OUR SONS
AT WAR
by,
Lee McCollum
1940
FIRST DAY
October 2, 1918
NORTH from the position where Whittlesey's troops were
halted at the end of the first drive ran a long ravine,
straight into enemy territory. This was the point where
Whittlesey must attack. It was planned that he should
advance until he came to Charlevaux Mill, and there he
was to halt, reorganize, and wait for further orders to
advance. These orders would be dependent upon how the
rest of the American troops, on his right, and the
French, far to his left rear, fared in their advance.
At 11:35 A.M. Whittlesey received from Col. Stacey, his
commanding officer, the following order:
"The advance of infantry will commence at 12:30. The
infantry action will be pushed forward until it reaches
the line of the road and the railroad generally along
276.5. The General says you are to advance behind the
barrage regardless of losses. He states that there will
be a general advance all along the line."
In that last sentence, unknown to Whittlesey, unknown to
the general, Robert Alexander, in command of the 77th
Division, who issued the order, lay the seeds of tragedy.
Promptly at 12:30 Whittlesey gave the command, and his
seven hundred men advanced up the ravine. Simultaneously
the heavy guns of the Allies began to cough behind him as
they laid down the creeping barrage which he followed.
For more than five hours Whittlesey's battalion fought
forward through the forest, with men dropping like the
leaves of the autumn woods that covered them. At six P.M.
the force, now more than a hundred less in number,
reached their objective, the Charlevaux Mill. Quickly
sensing the danger and sizing up the lay of the land,
Whittlesey ordered his troops to occupy the south side of
a hill crossing the ravine up which they had just
advanced. His mission was accomplished, and now he was
faced with the task of holding his position until his
forces could be connected
with those of the French on the left, and the balance of
the Americans on the right. To aid this, he established a
runner system through the ravine back to the American
lines. Through these runners the Allied command was
informed of Whittlesey's success in reaching his
objective, which was Charlevaux Mill.
Back of the lines, as the reports came in from the
French, the peril of Whittlesey's position became evident
to the Allied command. Attacking simultaneously with
Whittlesey, but from the other side of the forest, on the
left blade of the shears, the French had again been
repulsed. On the right blade of the shears, only
Whittlesey's force had reached the objective, the
remainder of the division having been repulsed by a heavy
German counter-offensive. Not only was the shears still
unjointed, but worse still, the American side of the
blade bad now been broken.
So night came down over the forest of the Argonne. After
four years the enemy pins had been moved, yet they had
not moved according to the desperate plans that had been
set forth. Instead of the line of Allied pins moving
forward together, only one pin had moved, breaking the
enemy line alone and unsupported. In the dugout at
headquarters, officers shifted the pin on the map,
thrusting it deep into the enemy territory. There it
stood alone in the center of the patch that marked the
Argonne Forest, surrounded by the bristling thicket of
enemy pins. Its fate was in the hands of the gods of war.
The gods rattled the dice in their cup, while on the
hillside the six hundred men who remained of the original
seven hundred dug themselves in and waited for what might
happen when the dice were thrown.
SECOND DAY
October 3, 1918
DURING the night of October 2, the first night of the
siege, the German troops, working under cover of
darkness, completely surrounded Whittlesey's command.
Whittlesey had entrenched his men along the slope of a
hillside overlooking Charlevaux Mill. This slope was
heavily wooded with underbrush and young timber. It was
the only position available that offered protection
against artillery fire, as it provided a reverse slope to
the enemy. The position occupied a front of about three
hundred and fifty yards along the slope, with a depth of
from seventy-five to one hundred yards.
Directly above Whittlesey's position, continuing on up
the slope of the hill, was the position occupied by the
enemy, and from which the frontal attacks of the siege
were to come. It was separated from Whittlesey by a road,
and the enemy position was a continuation of the same
hill as that occupied by the beleaguered battalion. The
position afforded the enemy an excellent hiding place,
and an unusual point of vantage from which to observe the
effects of its attacks.
The next morning, October 3, the seriousness of their
plight dawned upon the besieged battalion, and they set
about strengthening their defense and preparing
themselves to resist the attack that was soon to come.
The hillside they occupied had a slight dip halfway up
its slope, much like a broad, shallow trench. The center
of the trench was deepened to provide protection for the
wounded. Around its edges the men dug
"fox-holes" for themselves, throwing the earth
up around the outside of these individual holes, as a
protection against fragments of busting shells.
