a disgusted runner looking for Brigade Hdq.; so I sent
the corporals back, and set out myself for the 4th platoon, which was
stringing wire over on the left of the sector.

On the way I stumbled over the body of a 5th Division soldier. He had
a red runner’s brassard on his arm, and was all ticketed for burial.
His face seemed to be in shadow. There was a plug of chewing tobacco
sticking out of his pocket and this seemed to be in the shadow too.
Then I realized that his face had turned black--it was just the color
of that plug of tobacco. The vicious shriek of a shell approached,
and I hit the dirt. A bit of the shell hit the dead man by me, and he
jumped as if alive. I got up and was on my way.

The majority of the 4th platoon had taken individual leases on shell
holes; Sgt. Rogers and a few others were making valiant efforts to make
some headway with the wire. The shelling quieted down after awhile,
however, and we got down to business. Then I started back to see how
the others were faring.

On the way I heard Capt. Fleischmann’s voice from the darkness; his
men also were worried about the stray bullets overhead. As I came up,
a couple of his sentinels thought they had spotted the snipers, and
cracked down on some figures moving past a clump of bushes to their
left. A few remarks in choice American made it clear that they were
potting away at my 3rd platoon, which had decided that it was time to
quit for the night. Privately I was heartily in sympathy with this
view; but officially I had to lead the way back to the trench and
set the boys to work again. Meanwhile the C. O. of the 4th platoon,
laboring under a similar delusion, had taken his wiring party back to
their bivvies. Sgt. Rogers, Slim Price and one or two others were still
on deck, very much disgusted. So we had a good long trudge back, routed
the lads out, and all hands returned to the hill.

At last 3 o’clock came, and we turned in tools and quit for the night.
As Rogers, Hayden and I were crossing the belt of wire north of the
Vieville road, four or five gas shells landed quite near by. We all got
a pretty good snootful before we got our masks on; and Rogers, the Co.
gas N. C. O., was so busy cussing the wire that he didn’t notice the
gas soon enough, and got enough to put him in the hospital.

My shell hole looked pretty luxurious to me; Chiaradio had swiped a
piece of corrugated iron for a roof, and it wasn’t as wet as it might
have been. I was glad to crawl in between him and Robbins and go to
sleep.

At about 9 A. M. Heinie set to work to blow us out. His range was fifty
meters short, fortunately, and he shelled away on a line between us and
Vieville with characteristic diligence and thoroughness. The flying
fragments made promenading unhealthy. Lt. Schuyler came over to my
bivvy with a rumor that the Austrians had quit. Two minutes after he
left, a long jagged piece came whistling along and half buried itself
just where he had been sitting, and six inches above my foot. Cheery-O
used it to hang his mess kit on thereafter.

That night we only furnished two small working parties, and the rest of
us had a cushy sleep.

On Friday, the 20th, the Co. Cmdrs. were assembled at Bn. Hdq., and
were told that we were to relieve the 2nd Battalion on the night of the
21st. That afternoon we went up to reconnoiter the position we were to
take over. The guides took us up past the Engineer dump, through the
woods to the 2nd Bn. Hdq. Here we found Major Adee and his staff taking
advantage of a quiet hour to have lunch above ground. They were using a
couple of German dugouts as headquarters--very good ones, about 20 feet
under ground and well timbered.

Major Adee seemed to have aged twenty years. His face was lined and
haggard with care and responsibility. His runner had been killed at the
entrance to the dugout that morning by a shell.

Fleischmann and I with two runners apiece, our officers and top
sergeants, were furnished with a guide to take us to the outpost line.
B and D Cos. were to relieve H Co.; A and C were to hold the line of
resistance.

It was a long two kilos up to the outpost line, especially as we had
to keep under cover of the woods all the way. We crossed and recrossed
one of the little narrow gauge railways that the Germans had running
everywhere. My right ankle, which I had broken the previous fall
playing football at Camp Dix, had a touch of rheumatism, and the
nagging pain from it made a background for all the rest of my time in
the line. Even now when I think about the Limey sector, the old ankle
comes through with a reminiscent twinge. I suppose each of you had
some corresponding petty aggravation which worried you absurdly out of
proportion to its intrinsic importance.

We toiled up the little wooded hill at the edge of the Bois Hanido, and
passed a gun pit, the ground around strewn with German arms, equipment,
and clothing, and several dead Germans lying about. Just on the other
side of the hill was a German rest camp, with several bunk houses, a
movie theatre, and a little open air Catholic chapel, with a wooden
cross.

At the bottom of the hill we came to the narrow gauge railway again,
followed it up a little way, and then turned down one of the straight
paths that the Boche cut through the woods, barring all other
approaches with barbed wire, and commanding these with machine guns. It
was a good stunt, too, as we found out later. After you’ve struggled in
barbed wire for a while you’ll take a chance on machine gun bullets to
get on a path.

It was not far to H Co.’s headquarters. There we found Capt. Ressiguie,
commanding the company--a most cool-headed, courageous and efficient
officer. Lt. Col. Budd was also there, inspecting the outpost. The
company headquarters was a shelter half stretched over a two foot
ditch. Earlier in the afternoon, the left flank platoon had had a
skirmish with an enemy machine gun patrol, losing two men killed and
a couple wounded, including Lt. Stern. We made our reconnaissance and
started back, arriving at our own Bn. Hdq. by nightfall. There we were
issued battle maps of the sector and the relief order, which makes the
arrangements down to the last detail on paper.

Two platoons went out as working parties that night, and got off with
comparatively little shelling. The next morning Capt. Fleischmann and I
were issued an assortment of pyrotechnic signals--rockets, Very lights,
etc.,--with lengthy directions as to their use.

In the afternoon a division order postponed the relief for twenty-four
hours. Working parties had been called off on account of the relief,
and we all got a night off.

As soon as dusk fell on Sunday, September 22nd, the platoons were
assembled under full equipment, and we started. The guides didn’t
appear, and it was fortunate we had been up before. Several times I
thought I had lost my way, and was leading the two companies into
the German lines. Trying to keep in touch with the man ahead while
blundering through those woods, laden down with rifle and equipment,
tripping over logs, roots and barbed wire, slipping in the mud;
occasional shells bursting to remind us that any noise would be
disastrous, and, of course, a nice rain falling--I’ve been on lots of
pleasanter walks.

At last we came to the old German rest camp, and I knew where we were.
Soon we met Capt. Ressiguie, and the sgt. commanding his left platoon
took us in tow.

The first and third platoons furnished the line of outguards, along
the line 368.8-242.4: 368.3-242.8; the first platoon on the right. The
second and fourth platoons were the support, and were to organize a
strong point at the north of the little strip of woods at 368.1-242.5.
Co. Hdq. was established at 368.6-242.4, just off the path through the
woods.

Only a small part of our sector had been held by H Co., and we had to
dig our own bivvies. Our intrenching tools made little headway in the
rocky ground, laced with tree roots; and even those who found German
picks and shovels made little better progress. The support was somewhat
better off, as they had one or two good dugouts and gun pits.

By the time all the dispositions were made and inspected it was
beginning to get light. There was plenty of German clothing and
equipment lying around, and in ten minutes you could have collected
enough souvenirs to satisfy even a Paris Q. M. sergeant. The heavy
fleeceskin German coats came in especially handy, and the other stuff
was good to line our bivvies, though it was soaking wet and smelt most
damnably. Hun machine gun ammunition in long canvas belts was scattered
around in abundance; and down in the corner of the field on our left
was an abandoned field kitchen.

Raymond Harris and a couple of battalion runners were running a field
telephone up from B. H. Q. to the Co. Hdq. We had crawled into our
holes for some sleep, when about 1 P. M. a nasty, shrill little whir
like a giant mosquito heralded the arrival of a small one-pounder shell
about a hundred meters down the line. It was repeated rapidly, dropping
shells right along that path which ran parallel to the outpost line at
about twenty-five yard intervals. And to our dismay, we realized that
the shells were coming from behind us.

Cheery-O had carefully cleaned and oiled his rifle and leaned it up
against a sapling at the edge of our hole. The vicious whir came again
directly at us, and, as our muscles grew taut against the shock of the
explosion, the butt of the rifle suddenly vanished. A moment later
Cheery-O scrambled out and returned with a rueful face, bearing his
precious rifle, bent neatly at the breech into a right angle.

Just then one of the battalion runners came up, with a bleeding hand,
saying that his mate had just been killed down the path. I took the
two first aid men attached to the company and we went down and found
Harris, my own runner, lying by the coil of telephone wire he had been
laying, with a great hole in the side of his head--a horrible thing to
look at.

I stopped only long enough to see a dressing applied and a stretcher
brought, and then hastened down the path to D Cos. headquarters, where
a phone had been installed. I found Fleischmann shooting off all the
fireworks that would go off--about one in ten--and his first sergeant
grinding the bell handle of the field phone like mad. To make things
pleasanter, our artillery dropped a couple of shells neatly among our
outguards. We sent back runners to B. H. Q., and the shells stopped.

We never found out who was responsible for that one-pounder. Our own
was far in the rear, and the outfits on either side--the 90th Division
on the right, the 312th Inf. on the left--disclaimed any knowledge of
it. So headquarters solved the problem, as usual, by telling us we were
green at this game and didn’t know what we were talking about.

It seemed so pitifully unnecessary about Harris. He was such a
handsome, bright, intelligent and cheery little chap, a favorite with
all the company; and we carried him off with half his face torn away,
moaning and unconscious. I never dreamed he could live. But somehow
they pulled him through and I have just had a card from him today, from
Walter Reed Hospital, where he is yet.

The nearest first aid post was at Bn. Hdq., and we had to carry all our
wounded back those two long kilometers through the woods, with only
the rough dressings that we could apply on the spot. For our rations
we had to go back another two kilos, to Rgt’l Hdq., making four kilos
each way, nearly all the way through woods and under shell fire. The
continual wetness, exposure and loss of sleep made us easy prey to
dysentery, and this weakened us a great deal. Under these conditions,
to have to carry a stretcher or a can of stew several kilos in the dark
was--well, it was just hell. I think the ration parties had the worst
job, though their loads were not so heavy as the stretcher bearers’
were. The latter were held up by sympathy for the poor devil on the
stretcher. There isn’t much inspiration in a can of slum or a bag of
bread.

Joe Levy had charge of the ration parties, and a thankless job it was.
The Major arranged to have the chow brought as far as the line of
resistance in a limber; but when shells were banging about--which was
pretty generally the case--either the limber didn’t get up that far,
or the chow was dumped down and abandoned. Worst of all, we only had
enough thermos cans to carry one ration for the company; so the ration
detail had to go back, get the chow, bring it up and distribute it,
collect the cans, lug them back to the kitchens, and then return to
the outpost line. It did seem absolutely inexcusable that this had to
be done, all for lack of a few cans. It cost us several unnecessary
losses in killed and wounded, and after all had done their turn at this
detail, weakened from diarrhoea and exposure as we were, it made us
very low physically.

The night of the 23rd passed comparatively quietly for the outpost
line, though the line of resistance was well bucketed, and the ration
party had a hard time. Shells landing near the kitchen transformed
several thermos cans into sieves, and made the shortage worse than
ever. Besides, Regt’l Hdq. decided that the kitchens were attracting
enemy shell fire in their direction, and ordered them moved another
kilo back, to the brigade reserve.

Our orders were to do no patrolling in front of the line of outguards,
as this was to be done by the battalion scouts under Lt. Drake. I
believe this was a mistake, and if I had it to do over again I should
send out patrols every night. It makes all the difference in one’s
confidence and peace of mind, and no information can equal that gained
at first hand.

At about 3 P. M. on the 24th, as I was dozing in our bivvy, Lt.
Col. Budd’s face peeped in. He and a Major from Division Hdq. were
inspecting the outpost line. I was glad to see someone higher up than
myself dodging shells. It might have been wrong in theory for him to be
up there, but I surely appreciated it. I did the honors for our sector,
asked for more thermos cans, and got a couple of cigars from the Lt.
Colonel. He brought the news that the 90th Division on our right was
pulling off a battalion raid that night, covered by a barrage, and to
lie close.

About three times a day I would go down to chew the rag and swap dope
with Capt. Fleischmann. It was funny that I nearly always met him on
the way, coming over to do the same with me. The idea always struck us
at the same moment. Somehow it seemed to help share the responsibility,
and cheered us up a lot.

The barrage started about 11 P. M. The Boche replied with a counter
barrage, and he had a very fair range on our outpost line. In five
minutes the shells were ripping the tops off the trees all around, and
the air grew acrid from the bursting lyddite. He was just about 50
meters too high, and it was his shorts that did the damage to us.

In about fifteen minutes, when the din was at its height, Cole, a
runner from the 3rd platoon, came up, out of breath and shaken. A shell
had hit directly on platoon hdq.; Lt. Merrill and Sgt. Hill were both
wounded, and several men killed.

I left Sgt. Robbins in charge at Co. Hdq., and with Cole, Winemiller,
Chiaradio and our two medical detachment men went out to see the
situation.

We pushed through the thick underbrush to the shallow hole that Merrill
was occupying. It was raining a little; the only light came from the
flashes of the bursting shells and the guns on the horizon. Merrill
and Hill had been lying in their bivvy, with the other platoon runner,
Laurencell, sitting on their feet. A shell had hit Laurencell right at
the shoulders, carrying all his head, neck and shoulders and arms away.
His bleeding trunk and legs, an awful corpse, was lying across Hill and
Merrill, who were both badly wounded in the feet and legs, and could
not remove the body.

We took up poor Laurencell’s remains and laid them to one side, and
then got Merrill on a stretcher, and Cheery-O and Cole carried him off.
Sgt. Hill’s feet, however, were so mangled and mixed up with the bottom
of the hole that our attempts to raise him out of it caused him intense
agony. He said, “Captain, there’s a German razor in my coat pocket.
Please cut my foot off, and then I can stand it.”

I couldn’t see, but I could feel with my hands that this was about the
only way to extricate him. So I took the razor, and cut away his shoe
and the mangled part of his foot, which was all mixed up with a German
overcoat they had been lying on. Then we were able to lift him on to
the stretcher; but he wouldn’t be carried away until we took all his
cigarettes out of his pocket and gave them to him.

Then I went down toward the line of outguards. When I got out on the
road by the German kitchen, I was challenged by Cpl. McGarrity. It did
my heart good to hear his stern, cool voice coming out of that night
of blackness and horror. He reported that several men in the outguards
were killed and wounded, and that he and Corp. Welsh were arranging
for the wounded. Sgt. Schelter had gone to Co. Hdq. for stretchers,
and hadn’t been heard of since. We never saw him again. His body was
found in the woods several hundred meters away several days later; he
evidently lost his way, and while wandering about in search of Co. Hdq.
was killed by shell fire.

Welsh and McGarrity took hold of the situation like veterans.
I designated them first and second in command of the platoon,
respectively, and told them they would be relieved before morning.

On returning to Co. Hdq. I found the wounded beginning to stream in.
Nearly all were from the 3rd platoon; the 1st platoon, strangely,
suffered very little. All the Co. runners and buglers were soon
carrying stretchers, and I again left Sgt. Robbins in charge while I
went over to the support to see to bringing up more stretcher bearers
and relief for the 3rd platoon.

That walk across the fields to the support’s position was certainly a
thriller. As I came out of the woods and started across the open, the
shells were going just overhead and bursting in the field to my left,
along a line about 50 meters away. After I doped this out it was easy
enough to plan my route so as to avoid them.

I found the platoon commanders and their sergeants in their
dugout--quite luxurious it looked, lighted with a candle and
comparatively dry. They thought I was wounded, as my hands, arms,
trousers and gas mask were all spotted and spattered with blood. I
ordered a detail from the 2nd platoon to report to me at once for
ration and stretcher carrying parties, and the 4th platoon to report as
soon as the barrage lifted to relieve the 3rd on the line of outguards.
As soon as the carrying parties were ready, I started back with them.

Sgt. Levy was placed in charge of the carrying parties, and they
were soon on their way. The men knew nothing of the country; it
was pitchy black, the shelling was still heavy, and they were wet,
weak and miserable. It was very hard to make orders understood, and
everything was wrong at once. Besides, there was the possibility of a
counter-attack or raid by the Boche.

In about half an hour the shelling died down and the 4th platoon came
up. When they were posted, while inspecting the outguards, I stumbled
over a body. As I could not see the face, I cut off the front of his
gas mask pouch where the name of the owner was printed. Next morning I
saw it was Kindt, of the 3rd platoon. He had been killed instantly by a
small piece of shell through the heart.

As I got back to Co. Hdq. it was getting light. I crawled into our
hole, which had a shelter half over it, and lit my pipe--the old black
briar I have in my face now as I write. Before I had taken three puffs
I fell off to sleep. A few minutes later Sgt. Robbins woke me with the
news that the ration detail had returned. I had been breathing through
my pipe which made me very sick and dizzy for awhile.

It was too light then to get the rations out to the outguards. The
ration detail was lying about on the ground, dead beat, among the pots
and cans. Sgt. Wilson and his cooks had worked all the day before to
make up a good chow, and Wilson had come up with it himself, though
that was no part of his duty. It almost broke his heart to be too late.
I tried to eat some, but everything tasted like blood.

Someone in the rear--not Sgt. Wilson--had the idea that we needed
coffee worse than water and so while we had plenty of strong, thick,
cold black coffee, we only had water that was left in our canteens. Our
upset stomachs refused the coffee; I used mine to wash the blood off my
hands and wrists. Robbins shaved in his.

Just then Capt. Fleischmann came striding along the path. He greeted
me with “Hello Daddy. Isn’t this awful?” D Co. had suffered even worse
than we, and they had not enough men to carry in the wounded, though
they had stripped the outguards as much as they dared. He asked me for
men to carry in four wounded that were still at his Co. Hdq.

I looked at the men lying on the ground asleep--the only ones
available. They had been carrying all that awful night under the heavy
shell fire, and I had not the heart to order them to make the trip
again. But I woke them up and told them that D Co. had some men lying
wounded, and asked for volunteers to take them in.

They stared dully for a moment, too tired to understand. Then Joe Levy,
who had been on the go all night, dragged himself to his feet, and said
“Hell, I’ll go. Come on, fellows.” Nobody wanted to go, and nobody
pretended to. But they went. It was one of the finest things I ever
saw, and every man that went should have had a D. S. C. No excitement
to it though; nothing to thrill the penny-a-liners, so they didn’t get
it.

When night fell, a detail went out to bring in the bodies of Weidman,
Kindt and Laurencell. Cpl. Weidman had been hit right in the waist by
a shell; his legs were lying several yards away from his body. It was
a gruesome task bringing him and Laurencell in. We laid the bodies,
covered with a blanket, near the graves of two H Co. men who had
been killed, just off the path at the place when it crossed the good
road--about point 368.8-242.3.

The night passed comparatively quietly; we got the rations issued, and
some water came up too late. Holly, one of the company runners, had
twisted his knee badly, and could not walk; so Cole was made runner in
his place; and a faithful, fearless lad he was, too.

Wednesday, September 25th, dawned a bright fall day. About 10 A. M.
Lt. Cressman, the regimental chaplain, came up. Winemiller, Cole,
Cheery-O, and Slover went with us to bury our three comrades. We turned
over their personal belongings to the chaplain, wrapped each poor
mangled body in a blanket, and laid them side by side in the shallow
graves--the best we had been able to dig. The chaplain read the burial
service, while an occasional shell tore through the air far overhead.
Then we filled in the graves. It was hard on our over-strained nerves,
and when we got through most of us were crying more or less. We hadn’t
as yet seen so much as one of the enemy to shoot at; it was all such a
hopeless, dreadful, ghastly business. Winemiller and Cole made three
little crosses and set them up at the head of the graves.

At 2:30 P. M. a message came up for Capt. Fleischmann and myself to
report at once to Btn. Hdq. We set out together wondering what was up;
leaving Lts. Hultzen and Schuyler in command.

We reported to Major Odom, who was studying his battle map by the
light of a couple of candles. Louis Foulkes greeted us on the side and
slipped me a couple of cigars.

After a few minutes, the Major took out his Bull Durham and started
rolling a cigarette, saying:

“I have a little problem for your companies to do tomorrow morning,”
quite as he had been saying any afternoon for the past year. Then he
went on to explain.

The great Argonne drive was to begin the next morning. It was to be
a surprise attack, preceded by only a couple of hours’ artillery
preparation. We were to make a demonstration, a sham attack, with the
object of keeping the enemy guessing for a few hours as to where the
real blow was to fall, and so to delay his concentration of troops to
meet the main drive.

The 312th Inf. on our left, and the 90th Div. on our right, were
to advance several kilos. We were to advance about half a kilo, to
approximately the line 368.3-243.4; 369.5-242.3. This line we were
to hold, and the units on our flanks were gradually to fall back and
re-establish the outpost line on us as a guide. We would have no
barrage, but there would be an hour of concentration fire--that is,
our artillery would shell points in the sector of the advance like
crossroads, probable strong points, battery positions, etc.

Zero hour was 5:30 A. M. At that moment we were to cut loose with all
our small arms fire. The battalion scouts had reported that there were
no Germans for 500 meters to the front, but this Fourth of July stuff
was to get the enemy’s wind up.

The arrangements for supplies and liaison were soon made. We had had no
chance to use any ammunition, and about all we asked for was water and
food.

Foulkes said that orders had arrived at Regtl. Hdq. detailing me to
report to the Army School of the Line at Langres on Oct. 1st. I thought
of the men we had buried that morning, and reflected grimly that I
should probably not matriculate.

When the Major finished his instructions, we sat quiet for a moment.
Then Fleischmann said “Well, come on, Daddy; we’ve got a lot to do
before dark,” and we set out.

As we climbed Dead Man’s Hill, the Boche balloon saw us, and they
amused themselves by sniping at us with a couple of 88’s. We kept
about 20 yards apart, so that if one was potted the other could see to
the attack. It was rather like playing “Going to Jerusalem.” We would
linger by a good shell hole and then hustle for the next one; and of
course the shells would always catch us between two holes, and we would
have to flop into some six inch puddle.

On arriving at Co. Hdq. I sent for the platoon commanders and
sergeants. Welch and McGarrity were left in command of the 3rd platoon;
I had perfect confidence in their ability to handle it after their
showing two nights before.

I knew that the moment we opened fire the German barrage would drop.
If he hadn’t shortened his range since Monday night we would have it
behind us. If he had, we would have to go through it anyhow, and the
sooner the better.

