Excerpt
PART I: 1918-19
CHAPTER 1 ACTION AT THE RIVER OROURKE
Mont Saint Pere . . . Jaulgonne . . . Le Charmel . . . La Croix Rouge Ferme . . . Villers-sur Fere. No one in our outfit took the trouble to learn how to pronounce their names. All we knew was that our division was losing hundreds of men a day, their blood soaked up by the warm summer earth. The command was to push forward, and we did, mile after murderous mile. Artillery shells from German howitzers burst all around us, and between the ear-shattering explosions, you could hear the rat-tat-tat of their machine guns. But the Huns were retreating and we were chasing them down. A lot of the fighting was at close quarters: hand-to-hand combat in which your skill with a bayonet made the difference in whether you lived or died. I was keeping score of how many Germans I killed, until I got up to twelve. Then I quit counting; I thought the next number might prove unlucky. We moved on, frequently stumbling over enemy corpses. Finally, we reached the south bank of a narrow river. The Boche had forded its shallow water and were on the other side, but some of their bodies were floating in front of us.
Where are we? a guy standing next to me asked.
Its the River Ourcq, someone volunteered.
Sounds like ORourke, a corporal said.
We all laughed, but it was the River ORourke ever after.
* * *
My outfit was the Fighting 69th, mostly made up of Irishmen from New York City neighborhoods like Hells Kitchen, the Lower West Side, the East Side Gas House district, Brooklyn, and my own home turf, the Bronx. Strictly speaking, the 69th did not exist. That was because the War Department had changed its name to the 165th U. S. Infantry. It became part of the 42nd Rainbow Division and shipped out to France in the fall of 1917. Nevertheless, we all still called ourselves the Fighting 69th and to hell with the War Department.
Captain ODea told us to dig in on our side of the river, but dont get too comfortable. Before dawn, he said, the 69th was going to cross the river and attack the German position head-on. There would be no artillery support, he added. This would be a surprise attack. During the night, we scouted the river to find shallow crossings and before the sun rose the next morning, we were in the water. Only the Boche were not surprised; they raked our lines with machine gun fire. But we made it across despite taking heavy casualties. I saw Captain ODea go down as well as our lieutenant, sergeant, and corporal. The 69th was on the beach, but I did not see any support on either of our flanks. We were on our own. My own platoon was hugging a bank of the river; no one seemed to know what to do next.
We cant stay here, I shouted, theyll be dropping mortar shells on us. Lets go!
We charged up a slope and jumped, our bayonets extended before us, into a trench packed with Germans. It was a bedlam after that. The Krauts fought back with everything they had, including picks and shovels. The fighting lasted about twenty minutes, but we killed or maimed almost all of them. Some Germans climbed from the trench and raced for their own lines. But one bastard managed to nail me in the left shoulder with his bayonet before I shot him dead. It felt like someone had shoved a hot poker into me.
Lets finish the job, I shouted. Follow me!
My left arm was useless, just dangling at my side. And it hurt like hell. We left the trench and headed for the next enemy line of defense. I looked back at the river and could see that the whole 69th had made it across. Captain ODea had told us we would be facing a crack outfit, the Prussian Guards. However, so far we had found that they could die as easily as a bunch of Irishmen from New York. All along the river, the 69th yelled its defiance and attacked the German positions.
Twenty yards from a machine gun nest that was mowing down everything in front of it, a bullet caught me in my left leg and I went down. I was out in the open and an easy target for any Kraut who wanted to finish me off. I crawled along the ground until I found a tree that could give me some cover, just to the left of the German machine gun. I used the tree to lift myself back on my feet and hurled two successive hand grenades. Bulls eyes! The bodies flew in every direction. I looked around for the rest of my platoon. They were pinned down and exposed to enemy fire. Using my rifle as a crutch, I managed to get their attention and shouted for them to join me.
I limped to the fortified post that had protected the machine-gunners. They were all dead or badly wounded; I was sure of that. But then we started taking fire from another German position where their soldiers were dug in at the crest of a hill.
Lets go, I told the men. We have to get rid of the Krauts up that hill. Lets do it for our buddies who were killed this day.
I tried to keep in front of the men but they just charged ahead of me. When I got to the enemy post, there wasnt a German who was not dead, wounded, or a prisoner.
The climb up the hill had exhausted me. I should have applied a tourniquet, but when bullets are flying all around, you tend to forget things. I was losing blood and beginning to feel a little woozy. I started to fall but someone grabbed me and called for medics.
Hold on, son, he said. Help is on the way.
I looked into his face and recognized him. He was the 69ths chaplain, Father Francis Patrick Duffy.
Hi Father, I said. I hope you are hearing confessions today.
Then I passed out.
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