The battalion's nine machine guns were placed so they
could cover an attack from any direction. Supporting them
were riflemen armed with Chauchat (automatic) rifles,
while the major portion of the command had ordinary
rifles. The sole encouragement of the troops was the fact
that they possessed plenty of ammunition. But to carry
this ammunition they had forfeited food and water, as the
original plan had been to send up rations from the rear.
Now surrounded by the enemy, they would face starvation
unless the line in the rear could be opened up.
Directly across the ravine, the enemy had set up their
artillery with which to strafe the battalion on the
hillside. Whittlesey's runners were purposely left
un-molested the night of October 2, until the enemy
cordon had been drawn tightly around the little force.
Then striking suddenly, the enemy broke the communication
lines to the rear, killing or capturing all of the
runners.
Just after the sun came up, an enemy plane droned high
over the hillside. The men flattened themselves, hugging
the ground, expecting to be fired upon by the plane's
machine guns. However, after circling mysteriously a few
times, the plane disappeared over the tree tops. It had
only been a reconnoitering plane, scouting the
battalion's position.
In a scant half-hour the roar of the heavy German guns
began. Very few shells fell on the battalion's position,
owing to the reverse slope, which afforded natural
protection from artillery fire. When the battalion
advanced the previous afternoon they carried with them a
cage containing five pigeons. While the German artillery
was pounding the position Major Whittlesey released the
first pigeon, carrying the following message to the 77th
Division message center:
"We are being shelled by German artillery. Can we
have artillery support? Fire is coming from the
northwest."
The pigeon fluttered aloft; cowering beneath the blasts
of enemy shells, the men of the battalion sped it on its
journey with their prayers. Soon the answer came -the
welcome roar of American artillery to the south, and the
enemy barrage suddenly ceased. The men turned in their
fox-holes and grinned at one another.
The silence that had so suddenly dropped over the woods
with the cessation of the enemy's barrage did not last
for long. The enemy, finding that his artillery could not
harm the surrounded force as long as they remained dug in
on its reverse slope, then brought up a trench mortar and
commenced again to fire on the battalion.
The short, high, barking note of the trench mortar became
a forerunner of shells that exploded more frequently
among the battalion. Knowing the havoc that would soon be
wrought, Whittlesey dispatched a small force to attempt
to capture the gun. They were greeted by a terrific blast
of machine-gun fire, forcing them to tall back
immediately. Heavy firing could be heard to the south,
which indicated to the members of the right wing of the
Fourth French Army was making every battalion that the
remainder of the division, and the effort to advance and
relieve them.
Hopes of the battalion were high. Yet more and more
German troops could be seen skulking into the forest at
the south. Knowing the enemy was weakest in this
direction, and to prevent their establishing an
impregnable force at this vital spot, Whittlesey
dis-patched about one hundred men of Company K, 307th
Infantry, under command of Captain Nelson M. Holderman,
to force a surprise attack on the enemy. Should this
attack be successful, the men were under orders to
continue south and attempt to reach the American lines.
Cautiously they left the hillside and entered the forest.
But soon again came the deadly rat-tat-tat of machine
gunfire, and shortly later the bloody remnant of Company
"K" fell back on the hillside to rejoin the
battalion. They had succeeded in penetrating the German's
second line of defense, only to be repulsed with heavy
losses. During the remainder of the siege, no force
larger than a small combat group was sent out of the
position, as the loss of a single man would weaken its
defense. Shortly after the return of Company
"K," a message was communicated to all company
and detachment commanders of the battalion:
"Our mission is to hold this position at all costs.
Have this understood by every man in the command."
It had become evident that nothing could be done except
remain on the hillside and defend the position, with
hopes that relief would come before the command was wiped
out. Definite orders affecting the defense of the
position were now given to all units, and a strong patrol
set up to observe enemy maneuvers. The patrol soon gave
information that large numbers of Germans were gathering
in the northwest, and appar-ently concentrating for an
immediate attack. Whittlesey carried on, organizing his
position, and ordered the release of his second pigeon,
bearing the following terse message:
"Our runner-posts are broken; Germans working to our
left rear. Have located German trench mortar at
294.05-276.30. Have taken prisoner who states his company
brought in last night from rear by motor trucks. German
machine guns constantly firing on valley from our rear.