B Co. was attacking over a full kilometer front, which in a regular
supported attack would be the sector for at least a battalion. If we
met any serious opposition, we could not hope to push through to our
objective on this frontage. I therefore made my main objective the edge
of the open field along the line 369.0-243.0 to 368.6-243.2. This line
was along the top of a rather steep reverse slope, which would give us
protection from frontal fire, and from this as a base we could throw
out combat patrols to the flanks, and eventually get in touch with the
units on either side.

The company was to advance with the 1st, 4th and 2nd platoons in the
first wave, in above order from right to left; all in line of combat
groups. The 3rd platoon was to follow at 50 meters, and would act
as support and mopping up party. All would jump off from the line
of outguards, so that all would get clear of the enemy’s barrage as
quickly as possible. The 1st Plt. already had a common post with D Co.,
which was to move down the road on our right flank as a combat patrol.
Our left flank post was to arrange with the visiting patrol of the
312th Inf. to advance similarly along the left flank of our sector.

By the time these orders were issued and the ground reconnoitered,
it was nearly dark. Our rations were to be brought up that night by
details from the rear; but they lost their way--or their ambition--and
the chow never got beyond the foot of Dead Man’s Hill.

About midnight Capt. Fleischmann came over for a last consultation, and
we explained our plans to each other. Then we shook hands hard, wished
each other “Cheery-O” after the manner of the Scotties; and the night
closed behind his tall figure as he strode off down the path.

Various details of the arrangements kept me busy until the 2nd and 3rd
platoons came up at 5 A. M. to take their posts for the attack. Things
were comparatively quiet; only the usual shells going overhead. There
was just time to see the platoons properly disposed and to get my
headquarters platoon into position between the 1st and 4th platoons.
Then I watched my wrist watch tick off the last five minutes, as the
first tinge of dawn crept into the sky on our right. I ran everything
over in my mind hastily, to be sure nothing was forgotten. And then the
minute hand pointed the half hour.

Nothing happened.

The seconds ticked away. I listened and listened for ages--twenty
seconds by the watch--and nothing happened.

Finally I heard Schuyler’s voice over to the right, calling cautiously
“Hey, Cap, isn’t it time yet?”

“Sure it is,” I replied irritably. “Turn ’em loose. It’s after the time
now.”

The words were not out of my mouth before his rifle cracked and his
voice rang out “First platoon, Fire.”

The shots began to ring out, singly, then a rattle as the other
platoons took it up, each man firing a clip; then the rackety-split of
the Chauchats. An instant’s lull as we reloaded, and then the command
was “Forward!”

Then Hell broke loose.

The Germans had shortened their range. Their barrage dropped right on
us. The company runners were behind me in single file, Slover at the
rear. A shell burst behind us, killing him in his tracks before he
took a step. We knew nothing of it at the time. We pushed across the
field to our front, a field studded with stumps and full of underbrush.
Shells were bursting all around; the air filled as if by magic with the
stifling acrid smoke of high explosive. Several times the concussion of
a close one nearly knocked me off my feet, and the fumes blew against
my face like the blast from a furnace door. I wondered vaguely when
I’d get it, and shouted “Come on, B Company,” until I was hoarse.
Occasionally I heard Schuyler cheering on his men. You couldn’t see ten
feet for the smoke.

At the far edge of the field we ran into a broad belt of barbed wire.
We spread out, looking for a passage. Joe Levy called “Here’s a place,
Captain,” and we struggled through; I was dragging a long French VB
rifle after me. The wire was about 20 feet across.

We found ourselves at the bottom of a wooded slope, on a rough wagon
track. Lt. Schuyler, with Sgt. Reid and a couple of men, had gotten
through further along, and we started up the hill, sheltered somewhat
from the shells, though they were bursting in the treetops overhead.

I dumped my pack and V. B. rifle by a tree and christened the place
company headquarters. Then we went on up the hill. I got out my map and
pencil to be sure this was our objective.

It was quite light now; a beautiful September morning. Schuyler and I
gained the top of the ridge together. The woods ended there, giving
way to a little open plateau, about 250 meters across, with woods on
the other side again. I verified the position on my map, and ordered
Schuyler to post his men along the ridge under cover of the trees and
underbrush, while I did the same further to the left, where men from
the 4th platoon were coming up the slope in groups of two and three as
they got through the wire.

I had not gone twenty paces when Sgt. Reid came running after me and
said “Lieut. Schuyler’s been hit, Captain.” I answered mechanically
“All right; bring him behind the ridge, take charge of the platoon and
post the men as they come up.”

Rifle bullets were beginning to snap overhead, coming apparently from
the woods across the field, which was held in some force by the enemy,
as we soon realized. Our only chance of meeting a counter-attack was to
build up a firing line to sweep the plateau in front, and as fast as
men from the 4th platoon came up I posted them to command our front and
left flank.

Slim Price, in a German’s black fur coat that came about to his hips,
came stalking up the hill with his Chauchat, and disappeared over the
crest, subsiding in a little clump of bushes out on the left of the
plateau. He was telling the world that he was a “fighting ---- of a
----.” A moment later I heard the rattle of his gun as he spotted a
Heinie machine gun squad advancing down the gully on our left. I guess
Slim was right, at that.

The C. O., 4th Plt., came up by this time. He was badly shaken, but
I put him in charge of the left flank until the 2nd platoon should
arrive, and went back to the right.

They had brought Lt. Schuyler a little way down the slope, and laid
him down until a stretcher came up. A shell had burst right beside
him, between him and Reid. He was still breathing, but very heavily,
and was quite unconscious; his eyes were nearly closed. I bound up his
head as best I could with his first aid packet, but my heart sank--the
concussion had been near the base of the skull. Oddly enough, he was
not at all disfigured; but it had been a terrible blow, and only his
magnificent vitality was keeping him breathing. That was a bitter
moment, with my best officer and best friend in the outfit dying, the
company shattered; and not a German had I seen.

Sgt. Levy came up with a couple of stretchers and the news that both
the Medical Detachment men attached to the company were killed. Hoping
against hope I had him put Roy on the first stretcher, and they bore
him away to the rear, though the shells were still bursting behind us.
It was no use; that gallant spirit breathed its last before they had
gone a kilometer. The bearers wanted to take him on to the surgeon
anyhow, but there were many others desperately wounded, and stretchers
were pitifully few.

In the meantime I had sent out patrols to the flanks to try and get in
touch with D Co. and the 312th Inf. A patrol of 6 men from D Co. came
in on our right, but they were separated from their outfit and didn’t
know what had happened. Brisk machine gun firing to our right rear made
us fear things were not going well there.

On our left, a party of the Boche under an officer had advanced down
the ravine toward the end of our ridge, and had driven in our advanced
riflemen; but had been checked, largely by the doughty Price from his
clump of bushes. Three runners sent to the left to find the 2nd platoon
did not return, and I feared the latter had lost its direction and was
in trouble.

During a temporary lull, I strolled out to the left, map in hand, and
crossing the ravine started up the next ridge to find them. About a
hundred yards ahead I caught a glimpse of a man walking through the
trees, and thought I recognized one of our runners. I shouted “Hey.”
He turned around. I asked “What platoon are you in?” Then I noticed
how nicely his helmet came down around his neck. He unlimbered a rifle
that looked about eight feet long, and cracked a bullet past my ear. I
reached for my .45, remembered my last target score with that weapon,
and promptly betook myself off to our own ridge.

There I took a dead man’s rifle and ammunition, and called for
volunteers to go on a combat patrol to find the 2nd platoon. We needed
them badly, for if the enemy got in on our left flank they could
enfilade our ridge and shoot us down at pleasure.

I took Martocci and four other men--their names I can’t recall, though
their faces stand out sharply in my memory. We advanced up the ridge
on our left in skirmishing order. My Boche friend was waiting for us,
and before we had gone fifty yards he cracked down on us from the woods
above. We answered, firing by ear at the sound of his rifle. It was
blind work; we couldn’t see fifty yards through the woods.

We worked up to the top of the ridge, and then along it toward the
west. Two of the patrol were missing; lost or killed, I never knew
which. We pushed on cautiously, a few yards at a time, stopping to look
and listen. Now and again the enemy would spot us, and his bullets
would snap past us viciously. The German rifle has a high, whip-like
crack, easily distinguishable from that of our Enfield or Springfield;
but the noise of the bullet passing by is much the same.

Suddenly I felt a sharp blow on my shoulder; one of the gentlemen had
pinked me neatly. Down the ridge the bushes rustled; all four of us let
drive at the sound. There was a shrill scream, and then silence. One of
us had found a mark.

This was all very interesting, but my business was to find that 2nd
platoon. My mind was working away industriously at that problem, with
a peculiar detachment. I only remember feeling vaguely annoyed at our
patrol’s unpleasant situation, and did my share of the shooting almost
mechanically.

Of course, as we found out later, the 312th Inf. outpost made no
advance at all that morning, and our patrol had pushed in behind the
German line of outguards; to our mutual bewilderment and disgust. The
Boche began to fall back through the woods, not stealthily as we were
moving, but clumping and crashing along, and shouting to one another to
know what in donner und blitzen was up.

We were now well beyond the left of our own regimental sector, and a
long half kilo from the company. The withdrawing outguards of the enemy
were passing all around us. For twenty minutes we played a desperate
game of blind man’s buff with them. Occasionally we would catch a
glimpse of a gray form or a green helmet through the trees, and our
little messengers of death would speed him on his way. Then bullets
would sing over our heads from all directions, and we would hug the
ground until we could push on again, to repeat the performance from
another position.

Finally I gave up hope of finding the 2nd platoon, and got out my
compass to steer our course back to B Co. Cautiously we stole through
the woods to the southeast. We could still hear the Boche trampling the
bushes all around us.

Suddenly from the bushes ahead came a challenge, in the mechanical,
drill-book German that means bullets are coming. We hit the dirt, just
as a brisk rapid fire opened on us, cutting the twigs overhead. We
let drive into the bushes in front, firing low. As I slipped a fresh
clip into my magazine, I glanced at Martocci, his olive cheek white
with excitement, but firing quite steadily and coolly from a kneeling
position.

I signalled “Cease firing.” All was still, except for a trampling
receding off to the right. Warily we circled round the bushes, and came
upon a road--one of those straight German roads, with a 2-inch pipe
line running along the side.

One of the men crossed, while the rest stood ready to cover him. I
crossed next, with Martocci. As I glanced down the road, I saw two
Germans lying at the side of it, about ten yards away. Nice looking,
fair-haired lads they were. One of them just then stretched out his
hand towards his rifle, which lay beside him. It may have been only a
convulsive movement, but we weren’t taking chances. I put a bullet into
him, squeezing the trigger carefully. He jumped and rolled out into the
middle of the road, where he lay still enough. Then I did the same for
the other, mechanically, with a cold disgust at the whole business. My
mind seemed to stand aloof and watch the proceeding for a moment; then
it went on thinking, planning, weighing carefully our next move.

After this, the enemy seemed to steer rather clear of us, though we
passed near several other groups. One fellow was shouting for “Emil;”
and I reflected grimly that Emil’s military career was probably
blighted, anyhow. So we came at last to the foot of the ridge again,
and about 200 meters along the road at its foot we found our left
flank post. And there at last we found the 2nd platoon--Lt. Dunn, Sgt.
Sweeney and four men. The rest were lying back in the field where the
barrage had struck them, or were on that long, long trip back to the
first aid post.

At this time--about 8 A. M.--a German plane appeared, coming at us with
a rush, low over the treetops, almost head on. We could see the aviator
looking over the side of the car. He spotted someone moving, and flew
low along our line, firing his machine gun, but more as a signal than
at us particularly, I think. We cracked away at him, but had no luck.
With superb nerve he flew slowly the length of our line, returned,
and then banked lazily and disappeared toward his own lines. Ten
minutes later shells were bursting about us with devilish precision,
and machine gun squads pushed up on either flank, until stopped by
our Chauchats. They were still somewhat leery of us, though, possibly
suspecting a trap, and the attack was not pressed home. The German
snipers in the woods across the little plateau in front were reinforced
by machine guns, and both sides greeted every shaking bush or exposed
head with a vicious crackle of bullets.

Corporal Apicelli’s squad, lying out in the advanced posts where they
had been stationed by Schuyler and Reid, were especially exposed,
Apicelli and two other men being killed during the morning. At least
one of the enemy was using dumdum bullets, as I saw one of our men
shot in the hip, and where the bullet came out you could have put your
fist in the hole.

Levy and Winemiller were set to cutting two lanes in the wire behind
us, so that we would not be hopelessly in a cul-de-sac.

At about 9 A. M. Lt. Wolcott of D Co. appeared with his platoon,
reduced to some 20 men. He was out of touch with the rest of his
company, and did not know how it had fared. He was posted on our right
flank, and sent out a patrol to get in contact with D Co.

The firing died down to incessant sniping, and I set about completing
my situation report for the Major, having given up hope for the present
of establishing contact on the flanks. As I was finishing, Lt. Drake
came up with a squad of the battalion scouts, among them the honest
face of our own Sgt. DeGrote. I explained the situation, and gave him
the report to take back. I shall never forget “Ducky’s” eyes, sick with
seeing horrors, as he turned to go.

As he disappeared, a tall figure came striding along from the
right--Capt. Fleischmann, with dark circles under his eyes, blackened
and stained from head to foot with blood and powder. We greeted each
other as risen from the dead, and compared notes. He had run into the
enemy in force strongly established in concrete pillboxes and machine
gun posts; and while scattered groups of his company had won through to
the company objective, they were unable to hold it without machine guns
against the enemy’s enfilading fire. The remnant had retired to their
old line of outguards, after suffering heavy losses.

Since I still thought the 312th Inf. might be far out to our left
front, and depending on us to cover their ultimate withdrawal, we
decided that B Co. should hold on where we were, while D Co. would
string scattered Cossack posts along their old line until relief or
further orders came up.

The morning wore on; still no news from our left flank. I kept on the
move up and down the line, assuming a confidence that I did not feel;
for of course if the enemy advanced in any force we were done for.
Still we had our orders, and there was nothing for it but to put up the
best scrap we could.

Some things were funny, even then. I remember the company barber, that
sterling son of Italy, after a Boche sniper put a bullet past each
ear. He wriggled back from his unpleasant position on the crest of the
ridge, and retaliated by holding up his rifle at arm’s length over his
head, pointed northeast, and executing rapid fire, pulling the trigger
with his thumb, while he regarded my approach with the complacence
of conscious ingenuity. I think the Boche must have laughed too; for
the branches of a tree across the field began to shake, and a bullet
brought a gray body tumbling down from branch to branch.

We had some food--hard bread, corned willy and goldfish--but very
little water. It was pitiful to see the wounded, who wouldn’t take
any from the others, because they were going back when the stretcher
bearers got around to them. Levy and his detail worked like Trojans,
but it was a long trip, and every time they returned there was a fresh
batch of wounded to be carried.

There was one man--I wish I could remember his name, but though every
event stands out clearly in my mind, I cannot remember the names
connected with them. He was sitting with his back against a tree,
wounded by a shell in the legs and stomach. When I asked him if I
could do anything for him, he said “If I could have a little water.”
I gave him my canteen, which had a couple of swallows left in it. He
shook it, and grinned and shook his head. “Not your last, Cap’n.” I
told him that Levy had just brought up a can, and hurried off to the
left, where the firing was getting heavy. When I passed that way again,
the man was dead. And the water was still in my canteen, and he had
screwed the stopper back on; so he must have thought I was lying about
Levy.

Three o’clock came, and shortly after a platoon from A Co. under Lt.
Bigler came up to reinforce us. They were posted on our left flank to
hold the ravine up which the enemy had been trying to advance and flank
our position. I couldn’t understand why the Germans in front of D Co.
had not come in on our right flank yet.

At 3:30 a patrol of two officers and six men came up the road on the
left, and as they drew near I recognized Capt. Gray, of the 312th Inf.,
who I knew commanded their outpost line. His news was not encouraging.
His company had received no orders to advance; they were still on their
old line to our left rear. We arranged that he should run a line of
Cossack posts along the road up to join us, so that we would have at
least a continuous line of outguards on the brigade front. On the way
over the ridge from his right flank post, his patrol had had several
skirmishes with German outposts or patrols; so the enemy was apparently
venturing back to the positions where our patrol had flushed them
earlier in the day.

Just after he left--about 5.30--Lt. Col. Budd came up with several men.
I was certainly glad to see him, and even more glad to see Levy with
a can of water, which he doled out, a swallow to each man. Col. Budd
looked over the situation, and decided that we should hold the ridge
until nightfall, when we would be relieved. While he was there, three
German snipers managed to get into a rifle pit on the plateau about a
hundred yards in front of us, and made things very hot on the right
flank. Sgt. Lehy took our last two rifle grenades, and dropped the
second one plumb into the pit, which discouraged those three for the
day.

Col. Budd departed to arrange for sending up water, ammunition and the
relief.

At 5:30 the enemy’s artillery started in on us again, sweeping the top
of the ridge with shell and shrapnel, and dropping time shells into
the ravine behind it. For twenty minutes he poured in a heavy barrage,
while we hugged the ground and gripped our rifles. If this meant a
counter-attack in force we were up against it, because our ammunition
was running low; but if we could beat them off once more we might hold
out until night brought the relief.

But this time the enemy was starting the real thing. He knew the ground
like a book, of course; and I must say that his attack was ably planned
and bravely executed. While his artillery shelled us, machine guns
worked around behind both our flanks. At 5:50 men from D Co’s outguards
came running in and reported that the enemy had advanced in force,
broken their skeleton line, and was coming in on our right flank with
machine guns. Even while they spoke, the “Tap-tap-tap” of the machine
gun broke out on the right to confirm them, and our Chauchats spat back
in answer.

In those woods, it was merely a question of who could throw enough lead
to keep the other fellow’s head down; and at this game our Chauchats
had the chance of the proverbial snowball. With Sgts. Reid, Lehy, Fahey
and Levy, the right flank, which had been disorganized and driven in
with the D Co. outposts, was re-formed, and a firing line built up at
right angles to our front to face our new foes. The enemy in front was
pouring in a hot fire; we could not encircle the enemy machine guns to
the right because of that belt of wire behind us. Meanwhile those same
machine guns were enfilading our main line along the ridge.

Our only chance was a frontal attack on them. First we tried a
series of rushes. I realized then exactly what was meant by “fire
superiority,” and the enemy certainly had it. One Chauchat ran out of
ammunition. The other was in Cocker’s hands, and he used it well until
it jammed. He worked at it desperately for several minutes, as he
advanced with the line; then he threw it up against a tree in disgust,
crying bitterly “That’s a hell of a thing to give a man to fight with.”
From then on we had only our rifle fire against their leaden hailstorm.
Neither side could aim their shots, but they were shooting twenty
bullets to our one, and our hastily formed line was driven back.

As they retired, Sgt. Fahey and I, with two other men, tried to sneak
up along the top of the ridge and get close enough to bomb one of
the machine guns. We were lucky at first, the enemy being busy with
his bullets further down the slope. We saw four Germans, carrying
ammunition ahead of us, but held our fire, hoping they would lead on
to their gun. Fahey slipped me a bomb, and I pulled the pin, ready
to throw. Just then a new devil’s tattoo broke out about fifty yards
away to our left, and the bullets came showering about our ears. They
must have caught sight of us through some opening in the trees, and
were probably waiting for just such an attempt. One of our patrol was
riddled through the stomach and back, and started crawling back on one
hand and his knees, with strange, shrill moans like a wounded animal.
The other was killed instantly. Fahey and I looked in each other’s eyes
for a startled moment; each, I think, wondering why the other was not
killed. A bullet went through the tube of my gas mask, as I noticed
later. Fahey lifted his eyebrows and pointed at the new gun. I nodded,
and we started for it. But the first gun’s crew heard the cries of
the wounded man, and traversed back and forth by us. Fahey staggered,
shot through the chest. We could not see to throw a bomb, and it would
probably hit a branch and light on us anyhow. Our slender chance
vanished, and we slipped back through the trees.

As we returned, I saw our left flank retiring in some disorder, further
confusing our hard pressed right. The enemy had driven back the
post holding the head of the ravine on our left, and we were in the
desperate position of being enfiladed from both flanks. Our losses were
heavy, and ammunition was very low.

I glanced at my watch--only 6:20. No chance for the Lt. Col. to have
gotten a counter-attack under way. The position had become untenable,
and at any moment might develop into a complete cul-de-sac. It was time
to pull out.

I gave the order to withdraw by squads and fall back to the old outpost
line; 4th platoon to go first, covered by the 1st and 3rd; then the 4th
platoon to cover our withdrawal from the other side of the wire.

As the first squad from the 4th platoon started through the wire, a
machine gun opened on the wire and the road before it, killing two
and driving the rest back. The platoon leader reported that it was
impossible to get across.

To remain, however, meant almost certain death for all, with very
little chance of inflicting compensating losses on the enemy. So as a
last resort I took the 1st platoon, and during a momentary lull in the
firing we made a rush for it in two or three groups at different places.

The wire clawed and tore at us as though it were alive. My group
scrambled through, somehow, anyhow, marvelling that the bullets did not
come. When half way through I noticed that I was still mechanically
holding Fahey’s bomb, with the pin out. I went a bit carefully after
that, so was the last one through. As I ripped my puttee free from the
last strand of wire, the machine guns started up again, and I hugged
the dirt while bullets cracked viciously overhead. The grass and green
leaves felt cool and smelled fresh and green, and a little green bug
went scrambling along a creeper, two inches from my nose.

Presently another lull came, and I proceeded to worm my way through the
underbrush, looking for my half platoon. Not a sign of them. They had
gotten clear of the last burst of fire, and then made a break for it.

The machine guns were still firing intermittently, but I heard no reply
from our rifles, and hoped that the others had followed us through the
wire. Most of them had, as I found out later.

Then came the hardest moment of the war for me. A group of about 20 men
had remained on the hill, apparently despairing of crossing the wire
alive. An officer was with them, and upon him lies the responsibility
of what happened. The men themselves had done brave service before that
time. But, as I understand by permission if not under orders, they
raised the cry of “Kamerad.”

When I realized that this had really happened, I tried desperately to
cross the wire to them again. But I was in too big a hurry, and made
too much noise. The machine guns spotted me promptly, and streams of
bullets made the sparks fly from the wire six feet ahead of me. Before
I could work around to another place, I heard the sound of their
withdrawal toward the German lines, and knew I was too late.

My next job was to get back to the old outpost line and take charge
there. The enemy machine gunners had penetrated well to our rear, and
I had to go very cautiously, hearing their voices all around. They
were withdrawing, however, and in ten minutes I found out why. Their
artillery completed the day’s work by shelling the ravine and vicinity
in their usual methodical manner. Not to be outdone, our own artillery
did the same. This was the last straw; I was too dead tired to dodge
American shells as well as German. So I crawled under a bush and waited
for whatever was on the cards. In two minutes I dozed off, with the
shells banging all around.

