The Greater Love Part 10

Meanwhile our entire front was advancing, following the barrage waves.

No more desperate struggle than ours could have been found at any point.

Writing of that day, the official A. E. F. newspaper, "Stars and Stripes," under date of November 15th, declared:

"Attack Before Vigneulles

"Probably the hardest fighting being done by any Americans in the final hour was that which engaged the troops of the 28th, 92nd, 81st, and 7th Divisions with the Second American Army, who launched a fire-eating attack above Vigneulles just at dawn on the 11th. It was no mild thing, that last flare of the battle, and the order to cease firing did not reach the men in the front line until the last moment, when runners sped with it from fox hole to fox hole."

I hurried along the line deeply pondering the startling report of the good Colonel. We had been hearing various rumors that the enemy was frantically suing for peace; all these we had set down as but propaganda. If the end were in sight, why this terrific eleventh hour barrage?

The only reason I could imagine was, that its very frightfulness might so deeply impress the resisting troops themselves as to utterly destroy their morale. Once the soldiers themselves realized the weakness of the tottering dynasty behind them, and the overwhelming force of the army in front of them, total failure of their cause must be apparent.

Supreme was my confidence in Foch and Pershing, and I felt that the course they were pursuing would prove, from the military point of view, the best.

At five minutes to eleven I walked a little apart, up the trail, and began saying my Rosary Beads. They were always companion and comfort to my trying hours. Fervently I implored her, who is "Mightier than an army in battle array," to intercede for us to her Divine Son. That, it were pleasing and good in _His_ holy sight, this hour of eleven would mark the end.

So occupied was my mind I had not noticed the falling off in firing.

Battery after battery was silencing! Gun after gun growing still.

"Cease firing!" The command sped down the line; and it seemed these two words leaped into the blue vaulted sky above and were echoed in Heaven!

The utter silence that of a sudden came down upon that front was terrifying. More awful in its gripping impressiveness than the most terrific cannonading. You seemed, in that tense moment, to have lost your footing on some storm-swept hill, and fallen headlong into a deep valley. There was no cheering. The boys simply looked at each other and waited; waited like the boxer who, having delivered a fatal blow, stands intently watching his fallen opponent, until the referee has tolled off the final count, and raised his arm in token of victory.

Then came the reaction. l.u.s.ty cheers rose from all sides, helmets were tossed into the air, rifles were stacked, and impromptu cake walks and fox trots staged with grotesque abandon.

No one ventured into No Man's Land, that was strictly forbidden; but all over the rear approaches jubilation reigned supreme.

Groups quickly formed, excitedly discussing it all, "What's the big idea?" "Has Jerry quit for good?" "How do you get that way?" Some burst into song: "I Don't Want to Go Home."

Suddenly a glorious sound came floating up the rear ravine; it was the Regimental band of the 7th Engineers, playing Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever!"

Oh, how it thrilled and touched our very depth of soul! Its melody burst upon our unaccustomed ears with something, at least, of the joy the shepherds felt, when Angels brought them "Good tidings" at Bethlehem!

Out of all this trance of joy, however, stern Duty soon called us. Many a silent body, our own and the enemy's, lay unburied along the front. On requisition at Headquarters, two companies from a Pioneer Infantry Regiment were a.s.signed to us, co-ordinating with our regular Burial Details. Near and far we combed hills and plains for bodies, penetrating trenches, dugouts, and ruins. Six days of untiring effort, brought reward of warmly commending words from our Division Commander.

At Ma.s.s the following Sunday in the old ruined Church of St. Sebastian at Euvezin, the subject was recalled of those days of old when the Galilean Sea was tempest tossed. Then in the boat rose the Master who said to the storm, "Peace! Be still! And there came a great calm." Even so, had that same Divine Power now spoken along our torn battle front; and "May the Peace and Calm that now has come reign on forever!"

That afternoon an artillery Regimental band gave a concert. Ill.u.s.trative of the mental breadth and generous nature marking the real American boy, in its repertoire was to be observed Strouse's "Blue Danube Waltz!"

It was during one of these eventful days word reached us from across No Man's Land that old men, women and children in the town of Gorz, across the German border, were entirely without food, and dying of starvation.

Our forces were marking time in the positions the close of hostilities found them occupying, and, as the time for moving forward with the Army of Occupation was indefinite, we decided to go forward at once with food supplies for the starving inhabitants.