"E" Company met heavy resistance. Two squads
have just fallen back on position."
At three o'clock that afternoon the Germans, covered and
protected by the heavy fire of their machine guns and
trench mortars, attacked the battalion. As they came down
the hillside, tossing their potato-masher hand grenades
ahead of them, Whittlesey and his men lay waiting for
them. The Germans, in their eagerness to storm the
position, had carelessly exposed them-selves, and a
fusillade of rifle and machine gun fire from the
beleaguered battalion burst upon the oncoming Germans.
They quickly fell back in confusion, the attack lasting
but a few minutes.
Despite this failure at the outset, it was evidently the
opinion of the German command that they would make short
work of the battalion. In no more time than it took to
reorganize their forces, they attacked again, this time
more fiercely and with a stronger force. Again the
American troops held their fire until the enemy was in
plain sight, and again the ravine was filled with the
terrific burst of their gun fire. Casualties among the
enemy were heavy, and again they fell back.
Night came down, and in the darkness could be heard the
moaning of their wounded. Under its cover the enemy
recovered their maimed and dead. Meanwhile the battalion
had turned to care for its own wounded, who were many. No
medical officer had accompanied the battalion, but among
their forces were three enlisted men from the Medical
Corps. Directed by them the soldiers applied their few
bandages and first-aid supplies where they were most
needed. After those were exhausted they used the khaki
wrappings of their leggings, the only substitute they
had.
The suffering of the wounded men must have been bitter,
as the night was cold and even those who had escaped the
gunfire were shivering miserably in their foxholes. No
complaints, though, passed the stoic lips of the wounded
of the battalion, only an occasional involuntary groan
wrung out by unbearable pain.
The night passed quietly, and there was no recurrence of
the day's attacks. Under cover of darkness scouts were
dispatched to attempt to carry news of the battalion's
plight to the rear. Toward dawn a couple of them,
wounded, stumbled back to the hillside, to tell of their
failure. The balance of them were either captured or
killed.
THIRD DAY
October 4, 1918
DAYLIGHT of October 4, and the third day of the siege,
found the men tired and hungry, for the few rations they
had carried forward had been consumed by the wounded on
the morning of October 3. In spite of all, morale was
high, for all were certain that the Franco-American lines
would advance that day. The dead who had fallen during
the battle of the preceding day were buried with great
difficulty, for the men were exhausted from fighting,
lack of sleep, and hunger.
About 8:30 A.M. a new and serious situation arose, which
proved very distressing to Whittlesey's command. The
enemy had brought up two more light trench mortars
(minnewerfers), and had placed them in position; one
slightly to the right front, and one to the left front of
the battalion, giving them a total of three of these
murderous weapons.
The dread of those powerful high-angle shells was now
tripled. As the men lay there helplessly in their
fox-holes, they cursed the military genius who invented
those stubby, wide mouthed guns that could lob a shell
into this position, so well protected by nature from all
other forms of artillery fire. About fifteen per cent of
the trench mortar shells fell directly into the
beleaguered battalion. Due to the inferior ammunition of
the enemy, many of the shells were duds, and failed to
explode. For this reason alone the battalion was not
wiped out.
Yet enough shells exploded to cause heavy casualties, and
many were wounded and killed. In the middle of the
morning Major Whittlesey released one of the two
remaining pigeons, bearing the following message:
"Germans all around us. We have been heavily shelled
by mortars this morning. Situation is rapidly cutting in
on our strength. Men suffering from hunger and exposure.
The wounded are in a very bad condition. Should have more
ammunition. Cannot support be sent at once?"
Included in this message was a map coordinate that gave
the position of the battalion. By afternoon the men on
that shell-strafed hillside had proof that their winged
messenger had arrived safely at their Divisions Message
center. The American artillery began to roar again in an
attempt to break up the enemy forces which surrounded the
fast-dwindling band of American doughboys.
For a while the shells fell among the enemy to the south
of the battalion, then increasing its intensity the
American barrage crept down the slope to the rear of the
battalion's position. The barrage continued and crept
across the marshy bottom of the ravine, where it hurled
mud and brush into the air, then gradually its shells
began falling into Whittlesey's command. Instead of
breaking up the enemy, it was registering on its own
forces.