I must have slept for about twenty minutes. Waking with a start, I
found dusk setting in. I took off my tattered slicker and wound it
around my tin hat, to keep the twigs from playing an anvil chorus on
it. The shelling had stopped. My short rest had revived some interest
in life, and I slowly retraced our advance of that morning. I didn’t
think the enemy had left any outposts behind, but in any case was too
tired to care, and went clumping along like any Heine. I arrived at our
old outpost line, which we had held long, long ago, it seemed. It was
absolutely deserted. I went along the path, past D Co.’s headquarters,
and noticed that a shell had landed there and set off those pyrotechnic
signals which had been quite fireproof two days before.

Apparently the war had been called off around here. I pottered about
for quite a bit, but could find no one. Somehow my principal feeling
was an immense relief that for the present I had no responsibility, no
one to look out for but myself. Presently, however, it was evident that
as I had not even a runner, I had to go back to Bn. Hdq. myself and
report on the situation.

Wearily I plodded off, back over Dead Man’s Hill. It was quite dark,
about 11 P. M., and I was making very slow time. As I drew near the
main line of resistance, I came upon two D Co. men, lying where they
had been hit by a shell. One was dead; the other had a leg shot off.
He said he had been lying there for about three hours. His comrade had
helped him tie up his leg before he died. I left my blouse over him,
as it was chilly, and went on to the firing trench, which had wire in
front of it by this time. I had some trouble convincing the occupants
of my identity. In truth, with no blouse, my ragged slicker draped
about my helmet, the shoulder of my shirt all torn and bloody, and my
breeches and puttees in tatters, I didn’t look much like an officer,
and not at all like a gentleman.

I stumbled down the ramp into Bn. Hdqrs., where I found Maj. Odom,
Foulkes, Strawbridge and Lt. Col. Budd, to whom I reported. Capts.
Markewick and Laing, of “I” and “L” Cos., were also there. Thinking the
position in front was strongly held by the enemy, the idea was to send
these companies up at dawn behind a rolling barrage to re-establish
the outpost line. I was glad to tell them that this was unnecessary,
and they later strolled on up in single file and occupied our old line
without a single casualty.

Major Odom in turn told me that Lt. Dunn with most of the 1st and 2nd
platoons had already come in, and had been sent to the kitchen for
chow. Louis Foulkes gave me some water and a couple of doughnuts, which
I was nearly too sleepy to eat.

I had to report to Regimental Hdq. then, and rehash the day’s
operations; but all I remember is that Capt. Brennan gave me some grape
jam and bread and water, and the regimental surgeon swabbed my shoulder
with iodine. I have some hazy recollection of the Colonel himself
pulling a blanket over me, though this may not be correct.

Late next morning I woke up to be greeted by Strawbridge with the
news that our travel orders had come, and we--he, Capt. Brennan, and
myself--were directed to be at Langres--wherever that was--by October
1st.

As soon as possible I rejoined the company, which had been stationed at
Brigade Reserve with the remnants of D Co. We had about 50 men left,
not counting 20 who were on various special details. Sgt. Wilson and
the cooks fed us like lords, and we made up for the past week. Big
shells landed around occasionally, but it was a Philadelphia Sunday
compared to what we had just left.

The company was reorganized as a platoon, with Lt. Dunn in command and
Reid as top sergeant. We slept in pillboxes or gun emplacements, or
anywhere else where there was a bit of shelter.

The next day I said goodby to the company for six weeks, as I thought.
There were rumors that the Bulgarians were nearly done, and the
Austrians weakening; but I don’t think that anyone dreamed that the
armistice was only six weeks off. I stopped off one night with Sgt.
Stiles to write up the company records, and finally boarded a motor
truck for Toul.

From this point the history is taken up by Lt. Gardenier, Sgt. Stiles,
Sgt. Peter and Sgt. Tracy White.



CHAPTER VII

MEUSE-ARGONNE


Sept. 28th: Today the company commander left the company, leaving
same in charge of Lt. Dunn, the only officer left. He reorganized
the company--two platoons of about 40 men each was our strength. We
remained in reserve in the Bois des Grandes positions until the night
of October 4th. It was during this period that rumors of the enemy
countries, Bulgaria, Turkey and Austria having quit reached us, causing
a great deal of discussion and doing much to keep the morale at its
highest. Sergeant Reid left for Officers’ Training School.

Oct. 4th: “We are going out for a rest”--These words were heard all
through the company. Shortly before dark we left our position and
marched to the road that led through Limey and remained there until
midnight. We then started on what was one of the most tiresome hikes
we ever experienced, and finally, at 5:30 A. M., reached the forest
de la Reine. A fact that is worthy of mention and probably refreshes
the reader’s mind of incidents of the night was what seemed to be a
direct hit on an ammunition dump to the right. The sky was brilliantly
illuminated and was the cause of numerous rumors and suggestions as
to the reason of the glare. We remained here until about 4:00 P. M.
October 6th, and then started off for what we fondly believed was a
rest. Subsequent events proved that our hopes were not to be fulfilled.
It was here that Lt. Luhn joined the company. After hiking until
midnight, most of the time through rain, we reached Mecrin and were so
tired that regardless of the weather we threw ourselves on the ground
and without further aid went to sleep until the following morning. Sgt.
Perry rejoined the company at this place. At 11:30 A. M., we started
again on a hike to Pierrefitte, arriving at 10 P. M., having covered
about 24 kilos. It was again our fate to have mother earth for a bed
this night.

From here we hiked a short distance to Nicey, where we took busses for
a 40 kilo trip to Beauchamp Ferme in the Forest de Argonne, arriving
about 10 P. M. in what seemed to be the darkest spot on earth. As usual
it was raining, and this added greatly to our discomfort. There were
only sufficient barracks for one company, the rest of the outfit had
to sleep in their shelter tents, pitched in spots that were not very
appealing when revealed at dawn. Lt. Dunn having been ill for some time
left us here and Lt. Lahey took command of the company, having been
transferred from Company “I.” Sgt. Perry having been made 1st Sergeant
upon his return to the company aided materially in reorganizing the
company. We had a few days of much needed rest here and also consumed
quantities of wood in making bonfires that dried us out and made life a
little more cheerful.

At 2:00 A. M. October 10th we aroused from our slumbers with orders to
roll packs and be ready to leave at once. This was another example of
how things are done in the army. Having spent several hours in rolling
packs and getting breakfast, it was 7:30 A. M. before we started out.
Our hikes of several days previous to arrival at this camp had taken
us through many ruined villages and parts of the country recently
evacuated by the enemy. Today’s hike covered 22 kilos and brought us
into the heart of the Argonne, the same ground having been bitterly
contested by opposing armies only a week previous. It was here that
we were able to form a definite idea of how the Germans lived behind
the lines. Every hillside was covered with dugouts made of concrete
and heavily timbered and furnished in a style that had been unknown
to us during the past four months. In the Limey Sector we found some
German camps that were fitted up in grand style, but these could not
be compared with the ones mentioned above. The officers’ quarters were
equipped with shower baths and in one place a large swimming pool.
Everything seemed to denote that the Germans intended to stay there for
all time. The signs on the trees and every crossroad led one to believe
that the Germans were a nation of sign painters. Arriving at our
destination after hiking about 23 kilos we appreciated an opportunity
to rest and lost no time in pitching tents and getting a much needed
sleep.

The following day we marched about 4 kilos and took up a position in
the Bois de Chatel. It was here, on the eve of October 12th, that our
much battered company of approximately 80 men, all veterans of the
St. Mihiel, received 104 replacements from the 86th Division. Some of
these men had never fired a rifle and were not familiar with the use
of the gas mask. The company was again reorganized. The four platoons
were placed in charge of Sergeants Newell, Lehy, White and Weber,
respectively; to these men and our two officers, Lts. Lahey and Luhn,
is due the credit of training these new and inexperienced men so that
when they were called upon they made a creditable showing. Too much
cannot be said about the way these men took care of what seemed to be
almost a hopeless task.

October 15th again brought us under shell fire. About 8:00 P. M. we
left our positions and marched through heavy rains to relieve a unit
of the 308th Infantry, west of La Folie Ferme. We took up our position
about 3:00 A. M. and despite the fact that we were wet through, made
ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, only to be
awakened at 5:30 A. M. to prepare to advance at once. While preparing,
Jerry saluted us with a barrage that, while it lasted, was very
annoying and upset the new men exceedingly, this being the first time
they had ever been under shell fire. This lasted only for a few minutes
and after their baptism they all acted like seasoned veterans. This
relief having been made during the darkness of the night, the units
encountered great difficulty in keeping the men together. There was
considerable mixup on the road that led to Chevieres; three columns of
troops and a transport train trying to pass at one time. This caused
a great deal of confusion and the result was that many of the new
men became separated from the company and did not rejoin us until the
following morning. On October 17th Sergeants Levy and Wilson left for
Officers’ Training School. This morning we lost Sergeant Lehy; he was
killed just one hour before he was ordered to leave for Officers’
Training School.

Oct. 18th: At 10:00 P. M. we took up a position in the front line to
the west of Chevieres, relieving our 2nd Battalion. At 3:00 A. M. we
stepped off in a line of combat groups in support of “C” company, and
advanced through heavy artillery and machine gun fire. We reached our
objective at daybreak and held same through the day under continual
fire from the enemy snipers and machine guns. Enemy planes endeavored
to locate our position and flew so low that the aviators were easily
seen. Their object no doubt was to signal their artillery the location
of our position, but judging from the heavy barrage that fell directly
in back of us, their efforts were not crowned with success. We suffered
quite a few casualties during this attack, among whom was Sgt. Welch,
who had been recommended for a D. S. C. for bravery at St. Mihiel.
He was wounded in seven different places by machine gun bullets, but
refused to be evacuated until the other wounded men had been taken
care of. Owing to our advanced position, and both the units on our
flanks having failed to obtain their objectives, we were subject to
such a heavy fire that it was impossible to evacuate our wounded until
dark. Toward evening the enemy closed in on both flanks, and on our
front, making our position untenable, and under cover of darkness
drew close enough to drop hand grenades among our fox holes. This
caused our officers to call for volunteers to carry a message to the
Battalion Commander. After several runners had failed to get through,
Sgt. White had volunteered to carry the message and reached Battalion
Headquarters P. C. in safety and returned with instructions to have the
company withdraw. He was awarded a D. S. C. for this brave act. His
entire route was continually subject to heavy artillery and machine
gun fire. By performing this deed he undoubtedly saved many lives and
enabled the company to make an orderly retreat to the position they
left that morning. He also assisted in directing the evacuation of the
wounded; every man was removed without further casualties. During the
activities the enemy continually sent up rockets and flares so that our
movements could only be made during short minute periods of darkness.
Too much credit cannot be given to both Lt. Lahey and Lt. Luhn. Their
bravery and unselfish action in face of the enemy did much to keep up
the morale of the men. We fell back to the position we had left that
morning, and remained until 6:00 A. M. Then we fell back to railroad
track running from Chevieres to Grand Pre, where we remained about
four hours and then advanced again and took up our position along the
River Aire. Here we remained for nine days and nights under continuous
shell fire. While we suffered no casualties at this place from the
enemy fire, several of our men were evacuated with influenza. One great
difficulty that we experienced here was that of obtaining rations, as
it was impossible to bring them up during the day, and at night Jerry
threw over such a heavy shell fire that made the work of the ration
parties extremely hazardous.

On Saturday evening, October 26th, we were relieved by the 310th
Infantry and took up a position in Brigade Reserve in the Bois de
Negremont. This day Lt. Luhn was transferred to “D” Company, and we
were again left with only one officer. Having lost a great many men,
it was necessary to reorganize the company again. There were only
sufficient men left to form two platoons. This position was subject to
intermittent shell fire which caused occasional casualties.

The night of October 29th-30th will be one that will be long remembered
by those men who were present with us. The enemy had been shelling us
the entire evening without causing any casualties. It was about 1:30 A.
M. a shell, the last one he fired that night, struck a tree directly
over our camp and exploded. It killed or wounded 14 men, and Lt. Lahey
was also severely wounded. Lt. Lahey’s bravery at this critical period
was such that his men never cease praising him. While wounded so
seriously that he died two days later, he directed the evacuation of
all the other wounded men and gave instructions to the non-commissioned
officers left with the company, before he permitted himself to be
evacuated. Sgt. Newell, then acting 1st Sergeant, was killed instantly
by this same shell. Sgt. White was now in command of the company and
did excellent work keeping the company organized until the arrival of
Lt. Gardenier. The following day, October 30th, the enemy resumed their
heavy shelling and we suffered several more casualties in killed and
wounded. During our stay in the Bois de Negremont we were fortunate
enough to get a bath by walking five miles for it, and a change of
underwear, but seldom it was indeed that we received more than one meal
a day, so continuous was the enemy shell fire.

Oct. 29th: The position of the company was still in the Bois de
Negremont, in Brigade Reserve. Pvt. Koehler was killed by shell fire
during the day. Toward evening the shelling let up and was fitful and
erratic from that time on. Lt. Gardenier arrived in the evening and
took command of the company which was at the time in charge of Sgt.
White.

Oct. 30th: The morning was spent in reorganizing the company and
issuing equipment preparatory to the drive which was to start the
following day. The company was divided into two platoons, the first
under Corporal Ahearn, and the second under Corporal Thomas White; with
Sgt. White second in command of the company. Pvt. Koehler was buried
at La Noua le Coq, near the chateau. There was considerable shelling
during the afternoon, but there were no casualties, and the appearance
of a big consignment of rations in the evening did much to hearten the
men. Enemy shell fire had interfered with the rations considerably up
to this time, as there was but one route the ration parties could take
and it seemed to be quite familiar to the Boche artillerymen.

Combat packs were made at night and the company was ready to move early
in the morning as the 2nd and 3rd Battalions were to attack at dawn. In
the afternoon a pirate 75 was moved up behind our position and engaged
in an artillery duel with a Boche battery until late at night. The only
result being a fairly continuous shelling of our area.

Nov. 1st: At 2:30 A. M. the barrage preparatory to the launching of
the second phase of the Meuse-Argonne opened. The sky behind us was
a flickering, gleaming red. The roar was as of myriad drums rolling
almost in unison, and the air overhead seemed almost alive with
whistling visiting cards to the departing Jerry. The effect of this on
the men who had heard little but shells coming in their direction was
tremendous. The men walked about the hills whistling and singing and
the erstwhile quiet forest was alive with conjectures as to what was
happening when the winged death that was flying overhead arrived at its
destination. After the firing had ceased there was extreme quietness
and there was no activity during the night.

Nov. 2nd: The company was held in readiness throughout the day, and
after mess in the evening packs were slung and the Battalion moved
out. It began to rain just at the start, and the path we followed in
the pitch black forest was steep and slippery. We progressed slowly
over the plain between la Noua le Coq and the Aire River and entered
the shell-torn town of Grand Pre. Passing through the ruins along the
Kron Printz Strasse, we went north to the road fork between Grand Pre
and Ferme des Loges. Here the company was detached from the Battalion,
Lt. Conroy was placed in command and we waited for trucks to enable us
to overtake the now flying enemy. Trucks were boarded about 11:00 P.
M. and we bumped over the shell-torn road in the general direction of
Germany, until our way was blocked by a mine hole not yet repaired. We
debussed and hiked to Briquenay, where we found the 312th Infantry had
the situation in hand and with the exception of about twenty men who
formed an ammunition detail for the 309th Machine Gun Battalion, we
turned into some German billets about 2:30 A. M. The infantry advance
up to this time had been so swift that the artillery had been unable to
catch up to us, having set up their guns three times without firing a
shot.

Nov. 3rd: During the day the 2nd Battalion passed through Briquenay
and we were held there. Most of the time was spent in improvising
meals and exploring the debris left by the enemy in his hasty flight.
Toward evening about 200 American airplanes in combat formation flew
over going north. Lt. Conroy returned to Battalion Headquarters.
About 5:00 P. M. the rest of the Battalion moved out and through a
misunderstanding the company was left behind. When our plight was
discovered we set out for Germond, and after passing a Battalion of
the 308th Infantry on the road arrived just in time to get the last
available billets. Germond at that time held the four Regimental P.
C.’s of our division, one of the 77th and somewhere in the neighborhood
of 2,000 troops.

Nov. 4th: At 5:00 A. M. we started for Authe, after the heartrending
procedure of passing a battalion of the 308th Infantry lined up for a
hot meal. We went through Authe to Brieulles under fairly heavy shell
fire where the road had been blown up, six mines having been placed
at a bridge and we were forced to make a long detour through a swamp.
From there we proceeded to Les Petites Armoises as the advanced guard
of the Brigade. It was a gruelling hike and considering the condition
of the men, the spirit shown was remarkable, and we halted south of the
town only four men less than we had left Germond with in the morning.
Artillery was quite active there and we witnessed some wonderful work
by German batteries and an airplane in destroying a group of buildings
to the west of us.

On entering the town we were greeted by delighted civilians who had
been under German rule for four years and who gave us some atrocious
black bread covered with lard which almost tasted good. They also
warned us that the enemy had a machine gun nest to the north of the
village.

After deploying we started up the hill, and soon as scouts appeared
above the crest machine guns opened up on them. In the subsequent
reconnaissance Privates Sullivan and Burchell were killed by machine
gun fire. One gun was located about 300 meters in front of us and in
an effort to flank its position the right of the company was deployed
along the crest of the hill, and was in position to rush it, but it was
cut off by fire from the flank. After three attempts Sgt. White brought
the left flank to a similar position only to have the advance halted
by another machine gun. As it seemed impossible to advance without
auxiliary weapons the company was withdrawn and dug in half way down
the hill. “D” company established contact on our left but there was
nothing on our right but German machine guns. Corporal Miller led a
patrol in an effort to put the guns out of action, but was unsuccessful
because of the covering fire from other guns and the openness of the
country. About 3:00 P. M. two airplanes arrived and one by his near
presence causing a Boche plane to retire, dropped a message which
said “There are Boche machine guns in a shell hole 200 meters to your
front.” This information was somewhat superfluous, but the affair was
interesting. The other plane, endeavoring to locate Company “D” flew
too low and landed on a hill about 500 yards in front of our line.
The aviator unhurt got out of the machine and in spite of the hails
of our outpost he headed for Germany and was seen no more. The plane
was dragged by the enemy to a point north of Tannay and demolished.
About 5:00 P. M. Boche artillery opened up and played a steady stream
of fire on the town, and by no means neglected our position. A strong
point made up of men from Company “C” was scarcely located in their
new position when a shell severely wounded two of their men. The loss
of our First Aid Man who was killed by a shell early in the evening
greatly handicapped the evacuation of the wounded.

From 5:00 P. M. to 1:00 A. M. there was a perfect hail of shells and
machine gun bullets while enemy airplanes dropped bombs on the town
itself. Corporal Peter did excellent work during this time keeping the
outposts organized. Casualties--killed 5, wounded 9.

Nov. 5th: About 3:30 A. M. the enemy machine guns pulled out and at
5:00 A. M. the company retired to les Petites Armoises for breakfast
and then went on to Tannay. After reconnaissance by the Battalion a
patrol of 30 men was called for to establish a strong point in a patch
of woods northwest of the town. An effort was also to be made to obtain
liaison with units on our right. The first platoon was called upon and
though practically exhausted they responded promptly and went up to
take their position. Lt. Gardenier with three runners went on until
contact was established with the 165th Infantry just north of Sy.
Sgt. Ahearn meanwhile, finding no opposition in the woods designated,
pushed his jaded men to the edge of the Bois de Mont Diens, about two
kilometers further on and began to exchange courtesies with a lonely
machine gunner. To this detachment belongs the distinction of being the
unit of the 78th Division nearest Germany when the relief came.

When the 166th Infantry had leapfrogged us at 3:30 P. M., the company
pulled back into Tannay at 4:15 P. M. just in time to begin hiking
back. It was raining again, and it was a dismal hike to Les Petites
Armoises where no billets were available, and the only alternative
was Brieulles, 7 kilometers further on. Over a road pitted with shell
holes, filled with troops, transport and artillery headed in the
opposite direction, the company plodded on, arriving at Brieulles about
midnight. A conservative estimate of the distance covered by the first
platoon that day is thirty kilometers and all under the most trying
conditions. On reaching Brieulles we shared a church with “C” company
and while some sat up and others stood crowded into corners, everybody
slept. We left Brieulles at 5:00 A. M. and hiked to Authe where, Nov.
6th, a hot breakfast put new life in the company, which was fortunate,
because though we did not know it at the start, there were twenty-two
gruelling kilometers in front of us. After hiking continuously until
5:30 P. M. we reached La Folie Ferme and stayed the night in these
familiar haunts.

Nov. 7th: Packs were slung and we were on the move early in the morning
and after hiking until 4:00 P. M. we were presented with a soaked,
battered section of the Argonne not far from Appremont, and told to
make ourselves comfortable. We were doing the best we could when there
was an unholy din and a fireworks display, owing to a signal corps
outfit hearing “Officially” that the war was over. We mistook it for a
German air raid, however, so we did not derive much comfort therefrom.
But it is worthy of notice because it was the beginning of the greatest
conglomeration of rumors in the history of civilized warfare.

Nov. 8th: It took most of the day trying to follow out the order to
make ourselves comfortable and we were just beginning to accomplish
this when on the morning of November 9th we pulled out and hiked to
Florent, remaining there the following day. Lt. Gartley, who had joined
on November 8th, assisted the company commander in re-acquainting the
jaded doughboys with the intricacies of the manual of arms and that
evening the pearly notes of “Retreat” and The Star Spangled Banner made
us feel nearly civilized again. The rumors were still running high.

Nov. 11th: On this historic day the 1st Battalion celebrated by taking
its longest hike of the Meuse-Argonne Campaign. We moved from Florent
to Varimont, a distance of twenty-nine good long kilometers. While we
were passing through Ste Menehould, the French papers with gigantic
headlines “C’EST SIGNE” were shown us and we passed innumerable
grinning French men and women repeating over and over again the words
which were like music to our ears--“la Guerre Finie.”

We arrived at Varimont about 5:00 P. M. nearly exhausted and resumed
back area existence at once.

Nov. 12th-14th: Our stay in Varimont was punctuated by determined
efforts to get separated from Argonne Mud and getting policed up and
generally put in shape for a Fifth Avenue parade, which was to come off
very soon. Lt. Gartley left for the 1st Division.

Nov. 15th: The company moved to Givry-en-Argonne to act as a loading
detail for the Brigade which was to entrain, and the following day was
spent in that occupation.