This aid work was to be entirely informal and on our own initiative, no military provision having been made for such emergency. With little difficulty five tons of army rations were secured, and, accompanied by good Major Hirch, I set out.

Our journey took us through miles of devastated country. Tons upon tons of war material, abandoned by the retiring German troops, littered roads and fields. Clothing, helmets, small arms of all description, whole batteries of Howitzers still in position, dense black fumes from burning ammunition dumps, acres of barbed wire fields and hillsides sh.e.l.l-torn, bodies still unburied--all this was the spectacle of war havoc greeting the eye on every side.

In the chill of that bleak November evening we crossed the German frontier and entered Gorz. Aged and feeble men and women looked sadly at us from their doors. Children, whose pinched faces clearly showed the ravages of hunger, timidly followed our supply trucks up the deserted street.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "GREATER LOVE THAN THIS NO MAN HAS."]

We were the first American soldiers they had ever seen. Drawing up in front of the old market place, Major Hirch explained our mission, speaking to the people in German.

When the poor starved creatures realized we were bringing them food, their joy knew no bounds; the children shouted with very joy and swarmed up into the trucks. We found ourselves crying, but supremely happy in the realization that we were doing the Master's work.

The inhabitants fluently spoke French as well as German; and when the children saw the Chaplain's cross and found I was a priest, their reverence and affection was most p.r.o.nounced.

The food, indeed, was but the coa.r.s.e Army fare, "bully" beef, hard tack, and condensed milk; but, withal, it was relished most keenly. We felt gratified in the humble part we had played in saving the lives of those unfortunate non-combatants, and organizing our first Divisional Relief Expedition into Germany.

CHAPTER XI

DOMREMY--HOME

"Major Whittington, I have not had a furlough since we landed in France."

"I guess that's so, Chaplain; which city would you prefer visiting, Paris or Metz?"

"Domremy--."

"Domremy!" he exclaimed, "I never heard of the place. However, you may go." Then, with forced seriousness, added, "I believe you are needed in Domremy on Official Business."

It was December eleventh. We had long been anxious to visit the birthplace of Joan of Arc. The story of her heroic brilliant life had ever interested and inspired us; and now, to actually be in the hills of her native Lorraine, to make a pilgrimage to her shrine, became our supreme ambition.

I could indeed have visited Domremy before, but purposely had I waited for this date. On December thirteenth, President Wilson, coming to the Peace Conference, was to land in France. I wanted to say Ma.s.s, that very morning, at the shrine of the Maid for the welfare of the President.

A one hundred and fifty mile trip from Thiacourt to Domremy, south of Verdun on the Meuse, especially in an open motorcycle car and through a blinding storm of hail and rain, is not particularly pleasant.

When we recalled, however, the arduous journey she, a girl, of eighteen years, had once made on horseback from Domremy to Chinon, three hundred miles, through snow-covered roads, we determined that nothing short of a Firing Squad should stop us.

A cold I had contracted at Rembercourt had settled in my back. Lumbago had painfully doubled me into an inverted "L," a figure not happily adapted to a cycle car.

Laboriously adjusting myself to the machine I plainly told the Maid, "I wish you clearly to appreciate, Saintly Joan, that I am making this journey for you. Of old, you were supremely helpful to the ruler of _your_ country. I want you to do as much for the President of _mine_. I am going to say Ma.s.s on your home altar for him, and I want you to help me. If G.o.d spares me, and I return to America, I promise to proclaim your glory and encourage all I can, young and old, in the practice of your devotion."

Early dawn found us on our way. The steel helmet pulled low offers splendid protection to one's eyes. Traversing the old battlefields of St. Michel, we pa.s.sed ruined Even and Essey and took the highroad leading south. The sh.e.l.l-torn steeple of Flirey church still leaned over the road; and the grewsome Limey Gondrecourt front, its deserted dugouts resembling grinning skulls, elicited a sigh and a prayer for its dead legions.

Through Noviant and Men-le-Tour we sped, and at noon were beyond Toul and racing through the historic valley of the Moselle.

At Bullney, our speeding car was curiously observed by thousands of German prisoners peering through the barbed wire enclosure of their roadside camp.

Columbes-les-Belles, with its huge hangars, grimly stood in silhouette against a crimson burst of sunset.

At Neufchateau we reached the river Meuse with whose glory the names of heroic inconquerable Petain and Verdun shall be forever shared.

We were now in the picturesque "valley of colors," whose winding trails were trodden by the soldiers of Julius Caesar when "Omnis Gallia divisa est in partes tres" was written.