The hastily dug shelters were caved in upon the wounded.
When the men would endeavor to shift their position in
order to avoid the shells, snipers and enemy machine
gunners would rake the position. The German trench
mortars threw in their shells, which added to the fury of
the Allies' barrage. Frantic at the tragic
miscalculation, Major Whittlesey released the final
pigeon, Cher Ami, with this desperate plea:
"We are along the road parallel 276.4. Our own
artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For God's
sake, stop it."
Through this veritable inferno of gun fire winged Cher
Ami. Fluttering momentarily above the men huddled there,
her beating wings like those of hope's last angel, Cher
Ami circled in the air, then headed straight for the
American lines.
After what seemed like a lifetime of hell, the barrage
suddenly ceased. Cher Ami had reached the American
headquarters with the vital message. One leg had been
touched by a small fragment of flying shell, and it was
necessary to amputate it. By blind chance the leg lost
was not the one that bore Whittlesey's message.
By now the number of wounded had greatly increased. The
men set about binding their wounds with their rough
leggings, and easing the pain of their comrades as best
they could. As they were thus occupied they were again
interrupted by the drone of a plane flying low. This time
the plane bore the welcome red, white and blue rings of
the American flying corps. The battalion signal men
succeeded in attracting its attention by placing white
panels in an open space in the trees. They were rewarded
by a rocket signal from the plane, indicating that the
pilot had seen them.
Soon after it disappeared another American plane came
over, flying low, and attempted to drop packages and
message containers with long streamers to the men in the
battalion. All of them missed their mark, and were lost
in the swampy marshland below the hillside, or fell into
enemy hands. During the time that the plane was hovering
over the besieged battalion, it was fired upon,
seemingly, by every enemy machine gun in the vicinity.
But it escaped this devastating gun fire, and rising
high, disappeared to the south.
At 5:00 P.M. the enemy attacked again. The attack was
repulsed, and the men again turned their attention to
those newly wounded, while there was still light of day.
Water was obtained from a muddy stream running along the
ravine below. A canteen of water cost many casualties,
for when the enemy found the men were carrying water from
the little stream they set up withering machine gun fire
across this position. So many men were wounded and killed
while trying to obtain water for the wounded, that guards
had to be placed at intervals to restrain men from going
after water during the day. After the wounded had been
made as comfortable as possible, the men tried to get
some much needed rest.
As night came down a cold rain set in, adding to their
discomfort. Soon after 8:00 P.M. rifle fire and the sound
of the Chauchat rifles used by the American forces could
be heard over the ridge to the south. The moral of the
battalion was still high, for they felt certain their
comrades would rescue them, as they now knew that they
were fighting by night as well as by day.
The enemy tried many times to capture the command by
direct assault. Failing each time, they now changed their
method of attack. About 9:00 P.M. flares began to shoot
up all around the position, lighting the entire hillside.
All along the slopes the hand grenades and potato-mashers
of the enemy began to fall. This was a real surprise
attack, and they fired upon the battalion at will.
Thoroughly aroused, Whitlesey's command quickly went to
their firing positions and opened up on the enemy with
such a burst of small arms' fire that they soon retreated
over the hill in the fast dimming light of the dying
flares.
The attack had taken a fresh toll, and all those
previously wounded were now in a desperate condition, for
their vitality was at a low ebb on account of exposure
and lack of food. Many of the wounded who died that day
had not yet been buried. Weak as they were, the remaining
survivors of the battalion started scooping out shallow
graves for their dead, while the rain continued
throughout the night. The hopes of rescue were fading.
The unburied dead about them, and the pitiful cries of
the wounded, further lowered the spirits of that gallant
handful of men who would not surrender to an overwhelming
force of enemy.
FOURTH DAY
October 5, 1918
ALL during the morning of October 5, the men of the
besieged battalion could hear the gunfire of the American
infantry to the south and southeast, and took heart,
knowing that an attempt was being made to push through
and relieve them. In their long service at the front,
they had learned to distinguish by ear between the deep
bark of the American French Chauchat rifle, and the
higher pitched yapping of the German automatic guns. From
the sounds that came to them they knew there was a fierce
battle going on in their behalf, but shortly before noon
the firing quieted-then ceased, and they knew only too
well that another attempt had failed. The Germans still
held that solid wall of steel between them and those who
would rescue them.