Nov. 17th: The company entrained about 11:00 P. M. and started on a
two-day journey to Les Laumes, where they arrived about 3:00 P. M. on
the 19th. With much grunting and puffing the initial ascent of the now
well known hill was made, and about 5:00 P. M. we arrived at Flavigny,
which was to be our home until we began our journey homeward.



CHAPTER VIII

FLAVIGNY-SUR-OZERAIN


It might be interesting to insert here a brief description of Flavigny,
taken from a letter written home by one of the men:

“To say the least, Flavigny is a town that is somewhat interesting.
There is a bit of history attached to the place in that we are told
that Caesar fought a battle against the Germanic people in this
neighborhood about 55 B. C., using the plateau across the valley as his
base for operations against a town a few miles from here.

“Flavigny was then standing on its present site, although, perhaps,
much smaller than it is today, and there are no evidences that any of
the buildings then existing are now standing. It would hardly seem
possible that they could be. Today, the village stands on the top of a
high plateau, which is reached by a road winding around the mountain.
Although it was a cold dismal day when we came here, we were dripping
with perspiration by the time we reached the top.

“It is a walled village--part of the wall being formed by some of the
buildings--having three entrances large enough for vehicles and a
fourth one large enough for only persons or animals in single file.
The main entrance, ‘La Porte du Bourg,’ opening to the road up which
we came and which seems to have its ending in the centre of the town.
About a quarter of a mile before reaching the town this road branches
off to the left, winding around some farm buildings, and running along
the outside of the wall overlooking the valley, and as it passes the
rear of the village making a steep descent into the valley again.

“Opening into this road at about the centre of the village is the
second entrance, ‘La Porte du Val.’ While this entrance seems to be of
less importance than the others, as it is reached from the inside by a
narrow alley, yet it is well protected, or was considered so as regards
weapons of mediaeval warfare. There are two towers built of heavy
stone, one on either side of the gate, each with peep-holes at the
height of a man’s head. Between the towers and over the gate the wall
is about twelve feet high, so built that soldiers standing on a ledge
running behind the wall and over the gate from tower to tower could
fire down on anyone along the road, or who might be trying to approach
the town up the side of the mountain.

“Everything here is built of stone, of course, but with the exception
of the more modern buildings there is decay everywhere. In many places
the wall is crumbling and the houses are patched and crumbling and the
thatched roofs are covered with moss, mould and dirt collected for
ages. At ‘La Porte du Val,’ one of the gates which is still hanging
being made of wood, worm-eaten and decayed, looks as if a slight puff
of wind would blow it to dust.

“There are a very few new buildings. Some of these are stucco and seem
to be quite modern.

“A large church stands near the centre of the town in whose tower is a
clock which rings out the time every fifteen minutes.

“There is only one or possibly two streets in the town large enough to
be called streets, but there is a great maze of little narrow alleys
running everywhere and crossing, turning sharply around corners,
sometimes leading into a barnyard, and again plumb into the side of a
building and others seem to lead nowhere. Sometimes you will start for
a store just a block down the alley, when suddenly you find you have
chased yourself right back to where you started from, having reached
nowhere, not even the end of the alley. It is one of these that begins
in the centre of the town where the street through ‘La Porte du Bourg’
stops, and after winding and twisting around a bit leads you to the
little entrance at the rear of the village from which a steep, narrow
path leads to the Valley of the Ozerain.

“The village is electrically lighted, gets its current from a little
power-house down by the Ozerain River.

“A convent building and grounds occupies a large portion of the village
extending from near ‘La Porte du Val’ to the extreme lower corner of
the town.

“About half way between ‘La Porte du Bourg’ and ‘La Porte du Val’
is another entrance, just inside of which is a large and very old
abbaye. Both this and the convent are now used for the accommodation of
tourists and travelers.

“Just outside this entrance the Y. M. C. A. building stands. The road
going from this entrance leads to the inevitable wash-house where on
wash-days congregate a large number of women with large bundles of
clothes and plenty of gossip.

“There is a Post and Telegraph Office combined, as is usual in France,
a butcher shop, several grocery stores, a bake shop, drug store,
barber, tailor, milliner, wooden shoe maker, barrel maker, rope maker,
numberless cafes and little shops.

“Inside the majority of homes are neat and well-kept even where one
room has to serve as kitchen, dining room, living room and bed room,
often serving all purposes at one time. There are, of course, more
prosperous homes that are as pleasant and comfortable as those we have
in America.”

This was our home for over five months. That time will be merely
sketched, as it was a monotonous existence punctuated by flurries of
excitement caused by rumors of westward bound ships with which we never
connected. Imaginary Bolsheviki were driven from every hillside; the
Campe de Cesare was the slaughter house for thousands of imaginary
machine gunners; and drills and manuevres of every sort made up the
schedule. Mr. McNab tried (and failed) to get us excited about the
gentle art of rifle shooting. French weather was at its abominable
worst. But through it all, if the writer may insert a personal tribute
into an impersonal history, through it all there was in Company “B”
a bunch of boys whom it was both a pleasure and an inspiration to be
with. Joking at discomforts, chafing, but bearing with as much courage
as it took to face the Hun, the seemingly interminable wait and showing
a spirit, a snap, and a dash which overcame everything, you formed a
body of men which was a privilege to command and a pleasure to serve.

The month of March arrived, bringing with it the news that the 78th
Division would return to the United States in May. The weather was
still unchanged, but notwithstanding that they were slopping around in
the mud and wet from the continual rains, and every “good rumor” that
came floating around was eventually salvaged, the men were still in
fine spirits.

Towards the end of the month it was officially announced that the
Division would begin to move towards a port April 16th, and on April
6th it passed into the command of the S. O. S., but also came the
rather disheartening news that our movement had been postponed for
ten days, and by the time the 26th rolled around it had been further
postponed until May 2nd, causing a downcast of spirits that had not
obtained since our arrival in France. However it was quite evident that
our time of departure was drawing near by the various preparations that
were taking place, and when it finally became definitely known that
we were to go direct to Bordeaux instead of having to pass through
Le Mans, the spirit of the men took a remarkable jump and then, when
it was announced that the movement from Flavigny would begin with
Headquarters company’s departure on Sunday, May 4th, their joy was
unbounded, and this was not noticeably marred by the last days of April
being the bearer of the heaviest and longest snow storm that we had
experienced. Saturday night, May 4th, Taps was blown by a quartette of
cornets from the Regimental Band, and farewell parties were held in
nearly every home in Flavigny.



CHAPTER IX

HOMEWARD BOUND


At 7:00 A. M. Monday, May 5th, “B” Company “fell in” in front of the
Abbaye with full equipment, and at eight o’clock, with the command:
SQUADS RIGHT, MARCH, moved out with the remaining troops, from the town
that had been our home for nearly half a year, and our long journey
homeward had at last really begun. By easy marches we reached Les
Laumes-Alesia Station at 10:00 A. M., where we were given a big dinner
by the American Red Cross, consisting of a good beef stew, bread, jam,
coffee (with both milk and sugar in it), apple sauce, cigarettes and
candy, which was followed by hot chocolate and cakes given to us by
pretty Y. M. C. A. girls. At 12:30 P. M. we entrained in American “60
Hommes-20 Chevaux,” which we had lined with bed sacks filled with straw
and about thirty-five men to a car, which proved the most comfortable
ride we had had since our arrival in Europe nearly a year previous. We
made several stops to get coffee or warmed corned beef. The trip lasted
about 42 hours, arriving at St. Jean Station, Bordeaux, at 4:00 A. M.
May 7th, from which we marched to the “Entrance Camp,” reaching there
at 9:00 A. M. and immediately having breakfast served. The men were
kept pretty busy during the day on various details, and the following
morning, May 8th, we left this camp and marched about a mile to the
“Permanent Camp.” The memory of this camp will probably remain with
most of us by reason of the “MILL,” which was the first thing to which
we were introduced and which consumed most of the conversation during
our stay here.

The MILL was well named in every respect. First we were marched into
a “hangar” very similar to those used to house air planes. This had a
dirt floor and after unslinging packs the men filed along one side of
the hangar leaving their rifles in a heap, then filed back to their
packs. Next they took their blankets which had been rolled together
before leaving the Entrance Camp, and threw them in a pile. Next,
everything the soldier carried was placed in his shelter half and
carried thru a wicket gate, by which stood a long desk behind which
were several men. The first asked your name and army serial number,
which he wrote on two slips of paper which you had to sign. This seemed
quite natural because no one knew what they were signing, and if anyone
should stop to ask he would be informed that he would learn that in due
time, a statement which no one doubted because no one thought any more
about that phase of it, probably for the reason that about one-tenth of
a doughboy’s time is spent in signing papers he does not know anything
about, the same being part of his military training.

The next man took the “dog tags” and asked your name and number and
compared your answer with the tags; if they agreed all well and good,
if they disagreed something was checked on the slip of paper you had
signed and you began to wonder how many checks you would get and if
each check meant an additional month in France, or an extra tour of K.
P. The next man gave you a Red Cross bag which often brought a smile
because of the name--“American Red Cross” was stamped in ink on a white
patch on the bag, otherwise you would have looked for a deduction on
the next pay roll. At this time someone in the farthest corner of the
building called out a number which sounded like a cell number, but
which proved to be nothing more than their manner of ushering you to
a certain litter into which you dumped everything you had, from your
steel helmet which had just been painted to your last handkerchief
which you had failed to wash. The object of this being for the man to
see if you had more than he did. If you did not have as much, he handed
you a barrack bag and helped you to put all your things into it except
such personal things as your pocket book, tooth brush, shaving brush,
etc. These you put in the Red Cross bag, then handed your slip of paper
to the man who then asked what you had in the barrack bag or on your
back. If you guessed right, all right; if you guessed wrong he checked
an item on the slip of paper.

If you did not like your blouse he would give you a chance to draw
again. If your underclothes were too large for you he would give you
a chance to draw a larger pair, and so on. After you were all out of
breath talking to this man, you hung your Red Cross Bag around your
neck, threw your Barrack Bag on your shoulder and marched out of the
door across a wood pile to another building in which was another long
row of desks, and for a moment you thought you were going to get your
discharge papers toote de suite, but these hopes were soon dashed to
the ground. An officer handed you your Service Record, which seemed
rather a strange thing because the company clerk said that he had it
when you asked him the day before you left Flavigny. Struggling along
with this in one hand and dragging your barrack bag with the other you
passed down the line until you came to a blank file with a typewriter
and a man behind it.

Here you stopped and handed him your Service Record, after which he
asked you your name, number, name and address of your wife or mother.
He evidently wanted to know this in the event you did not come through
the mill alive he could advise your nearest relative that you had been
killed in action, or words to that effect. When you afterwards inquired
what this slip was you were informed that it was a certificate to show
that you had been through the mill. But why should they issue such a
certificate before you had been through? Probably the government took a
chance like the doughboy does when he signs the pay roll a month before
he gets paid. If he did not sign re would not get paid and often when
he does sign he don’t get paid, so “sanferriens.” Any way this man kept
the Service Record, “mill slip,” and all, and you were ushered into the
engine room.

There was a great racket going on and your heart was beating like a
trip hammer. You remembered you had not cut your toe nails for several
weeks and you wondered if they would scratch your neck. You also
wondered what part of your body went in first. Someone ordered you to
move along, and along you moved until you came to a bin which reminded
you of where your grandfather kept his potatoes. You looked around for
the man who was administering the “Dope,” because you heard nobody
scream or groan--or were some of those noises groans? Through the
middle of this bin ran a railroad and in the middle of the track stood
a man issuing orders, none of which you understood. Besides, the man in
the bin behind you was talking louder than the man in your bin, so that
you heard more of what he said than of what your man said; but after
listening for a while you gleaned the fact that you were supposed to
take off all your clothes, which you did.

By that time two large doors in the side of the building opened and
out came a car that looked like the ones they have in circuses to
carry animals in, which was divided into compartments with numbers
corresponding with the number of your bin, which were full of shelves
and hooks. Into your compartment on this car you put everything you
had except the articles in the Red Cross bag. This you still had hung
around your neck. Everything had to be taken out of the Barrack bag;
your puttees could not be wound; your underclothes and socks which
you took off were not put in the car however. They said this was to
kill the cooties, and suddenly you had a feeling of pity for the poor
cootie. As suddenly as the car came out of these big doors it went back
again and the doors were closed; then you were ordered to pick up your
soiled underclothes and “move along.” A little further along you threw
your soiled underclothes out of a window marked “Salvaged Clothes.” You
were wearing your shoes but nothing else. As you passed out of this
room you were handed a towel and as you entered the next room you were
met by a couple of doctors who asked you if you had been to Paris and
then refused to take your word that you had not. From here you entered
the bath room where you had the grand and glorious feeling of a real
shower bath, although the so-called soap was beyond description. From
here you passed another long line of doctors that reminded you of your
first day at camp, and then you passed into a room which reminded you
of Gimbel Brothers at home. Your famous slip of paper which had been
kept in your Red Cross Bag, now came into use and you began to learn
the reason for it. Everything that your Supply Sergeant at Flavigny
had refused to give you was handed to you here. First you were given a
suit of underclothes and a pair of socks to take the place of the ones
you had salvaged. Then down the line you went, getting new blankets for
the ones you had left in the hangar, and new trousers for the ones you
had said were no good, and even a new tape for your dog tags. From here
you passed into another bin similar to the first one, and while you
were putting on your underclothes out came the car with all your things
on it, but everything so hot you could hardly touch them. Poor cooties,
not a one remained alive to tell of what happened inside.

After dressing, which you had to do in four seconds less than a minute,
you stuffed everything into the barrack bag except your overcoat which
you put on, and, with barrack bag over your shoulder and your slip of
paper in your hand, you passed into another room. Here you handed said
slip of paper to a man whom you could just see over the top of a heap
of them, then passed by a man who examined the condition of your hair
and then passed outside with the perspiration streaming down your face
and marched about two blocks down the street to another building. There
you completed your toilet and were guided to your company barracks
which was either 212, 214 or 216, and there you set yourself down more
exhausted than you were the day you marched from Florent to Varimont.
But you were still in the army though not in the mill, and there was
work to be done. The first detail was to carry all the rifles from the
mill to the barracks. You were given dinner and then given more detail,
and more detail the next day.

Friday, May 9th, the commanding officer was notified that Company “B”
would embark the next day, and accordingly, at 5:00 P. M. Saturday,
May 11th, the company was lined up and marched to the American Docks,
reaching them about 7:00 P. M. A peculiar coincidence it was, that
during the greater part of this march it rained. It had been bright
and clear all day but when we started on our last march in France the
sky became darkened, with a heavy cloud, and shortly after we had
started for the docks it began to rain and did not clear until after
we had embarked. After reaching the dock, we were served sandwiches,
chocolate, cigarettes, candy, and a handkerchief by the Red Cross.
Miss Colby, the Y. M. C. A. worker who had been with us all winter at
Flavigny, followed us to the dock and there bade us good-bye. She was
not to return to America for several months. The rest of the Y. M. C.
A. outfit had departed with Regimental Headquarters. Mr. Allen, the
K. of C. worker who had been with us at Flavigny, returned to America
with us. We embarked at 8:00 P. M. May 10th, on the good ship “OTSEGO,”
formerly the Prince Eitel Fredrich III, one of the German liners that
had been turned over to the American Government for the transportation
of troops to America. It was her second trip in this service.

The trip was long, somewhat tedious, and uneventful. The food was
excellent, the best we had had since we had left home. The Azores
lay along our route and we passed close enough to see some of the
buildings. A couple of schools of small whales were sighted, and
porpoises were continually playing about the ship. The third or fourth
day out we began to have trouble with the boilers, which continued
nearly all the way across, which accounted for the length of the
voyage. On the morning of the 25th we passed the “Ambrose” Lightship
and soon after sighted land. We expected to dock in the afternoon,
but it was five o’clock when we entered the Upper Bay at New York and
dropped anchor off St. Georges, S. I. Many small boats loaded with
sight-seers came by. The Mayor’s Committee of New York City brought
a band to play for us. The next morning, May 26th, 1919, about eight
o’clock we weighed anchor and sailed up the river to Hoboken, where
we docked a half hour later. We were given a light lunch by the Red
Cross and were then put on a river boat and went to the West Shore
docks, where we got on a train and went to Camp Merritt. It was a grand
and glorious feeling to be riding in an American train once more.
We arrived at Camp Merritt about 11:00 A. M. and had lunch shortly
after. In the afternoon we again went through the mill or “Sanitary
Process” and the next morning went to a different part of the camp,
where the company was broken up into Casual Detachments. The men from
most of the Southern and Western camps being assigned to Hoboken
Casual Detachments, and the others into Camp Dix, Camp Upton, or Camp
Grant Casual Detachments. We did not move out, however, until Sunday
afternoon, June 1st. Passes were issued daily, however, and a majority
of the men took advantage of this privilege and went home to visit
their folks. At 2:00 P. M. June 1st, the Camp Dix C. D. entrained for
Camp Dix, where we arrived at 7:00 P. M. and immediately turned in all
our equipment and then marched to the barracks formerly occupied by the
Third Battalion.

June 2nd: All company records were turned in and Company “B” was only
a memory. The days dragged slowly by until Thursday, June 5th, when we
had our final examination. One incident happened at this time which to
us seemed almost tragical. A Welcoming Committee from Elizabeth came
down Wednesday, June 4th, three days after we entered Camp Dix, to see
the Elizabeth boys, and upon inquiring at Camp Headquarters for our
location, were told that we were not in the Camp, as they had no record
of us. This probably was the reason why several outfits that arrived
in camp as late as Wednesday were discharged ahead of us. Saturday
morning, June 7th, is a day in the lives of the remaining men of
Company “B” 311th Infantry never to be forgotten, as it was then that
we received our final pay and discharge from the Army and once more
became civilians.



  COMPLETE ALPHABETICAL ROSTER
  OF
  COMPANY “B,” 311TH INFANTRY


Including all officers and men assigned to and present with the company
upon arrival in France, and all replacements of men received overseas.

The information shown in the following roster is compiled from data
from the Company Records. The information regarding men who were
wounded is taken from reports sent in to Personnel Headquarters of the
Regiment by the Medical Detachment and Battalion Headquarters. All the
information is shown regarding men killed in action that was obtainable
from the records of the Regiment and from eye witnesses.

All men shown as having joined prior to May 19th were with the company
when it arrived in France; those who joined October 12, 1918, were
replacements from the 86th Division.

Men who were wounded or evacuated for other causes did not return to
the company unless so stated. All other men returned to the United
States with the company except a few who were kept at the port of
embarkation on account of missing records, which was due to no fault of
theirs.


  ROSTER OF OFFICERS ASSIGNED TO AND SERVING WITH THE COMPANY AT
  VARIOUS TIMES FROM DATE OF LEAVING THE UNITED STATES, MAY 19, 1918,
  UNTIL DATE OF RETURN TO THE UNITED STATES, MAY 26, 1919.

Bell, John P., Capt. U. S. Inf.

109 Dauphin Street, Mobile, Alabama. Joined company April 20, 1919, and
was in command from that date until the company was mustered out.

Colonna, B. Allison, Capt. U. S. Inf.

c/o C. D. Jackson & Co., 140th St. and Locust Ave., New York, N. Y.
Assigned to company late in the year 1917; was in command at time of
departure for overseas and until September 28, 1918, when he left
for detached service at Army School of the Line. Returned to company
January 4, 1919, and was in command until March 1st. Left March 3rd
for detached service with A. E. F. University at Beaune, France.
Transferred to 5th Division April 11th and returned to the United
States in May, 1919.

Devereux, John C., 1st Lt. U. S. Inf.

413 Genesee Street, Utica, N. Y. Joined company April 6, 1919, and was
in command from April 15th until April 20th. Returned to United States
with company.

Dunn, Raymond B., 1st Lt. U. S. Inf.

c/o R. B. Dunn & Co., Knoxville, Tenn. With company as a 2nd Lieutenant
at time of departure overseas; appointed 1st Lieutenant in October,
1918. In command from September 28th until October 9th, on which date
he was taken sick and evacuated. Mentioned in 78th Division General
Orders No. 6 for bravery on September 26th.

Foulkes, Louis S., Jr., Capt. U. S. Inf.

c/o Rochester Stamping Co., Rochester, N. Y. With company as a 1st
Lieutenant at time of departure overseas and was 2nd in command.
Transferred and made 1st Battalion Adjutant July 11th; made Regimental
Adjutant September 28th.

Gardenier, David, 1st Lt. U. S. Inf.

Chatham, N. Y. Joined company October 29, 1918, and was in command from
that date until January 4, 1919. Transferred and made 1st Battalion
Adjutant April 6, 1919.

Lahey, William S., 1st Lt. U. S. Inf.

520 Summit Avenue, Jersey City, N. J. Joined company October 9, 1918,
and was in command from that date until October 29th, when he was
severely wounded in left side of face and neck by shrapnel while in
support lines behind Grand Pre. Died of wounds October 31st, and on
same date orders arrived appointing him captain.

Merrill, Henry M., 2nd Lt. U. S. Inf.

72 Center Street, Brookline, Mass. Sailed for overseas with advanced
party May 9, 1918. Rejoined company in Brunembert Area July 8th.
Severely wounded in left foot by shrapnel September 24th while on
outpost duty and returned to United States in October, 1918.

Norton, Robert H., 1st Lt. U. S. Inf.

482 Clinton Avenue, Albany, N. Y. Joined company January 8, 1919. In
command from March 1st to April 15th, on which date he was transferred
to M. P. Corps Replacement Camp, Parigne, L’Evaque, Le Mans Area.

Proctor, William S., 2nd Lt. U. S. Inf.

67 North Central Avenue, Columbus, Ohio. Joined company in April, 1919,
and returned to United States with company.

Schuyler, Roy A., 1st Lt. U. S. Inf.

(Andrew J. Schuyler, father), Pattersonville, Schenectady County, N. Y.
Sailed for overseas with advanced party May 9, 1918. Rejoined company
in Brunembert Area July 5th. Killed in action September 26, 1918, by
shrapnel through head while leading his platoon in an attack upon enemy
positions. Mentioned in 78th Division General Orders No. 6 for bravery
on this date.

Shanks, Thomas H., 2nd Lt. U. S. Inf.

654 Kempton Street, New Bedford, Mass. Joined company December 4, 1918,
and returned to United States with company.

Vanderbilt, Herbert R., 1st Lt. U. S. Inf.

