''And they thought we wouldn't fight'' by Floyd Phillips Gibbons (smart books to read .txt) 📕

The enemy in front of Toul manifested an inordinate anxiety to know more about the strength of our forces and the character of the positions we occupied. A captured German document issued to the Fifth Bavarian Landwehr infantry brigade instructed every observer and patrol to do his or its best "to bring information about the new enemy."

"Nothing is known as yet about the methods of fighting or leadership," the document set forth, "and all information possible must be gathered as to particular features of American fighting and outpost tactics. This will then be used for extending the information bulletin. Any observation or identification, however insignificant, may be of the greatest value."

The document directed that data on the following questions be obtained:

"Are sentry posts sentry posts or stronger posts? Further advanced reconnoitring patrols? Manner of challenging? Behaviour on post during day and night? Vigilance? Ambush tactics and cunning?

"Do they shoot and signal on every occasion? Do the posts hold their ground on the approach of a patrol, or do they fall back?

"Are the Americans careful and cautious? Are they noisy? What is their behaviour during smoke screens?"

The enemy's keen desire to acquire this information was displayed in the desperate efforts it made. One day the French troops occupying the trenches on the right flank of the American sector, encountered a soldier in an American uniform walking through their positions.

He was stopped and questioned. He said he had been one of an American patrol that had gone out the night before, that he had lost his way in No Man's Land and that he thought he was returning to his own trenches, when he dropped into those held by the French.

Although the man wore our uniform and spoke excellent English and seemed straightforward in his replies, as to his name and rank and organisation, the French officer before whom he was brought was not completely satisfied. To overcome this hesitancy, the suspected man opened his shirt and produced an American identification tag verifying his answers.

The French officer, still suspicious, ordered the man held while he telephoned to the American organisation mentioned to ascertain whether any man of the name given was missing from that unit.

"Yes," replied the American captain. "We lost him last October, when we were in the front line down in the Luneville sector. He was captured with eight others by the Germans."

"Well, we've got him over here on your right flank. He came into our lines this morning—" the French officer started to say.

"Bully," came the American interruption over the wire. "He's escaped from the Germans and has come clear through their lines to get back to his company. He'll get a D. S. C. for that. We'll send right over for him."

"But when we questioned him," replied the Frenchman, "he said he left your lines only last night on patrol and got lost in No Man's Land."

"I'll come right over and look at that party, myself," the American captain hastily replied.

He reached the French officer's dugout several hours later and the suspect was ordered brought in.

"He must be crazy, sir," the French orderly said. "He tried to kill himself a few minutes ago and we have had to hold him."

The man was brought into the dugout between two poilus who held his arms. The American captain took a careful look and said:

"That's not our man. He wears our uniform correctly and that's our regulation identification tag. Both of them must have been taken away from our man when he was captured. This man is an impostor."

"He's more than that," replied the Frenchman with a smile. "He's a German spy."

The prisoner made no reply, but later made a full confession of his act, and also gave to his interrogators much valuable information, which, however, did not save him from paying the penalty in front of a firing squad. When he faced the rifles, he was not wearing the stolen uniform.

Toward the end of March, 1918, just at the time when the American Expeditionary Forces were approaching the desired degree of military effectiveness, the fate of civilisation was suddenly imperilled by the materialisation of the long expected German offensive.

This push, the greatest the enemy had ever attempted, began on March 21st, and the place that Hindenburg selected for the drive was Picardy, the valley of the Somme, the ancient cockpit of Europe. On that day the German hordes, scores upon scores of divisions, hurled themselves against the British line between Arras and Noyon.

Before that tremendous weight of manpower, the Allied line was forced to give and one of the holding British armies, the Fifth, gave ground on the right flank, and with its left as a hinge, swung back like a gate, opening the way for the Germans toward Paris.

There have been many descriptions of the fierce fighting put up by the French and British to stem the German advance, but the most interesting one that ever came to my notice, came from one of the few American soldiers that participated in the defence. Two weeks after the opening of the battle and at a time when the German advance had been stopped, I came upon this American in a United States Military Hospital at Dijon.

An interne led me to the bedside of Jimmy Brady, a former jockey from the Pimlico turf in Baltimore, and now a proud wearer of Uncle Sam's khaki. In his own quaint way, Jimmy told me the story of what a little handful of Americans did in the great battle in Picardy. Jimmy knew. Jimmy had been there.