While casualties were thinning the ranks of the
battalion, the casualties of the battalions of American
soldiers trying to relieve them were doubly heavy, as
entire battalions had been practically wiped out in an
effort to fight their way through. Sniping was kept up by
both the enemy and the men of the battalion, but
contrasted to previous fighting the afternoon was as
quiet as a church at sundown. Several French and American
planes appeared in the sky, but did not come as close to
the ground as the two previous planes. This caused
discouragement among the beleaguered force, for their
fast-ebbing strength gave them little hope that they
could hold on longer.
At 3:00 P.M. a French plane circled the position, but
gave no indication of having seen the doomed souls
huddled there. Guarded attempts were made to attract the
pilot's attention, but little could be done because of
the necessity of remaining hidden from the deadly enemy
sniping.
Unknown to them, the plane returned to the French
commander and reported that apparently the battalion had
either been annihilated or captured. No American troops
were seen, the pilot further reported, but the general
area was alive with enemy soldiers. Immediately the
French commander, over the objections of the 77th
Division, ordered a heavy artillery barrage laid down on
the area.
Once again Whittlesey's command suffered the unbearable
tragedy of being shelled by friendly artillery. Over and
over again the shells landed directly upon the slope
occupied by the Americans. The troops in desperation
would attempt to move out of the zone of the barrage,
only to be met by the withering fire of the Germans, who
raked the position with their deadly machine-gun fire.
As they were being bombarded from this source, it must
have been only the most courageous who had any hope left,
for all the men knew that there were no more pigeons to
send, and no way left to notify the French of their awful
error!
The barrage lasted for an hour and thirty-five minutes,
with each minute seeming a day, while between shells the
men were busy defending themselves from another attack by
the enemy.
Incredible as it may seem, the American troops once more
repulsed the Germans' attack. The hell of modern war had
nothing more to offer these men as the last shrieking
shell of the French artillery fell in their midst.
As the sound of the American-French Chauchat rifles of
Whittlesey's command carried back to the Division
Commander of the American forces, he knew he was correct
in informing the French that the beleaguered battalion
was still holding out, and renewed efforts were made to
smash through the wall of steel the Germans had so
effectively held during the siege. The renewed firing of
the divisional forces again lit the candle of hope for
Whittlesey's command.
Soon an American plane appeared above the position,
taking desperate chances as it swooped downward and
upward to get more information as to the plight of the
men on the hillside. Later it turned and flew toward the
American lines. Returning shortly it began dropping
packages believed to be food and ammunition, but once
again the packages missed their mark, falling into the
enemy lines.
And so night came again, and thirst settled over the
hillside like a great cloud of parching dust. It was
three days since most of the men had eaten, and many were
subsisting on the roots and barks of the trees which
sheltered them. It was becoming increasingly difficult to
obtain water, for the enemy now kept up a constant fire
day and night upon the creek in the valley. Darkness
settled over the hillside, and for once all was silent,
save for the moans of the wounded and the occasional
crack of a rifle.
FIFTH DAY
October 6, 1918
THE morning of October 6th ushered in the fifth day of
the siege, and the men of Whittlesey's fast dwindling
command prepared once more for what the fates might have
in store for them. The four days they had spent on the
hillside fighting against overwhelming odds had seemed
several eternities rolled in one. Every bump and hollow
in the foxholes where their weary y bodies had pressed
were as familiar to them now as the bedrooms and parlors
of their own homes, so far away across the Atlantic. It
seemed as though they had been born on that hillside,
grown up there, and that there they would die.
They were without hope, self-pity, or even anger. Only
blind, unreasoning determination burned with a low steady
flame, holding them rooted to the hillside, as much a
part of it as the grass and trees that clung to its war
shattered soil.
Just after sun-up the men again heard the far off sound
of American rifles. The faint sound of the guns spoke of
despair, rather than hope. It was at this time that Major
Whittlesey, in talking to his few remaining officers and
men, compared the low, steady sounds of the American
Chauchat rifles, far back in the American lines, to the
bagpipes of the Campbells who had long ago marched to
relieve a beleaguered British command isolated in the
siege of Luck now. Now again history was writing the
story of "Sons at War" on the parallel lines of
time.
About 9:30 that morning an American plane appeared,
flying low over the battalion, dropping packages of food.