17 Sherwood Avenue, Ossining, N. Y. With company at time of departure
for overseas. Reported missing in action September 26th. Was prisoner
in Camp Karlsruhe, Germany. Returned to Regiment in January, 1919, and
assigned to Company “D.”



  COMPLETE ALPHABETICAL ROSTER OF MEN ASSIGNED TO COMPANY FROM DATE OF
  LEAVING THE UNITED STATES FOR OVERSEAS SERVICE, MAY 19, 1918, UNTIL
  DATE OF RETURN TO THE UNITED STATES, MAY 26, 1919.


  Accetturo, Anthony, No. 2040459, Private, (Address unknown). Enlisted
  March 29, 1918; joined company Sept. 9th. Taken sick Oct. 25, 1918,
  and evacuated.

  Ackerman, William, No. 1737299, Pvt. 1st Class, Miss Minnie Ackerman,
  sister, 941 Washington Street, c/o The Lutheran Home, Buffalo, N. Y.
  Reported Missing in Action September 26, 1918. Was last seen by Cpl.
  Sutton leaning against a tree with a large hole in his neck. Advice
  received from Central Records Office that he died from wounds Sept.
  26th. He enlisted April 2, 1918, and joined company same date.

  Ackerman, William, No. 2451126, Corporal, 860 Fox Street, Bronx, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th.

  Ahearn, Walter J., No. 2411094, Sergeant, Keansburg, N. J. Enlisted
  February 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  Albitz, Oscar, No. 3746398, Pvt. 1st Class, 928 South Third Street,
  LaCrosse, Wisconsin. Enlisted July 22, 1918; joined company October
  12th.

  Aldridge, Joseph S. Jr., No. 2414730, Pvt. 1st Class, 319 Union
  Avenue, Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same
  date. Decorated for deed of bravery performed September 26th.

  Allen, Frank C., No. 2568100, Corporal, 309 Pleasant Street,
  Petaluma, California. Enlisted March 10, 1918; joined company
  December 9th. Taken sick December 22d and evacuated.

  Amann, Walter G., No. 1749246, Pvt. 1st Class, 292 Terrace Avenue,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Wounded by mustard gas burns October 22d; rejoined company December
  16th.

  Anderson, George J., No. 1763315, Private, 24 Eddywood Avenue,
  Springfield, Mass. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Anderson, John A., No. 3752380, Corporal, Box 40, Route 2, Turtle
  Lake, Wis. Enlisted July 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Andrzejewski, Stanislaw, No. 1752094, Private, 176 Barnard Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Angevine, William A., No. 1748872, Private, 919 Park Avenue, Hoboken,
  N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Served with
  Railhead Detachment during campaign.

  Anness, Peyton R., No. 1746065, Sergeant, “The Belnord,” Broadway
  & 86th Street, New York City. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined
  company October 11th. Transferred to Depot Division, 1st Army Corps,
  A. E. F., July 27, 1918.

  Annibalini, Aldo, No. 652015, Private, 251 South Division Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.
  Wounded in action (degree undetermined) September 26th. Rejoined
  company December 16th.

  Apicelli, Joseph, No. 2410760, Corporal, (Salvatore Apicelli,
  father), 1505 Somerfield Street, Asbury Park, N. J. Killed in action
  September 26th in Bois St. Claude, by sniper’s bullet through head
  while leading his squad to attack machine gun. Enlisted February 25,
  1918; joined company same date.

  Arcuri, Carmine, No. 2450304, Private, (Reitano Arcuri, brother),
  132 South Main Street, Port Chester, N. Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action September 26th in Bois
  St. Claude, by sniper’s bullet through head while advancing with his
  automatic rifle in an attack on enemy positions.

  Ashlock, Newton C., No. 1757769, Corporal, Carrolton, Ill. Enlisted
  April 29, 1918; joined company April 26, 1919.

  Awe, John A., No. 3754195, Pvt. 1st Class, Route 4, Box 67,
  Greenwood, Wis. Enlisted July 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Baiano, Carmelo, No. 2451001, Private, Broadway, Dobbs Ferry, N. Y.
  Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th. Slightly wounded
  by shrapnel in right foot September 26th.

  Ball, Walter V., No. 2451462, Private, 356 Upland Avenue, Yonkers, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th. Transferred to
  Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry, June 26th.

  Barnes, Earl, No. 1765247, Pvt. 1st Class, 444 South Park Avenue,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Accidentally wounded September 20th. Returned to
  United States in December, 1918. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined
  company same date.

  Barsamian, Hazar, No. 3329308, Private, 67 Minomona Avenue, South
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 28, 1918; joined company October 12th.
  Slightly wounded by shrapnel in head November 4th. Returned to
  America in December.

  Baumann, William, No. 1749247, Pvt. 1st Class, 147 Congress Street,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Bement, Mervin, No. 1752197, Private, Odessa, N. Y. Enlisted April
  1, 1918; joined company same date. Went with 303rd Sanitary Train
  on Detached service in July, 1918; taken sick and admitted to Base
  Hospital No. 42 in September, and after recovering took up his duties
  with that unit.

  Benzing, John M., No. 1737291, Pvt. 1st Class, 1058 Smith Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Reported missing in action September 26, 1918. Was
  prisoner at Camp Rastatt, Germany. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined
  company same date.

  Benzschawel, Joseph, No. 3754197, Mechanic, Route 3, Box 81, Thorp,
  Wis. Enlisted July 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Bernhard, John, No. 1749249, Private, 381 New York Avenue, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner in Camp
  Rastatt, Germany. Returned to company January 16, 1919.

  Bernstein, Barnett, No. 2409686, Private, Sixteenth Avenue, Belmar,
  N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  Best, Harry C., No. 1737292, Pvt. 1st Class, 140 Zenner Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.

  Birk, William, No. 1737293, Private, 610 Broadway, Buffalo, N. Y.
  Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Reported missing in
  action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt, Germany.

  Bishop, Joseph, No. 2411096, Pvt. 1st Class, Everett, N. J. Enlisted
  February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Reported missing in
  action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt, Germany.
  Rejoined company January 7, 1919.

  Blair, James, No. 1765248, Private, 51 Mineral Spring Road, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Bloome, Peter, No. 3336326, Pvt. 1st Class, Box 147, Annawan, Ill.
  Enlisted June 26, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Bloomquist, Gust W., No. 3332154, Pvt. 1st Class, 1712 Eighth Street,
  Rockford, Ill. Enlisted June 22, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Blount, George L., No. 2451251, Private, 738 East 137th Street,
  New York City. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th.
  Reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany.

  Boettcher, Walter, No. 2828102, Private, 868 22d Street, Milwaukee,
  Wis. Enlisted May 27, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Bogart, William D., No. 1747126, Pvt. 1st Class, 219 Catherine
  Street, Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same
  date. Transferred to 1st Replacement Depot, February 16, 1919, for
  return to United States.

  Bogucki, Stanley F., No. 1737294, Private, 95 Detroit Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded by shrapnel in left arm September 19th.

  Borg, Edward, No. 3750612, Private, Route 1, Brantwood, Wis. Enlisted
  July 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Boucher, Joseph A., No. 1748003, Private, 3644½ Boulevard, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in left face September 26th; rejoined company
  January 11, 1919.

  Boyle, Edward H., No. 1765249, Private, 1 Paul Place, Buffalo, N. Y.
  Transferred to 14th General Hospital, Boulogne, France, July 8th.
  Rejoined company April 27, 1919. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined
  company same date.

  Brand. Arthur F., No. 3329616, Pvt. 1st Class, 345 17th Street,
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 27, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Brenner, Carl M., No. 3746407, Private, (address unknown); joined
  company October 12, 1918. Severely wounded by bullets in left arm,
  right side, and compound fracture of right leg.

  Brooks, Bertrand G., No. 1749251, Private, 579 Central Avenue, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 2 6, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in right arm September 26th.

  Broomhall, Harry R., No. 2932965, Pvt. 1st Class, 849 East Avenue,
  Akron, Ohio. Enlisted June 27, 1918; joined company December 10th.

  Brown, Elijah E., No. 2083783, Pvt. 1st Class, Route 6, Aledo, Ohio.
  Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Buechler, Louis, No. 1749250, Private, 598 Tonnell Avenue, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Taken
  sick and evacuated October 18th.

  Burchell, Harold E., No. 1748085, Private, (Mrs. Kitty Burchell,
  mother), 621 Main Street, Paterson, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action November 4th by machine
  gun bullet below heart during an attack on enemy machine gun nests,
  near Les Petites Armoises (Meuse-Argonne).

  Burke, John F., No. 1752093, Pvt. 1st Class, (Peter Burke, brother),
  2000 Seneca Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined
  company same date. Severely wounded September 26th by shrapnel in
  arm, back and hips during general attack on enemy positions. Died in
  Evacuation Hospital No. 12, September 28th.

  Butler, William G., No. 2414732, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Hannah Mills,
  foster mother), 821 Jackson Street, Morristown, Penna. Enlisted April
  2, 1918; joined company same date. Killed in action November 4th,
  near Les Petites Armoises (Meuse-Argonne), by shrapnel, while runner
  for Battalion Headquarters and while on road carrying messages.

  Byreiter, John F., No. 1737296, Pvt. 1st Class, 59 Thomas Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.
  Transferred to 311th Infantry Supply Company October 17th.

  Cahill, James E., No. 1749048, Private, (Miss Catherine Cahill,
  sister), 114 Monroe Street, Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action September 26th, at Bois
  St. Claude, by shrapnel, during general advance of the company.

  Calabrese, Dominick, No. 2451322, Sergeant, East Hampton, N. Y.
  Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th.

  Campanini, Frederick S., No. 1748532, Pvt. 1st Class, Washington
  Street, Northvale, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same
  date. Accidentally shot in foot and evacuated September 16th.

  Campbell, William J., No. 1765250, Pvt. 1st Class, 42 Edson Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Cantu, Peter E., No. 3340909, Private, (Mrs. Adabell Cantu, wife),
  910 West Front Street, Davenport, Ill. Joined company October 12th.
  Killed in action November 4th, at Les Petites Armoises, by machine
  gun bullets through body, while acting as company runner, during an
  attack on enemy machine gun nests.

  Cardell, Anthony, No. 1765251, Pvt. 1st Class, 14 Pembino Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Carr, Charlie, No. 3746410, Pvt. 1st Class, 608 North Ninth Street,
  LaCrosse, Wis. Enlisted July 22, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Cassely, Joseph R., No. 1749067, Private, 710 Jersey Avenue, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company same date. Taken
  sick and evacuated November 5th; returned to company March 21, 1919,
  from Company “K,” 320th Infantry.

  Centofante, Natale A., No. 1748533, Pvt. 1st Class, P. O. Box 41,
  Northvale, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Wounded by gas and evacuated November 4th.

  Chiaradio, Samuel E., No. 1748534, Pvt. 1st Class, South Palisade
  Avenue, Bloomfield, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same
  date. Slightly wounded by shrapnel in right shoulder September 26th;
  rejoined company November 2d; wounded by gas November 4th.

[Illustration: 3d Platoon, Flavigny, France, 1919.]

  Clark, Earl B., No. 3527729, Private, 322 East Mulberry Street,
  Lancaster, Ohio. Enlisted July 22, 1918; joined company December
  10th. Transferred to Graves Registration Service January 28, 1919.

  Clark, Frank W., No. 1746104, Sergeant, 11 High Street, Elizabeth, N.
  J. Enlisted September 6, 1917; joined company April 21, 1919. Went
  overseas with company “C,” 311th Infantry.

  Closeman, Harry, No. 2076987, Private, 312 Seventh Street, Red Wing,
  Minn. Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th. Slightly
  wounded in right arm October 20th. Rejoined company November 16th.

  Cobble, Clarence R., No. 3874973, Private, Route 2, Midway, Tenn.
  Enlisted August 5, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Cocker, Herbert M. P., No. 1750235, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Marjorie
  Cocker, mother), 17 McKinley Avenue, West Orange, N. J. Enlisted
  April 1, 1918; joined company same date. Reported missing in action
  September 26th. Fate not known.

  Colaguori, Pietro, No. 2411608, Pvt. 1st Class, 136 Westwood Avenue,
  Long Branch, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same
  date.

  Cole, Harry Lee, No. 1345828, Private, (address unknown). Joined
  company September 9, 1918. Killed in action October 20th, northwest
  of Grand Pre, during an attack on Ferme des Loges.

  Collura, Rosario, No. 2450663, Pvt. 1st Class, 34 Riverdale Avenue,
  Yonkers, N. Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th.

  Congelosi, Joseph, No. 2085786, Corporal, (address unknown). Enlisted
  February 27, 1918; joined company October 12th. Slightly wounded in
  right leg by shrapnel November 4th.

  Connolly, Frank J., No. 2450135, Pvt. 1st Class, 87 West Carroll
  Street, City Island, N. Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company
  same date. Taken sick and evacuated September 19th. Was later
  assigned to Co. G, 110th Infantry.

  Cook, Elmer J., No. 1748573, Private, Highwood Avenue, Tenafly, N. J.
  Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly wounded
  September 26th in both hands and head.

  Corbine, Charles, No. 3746635, Private, Odnah, Wis. Enlisted July 22,
  1918; joined company October 12th.

  Cordes, Henry A., No. 1748874, Pvt. 1st Class, 119 Park Avenue,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Wounded by gas November 4, 1918.

  Cottrell, Alonzo, No. 2409690, Private, Institute Street, Freehold,
  N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Taken
  sick and evacuated December 24th.

  Cowser, Levi C., No. 1415491, Corporal, Goree, Texas. Enlisted May
  27, 1918; joined company December 10th.

  Croft, Lawrence M., No. 1765253, Pvt. 1st Class, 20 Archer Avenue,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Culkowski, John E., No. 1737297, Pvt. 1st Class, 79 Townsend Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.
  Transferred to 1st Replacement Depot, St. Aignan, France, for return
  to United States in March, 1919.

  Curcio, Joseph M., No. 1748875, Private, 719 Clinton Street, Hoboken,
  N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Severely
  wounded by shell fire in right leg September 19th; returned to
  company December 19th; transferred to 1st Replacement Depot, St.
  Aignan, for return to United States March 10, 1919.

  Curtin, Matthew V., No. 1765254, Private, 2 Paul Place, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly wounded
  in left leg September 26th. Returned to United States in December,
  1918.

  Czajka, Frank, No. 1765255, Private, 139 Weiss Street, Buffalo, N. Y.
  Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Severely wounded
  in left hand and head September 26th. Returned to company January 6,
  1919.

  Daeschler, Michael, No. 1765256, Private, 48 Lester Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Damato, Guisseppe, No. 1738115, Private, 35 Sidney Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Accidentally
  wounded September 26th, received 1st Aid and returned to duty. Again
  accidentally wounded October 30th. Returned to company December 18th.

  Danielson, John, No. 2084548, Private, (address unknown). Enlisted
  June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th. Slightly wounded in hip
  October 22.

  Dash, Harvey R., No. 1765257, Corporal, 93 Macamley Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  deBruin, Walter, No. 1746077, Cook, Elberon, N. J. Enlisted September
  21, 1917; joined company same date. Burned by mustard gas October
  30th, but was not evacuated.

  DeGrote, Walter, No. 2411100, Sergeant, Port Monmouth, N. J. Enlisted
  February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Transferred to 1st
  Replacement Depot, St. Aignan, for return to United States, April 28,
  1919.

  Deile, Albert, Jr., No. 1749050, Pvt. 1st Class, 83 Jackson Street,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Deleskie, Stanley, No. 2824994, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Mary Kuczeuski,
  mother), 2114 Front Street, East, Ashland, Wis. Joined company
  October 12, 1918. Killed in action October 20th, northwest of Grand
  Pre, by machine gun bullets while trying to cross road swept by
  machine gun fire, during an attack on Ferme des Loges.

  Denier, Louis F., No. 1738113, Pvt. 1st Class, 519 Glenwood Avenue,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.
  Transferred to Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry, February 20,
  1919.

  Devine, Thomas E., No. 2450369, Pvt. 1st Class, 130 Old Pond Road,
  Beacon, N. Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th.
  Taken sick and evacuated September 2d.

  Diskin, James J., No. 2414736, Private, 418 South Broad Street,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in left leg September 26th.

  Dollard, Joseph P., No. 3204125, Private, (Edmund A. Dollard,
  brother), 124 Baker Avenue, Syracuse, N. Y. Joined company October
  12, 1918. Killed in action October 28th, northwest of Grand Pre, by
  bullet wounds through chest, during an attack on Ferme des Loges.

  Donohue, John E., No. 1749068, Private, 179 Third Street, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Severely wounded in back September 19th. Returned to company March
  29, 1919, from Company “E,” 53rd Engineers.

  Dreher, Walter A., No. 2821474, Corporal, 1135 Lincoln Street,
  Klamath Falls, Oregon. Enlisted May 24, 1918; joined company October
  12th.

  Eastman, Wilbert A., No. 1976313, Sergeant, Route 2, Anna, Ill.
  Enlisted September 4, 1917; joined company December 10th, 1918.

  Edgerly, Robert E., No. 2816271, Private, Sauk Center, Minn. Enlisted
  June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Effingham, Harry, No. 2409695, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Howard Hartman,
  friend), Smithburg, R. F. D. 4, Freehold, N. J. Enlisted February 25,
  1918; joined company same date. Killed in action September 26th, by
  bullets through body during general advance of company.

  Ellison, William J., No. 1750236, Private, (Mrs. Mary Wallenbeck,
  mother), 108 West Fourth Street, Watkins, N. J. Enlisted April 26,
  1918; joined company same date. Died from wounds received in action
  November 4th.

  Ely, Eugene, No. 1749069, Pvt. 1st Class, North Drake Street,
  Titusville, Pa. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Was slightly wounded in left shoulder September 26th.

  Emerson, William G., No. 2413210, Pvt. 1st Class, R. F. D. 4, Canton,
  N. Y. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Taken
  sick September 9th and evacuated. Was afterwards a member of the 4th
  company, 4th Army Corps Replacement Battalion.

  Ennocenti, Alfredo, No. 3751617, Pvt. 1st Class, Box 59, Beloit, Wis.
  Enlisted July 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Erickson, Albert C., No. 3752633, Private (address unknown). Joined
  company October 12, 1918. Died from wounds November 1st received same
  date, caused by shrapnel in left hip and arm while in support lines
  behind Grand Pre.

  Erlandson, Gustave F., No. 3338575, Pvt. 1st Class (Oscar Erlandson,
  brother), Route 1, North Branch, Minn. Joined company October 12th.
  Killed in action November 4th, at Les Petites Armoises, by bullet
  wounds while in advance patrol of company during an attack upon enemy
  machine gun nests.

  Ertwine, Maxwell B., No. 1746060, 1st Sergeant, Ringtown, Penna.
  Enlisted June 26, 1917; joined company September 5th; appointed 1st
  Sergeant February 23, 1918; transferred to Depot Division, 1st Army
  Corps, A. E. F., July 27, 1918.

  Fahey, John F., No. 1765260, Corporal, 34 Weyand Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Fahey, Joseph H., No. 2414738, Sergeant, 42 Fulton Street, Medford,
  Mass. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly
  wounded in action September 26th in right foot and chest. Returned
  to company November 22d. Decorated for deed of bravery performed
  September 26th with both Distinguished Service Cross and Croix de
  Guerre.

  Farry, Lester E., No. 1746072, Mechanic, (George E. Farry, father),
  Farmingdale, N. J. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same
  date. Severely wounded September 19th by shrapnel in head and face
  while digging trenches, which caused his death in Evacuation Hospital
  No. 1 a few days later.

  Fay, Norman W., No. 2060023, Pvt. 1st Class, 52 North Long Avenue,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company October
  12th. Taken sick November 22d and evacuated.

  Feeney, Patrick J., No. 1748877, Pvt. 1st Class, 821 Park Avenue,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in right arm September 26th; returned to company
  November 23.

  Fellows, Elmer, No. 2941531, Private, West Frankfort, Ill. Enlisted
  April 27, 1918; joined company same date.

  Fergus, Morris F., No. 3533664, Pvt. 1st Class, R. F. D. 3,
  Brookville, Ohio. Enlisted July 23, 1918; joined company December
  10th.

  Ferrians, Frank, No. 2062094, Private, Sauk Center, Minn. Enlisted
  June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Fielding, William H., No. 1749252, Private, 138 Manhattan Avenue,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same
  date. Slightly wounded by shell fire in arm September 19th; rejoined
  company December 15th.

  Fischer, Jacob J., No. 1765262, Pvt. 1st Class, 369 South Park
  Avenue, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same
  date.

  Fleischmann, Gustave E., No. 2410771, Pvt. 1st Class, 1608 Park
  Avenue, Asbury Park, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company
  same date. Accidentally received a broken leg during bayonet practice
  on drill ground in Brunembert Area June 28, 1918. Returned to America
  in August, 1918.

  Formes, Joseph H., No. 1749186, Private, 170 New York Avenue, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Was
  slightly wounded underneath left eye September 26th. Returned to
  United States in January, 1919.

  Freedman, Sam, No. 1752476, Pvt. 1st Class, 305 Adams Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Was
  slightly wounded by shell fire on September 24th.

  Frey, Albert P., No. 1737302, Corporal, 566 Goodyear Avenue, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Furlong, William E., No. 2420056, Private, 454 First Street, Troy,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 5, 1918; joined company same date. Was slightly
  wounded in scalp September 26th; rejoined company January 22, 1919.

  Gaier, Julius, No. 2410772, Private, 33 Montgomery Street, New York
  City. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Severely
  wounded in both feet October 29th.

  Gantert, Othmar, S. B., No. 2084273, Corporal, 811 Fourteenth Avenue,
  North, Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 22, 1918; joined company
  October 12th.

  Geoghegan, John A., No. 2414741, Sergeant, 177 Reid Street,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.

  Glenn, Edward F., No. 1749253, Pvt. 1st Class, 165 North Street,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Transferred to Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry, July 15, 1918.

  Goldberg, Israel, No. 2452893, Private, 269 South Second Street,
  Brooklyn, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company April 16th.
  Slightly wounded by shell fire in left forearm, September 24th.

  Golling, Paul E., No. 3341860, Private, Trochee, Alberta, Canada.
  Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Goodman, Max, No. 4245461, Private, 3751 North Irving Street,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted August 28, 1918; joined company December 9th.
  Taken sick December 21st and evacuated.

  Goodwin, Joseph F., No. 2450527, Cook, South Hampton, Long Island, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th. Transferred to
  1st Depot Division January 20, 1919, for return to United States.

  Greenberg, Joseph G., No. 2414743, Private, 408 Jefferson Avenue,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.

  Gress, Edward G., No. 1737305, Private, 184 Weaver Avenue, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Taken sick
  and evacuated October 14th.