"Lad," he said, "I'm telling you it was a real jam. I learned one hell of a headful in the last ten days that I'll not be forgetting in the next ten years. I've got new ideas about how long this war is goin' to last. Of course, we're going to lick the Boches before it ends, but I've sorter given up the picture I had of myself marching up Fifth Avenue in a victory parade on this coming Fourth of July. I'll say it can't be done in that time.

"Our outfit from old —— engineers, and believe me there's none better, have been working up in the Somme country for the last two months. We were billeted at Brie and most of our work had been throwing bridges across the Canal du Nord about three miles south of Peronne. I'm telling you the Somme ain't a river. It's a swamp, and they just hardly squeeze enough water outer it to make a canal which takes the place of a river.

"We was working under the British. Their old bridges over the canal were wooden affairs and most of them had signs on them reading, 'This bridge won't hold a tank,' and that bridge wouldn't bear trotting horses, and so on. Some of 'em we tore down must have been put in for scenery purposes only. We were slamming up some husky looking steel structures like you see in the States, and believe me it makes me sick to think that we had to blow 'em all up again before the Boches got to 'em.

"I see by the papers that the battle began on the 21st, but I've got no more idea about the date of it than the King of Honolulu. They say it's been on only about ten days, but I couldn't swear it hadn't been on since New Year's Eve. It sure seemed a long time. As I told you, we were working just south of Peronne on the main road between St. Quentin and Amiens. She started on a foggy morning and for two days the music kept getting closer. On the first day, all traffic was frontward, men, guns, and camions going up towards the lines, and then the tide began to flow back.

"Ambulances and camions, full of poor wounded devils, filled the road, and then came labour battalions of chattering Chinks, Egyptians, and Fiji Islanders and God knows what. None of these birds were lingering, because the enemy was sprinkling the roads with shells and sorter keeping their marching spirits up. Orders came for us to ditch our packs and equipment all except spades, rifles, belts and canteens, and we set off toward the rear.

"Do you mind your map of the Somme? Well, we pulls up at Chaulnes for a breath. It was a big depot and dump town—aeroplanes and everything piled up in it. We were ordered onto demolition work, being as we was still classed as non-combatants. I don't know how many billions of dollars' worth of stuff we blew up and destroyed, but it seemed to me there was no end of it. Fritz kept coming all the time and they hiked us on to Aubercourt and then to Dormant, and each place we stopped and dug trenches, and then they shoots us into camions and rushes us north to a town not far out of Amiens.

"With about forty men, we marched down the road, this time as non-combatants no longer. We stopped just east of the village of Marcelcave and dug a line of trenches across the road. We had twenty machine guns and almost as many different kinds of ammunition as there was different nationalities in our trench. Our position was the fifth line of defence, we was told, but the guns kept getting closer and a lot of that long range stuff was giving us hell. Near me there was a squad of my men, one Chink, three Canadians, and we two Dublin fusileers.

"Then we begin to see our own guns, that is, British guns, beginning to blow hell out of this here village of Marcelcave right in front of us. It made me wild to see the artillery making a mistake like that, so I says to one of these here Dublin fusileers:

"'Whatinell's 'matter wid dose guns firing on our own men up there in the village? If this is the fifth line, then that must be our fourth line in the village?'

"'Lad,' says the Dublin fusileer to me, 'I don't want to discourage you for the life of me, but this only used to be the fifth line. We are in the first line now and it's up to you and me and the Chink and the rest of us to keep the Fritzes out of Amiens. At this moment we are all that's between.'

"We started to the machine guns and began pouring it in on 'em. The minute some of 'em would start out of the town we would wither them. Holy mother, but what a beautiful murder it was!

"I didn't know then, and don't know yet, what has become of all the rest of our officers and men, but I sorter felt like every shot I sent over was paying 'em back for some of their dirty work. We kept handing it to 'em hot. You oughter seen that Chink talking Mongolian to a machine gun, and, believe me, he sure made it understand him. I'm here to say that when a Chink fights, he's a fighting son-of-a-gun and don't let anybody kid you different.

"Well, our little mob held 'em off till dark and then British Tommies piled in and relieved us. We needed it because we hadn't had a bite in seventy hours and I had been lying in the mud and water for twice that time. Just before relief comes on, two skulking figures comes over the top. I was thinking that maybe these was Hindus or Eskimos coming to join our little international party and we shouts out to 'em and asks 'em where they hails from. Both of 'em yelled back, 'Kamerad,' and