None of them landed among the men on the hillside. While
engaged in this daring piece of airmanship, the plane was
subjected to enemy fire of every character, until it
seemed that only a miracle would save it from being shot
down. Then the plane, rising to higher and safer
altitudes, straightened away and flew back to the
American line.
This time, the plane that had taken this hazardous trip
was to get full revenge for the discomfort caused by the
enemy fire. It had sighted the airplane panels put out by
Whittlesey's men, and was able to signal positive
position information to the American artillery.
Immediately the artillery started its barrage.
The shells registered dead on the concealed battery of
enemy trench mortars that had been raising such havoc
among the beleaguered troops. The barrage then crept down
the slope, crossing the creek at the foot of the hill. It
pounded along the hill just below the feet of the men
huddled there, then lifting suddenly, landed squarely on
the ridge above them. This was the point from where most
of the German attacks had come. The barrage registered
with deadly accuracy on all enemy positions, while the
Americans looked on and marveled at this miracle taking
place before their eyes.
So completely did the American artillery break up the
enemy organization that the Germans were unable to launch
the attack they had been planning. The artillery had more
than made up for their disastrous barrage of two days
before. Now, having the correct range, and through the
assistance of the air-service reconnaissance, they were
laying down such a perfect barrage that without doubt
they saved Whittlesey's command from annihilation. The
air force paid dearly for its bravery, losing two planes,
with two officers killed.
After the barrage quieted down, the American planes
returned, again trying to drop food and ammunition to
Whittlesey's men. The falling packages could plainly be
seen by the men so eagerly awaiting them. Another
disappointment. Once again they fell into the hands of
the enemy.
Some of the German forces surrounding the Americans could
speak English, and as they got the packages they would
yell down from their hidden places on the heights of the
wooded hillside, taunting the half-starved men. This
failed to have any effect on the battle-weary doughboys,
except to bring out feebly shouted curses.
It was then that the Germans turned loose the full fury
of the fiercest attack of the engagement. Lashing out at
the imprisoned doughboys who had so gallantly withstood
their previous attacks, they strafed the hillside with
every known weapon of war. Using heavy artillery, trench
mortars, and the staccato-barking machine gun and rifle
fire, they filled the air with a blanket of lead. The
Americans dug deeper into their foxholes, and under that
withering fire their losses were many.
Once again the Americans fought off the attack, but by
now, weak and spent from constant fighting and lack of
food and sleep, they moved with the mechanical precision
of robots. With the coming of the welcome blanket of
darkness, for the first time during the siege the enemy
quieted down and left the determined group of survivors
in peace for the night. The heavy losses suffered by the
Germans from the American barrage during the day, and the
accuracy of the American riflemen on the hillside during
the last attack, had caused them to be thankful for the
darkness of night, as well as were the men of the
beleaguered battalion.
SIXTH DAY
October 7,1918
OCTOBER 7th broke grey and chill over the Argonne. Could
an observer look down on the hillside, he would have seen
but few signs of life. Most of the men wounded early in
the fight had died of their wounds, or gangrene had set
in on the wounded still alive. Sprawled motionless in
their foxholes, conserving the little energy they had
left, they stared dully at the forest edge, waiting
another of the endless attacks. Wounded men took their
place on the firing line, as by now there were not enough
unwounded men left to man the few guns remaining. The
American planes were still trying to drop food and
ammunition. No one knew when relief could possibly break
through.
Just before noon the enemy again launched an attack,
which was repelled. Intermittent machine gun fire
continued throughout the afternoon. Suddenly it ceased,
about 4:00 P.M., and silence fell over the slope. Then in
no-man's-land between the Americans and the Germans an
American soldier appeared limping slowly toward the
battalion. In his right hand he held a crude cane
supporting him while he walked, and in his left he held
aloft a broken branch to which was attached a white flag
of truce.
The troops were cautioned to hold their fire. As the khaki-clad figure
advanced toward Whittlesey, slowly
waving the white flag, all who were there wondered
"What now?" When he arrived at Whittlesey's
foxhole it was found that he was Private Lowell R.
Hollingshead, a seventeen year old Ohio boy, who had gone
into the enemy lines early that morning, trying to obtain
some of the food that had been dropped by the planes.