  Griffin, Carl E., No. 2414744, Private, 720 Grand Street, Elizabeth,
  N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Transferred
  to Graves Registration Service January 28, 1919.

  Haegerl, John, No. 3750635, Private, Route 1, Box 77, Butternut, Wis.
  Enlisted July 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Hagedorn, Otto C., No. 3752811, Private, Route 3, Box 60, Fall Creek,
  Wis. Enlisted July 26, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Hallock, Charles F., No. 2451048, Private, Sag Harbor, N. Y. Enlisted
  April 2, 1918; joined company April 16th. Slightly wounded in left
  ankle October 20th.

  Halpern, Max, No. 1748878, Private, 924 Bloomfield Street, Hoboken,
  N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Hansen, Emil L., No. 3329369, Corporal, R. F. D. 4, West Allis, Wis.
  Enlisted May 28, 1918; joined company October 12th. Taken sick and
  evacuated December 21st.

  Hansenberger, John G., No. 1750237, Pvt. 1st Class, (George
  Hansenberger, father), R. F. D. Odessa, N. Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action September 26th by shell
  which blew off both legs, during preparation for attack on enemy
  positions in Bois St. Claude.

  Hardies, William A., No. 2833530, Private, (Fred A. Hardies, father),
  2231 Cortez Street, Chicago, Ill. Joined company October 12, 1918.
  Killed in action October 30th, in Bois d’Negremont, by shrapnel in
  head and body while in support lines behind Grand Pre.

  Harriss, Raymond L., No. 2450329, Pvt. 1st Class, Rhinebeck, N. Y.
  Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company same date. Severely wounded in
  left side of face by one pound shell, September 23d.

  Hauber, George, No. 1737306, Corporal, 916 Clinton Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly
  wounded in hand and leg by shell fire September 19th; rejoined
  company November 3d.

  Hayden, Alexander M., No. 1746070, Sergeant, 1129 First Avenue,
  Asbury Park, N. J. Enlisted September 4, 1917; joined company same
  date. Reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company January 27, 1919. Qualified for
  and attended the Inter-Allied Meet at Le Mans in April, 1919.

  Haynes, Wilfred E., No. 2411615, Sergeant, Eatontown, N. J. Enlisted
  February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Evacuated September 2d
  with injuries incurred on athletic field in July.

  Healey, James J., No. 2942194, Pvt. 1st Class, 116 Clinton Street,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Heck, George W., No. 2414746, Corporal, 306 Court Street, Elizabeth,
  N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly
  wounded in left hand September 26th.

  Heichberger, George A., No. 1737306, Pvt. 1st Class, 109 Clare
  Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same
  date. Taken sick and evacuated January 3, 1919.

  Heiple, Loran L., No. 2941539, Private, DeSota, Ill. Enlisted April
  27, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly wounded in left thigh
  September 26th; returned to United States in November.

  Heisler, Karl K., No. 1746305, Sergeant, 703 Broad Street, Beverly,
  N. J. Enlisted September 18, 1917; joined company January 5, 1919.
  Sailed for overseas service with Company “I,” 311th Infantry.

  Henne, Fred, No. 1747743, Pvt. 1st Class, 963 Lafayette Street,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in left shoulder September 26th; rejoined company
  December 9th.

  Hennessey, Edward F., No. 2405759, Sergeant, Highlands, N. J.
  Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  Hess, John, No. 2060477, Corporal, 2860 West 22d Street, Chicago,
  Ill. Enlisted December 3, 1917; joined company October 12, 1918.

  Heymer, Louis R., No. 1749254, Private, 118 Palisade Avenue, West
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Received compound fracture left femur by shrapnel October 29th.

  Hill, Joseph L., No. 2420051, Sergeant, 218 West St. Louis Street,
  West Frankfort, Ill. Enlisted April 27, 1918; joined company same
  date. Severely wounded in both feet and right leg by shell fire
  September 24th. Returned to United States in December, 1918.

  Hillinski, Joseph, No. 2084238, Private, 300 Second Street, N. E.,
  Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October
  12th.

  Hoeck, Roy L., No. 1346490, Corporal, 1635 North Crawford Avenue,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted May 29, 1918; joined company December 10th.

  Hogan, George A., No. 1748879, Pvt. 1st Class, 1106 Grand Street,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Holly, Harold E., No. 1748541, Pvt. 1st Class, Demarest, N. J.
  Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Was taken sick and
  evacuated October 8th; afterwards a member of M. P. company 202, at
  Paris.

  Hughes, Eugene P., No. 1765263, Private, 1767 Seneca Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Wounded by
  gas November 4th.

  Hunterbrink, Charles A., No. 1749055, Corporal, 40 Thorne Street,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Huntley, Harry H., No. 2832015, Private, 1003 Wyman Street, New
  London, Wis. Enlisted May 25, 1918; joined company October 12th. Was
  slightly wounded in right arm October 20th; rejoined company December
  9th.

  Huston, Henry L., No. 1750238, Pvt. 1st Class, R. F. D. 1, Hector, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly wounded
  September 26th.

  Jacobi, William, No. 1749056, Private, 260 First Street, Hoboken,
  N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Severely
  wounded in left leg and right thigh September 26th.

  Janczjewski, Louis, No. 2833675, Private, 1115 Sixth Avenue,
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 29, 1918; joined company October 12th.
  Slightly wounded in upper arm October 20th. Returned to United States
  in January, 1919.

  Janicki, Alexander, No. 1737309, Private, Box 90, Grotten Street,
  Forks, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in left hand September 26th; rejoined company
  November 21st.

  Jern, Erick P., No. 3332962, Private, 373 Marion Avenue, Aurora,
  Ill., C. B. & Q. R. R. office. Enlisted June 23, 1918; joined company
  October 12th.

  Johnson, Carl E., No. 3753096, Pvt. 1st Class, Route 2, Box 109,
  Grand Rapids, Wis. Enlisted July 23, 1918; joined company October
  12th. Slightly wounded by shrapnel in upper arm October 22d; returned
  to United States in December, 1918.

  Johnson, Charles W., No. 2941548, Private, Six Mile Run, Penna.
  Enlisted April 22, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly wounded
  in left arm September 26th.

  Johnson, Edward J., No. 1746078, Corporal, 258 West 128th Street, New
  York City. Enlisted September 22, 1917; joined company same date.
  Transferred to 14th General Hospital, Boulogne, France, July 8th.

  Johnson, Lloyd F., No. 3335191, Private, Route 2, Box 68, Balabon,
  Minn. Enlisted June 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.
  Transferred to Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry, February 23,
  1919.

  Johnson, Oscar E., No. 3754218, Private (address unknown). Enlisted
  July 25, 1918; joined company October 12th. Slightly wounded by
  shrapnel in shoulder November 4th.

  Jones, James E., No. 1746069, Corporal, 613 Fourth Avenue, Bradley
  Beach, N. J. Enlisted November 21, 1917; joined company same date.
  Company Clerk until July 21st. Fell from lorry July 21st, fracturing
  leg and ankle, and was transferred to Upper Southard Hospital,
  Dartford, England. Returned to United States in December, 1918.

  Josephson, Emil B., No. 3746707, Private, P. O. Box 115, Hayward,
  Wis. Enlisted July 22, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Kahn, Leon L., No. 3337375, Private (address unknown). Enlisted June
  26, 1918; joined company October 12th. Severely wounded in face
  October 29th and died from wounds November 4th. Buried at Villes
  Daucourt.

  Kane, Albert J., No. 1748880, Pvt. 1st Class, 1029 Park Avenue,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Kapacius, Ignatius S., No. 2821449, Private, 12120 Halsted Street,
  West Pullman, Ill. Enlisted May 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Kapala, John J., No. 2084048, Mechanic, 1321 Third Street, N. E.,
  Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October
  12th.

  Karns, Jay B., No. 1765264, Corporal, 1899 Seneca Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Kaufman, Isidore, No. 2414750, Private, 356 Linden Avenue, Elizabeth,
  N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly
  wounded by shrapnel in left leg September 26th. Returned to United
  States in November.

  Kazmierczak, John S., No. 2824702, Pvt. 1st Class, 400 Madison
  Street, Beaver Dam, Wis. Enlisted July 27, 1918; joined company
  October 12th.

  Kelley, Leandrew T., No. 3270643, Pvt. 1st Class, Bradleyton,
  Alabama. Enlisted June 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.
  Transferred to 78th Division, M. P. Company, April 8, 1919.

  Keyes, Paul, No. 17490 57, Private, 208 Harrison Street, Harrison, N.
  J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Kilbourn, Henry, No. 1745902, Private, Jamesburg, N. J. Enlisted
  November 19, 1917; joined company same date. Transferred to
  Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry, September 10, 1918.

  Kilburn, Vallie J., No. 1752091, Pvt. 1st Class, Chestnut Street,
  Cardiff, Md. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Kindt, Edward W., No. 1737311, Private, (Mrs. Mary Kindt, mother),
  257 Howard Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined
  company same date. Killed in action September 24, 1918, in Bois St.
  Claude, by direct hit of shell, while on outpost duty.

  Kitson, John G., No. 1749073, Private, 275 Thirteenth Street, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Transferred to Supply Company, 311th Infantry, November 13th.

  Klosiak, Stanley F., No. 1737312, Private, 1074 Smith Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in left knee and body by shrapnel September 24th.
  Was later assigned to Service Battalion Army Schools, A. E. F.

  Koegel, William, No. 1749256, Private, (Miss Caroline Koegel,
  sister), 102 Leonard Street, Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26,
  1918; joined company same date. Killed in action in Bois St. Claude,
  September 26, 1918.

  Koehler, Herman G., No. 3337632, Private (Mrs. Mary C. Koehler,
  mother), 2418 Ninth Street, Rock Island, Ill. Joined company October
  12, 1918. Killed in action October 30th by shrapnel in back, while in
  support lines behind Grand Pre.

  Kopec, Antoni, No. 1763333, Pvt. 1st Class, 96 Lenora Street, Depew,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Koster, Theodore A., No. 3744398, Pvt. 1st Class, Route 5, Sterling,
  Ill. Enlisted June 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Kreiner, George J., No. 1749191, Private, 179 Hopkins Avenue, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company December 9, 1918.

  Kronhelm, Joseph E., No. 2829687, Corporal, 760 First Avenue,
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 28, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Kropidlowski, Peter W., No. 3752668, Private (John Kropidlowski,
  brother), Route 1, Box 14, Amherst Junction, Wis. Joined company
  October 12, 1918. Killed in action October 20th, northwest of Grand
  Pre during an attack upon Ferme des Loges.

  Krygier, Walter, No. 1737313, Private, 188 Coit Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly wounded
  over right eye by shrapnel September 19th. Afterwards assigned to
  Company “A,” 110th Infantry.

  Kuczkowski, Alexandre, No. 1737314, Private, (Mrs. Marion Kuczkowski,
  mother), 70 Woltz Avenue, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918;
  joined company same date. Severely wounded in right side and chest
  by shrapnel September 26th. Died in Evacuation Hospital No. 12,
  September 28th.

  Kuecker, Carl A., No. 2082342, Pvt. 1st Class, Brownsville, Minn.
  Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th. Slightly wounded
  by shrapnel in left arm October 30th; rejoined company December 9th.

  Kunferman, George, No. 3752853, Pvt. 1st Class, 611 Babcock Street,
  Eau Claire, Wis. Enlisted July 26, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Lambert, John C, No. 1748887, Pvt. 1st Class, 70 Gautier Avenue,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company December
  9th; sailed for overseas service with Company “E,” 311th Infantry.

  Lammert, Will J., No. 3752450, Private, Verdi, Minn. Enlisted July
  23, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Lander, Irving W., No. 2451020, Private, Stone Avenue, Elmsford, N.
  Y. Enlisted March 30, 1918; joined company April 16th. Taken sick and
  evacuated October 14th.

  Lang, Joseph J., No. 2409708, Private, 27 Ward Street, Maspeth, Long
  Island, N. Y. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt,
  Germany. Rejoined company December 16th.

  Lange, Fred C. H., No. 1748881, Private, 744 Park Avenue, Hoboken,
  N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly
  wounded in right leg October 29th.

  Larkin, Philip J., No. 2825537, Corporal, (address unknown). Enlisted
  May 28, 1918; joined company October 12th. Slightly wounded in right
  arm November 4th. Afterwards assigned to Company “I,” 320th Infantry.

  Larson, Olaf A., No. 2074383, Private, 1401 Washington Avenue,
  Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 22, 1918; joined company October
  12th. Slightly wounded in right thigh by shrapnel, October 30th;
  rejoined company January 24, 1919.

  Larson, Oscar L., No. 3333579, Private, 2728 Longfellow Avenue,
  Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 22, 1918; joined company October
  12th.

  Laurencell, Harry J., No. 1765267, Pvt. 1st Class, (Joseph
  Laurencell, father), 342 South Park Avenue, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted
  April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Killed in action September
  24th in Bois St. Claude, by direct hit of shell while on outpost duty.

  LaVigne, Harry, No. 2452392, Private, 300 West 17th Street, New York
  City. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company April 16th. Slightly
  wounded in left leg September 26th; returned to United States in
  December.

  Lawton, John G., No. 1328335, Corporal, Garnett, Hampton County,
  S. C. Enlisted April 5, 1917; joined company December 9, 1918.
  Transferred to 30th Division (with which he went to France) March 11,
  1919.

  Ledwin, Joseph, No. 1752090, Private, 64 Zittle Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly wounded
  in right arm October 20th; rejoined company December 17th.

  Lehy, Howard C., No. 1746071, Sergeant, (Mrs. John Lehy, mother),
  Oakhurst, N. J. Enlisted September 4, 1917; joined company same date.
  Killed in action by shrapnel October 17, 1918, at La Folie Ferme.

  Leitzke, Edward A., No. 3750112, Private, (William F. Leitzke,
  father), Route 1, Box 37, Burnett Junction, Wis. Enlisted July 24,
  1918; joined company October 12th; wounded in stomach and left arm by
  shrapnel October 31st, while in support lines behind Grand Pre; died
  in Mobile Hospital No. 2, same date.

  Lent, Arnold W., No. 3338546, Private, Stacy, Minn. Enlisted June 24,
  1918; joined company October 12th; severely wounded by shrapnel in
  left wrist October 31st.

  Leonard, Cyril T., No. 2414752, Private, 34 Sayre Street, Elizabeth,
  N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Taken sick
  due to exposure in Limey Sector and evacuated October 13th; returned
  to United States in December.

  Letmolee, Kittel N., No. 2081589, Pvt. 1st Class, Perley, Minn.
  Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Levy, Joseph, No. 1746080, Supply Sergeant, Freehold, N. J. Enlisted
  November 12, 1917; joined company same date. Appointed Supply
  Sergeant April 12, 1918; transferred to Army Candidate School October
  10th; rejoined company December 10th; transferred to 1st Replacement
  Depot, St. Aignan, for immediate discharge April 8, 1919. Mentioned
  in 78th Division General Orders No 6 for bravery on September 26th.

  Limbert, William D., No. 1755647, Private, (address unknown).
  Enlisted September 7, 1917; joined company August 16, 1918; wounded
  by gas burns October 22d.

  Lineski, John A., No. 2084164, Private, 1601 California Street, N.
  E., Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October
  12th.

  Lipowsky, Julius, No. 4566070, Private, 43 Rutgels Street, New York
  City. Enlisted August 27, 1918; joined company December 10th.

  Long, William G., No. 1737317, Corporal, 668 North Division Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.

  Lotesto, Rocco, No. 2822865, Private, 523 West 80th Street, Chicago,
  Ill. Enlisted May 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Lueders, Emil A., No. 2829483, Pvt. 1st Class, (address unknown).
  Joined company October 12th. Taken sick and evacuated October 20th.

  Lush, Adam J., No. 1749075, Private, 145 Eighth Street, Jersey
  City, N. J. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company January 7, 1919; transferred to
  Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry, March 8th.

  Lusier, Albert J., No. 2409712, Cook, 228 West Hazard Street,
  Philadelphia, Penna. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same
  date.

  Lykes, James H., No. 2409711, Pvt. 1st Class (Mrs. Catherine Lykes,
  mother), 30 Bowne Avenue, Freehold, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action September 26th, by bullet
  through body during general advance of company.

  McAslan, Walter W., No. 2450787, Pvt. 1st Class, 407 Second Street,
  Greenport, Long Island, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company
  April 16th; severely wounded in right shoulder and left hip September
  26th; rejoined company November 21st.

  McCarthy, Frederick H., No. 2411625, Pvt. 1st Class, 180 Brighton
  Avenue, Long Branch, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company
  same date; transferred to Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry June
  28th.

  McCumber, Norman, No. 1751361, Private, 482 William Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly
  wounded in right arm September 26th.

  McDonald, William, No. 2061019, Private, Curtis, Nebraska. Enlisted
  December 7, 1917; joined company October 12, 1918.

  McGarrity, Joseph R., No. 2411623, Corporal, 142 Bridge Avenue, Red
  Bank, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Severely wounded in left elbow September 26, 1918. Mentioned in 78th
  Division General Orders No. 6, for bravery in action on September
  24th.

  McGuire, James P., No. 2407801, Private, (address unknown). Enlisted
  February 25, 1918; joined company August 16th. Slightly wounded by
  shrapnel November 4th.

  McMahon, James C., No. 1749077, Private, 178 Eighteenth Street,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in left foot September 25th.

  McMahon, William C., No. 1765269, Pvt. 1st Class, 48 Walter Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Mackley, James E., No. 2452441, Private, 117 West South Street,
  Frederick City, Md. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company same date.
  Severely wounded in right lower leg September 26th.

  Madsen, Christ, No. 3335322, Pvt. 1st Class, 718 West Hickory Street,
  Stillwater, Minn. Enlisted June 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Magaski, William P., No. 3340770, Private, 2511 West Walton Street,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.
  Accidentally wounded in shoulder October 22d; rejoined company
  November 17th.

  Makowiecki, Boleslaw, No. 1747860, Private, (Mrs. Jadwiga Makowiecki,
  wife), 205 Weimar Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action September 26th by shrapnel
  in body and head during general advance of company in Limey Sector.

  Malone, Edward M., No. 2414753, Pvt. 1st Class, 1019 Olive Street,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.
  Severely wounded in back September 26th; rejoined company December
  9th; again evacuated on account of old wound December 16th.

  Mandinach, Oscar, No. 4566060, Pvt. 1st Class, 556 East 105th Street,
  Brooklyn, N. Y. Enlisted August 28, 1918; joined company December
  9th.

  Marcinkiewicz, Frank J., No. 2833843, Corporal, 1326 Fourth Avenue,
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 29, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Martin, Charles H., No. 2085824, Corporal, 3258 North California
  Avenue, Chicago, Ill. Enlisted February 27, 1918; joined company
  October 12th.

  Martocci, Salvatore, No. 2670129, Corporal, 160 West 100th Street,
  New York City. Enlisted April 4, 1918; joined company April 16th.

  Maske, Louis A., No. 1760024, Private, (Louis Maske, father), 82
  Baumann Street, Rochester, N. Y. Joined company August 16, 1918;
  severely wounded by shrapnel in right thigh September 26th; died
  while on way to hospital.

  Meister, John C., No. 1748543, Pvt. 1st Class, Washington Street,
  Dumont, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Meltzer, Sam M., No. 4566099, Private, 241 Madison Street, New York
  City. Enlisted August 28, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Mergan, Lewis W., No. 3746816, Private, 1610 Ohio Avenue, Superior,
  Wis. Enlisted July 22, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Mero, John, No. 2414755, Private, 44 James Place, Staten Island, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date; slightly wounded
  in right leg September 26th.

  Miller, Michael J., No. 1737318, Corporal, 441 Emslie Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Morath, Paul, No. 1760050, Private, (address unknown). Joined company
  August 16th. Severely wounded in left leg September 26th; died of
  wounds (date unknown).

  Morelli, Angelo, No. 2411627, Pvt. 1st Class, 215 Jane Street, Long
  Branch, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  Moroshick, Max, No. 4566061, Private, 488 Hinsdale Street, Brooklyn,
  N. Y. Enlisted August 28, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Morris, L. P. Morton, No. 2410780, Corporal, 128 Heck Avenue, Ocean
  Grove, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in left foot September 26th. Returned to United
  States in February, 1919.

  Morrison, John W., No. 3747447, Private, Route 20, Winneconne, Wis.
  Enlisted July 22, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Mouser, Charles J., No. 2411111, Pvt. 1st Class, Lincroft, N. J.
  Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Reported
  missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt,
  Germany; rejoined company January 25, 1919.

  Murphy, Thomas J., No. 1764987, Private, 295 Bailey Avenue, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Evacuated to
  hospital in September, 1918.

  Murphy, Robert A., No. 2827853, Private, (address unknown). Enlisted
  May 27, 1918; joined company October 12th. Taken sick and evacuated
  November 1st.

  Nelson, Carl E., No. 2084434, Pvt. 1st Class, 1422 James Avenue,
  North, Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 22, 1918; joined company
  October 12th; wounded (degree undetermined) in right elbow and
  forearm October 20th; rejoined company December 3d.

  Nelson, Otto, No. 3339872, Private, Route 1, Box 65, Stanchfield,
  Minn. Enlisted June 28, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Ness, Sander O., No. 3340000, Private, (address unknown). Enlisted
  June 27, 1918; joined company October 12th. Evacuated to hospital
  sick November 1st.

  Neuffer, Rinehart J., No. 1737319, Private, 50 Wagner Place, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Severely
  wounded in left leg and thigh September 26th.

  Newell, Clendenon S., No. 1748544, Sergeant, (Mrs. Leona D. Newell,
  mother), 165 Leonia Street, Leonia, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action October 20th by shrapnel
  through head from shell which struck a nearby tree and exploded,
  killing him while lying in his tent, while in support lines behind
  Grand Pre.

  Newell, James McC., No. 1773758, Sergeant (Officer Candidate), (James
  W. McConnell, Uncle), 800 Russell Street, Nashville, Tenn. Enlisted
  May 5, 1917; joined company October 27th; appointed 2nd Lieutenant
  effective June 1, 1918, and attached to Company “G,” 311th Infantry,
  July 15th; killed in action October 16, 1918.

  North, Harry E., No. 3534857, Private, 1325 West 117th Street,
  Cleveland, Ohio. Enlisted July 25, 1918; joined company December 9th.
  Evacuated to hospital December 21st.

  Norton, William H., No. 2414757, Sergeant, 1089 Magnolia Avenue,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.
  Transferred to 1st Replacement Depot, St. Aignan, for immediate
  discharge February 13, 1919.

  O’Connell, James M., No. 2450203, Pvt. 1st Class, 2070 Eastern
  Parkway, Brooklyn, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company April
  16th; reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company December 15th.

  O’Gara, John J., No. 1749059, Pvt. 1st Class, 72 Garden Street,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Reported wounded September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt,
  Germany; rejoined company December 15th.

  O’Hara, William F., No. 2414066, Private, 267 Pearl Street,
  Burlington, N. J. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company July 15th.
  Killed in action September 19th by shrapnel through head, while
  digging trenches--the first death casualty in company.

  O’Neill, William E., No. 1749060, Private, 222 Willow Avenue,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  O’Reilly, John J., No. 2942195, Pvt. 1st Class, 1036 Willow Avenue,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Wounded by gas burns October 30th; returned to United States in
  January, 1919.

  O’Rourke, Bernard J., No. 1764989, Private, 78 Eleventh Avenue, New
  York City. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Slightly
  wounded in heel September 19th.

  Ohin, Carl L., No. 3341710, Private, Box 6, Osco, Ill. Enlisted July
  10, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Osterweis, Dayton, No. 2411112, Sergeant, Hotel Endicott, New York
  City. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  Ovrid, Imbert A., No. 3758119, Private, Caperon, Ill. Enlisted August
  3, 1918; joined company October 12th; reported missing in action
  October 20th; was wounded by piece of rock being thrown against his
  knee by an exploding shell same date; rejoined company December 21st.

  Pankow, Arthur F. W., No. 3747293, Bugler, R. F. D. 6, Box 36,
  Merrill, Wis. Enlisted July 23, 1918; joined company October 12th.
  Evacuated to hospital April 24th.

  Perry, George H., No. 1746063, 1st Sergeant, 75 Heck Avenue, Ocean
  Grove, N. J. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same date;
  transferred to Depot Division 1st Army Corps, A. E. F., July 27th;
  rejoined company October 9th; appointed 1st Sergeant October 10th;
  evacuated to hospital October 26th; rejoined company December 27th;
  transferred to 1st Depot Division January 20, 1919.

  Peter, Charles, No. 1749195, Supply Sergeant, 208 Sherman Avenue,
  Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date;
  appointed Supply Sergeant November, 1918.

  Peterson, Elmer J., No. 3334575, Private, Route 1, Box 9, LeRoy,
  Minn. Enlisted June 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Peterson, Lawrence R., No. 1737320, Private, 54 Alma Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Admitted to
  14th General Hospital July 11th; rejoined company November 1st.

  Peterson, Theodore A., No. 1746062, Sergeant, Manasquan, N. J.
  Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same date; went on
  detached service with Division Headquarters June 26; dropped from
  rolls in January, 1919.

  Pettys, Levi M., No. 1752088, Pvt. 1st Class, Route 5, Cuba, N. Y.
  Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date; transferred to
  153rd Field Artillery Brigade July 15th.

  Picciano, Michael, No. 1748545, Private, Maple Avenue, Dumont, N. J.
  Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date; reported missing
  in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt, Germany;
  returned to United States in January 1919.

  Pilarski, Walter E., No. 1737322, Pvt. 1st Class, 77 Townsend Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date;
  severely wounded in left apex lung September 26th.

  Pitarro, Frank, No. 2411636, Pvt. 1st Class, 216 West Front Street,
  Red Bank, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date;
  reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company January 7, 1919.

  Pitzrick, William G., No. 3752487, Pvt. 1st Class, Barron, Wis.
  Enlisted July 23, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Price, Lory L., No. 2941581, Pvt. 1st Class, R. F. D. 6, Marion, Ill.
  Enlisted April 27, 1918; joined company same date; reported missing
  in action September 26; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt, Germany;
  rejoined company January 7, 1919; mentioned in 78th Division General
  Orders No. 6 for bravery in action September 26, 1918.

  Przyczkowski, Joseph J., No. 2833893, Private, 1041 First Avenue,
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 29, 1918; joined company October 12th;
  wounded in left leg (degree undetermined) October 20th; rejoined
  company December 12th; taken sick and evacuated to hospital December
  28th.

  Pushner, Jacob, No. 2954387, Private, 75 Bay Street, Brockton, Mass.
  Enlisted June 26, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Ranalletta, Achille, No. 3678854, Private, 531 State Street,
  Rochester, N. Y. Enlisted July 22, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Rasmussen, Leslie L., No. 2832009, Corporal, R. F. D. 2, Belmont,
  Wis. Enlisted May 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Ratkiewcus, John, No. 2828386, Private, 2929 West 40th Street,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted May 27, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Reed, Thomas P., No. 2669133, Private, 80 Ravine Avenue, Yonkers, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th.

  Reid, William M., No. 1746064, Sergeant, 114 West 39th Street, New
  York City. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same date;
  transferred to Army Candidate School September 28th. Mentioned in
  78th Division General Orders No. 6 for bravery in action September
  26th.

  Renski, John J., No. 1737324, Private, 140 Coit Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Severely wounded
  in right shoulder and neck September 26th.

  Richman, Fred, No. 4566016, Private, 8 Vernon Avenue, Brooklyn, N. Y.
  Enlisted August 28, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Richter, Otto R., No. 2410784, Corporal, Lewis Street, Oakhurst, N.
  J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date; served with
  Regimental Supply Company during campaign.

  Riedel, George I., No. 3747108, Pvt. 1st Class, Mosinee, Wis.
  Enlisted July 23, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Riess, Eugene, No. 2450873, Private, 141 West Sidney Avenue, Mt.
  Vernon, N. Y. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th.

  Riskey, John F., No. 3340152, Private, 924 Farrington Avenue, St.
  Paul, Minn. Enlisted June 27, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Robbins, Charles A., No. 1746061, 1st Sergeant, 150 Summit Street,
  South Manchester, Conn. Enlisted July 3, 1917; joined company
  September 7th; appointed 1st Sergeant August 1, 1918; slightly
  wounded by shrapnel in left leg September 26th; rejoined company
  December 17th; transferred to 1st Replacement Depot January 20, 1919;
  returned to United States in March 1919. Decorated with Distinguished
  Service Cross for bravery in action September 26, 1918.

  Rogers, George H., No. 1746067, Sergeant, Keyport, N. J. Enlisted
  September 22, 1917; joined company same date. Gassed September 19,
  1918; rejoined company November 15th.

  Ryan, William H., No. 2413606, Pvt. 1st Class, 157 Chestnut Street,
  Red Bank, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same
  date; reported missing in action September 26; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company January 7, 1919.

  Sanders, Will., No. 3662370, Private, Mott, Texas. Enlisted August 8,
  1918; joined company December 9th.

  Sapienza, Sabastiano, No. 2830845, Private, 2910 Wentworth Avenue,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted May 25, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Sasso, Aniello, No. 2410785, Private, 110 Aitkens Avenue, Asbury
  Park, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Slightly wounded in thumb November 4th; rejoined company January 15,
  1919.

  Sawyer, Elwood L., No. 1751858, Sergeant, 413 Morgan Avenue, Palmyra,
  N. J. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company November 13th. Sailed
  for overseas service with Supply Company 311th Infantry. Transferred
  to that company March 13, 1919.

  Schelter, John D., No. 1749263, Sergeant, (Mrs. Madeline Schelter,
  wife), 213 Terrace Avenue, Jersey City, N. J. Enlisted April 26,
  1918; joined company same date. Killed in action by shrapnel
  September 26th while on outpost duty.

  Schiefer, Jacob, No. 1764991, Private, 93 Kilburn Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date. Reported missing
  in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt, Germany;
  returned to United States in January 1919.

  Schmid, Alfred, No. 4561896, Corporal, 756 Cauldwell Avenue, Bronx,
  New York. Enlisted August 26, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Schmidt, Jack, No. 2828065, Corporal, 787½ Fifteenth Street,
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 27, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Schmidt, Walter J., No. 1976622, Pvt. 1st Class, Route 1, Binkmille,
  Ill. Enlisted September 17, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Schreiner, George, No. 2832956, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Frances
  Schreiner, mother), 332 Seventeenth Avenue, Milwaukee, Wis. Joined
  company October 12, 1918; killed in action October 20th northwest of
  Grand Pre, during an attack on Ferme des Loges.

  Schultz, Martin L., No. 2083969, Pvt. 1st Class, 1516 Grand Street,
  N. E., Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company
  December 9.

  Schultz, Walter, No. 1737326, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Mary Schultz,
  mother), 223 Metcalf Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action September 26th by machine
  gun bullets while resisting an enemy counter-attack.

  Schwenk, Michael A., No. 1737327, Private, 1012 Smith Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Sciancalepore, Louis, No. 1749063, Private, 229 Clinton Street,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Scory, John, No. 2481989, Mechanic, Box 94, Lansing, Ohio. Enlisted
  June 24, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Sculthorp, Warren D., No. 1746059, Mess Sergeant, 165 Riddle Avenue,
  Long Branch, N. J. Enlisted September 5, 1917; joined company same
  date; appointed Mess Sergeant October 1st; transferred to II Army
  Corps in August, 1918.

  Sculthorpe, Harold, No. 1746075, Cook, 25 Main Street, Asbury Park,
  N. J. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same date; burned
  by mustard gas October 30, 1918; rejoined company December 10th.

  Sheridan, Edward J., No. 1745938, Private, Ocean Avenue, Sea Bright,
  N. J. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same date but was
  afterwards transferred to Headquarters Company, same Regiment;
  rejoined company January 12, 1919.

  Sheridan, Leon J., No. 4563935, Private, 98 East Court Street,
  Cortland, N. Y. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company December 9th;
  transferred to Graves Registration Service January 28, 1919.

  Shipman, Maurice, No. 3661183, Pvt. 1st Class, Route 6, Honey Grove,
  Texas. Enlisted August 5, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Siems, Walter, No. 2833423, Pvt. 1st Class, (address unknown). Joined
  company October 12, 1918; severely wounded by shrapnel in right side
  of head and back November 4th.

  Skillen, Edmund S., No. 1747131, Corporal, 155 Madison Avenue,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date;
  slightly wounded in left leg September 26th; returned to United
  States in December, 1918.

  Slover, Luke E., Jr., No. 2411118, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Eva Smith,
  friend), Main Street, Keansburg N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918;
  joined company same date. Killed in action in Limey Sector September
  26th, by shrapnel, while carrying messages for company headquarters.
  Awarded Distinguished Service Cross for bravery in action September
  26th.

  Smith, James E., No. 1738837, Private, 1146 Pierce Avenue, Niagara
  Falls, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company August 16th;
  evacuated to hospital September 2d; rejoined company December 17th;
  evacuated to hospital December 28th.

  Smogola, Anton F., No. 2833924, Private, 1039 Third Avenue,
  Milwaukee, Wis. Enlisted May 29, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Sobol, Jacob I., No. 4561914, Private, 877 East 105th Street, Bronx,
  New York. Enlisted August 26, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Sokoloski, Martin J., No. 3330105, Corporal, 1016 West Denham Street,
  South Bend, Ind. Enlisted June 19, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Soldner, Raymond A., No. 1978502, Pvt. 1st Class, Kinmundy, Ill.
  Enlisted October 2, 1917; joined company December 9, 1918.

  Spensberger, John, No. 3306369, Pvt. 1st Class, 119 East 13th Street,
  Pittsburgh, Kansas. Enlisted June 23, 1918; joined company October
  12th.

  Stankiewicz, John, No. 2086296, Pvt. 1st Class, 857 North May Street,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted February 26, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Stiles, Bert W., No. 2414760, Sergeant, 511 Fifth Avenue, New York,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date. Appointed
  Company Clerk July 21st.

  Storck, William H., No. 2932855, Private, Fiat, Ohio. Enlisted June
  27, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Stringfield, Jasper, No. 3498489, Private, R. F. D. 1, Wheat, Tenn.
  Enlisted June 27, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Stuhser, Frank H., No. 3347505, Private, (Peter Stuhser, father), 728
  Second Street, Manasha, Wis. Joined company October 12, 1918. Killed
  in action October 30th by shrapnel while in support lines behind
  Grand Pre.

  Sullivan, John L., No. 1764992, Pvt. 1st Class, (Mrs. Martin Kelly,
  aunt), 141 Babcock Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918;
  joined company same date; killed in action November 4th, at Les
  Petites Armoises, by machine gun bullets, during an attack upon enemy
  machine gun nests.

  Sullivan, William, No. 3751681, Private, 314 von Minden Street, St.
  Paul, Minn. Enlisted July 25, 1918; joined company October 12th;
  transferred to Graves Registration Service January 28, 1919.

  Sutton, Lewis Z., No. 1745988, Corporal, 324 West Main Street,
  Moorestown, N. J. Enlisted September 18, 1917; joined company May 3,
  1918; reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company January 7, 1919.

  Suwalski, Jan, No. 1737331, Pvt. 1st Class, 102 Montgomery Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Sweeney, Hugh J., No. 1746066, Sergeant, (William Sweeney, father),
  123 West Main Street, Moorestown, N. J. Enlisted September 21, 1917;
  joined company same date. Slightly wounded in foot by ricochet bullet
  September 26, 1918, but nothing further was heard from him.

  Switalski, Ignatz W., No. 3329487, Private, Cudahy, Wis. Enlisted May
  28, 1918; joined company October 12th; slightly wounded in left hip
  October 25th; rejoined company December 4th.

  Szymczak, John, No. 1737332, Private, 911 Smith Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Tannenbaum, David, No. 4566084, Private, 55 East Second Street, New
  York City. Enlisted August 28, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Taras, Sebastiano, No. 1748548, Private (John Taras, brother), 128
  Central Avenue, Leonia, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company
  same date. Wounded in action September 26th (degree undetermined);
  reported died of wounds (date and place unknown).

  Tarlack, Bernard, No. 2060527, Private, 3128 Lincoln Avenue, Chicago,
  Ill. Enlisted September 19, 1917; joined company October 12, 1918.

  Tatoian, John C, No. 3329255, Corporal, 11700 Lowe Avenue, West
  Pullman, Ill. Enlisted May 3, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Tauber, Gustave, No. 2670074, Private, 25 McKibben Street, Brooklyn,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 4, 1918; joined company April 16th; reported
  missing in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt,
  Germany; rejoined company January 7, 1919.

  Thompson, George M., No. 1746073, Mechanic, 210 Academy Street,
  Trenton, N. J. Enlisted September 8, 1918; joined company same date;
  reported missing in action September 26, 1918; was prisoner at Camp
  Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company January 7, 1919.

  Tietje, John F., No. 4 561770, Private, 175 Park Avenue, Corning, N.
  Y. Enlisted August 26, 1918; joined company December 9th; transferred
  to Graves Registration Service January 28, 1919.

  Tuthill, George L., No. 2450789, Mechanic, (Mrs. E. W. Tuthill,
  mother), Jamesport, New York. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company
  April 16th; wounded in right arm October 20th; died of Hypostatic
  Pneumonia February 25, 1919, at Base Hospital No. 77, caused by
  wounds; buried in grave number 363, American Burial Plot, assigned,
  Beaune, Cote d’or, France.

  Ullrich, Lewis W., No. 2061989, Private, 3711 North Troy Street,
  Chicago, Ill. Enlisted March 12, 1918; joined company October 12th.

[Illustration: 4th Platoon, Flavigny, France, 1919.]

  Vafiadis, William K., No. 2412153, Private, 182 Broadway, Long
  Branch, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.
  Severely wounded in right shoulder and face September 26th.

  Venche, Tony, No. 2411124, Pvt. 1st Class, Matawan, N. J. Enlisted
  February 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  Vermette, Gilbert W., No. 4563913, Private, R. F. D. 2, Malone, N. Y.
  Enlisted August 26, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Vieths, Friedrich G., No. 2082894, Corporal, Box “F,” Goodhue, Minn.
  Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th; transferred
  to 1st Replacement Depot, St. Aignan, April 6, 1919, for immediate
  discharge.

  Vorta, Nicholas, No. 2450906, Private, (Mrs. Agnes Vorta, mother),
  1444 Edwards Avenue, Bronx, Westchester County, N. Y. Enlisted
  April 1, 1918; joined company April 16th; slightly wounded in scalp
  September 20th, received 1st Aid and returned to duty same date;
  killed in action September 26th by pistol bullet in head, shot by
  German officer, during general advance of company.

  Vrieze, Reuben, No. 2080897, Private, Route 1, Lime Spring, Iowa.
  Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company October 12th.

  Viscuso, Frank, No. 1749080, Private, 641 Grove Street, Jersey City,
  N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date.

  Wallace, Walter R., No. 3659523, Private, Carlsbad, New Mexico.
  Enlisted August 5, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Wandry, Carl, No. 3347495, Mechanic (address unknown). Enlisted July
  22, 1918; joined company October 12th; slightly wounded in right leg
  October 30th.

  Warner, Theodore H., No. 2450897, Private, c/o Mrs. T. W. Sadlier
  (sister), Quoque, New York. Enlisted April 1, 1918; joined company
  April 16th; reported missing in action September 26th; was prisoner
  at Camp Rastatt, Germany; rejoined company January 16, 1919.

  Webb, William, No. 2409728, Pvt. 1st Class, 170 Jefferson Street,
  Trenton, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date;
  slightly wounded in right hand September 26th.

  Weber, Benjamin, No. 1746086, Mess Sergeant, 355 Joline Avenue, Long
  Branch, N. J. Enlisted November 19, 1917; joined company same date;
  with sergeant Welsh captured the first prisoner taken by the company;
  appointed Mess Sergeant November 10th.

  Weidman, John C., No. 1737335, Corporal, (Mrs. Justina Weidman,
  mother), 364 Watson Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918;
  joined company same date; killed in action September 24th by direct
  hit from shell while on outpost duty.

  Weinstein, Nathan, No. 4561941, Private, 603 Prospect Avenue, Bronx,
  N. Y. Enlisted August 26, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Wekony, Julius, No. 2059420, Cook, 4907 West Eddy Street, Chicago,
  Ill. Enlisted October 4, 1917; joined regiment October 12, 1918;
  joined company November 23d.

  Welsh, Edward J., No. 2409727, Sergeant, c/o Margaret Eisenberg
  (sister), 1719 Carlton Street, Philadelphia, Pa. Enlisted February
  25, 1918; joined company same date; with sergeant Weber captured
  the first prisoner taken by the company; severely wounded by seven
  machine gun bullets in right wrist and both arms October 20th; cited
  for bravery in Limey Sector; decorated with Distinguished Service
  Cross for bravery in Meuse-Argonne fight.

  Westlund, Gust V., No. 2074345, Pvt. 1st Class, 229 Twentieth Avenue,
  South, Minneapolis, Minn. Enlisted June 24, 1918; joined company
  October 12th.

  Wheeler, Raymerd, No. 2932858, Pvt. 1st Class, Peoli, Ohio. Enlisted
  June 27, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  White, Henry R., No. 1746087, Bugler, Center Street, Sea Bright, N.
  J. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same date; slightly
  wounded September 26th; returned to United States in December.

  White, Thomas A., No. 1764994, Corporal, 291 Babcock Street, Buffalo,
  N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  White, Tracy S., No. 2410793, 1st Sergeant, 1215 L Street, Belmar, N.
  J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date. Appointed
  1st Sergeant November 10th; decorated with Distinguished Service
  Cross for bravery in Meuse-Argonne battles.

  Willett, Cornelius V. S., No. 2411126, Mechanic, Port Monmouth, N.
  J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date; slightly
  wounded October 20th.

  Williams, Claude L., No. 1750243, Corporal, R. F. D. 1, Hector, N. Y.
  Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.

  Williams, John, No. 1749065, Corporal, 116 Bloomfield Street,
  Hoboken, N. J. Enlisted April 26, 1918; joined company same date;
  slightly wounded in left hip September 26th.

  Willmore, Herbert McK., No. 2941605, Pvt. 1st Class, R. F. D. 3, West
  Frankfort, Ill. Enlisted April 27, 1918; joined company same date.

  Wilson, Carol, No. 2413196, Sergeant, New Street, Sea Bright, N. J.
  Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date; Mess Sergeant
  from July 21st to October 20th, at which time he was transferred to
  Army Candidate School; rejoined company December 17th; transferred to
  Headquarters Company, 311th Infantry, and appointed Regimental Color
  Sergeant, February 3, 1919.

  Winemiller, Robert B., No. 1746088, Bugler, 320 Tuttle Avenue, Spring
  Lake, N. J. Enlisted September 21, 1917; joined company same date;
  slightly wounded in left hand September 26; rejoined company December
  1st.

  Wise, Henry B., No. 2670038, Pvt. 1st Class, 215 West 101st Street,
  New York City. Enlisted April 4, 1918; joined company same date.

  Wolcott, George T., No. 2411649, Corporal, (Mrs. Harriet Wolcott,
  wife), 214 Newark Avenue, Bloomfield, N. J. Enlisted February 25,
  1918; joined company same date; killed in action September 26th by
  machine gun bullet while rushing an enemy machine gun.

  Wolff, George C., No. 3454499, Pvt. 1st Class, 1808 Emma Street,
  Menominee, Mich. Enlisted July 14, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Wolfskeil, John E., No. 2414764, Corporal, 318 Linden Street,
  Elizabeth, N. J. Enlisted April 2, 1918; joined company same date.

  Wolley, Harry T., No. 2410794, Corporal, 132 Main Avenue, Ocean
  Grove, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date;
  slightly wounded in right hand September 26th; returned to United
  States in February 1919.

  Wolotkin, Benjamin, No. 4566100, Private, 24 Cannon Street, New York
  City. Enlisted August 28, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Woolley, Francis P., No. 2411651, Corporal, 388 Columbus Place, Long
  Branch, N. J. Enlisted February 25, 1918; joined company same date.

  Woolley, James B., No. 2409730, Corporal, Farmingdale, N. J. Enlisted
  February 25, 1918; joined company, same date; reported missing in
  action September 26th; was wounded and evacuated to hospital same
  date; rejoined company December 9th.

  Worsfold, Albert J., No. 3335949, Private (Mrs. Hannah Worsfold,
  mother), Stark, Ill. Enlisted June 25, 1918; joined company October
  12th; killed in action November 4th near Les Petites Armoises.

  Zalace, Dan C. Z., No. 3656966, Private, Eaton, Colorado. Enlisted
  June 24, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Zanni, Michael, No. 2450800, Private, (Raffaeli Santone, friend),
  Ardsley, N. Y. Enlisted March 30, 1918; joined company April 16th;
  killed in action by sniper’s bullet through head, September 26th.

  Zenzian, Kajetan, No. 2422045, Private, 437 Fourteenth Street, West
  New York, N. J. Enlisted May 29, 1918; joined company December 9th.