He had been wounded and captured and taken to the German
dugout, while others who were on the mission with him
had been killed. In the dugout, after questioning by the
German commanding officer, he had been blind-folded,
taken back to the German front lines, where the
blind-fold was removed, and been ordered to deliver to
Major Whittlesey a note containing this dramatic demand
to surrender. The message read:
"Sir: The bearer of this present, Private
Hollingshead, has been taken prisoner by us. He has
refused to give the German Intelligence Officer any
answer to his questions, and is quite an honorable
fellow, doing honor to his Fatherland in the strictest
sense of the word.
He has been charged against his will, believing that he
is doing wrong to his country to carry forward this
present letter to the officer in charge of the Battalion
of the 77th Division, with the purpose to recommend this
commander to surrender his force, as it would be quite
useless to resist any more, in view of the present
condition.
The suffering of your wounded men can be heard over here
in the German lines, and we are appealing to your humane
sentiments to stop. A white flag shown by one of your men
will tell us that you agree with these conditions. Please
treat Private Hollingshead as an honor. able man. He is
quite a soldier. We envy you.
The German Commanding Officer."
Legend has made famous the reply, "Go to hell,"
which Major Whittlesey is reported to have hurled at the
Germans upon reading the demand for surrender. No answer,
written or verbal, was made by him to the German
commander's letter. Major Whittlesey ordered the two
white airplane panels to be taken in at once. There was
nothing white left showing on the hillside.
The Germans waited for the reply. No reply was being
prepared, for Major Whittlesey was busy redisposing what
few effective men he had left. He was preparing for the
attack which was sure to follow. Only a handful of
ammunition remained. The men of the battalion began to
sharpen their bayonets in the wet dirt. If the enemy
attack was successful, this would be their last stand.
Guttural commands of the Germans were soon heard by those
in the battalion, and a furious attack was launched by
the enemy. The Americans fired carefully, making every
shot of the fast diminishing supply of ammunition count.
Wounded men no longer able to fire a rifle reloaded the
weapons for their comrades on the firing line. Time and
again the Germans surged forward almost to the American
lines. Each time they were repulsed. At the peak of the
fight the enemy surpassed anything he had done before by
launching the hell of liquid fire on the battalion.
The enemy had reserved this inhuman weapon until the
last, and had used it with the intention of turning the
right flank of the battalion and completely disorganizing
their morale. The attack almost succeeded. But in a burst
of magnificent anger, the American doughboys crawled to a
new firing position, and killed the Germans carrying the
flame throwers. Though they had again repulsed the enemy,
the men of the battalion must have felt that this was the
end. Knowing they had not enough ammunition left to
repulse another attack, they almost gave up hope of
rescue. Sprawled there on that Hillside of Eternity, they
awaited what they believed would be the final attack.
Suddenly, loud and close by, they heard the firing of
American rifles. Hope flamed anew from the ashes of
despair, while the men of the battalion stared numbly
toward the south from whence the sounds came.
Soon the Germans were seen running through the forest to
the south. Their actions told Whittlesey's command full
well that this time relief was breaking through. Cries of
the Germans were heard on the hill above, telling of the
accuracy of the rifle fire by the oncoming American
relief expedition. Hurriedly the Germans withdrew,
carrying their dead and wounded with them, while both
American and French forces continued their advance toward
the battalion. As dusk settled down the men who had
suffered so intensely to hold a position they had taken
under mandatory orders, that pins might move on man-made
war maps, knew the almost despaired-of relief had
arrived.
As the Germans withdrew, the American troops came up from
the south, driving the enemy before them. Passing in
front of the battalion's position, they placed their
outposts for the night. The news that relief had arrived
spread quickly to all parts of the battalion.
There was no demonstration; no cheering of any kind among
the survivors. They were too weak and exhausted to do
more than express within themselves their prayer of
thanks that they had been permitted to live. Crawling
from the foxholes that had been their shelter for six
days and nights, they started taking care of the dead and
making the wounded as comfortable as possible.
They spent that night on the hillside. On the morning of
October 8th, the ambulances arrived to carry back the
wounded. Those who were still able to do so walked down
what had been the "hillside of death," to the
arms of their comrades-comrades who would not be stopped
by the German wall of steel, in the almost, but not
quite, impregnable Argonne Forest.
Once again back of the lines in headquarters, the rows of
tiny colored pins on the huge Allied war map had righted
themselves. Tomorrow the pins would move far into the
German territory, an inch or a half inch on the map, in
the short space of a few hours. Again, far ahead up in
the lines, war weary men would die that pins might move.