  Ziefski, Frank, No. 1764997, Private, 224 Winona Street, Buffalo, N.
  Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date; reported missing
  in action September 26th; was prisoner at Camp Rastatt, Germany;
  rejoined company January 7, 1919.

  Zwolinkiewicz, Frank, No. 1737337, Corporal, 132 Detroit Street,
  Buffalo, N. Y. Enlisted April 3, 1918; joined company same date.



ROSTER OF THE COMPANY

  When Sailing Overseas
  Replacements from 86th Division
  Replacements from other Units of the 311th Infantry
  All other Replacements


WHEN SAILING OVERSEAS

  1st Sergeant
  Maxwell B. Ertwine

  Mess Sergeant
  Warren D. Sculthorp

  Supply Sergeant
  Joseph Levy

  Sergeants
  James McC. Newell
  Charles A. Robbins
  Theodore A. Peterson
  George H. Perry
  William M. Reid
  Peyton R. Anness
  Hugh J. Sweeney
  George H. Rogers
  Alexander M. Hayden
  Howard C. Lehy
  Wilfred E. Haynes
  Carol Wilson

  Corporals
  James E. Jones
  Edward J. Johnson
  Robert B. Winemiller
  Harry T. Wolley
  Edward F. Hennessey
  John A. Geoghegan
  Walter DeGrote
  Joseph H. Fahey
  George T. Wolcott
  Francis P. Woolley
  Bert W. Stiles
  Joseph Apicelli
  Frank Zwolinkiewicz
  Joseph R. McGarrity
  L. P. Morton Morris
  Tracy S. White
  Dayton Osterweis
  Walter J. Ahearn
  John C. Weidman

  Mechanics
  Lester E. Farry
  George M. Thompson
  George L. Tuthill
  Cornelius V. S. Willett

  Cooks
  Harold Sculthorpe
  Walter deBruin
  Albert J. Lusier
  Joseph J. Lang

  Buglers
  Henry R. White
  James H. Lykes

  Privates 1st Class
  William B. Ackerman
  Joseph S. Aldridge
  Earl Barnes
  John M. Benzing
  William G. Butler
  Dominick Calabrese
  William J. Campbell
  Samuel E. Chiaradio
  Herbert M. P. Cocker
  Lawrence M. Croft
  Albert Deile, Jr.
  Thomas E. Devine
  Eugene Ely
  William G. Emerson
  John F. Fahey
  Gustave E. Fleischmann
  Sam Freedman
  John G. Hansenberger
  Raymond L. Harriss
  George W. Heck
  George A. Heichberger
  George A. Hogan
  Henry L. Huston
  Isidore Kaufman
  Vallie J. Kilburn
  Harry J. Laurencell
  Frederick H. McCarthy
  Edward M. Malone
  Charles J. Mouser
  Clendenon S. Newell
  Bernard J. O’Rourke
  Charles Peter
  Levi M. Pettys
  Walter E. Pilarski
  William H. Ryan
  John D. Schelter
  Walter Schultz
  Edmund S. Skillen
  Luke E. Slover, Jr.
  Lewis Z. Sutton
  Tony Venche
  Theodore H. Warner
  William M. Webb
  Benjamin Weber
  Edward J. Welsh
  Thomas A. White
  John E. Wolfskeil
  James B. Woolley

  Privates
  William Y. Ackerman
  Walter G. Amann
  George J. Anderson
  Stanislaw Andrzejewski
  William A. Angevine
  Aldo Annibalini
  Carmine Arcuri
  Carmelo Baiano
  Walter V. Ball
  William Baumann
  Mervin Bement
  John Bernhard
  Barnett Bernstein
  Harry C. Best
  William Birk
  Joseph Bishop
  James Blair
  George L. Blount
  William D. Bogart
  John F. Byreiter
  Stanley F. Bogucki
  Joseph A. Boucher
  Edward H. Boyle
  Bertrand G. Brooks
  Louis Buechler
  Harold E. Burchell
  John F. Burke
  James E. Cahill
  Frederick S. Campanini
  Anthony Cardell
  Joseph R. Cassely
  Natale A. Centofante
  Pietro Colaguori
  Rosario Collura
  Frank J. Connolly
  Elmer W. Cook
  Henry A. Cordes
  Alonzo Cottrell
  John E. Culkowski
  Joseph M. Curcio
  Matthew V. Curtin
  Frank Czajka
  Michael Daeschler
  Guisseppe Damato
  Harvey R. Dash
  Louis F. Denler
  James J. Diskin
  John E. Donohue
  Harry Effingham
  William J. Ellison
  Patrick J. Feeney
  Elmer Fellows
  William H. Fielding
  Jacob J. Fischer
  Joseph Formes
  Albert P. Frey
  William E. Furlong
  Julius Gaier
  Edward F. Glenn
  Israel Goldberg
  Joseph F. Goodwin
  Joseph G. Greenberg
  Edward G. Gress
  Carl E. Griffin
  Charles F. Hallock
  Max Halpern
  George Hauber
  James J. Healey
  Loran L. Heiple
  Fred Henne
  Louis R. Heymer
  Joseph L. Hill
  Harold E. Holly
  Eugene P. Hughes
  Charles A. Hunterbrink
  William Jacobi
  Alexander Janicki
  Charles W. Johnson
  Albert B. Kane
  Jay B. Karnes
  Henry Kilbourn
  Edward W. Kindt
  John G. Kitson
  Stanley E. Klosiak
  William Koegel
  Paul Keyes
  Antoni Kopec
  Walter Krygier
  Alexandre Kuczkowski
  Irving W. Lander
  Fred C. H. Lange
  Harry LaVigne
  Joseph Ledwin
  Cyril T. Leonard
  William G. Long
  Adam J. Lush
  James E. Mackley
  Boleslaw Makowiecki
  Salvatore Martocci
  Walter W. McAslan
  Norman McCumber
  James C. McMahon
  William C. McMahon
  John C. Meister
  John Mero
  Michael J. Miller
  Angelo Morelli
  Thomas J. Murphy
  Rinehart J. Neuffer
  William H. Norton
  James M. O’Connell
  John J. O’Gara
  William E. O’Neill
  John J. O’Reilly
  Lawrence R. Peterson
  Michael Picciano
  Frank Pitarro
  Lory L. Price
  Thomas P. Reed
  John J. Renski
  Otto R. Richter
  Eugene Riess
  Aniello Sasso
  Jacob Schiefer
  Louis Sciancalepore
  Michael A. Schwenk
  John L. Sullivan
  Jan Suwalski
  John Szymczak
  Sebastiano Taras
  Gustave Tauber
  William K. Vafiadis
  Frank Viscuso
  Nicholas Vorta
  Claude L. Williams
  John Williams
  Herbert McK. Willmore
  Henry B. Wise
  Michael Zanni
  Frank Ziefski


JOINED OVERSEAS


From Other Units of the 311th Infantry

  Frank W. Clark
  Karl K. Heisler
  John C. Lambert
  William F. O’Hara
  Elwood L. Sawyer
  Edward J. Sheridan


From 86th Division

  Oscar Albitz
  John A. Anderson
  John A. Awe
  Hazar Barsamian
  Joseph Benzschawel
  Peter Bloome
  Gust W. Bloomquist
  Walter Boettcher
  Edward Borg
  Arthur F. Brand
  Carl M. Brenner
  Elijah E. Brown
  Peter E. Cantu
  Charlie Carr
  Harry Closeman
  Joseph Congelosi
  Charles Corbine
  John Danielson
  Stanley Deleskie
  Joseph P. Dollard
  Walter A. Dreher
  Robert E. Edgerly
  Alfredo Ennocenti
  Albert C. Erickson
  Gustave F. Erlandson
  Norman W. Fay
  Frank Ferrians
  Othmar S. B. Gantert
  Paul E. Golling
  John Haegerl
  Otto C. Hagedorn
  Emil Hansen
  William A. Hardies
  John Hess
  Joseph Hillinski
  Harry H. Huntley
  Louis Janczjewski
  Erick P. Jern
  Carl E. Johnson
  Lloyd F. Johnson
  Oscar E. Johnson
  Emil B. Josephson
  Leon L. Kahn
  Ignatius S. Kapacius
  John J. Kapala
  John S. Kazmierczak
  Leandrew T. Kelley
  Herman G. Koehler
  Theodore A. Koster
  Joseph E. Kronhelm
  Peter W. Kropidlowski
  Carl A. Kuecker
  George Kunferman
  Will J. Lammert
  Phillip J. Larkin
  Olaf A. Larson
  Oscar L. Larson
  Edward A. Leitzke
  Arnold W. Lent
  Kittel N. Letmolee
  John A. Lineski
  Rocco Lotesto
  Emil A. Lueders
  William McDonald
  Christ Madsen
  William P. Magaski
  Frank J. Marcinkiewicz
  Charles H. Martin
  Lewis N. Mergan
  John W. Morrison
  Robert A. Murphy
  Carl E. Nelson
  Otto Nelson
  Sander O. Ness
  Carl L. Ohrn
  Imbert A. Ovrid
  Arthur F. W. Pankow
  Elmer J. Peterson
  William G. Pitzrick
  Joseph J. Przyczkowski
  Leslie L. Rasmussen
  John Ratkiewcus
  George I. Riedel
  John F. Riskey
  Sabastiano Sapienza
  George Schreiner
  Jack Schmidt
  Walter S. Siems
  Anton F. Smogola
  Martin J. Sokoloski
  John Spensberger
  John Stankiewicz
  Frank H. Stuhser
  William Sullivan
  Ignatz W. Switalski
  Bernard Tarlack
  John C. Tatoian
  Lewis W. Ullrich
  Friedrich G. Vieths
  Reuben Vrieze
  Carl L. Wandry
  Gust V. Westlund
  Julius Wekony
  Albert J. Worsfold


Miscellaneous

  Anthony Accetturo
  Frank C. Allen
  Harry R. Broomhall
  Levi C. Cowser
  Earl B. Clark
  Harry Lee Cole
  Newton C. Ashlock
  Clarence R. Cobble
  Wilbert A. Eastman
  Morris F. Fergus
  Max Goodman
  Roy L. Hoeck
  George J. Kreiner
  Julius Lipowsky
  John G. Lawton
  William D. Limbert
  Oscar Mandinach
  Max Moroshick
  Sam Meltzer
  Louis A. Maske
  Paul Morath
  James P. McGuire
  Harry E. North
  Jacob Pushner
  Fred Richman
  Achille Ranalletta
  Alfred Schmid
  Jacob I. Sobol
  Jasper Stringfield
  Maurice Shipman
  Will Sanders
  Leon J. Sheridan
  John Scory
  Walter G. Schmidt
  Raymond A. Soldner
  William G. Storck
  James E. Smith
  Martin L. Schultz
  David Tannenbaum
  John F. Tietje
  Gilbert W. Vermette
  Walter R. Wallace
  Nathan Weinstein
  Benjamin Wolotkin
  George C. Wolff
  Raymerd Wheeler
  Kajetan Zenzian
  Dan C. Z. Zalace



NUMBER OF OFFICERS AND MEN IN THE COMPANY BY STATES


                    Original Company    Replacements
  State              Officers   Men    Officers   Men

  Alabama                                 1        1
  California                     1
  Colorado                                         1
  Connecticut                    1
  Illinois                       5                30
  Indiana                                          1
  Iowa                                             1
  Kansas                                           1
  Maryland                       2
  Massachusetts         1        2        1        1
  Michigan                                         1
  Minnesota                                       23
  Nebraska                                         1
  New Jersey                   115        1        8
  New Mexico                                       1
  New York              4      100        3       17
  Ohio                                    1        8
  Oregon                                           1
  Pennsylvania                   6
  South Carolina                                   1
  Tennessee             1        1                 2
  Texas                                            3
  Wisconsin                                       37
                       --     ----       --     ----
                        6      232        7      140
  Canada                                           1
  Unknown                                         17
                       --     ----       --     ----
            Total       6      232        7      158


NUMBER OF CASUALTIES IN THE COMPANY

                          Officers    Men
  Killed in Action           1         35
  Died of Wounds             1         12
  Died of Disease            0          0
                            --       ----
                             2         47
  Wounded in Action          1         83
  Accidentally Wounded       0          6
  Gassed                     0         10
  Missing in Action          1         22
                            --       ----
      Total--all classes     4        168



LIST OF CASUALTIES


KILLED IN ACTION

  1st Lieut.
  Roy A. Schuyler

  Sergeants
  Lehy, Howard C.
  Newell, Clendedon S.
  Newell, James McC.
  Schelter, John D.

  Corporals
  Apicelli, Joseph
  Weidman, John C.
  Wolcott, George T.

  Pvts. 1st Class
  Butler, William G.
  Deleskie, Stanley
  Effingham, Harry
  Erlandson, Gustave F.
  Hansenberger, John G.
  Laurencell, Harry J.
  Lykes, James H.
  Schreiner, George
  Schultz, Walter
  Slover, Luke E.
  Sullivan, John L.

  Privates
  Arcuri, Carmine
  Burchell, Harold E.
  Cahill, James E.
  Cantu, Peter E.
  Cole, Harry L.
  Dollard, Joseph P.
  Hardies, William A.
  Kindt, Edward W.
  Koegel, William
  Koehler, Herman G.
  Kropidlowski, Peter W.
  Makowiecki, Boleslau
  O’Hara, William F.
  Stuhser, Frank H.
  Vorta, Nicholas
  Worsfold, Albert J.
  Zanni, Michael


DIED OF WOUNDS

  1st Lieut.
  William S. Lahey

  Mechanics
  Farry, Lester E.
  Tuthill, George L.

  Pvts. 1st Class[A]
  Ackerman, William B.
  Burke, John F.

  Privates
  Ellison, William J.
  Erickson, Albert C.
  Kahn, Leon L.
  Kuczkowski, Alexandre
  Lietzke, Edward A.
  Maske, Louis A.
  Morath, Paul
  Taras, Sebastiano


GASSED

  Sergeant
  Rogers, George H.

  Cooks
  deBruin, Walter
  Sculthorpe, Harold

  Pvts. 1st Class
  Amann, Walter G.
  Centofante, Natale A.
  Chiaradio, Samuel E.
  Cordes, Henry A.
  O’Reilly, John J.

  Privates
  Hughes, Eugene P.
  Limbert, William D.


ACCIDENTALLY WOUNDED

  Corporal
  Jones, James E.

  Pvts. 1st Class
  Barnes, Earl
  Campanini, Frederick S.
  Fleischmann, Gustave E.

  Privates
  Damato, Guisseppe
  Magaski, William P.


WOUNDED IN ACTION

  2nd Lieut.
  Henry M. Merrill

  1st Sergeant
  Charles A. Robbins

  Sergeants
  Fahey, Joseph H.
  Hill, Joseph L.
  Sweeney, Hugh J.
  Welsh, Edward J.

  Corporals
  Congelosi, Joseph
  Hauber, George
  Heck, George W.
  Larkin, Phillip J.
  McGarrity, Joseph R.
  Morris, L. P. Morton
  Skillen, Edmund S.
  Williams, John
  Wolley, Harry T.
  Woolley, James B.

  Mechanics
  Wandry, Carl L.
  Willett, Cornelius

  Buglers
  Winemiller, Robert B.
  White, Henry R.

  Pvts. 1st Class
  Chiaradio, Samuel E.
  Ely, Eugene
  Feeney, Patrick J.
  Freedman, Sam
  Harriss, Raymond L.
  Henne, Fred
  Huston, Henry L.
  Johnson, Carl E.
  Kaufman, Isidore
  Kuecker, Carl A.
  McAslan, Walter W.
  Malone, Edward M.
  Nelson, Carl E.
  O’Rourke, Bernard J.
  Pilarski, Walter E.
  Siems, Walter S.
  Webb, William M.

  Privates
  Annibalini, Aldo
  Baiano, Carmelo
  Barsamian, Hazar
  Bogucki, Stanley F.
  Boucher, Joseph A.
  Brenner, Carl M.
  Brooks, Bertrand G.
  Cook, Elmer W.
  Curcio, Joseph M.
  Curtin, Matthew V.
  Czajka, Frank
  Danielson, John
  Diskin, James J.
  Donohue, John E.
  Fielding, William H.
  Formes, Joseph
  Furlong, William E.
  Gaier, Julius
  Goldberg, Israel
  Hallock, Charles F.
  Heiple, Loran L.
  Heymer, Louis R.
  Huntley, Harry H.
  Jacobi, William
  Janczjewski, Louis
  Janicki, Alexander
  Johnson, Charles W.
  Johnson, Oscar E.
  Klosiak, Stanley E.
  Krygier, Walter
  Lange, Fred. C. H.
  Larson, Olaf A.
  LaVigne, Harry
  Ledwin, Joseph
  Lent, Arnold W.
  McCumber, Norman
  McGuire, James P.
  McMahon, James C.
  Mackley, James E.
  Mero, John
  Neuffer, Rinehart J.
  Ovrid, Imbert A.
  Przyczkowski, Joseph J.
  Renski, John J.
  Sasso, Aniello
  Switalski, Ignatz W.
  Vafiadis, William K.

[B]MISSING IN ACTION

  1st Lieut.
  Herbert R. Vanderbilt

  Sergeant
  Hayden, Alexander M.

  Corporal
  Sutton, Lewis Z.

  Mechanic
  Thompson, George M.

  Pvts. 1st Class
  Benzing, John M.[C]
  Cocker, Herbert M. P.
  Mouser, Charles J.
  O’Connell, James M.[D]
  O’Gara, John J.
  Pitarro, Frank
  Price, Lory L.
  Ryan, William H.

  Privates
  Bernhard, John
  Birk, William
  Bishop, Joseph
  Blount, George L.
  Lang, Joseph J.
  Lush, Adam J.
  Picciano, Michael
  Schiefer, Jacob
  Tauber, Gustave
  Warner, Theodore H.
  Ziefski, Frank



MEMBERS OF COMPANY “B,” 311TH INFANTRY WHO WERE DECORATED WITH THE
DISTINGUISHED SERVICE CROSS.


FIRST SERGEANT, CHARLES A. ROBBINS.

On September 26, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, two kilometers
northeast of Vieville-en-Haye, Sergeant Bobbins, although painfully
wounded in the knee, during advance, he continued to the objective,
rendered valuable assistance in reorganizing his company and refused to
retire until ordered to do so by Company Commander. He thereupon helped
to carry several other wounded to the First Aid Station before his own
condition was observed and he was evacuated.

FIRST SERGEANT, TRACY S. WHITE.

For extraordinary heroism in action near Ferme des Loges, France, 19th
October, 1918. When the position his company held was enfiladed and
communication to the rear cut off, he volunteered to carry a message to
the battalion commander after several runners had been killed in the
attempt. Crossing ground swept by intense machine gun and artillery
fire, he delivered the message and returned with orders as to the
disposition of the company.

SERGEANT, JOSEPH H. FAHEY.

On September 26, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, two kilometers
northeast of Vieville-en-Haye, when his platoon was enfiladed by
several enemy machine guns, made three attempts to rush same, retiring
only when he and his companions had been badly wounded or killed.

Sergeant Fahey was also decorated with the French Croix de Guerre.

SERGEANT, EDWARD J. WELSH.

On September 24, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, two kilometers
northeast of Vieville-en-Haye, while his platoon was holding the
outpost line, under heavy shell fire and in the open, Sergeant (then
Corporal) Welsh’s platoon commander and all platoon sergeants were
killed or wounded. He promptly took charge, reorganizing his platoon,
and held his sector until relieved.

PRIVATE 1st CLASS, JOSEPH S. ALDRIDGE, JR.

On the night of September 24-25, 1918, at Bois de Grande, Fontaine,
two kilometers northeast of Vieville-en-Haye, Pvt. 1st Class Aldridge
carried messages repeatedly between Company and Battalion Headquarters
through a heavy enemy barrage; also took place of a wounded litter
bearer and brought in wounded under shell fire.

PRIVATE 1st CLASS, LUKE E. SLOVER, JR. (Deceased).

On the night of September 24-25, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, two
kilometers northeast of Vieville-en-Haye, Private 1st Class Slover
carried messages repeatedly between Company and Battalion Headquarters
through a heavy enemy barrage; also took place of a wounded litter
bearer and brought in wounded under heavy shell fire.



MEMBERS OF COMPANY “B,” 311TH INFANTRY MENTIONED IN 78TH DIVISION
GENERAL ORDERS NO. 6


EXTRACT: “The Division Commander desires to record in the General
Orders of the 78th Division some of the deeds of men of this command
which were marked by the display of the highest of soldierly
qualities--initiative, dauntless courage, self-sacrifice and steadfast
devotion to duty which offered a constant inspiration to all who
came to have knowledge thereof and which contributed largely, in the
aggregate, to the success of the division’s operations against the
enemy.”

1st LIEUT. ROY A. SCHUYLER, (Deceased)

On September 26, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, after holding
outpost line with his platoon for three days under continuous shell
fire, without shelter and under most trying weather conditions on being
ordered to advance, led his men with most conspicuous gallantry through
a heavy barrage, took his objective, reorganized his command, where,
while posting men in observation in front of his position, with utmost
disregard of his personal safety, he was killed.

2nd LIEUT. RAYMOND B. DUNN.

On September 26, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, advanced with his
platoon through heavy enemy barrage; after heavy losses joined company
at objective with remaining five men, showing great coolness and
courage in organizing and defending new position under fire.

SERGEANT WILLIAM M. REID.

On September 26, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, after his platoon
leader was killed, took command of platoon and handled same most
gallantly and efficiently, repulsing two enemy counter-attacks.

SUPPLY SERGEANT JOSEPH LEVY.

On September 26, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, exhibited continuous
gallantry in action. Several times he brought up ration parties through
heavy shell fire to the outpost line. During enemy counter-attacks he
assisted company commander to reorganize right flank of company.

CORPORAL JOSEPH R. McGARRITY.

On September 24, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, when his platoon
leader and sergeants were killed or wounded, assisted Corporal Welsh
to reorganize his platoon under heavy shell fire, and to hold position
until relieved.

PRIVATE LORY L. PRICE.

On September 26, 1918, at Bois de Grande Fontaine, being posted to
cover his company’s left flank with his automatic rifle, held his post
under heavy shelling and machine gun and rifle fire and was mainly
responsible for repulsing repeated enemy counter-attacks from 6:00 A.
M. to 6 P. M. He thus set for his comrades a remarkable example of
devotion to duty and cool and unhesitating self-sacrifice.



FOOTNOTES:

[A] Reported missing in action.

[B] Taken prisoners and were released after the signing of the
armistice.

[C] The writer was unable to learn what became of Cocker.

[D] Reported wounded.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



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