THE FIGHT OF THE LOST BATTALION
In the Argonne Forest near Florent
and on the way to Grand Pre,
A group of American doughboys met
on a rainy and fateful day;
Met for a single purpose,
less than a handful of men,
Waiting the word to "go into" the lines,
to "come out" God alone knew when.
The air and trees around them,
were filled with war-weird sound,
While a battery of cannon far up ahead,
was rocking the war-sad ground;
There were recruits there who were yet to have
their first baptism of fire,
And veterans who knew war through and
through, its dangers, its woes, and its mire
East met West in those few short hours,
and were drawn together as one,
As brother to brother and man to man,
they met to suppress the Hun.
Each was thinking his secret thoughts,
that come to but very few men,
Within an hour they would "go over the top,"
some never to come back again.
The page they would write in history
would be spotted and smeared with red,
An epic of war and all its cost
in wounded and shattered and dead.
A page that was filled with courage,
seldom seen by anyone,
As across the red horizon,
they marched toward the sun.
To an open space in the road they came,
and an awe inspiring sight,
The skyline ablaze with one great flame,
from cannons that belched in the night;
When they reached the barren trenches,
they breathed a silent prayer,
Then settled down and waited,
through an endless night "Up There."
At eleven o'clock that eventful night,
our barrage opened up with a flare,
The earth fairly trembled and shook in alarm,
death screamed as it leapt through the air.
God, how those waiting minutes dragged,
they seemed forever and aye,
As the men crouched there, on the ground
cold and bare, waiting for dawn and the day.
The sky turned grey as the men all lay,
tense for the final sign
To go over the top and never stop
till they'd broken the Kremhilde line.
What did they find when over the top,
in that waste of No-Man's-Land?
An ocean of wire in the mud and the mire,
placed there by the devil's hand.
Three days they fought in that forest,
amid sights too shocking to tell,
Then they were all caught in a well-laid trap,
that sprung from the jaws of hell.
They were gaunt with fatigue and hunger,
what food they had was gone,
Yet there were the Boche surrounding them,
so they battled on and on.
Tired from fighting and half dead for sleep,
they dug themselves in for the night,
And as they lay there 'neath the shell-split air,
they felt 'twas the end of their fight.
Then at break of dawn the Boche closed in,
and they met him face to face,
There were many who fell in battle that day,
yet night found the troops still in place.
For three long days they fought in that trap,
in mud and muck to their knees,
Sleepless, hungry, half dead for thirst, 'neath
those shell-shattered Argonne trees;
Then Death moved up and was waiting there
to collect his ghastly due,
When the word went racing along the line,
"Relief is breaking through."
They went at the food like a pack of wolves,
that had starved the winter through,
Between the munching of bites you would hear
prayers-and some curses too.
Then on and on they carried the fight,
crushed the best that the enemy had,
They gained their objective, were trapped again,
then they went fighting mad.
On the side of a cliff two hundred feet high,
they dug in like so many moles,
Death was the penalty that was paid,
if they raised their heads from those holes.
Did you ever lay out in the cold all night,
when the frost creeps through the air,
Where death and misery fill the night,
and hope turns to despair?
If you have, then perhaps you can realize
the things that were happening then,
That the pieces that lay on the hillside,
were things that had once been men.
That every man who came out alive,
could say he had lived through hell,
And the eyes that saw what happened there,
left the lips too dumb to tell.
Fighting all day, holding out by pure grit,
and fighting at night by the flare,
The suffering borne can never be told,
of those six days and nights spent there.
Death thinned their ranks, took full fold its toll
of their buddies, your brothers and sons,
But before they went, though their strength
was spent, they took their toll of the Huns
Relief came at last, as it sometimes does,
when you're backed by red-blooded men,
But they were so weak, so many were gone,
nothing mattered much to them then.
They stumbled out, more dead than alive,
to food and shelter and rest,
While others tenderly cared for those
who had passed to eternal rest.
Six hundred strong they entered that fight
and all of them game to the core,
All who were left that could walk from the hill,
were one hundred and ninety-four.
So a price was made and the price was paid,
and laid at the feet of Mars,
But the hallowed souls of soldiers gone
shall shine there forever like stars.