HISTORY
of
THE 306th Field Artillery
THE ARGONNE-MEUSE OFFENSIVE
THE relief by
Garibaldi's Italian Division had become a reality.
Already the regimental Post of Command had been taken
over by the general himself.
Bazoches and Fismes looked innocent enough there in the
afternoon sun. Both were but heaps of broken stone and
brick. Now and then as you watched, a bit of Hun Kultur
would go screaming over, and a dirty black cloud would
mark the spot where it struck. Fismes was receiving
particular attention. Hour after hour, the town and roads
about it seemed to vomit flame, black smoke, and debris.
The time to start approached and a strange stillness
settled into the little valley as the sun gave way to a
brilliant moon. Everyone's hopes went up as nine o'clock
was reached. For some reason Jerry was quiet, and we
might slip through the valley and across the river before
he got busy. The column was formed. Horses and men stood
motionless so that the airplanes overhead would pass them
by unnoticed.
Coming across the
narrow bridge was an endless column of Italian Infantry,
and French artillery, all hastening to get by the
congested shelled area. Suddenly the shrill whistle Of
77's floated overhead. The lurid flashes in the town and
beyond showed the targets.
Overhead throbbed a heavy bombing plane in search of
prey.
Into the crossroads at Fismes, the column pushed its way,
men and horses bending forward in the dark to accomplish
their unpleasant task as quickly as possible. The
crossroads were blocked. The French and Italians were
trying to come in on the road on which we were going out.
Shells were bursting just beyond the turn and the air was
heavy with gas, which tickled the nose and choked the
throat. We moved ahead and swung the corner. Every man
crouched low, wondering where each screaming shell would
land. The pace was terrific but no one minded, thinking
only of the flash,-the noise of the close falling shells.
At first they burst all ahead, then all around, and at
last, all behind us.
We began to realize how far and fast we had traveled. It
seemed as if a heavy load had been lifted from us. We
pushed on. Occasionally a plane hovered overhead. Here
and there, we could see the flash of a gun in a ravine
and way off to the right a converging circle of
searchlights, punctured with little red bursts of flame,
told the story of a night bomber. The marching became
easier. The strain was gone. The sound of the guns was
far be-hind and our month on the Vesle was but a memory.
Early in the morning, camp was pitched in the woods near
Coulonges. After a few hours' sleep there was readjusting
of packs, inspection of equipment and horses, and a big
meal (the first the regiment had had together for over a
month). At dark, the moon came clear and brilliant in a
nearly cloudless sky, and the long column, like a dark
snake, uncoiled from the woods of our camp and started
its long journey supposedly to rest. A little after
midnight we crossed the Marne on a pontoon bridge and
started eastward along the broad highway. Little did we
know where it would take us but soon there grew a feeling
that this was a race against time and that such a race
would never end in a mere rest.
There were nights of cold and drenching rain; when men
were so weary that they slept on their horses and the
horses stumbled and staggered under their loads; when the
troops and guns going by took on weird outlandish shapes
like ghost things herded onward. There were early
mornings; when camp was made where everything was wet and
there was little fuel; when the tired things would just
fall asleep drenched and cold. There were marches by day
when the sun shone and all were happy. The fields were
bright with the green and the sun. The country folks
smiled and we smiled back. The horses did their best and
we put many miles behind us. There were camps outside of
interesting old places (Epernay and Chalons) where (in
spite of their tired bodies) the men would go to buy food
and souvenirs.
One morning, it was
whispered around that we were going back to the Front and
that the biggest " show " of the war was to
begin. The elation an excitement of participating in big
things began to creep in, and by night, excited whispers
told of some mighty battle in which we were to fight.
Indeed there was, and each day we saw new evidences of
it-miles and miles of marching troops, trains of motor
transports, and huge lumbering guns, all pressing on as
if striving to be first at some worthy goal. Then the
great Argonne Forest was in the rumors, coupled with
stories of a great offensive from "Switzerland to
the Sea."
On a beautiful frosty night, we passed through St.
Menehould, the gateway of the Argonne. There were high
dark woods, hard long hills, and quiet water in glades,
which gave back a bluish haze from the moonlight.
Soon word was passed back that the lines were very close
and, driving off the road into the woods, we camped for
the night, sending the guns forward and camouflaging them
near their positions north of Florent. We were in the
Argonne Forest, soon to start one of the greatest battles
of the war, having marched one hundred and eighty-five
kilometers in eight days.
Next day, a gun boomed out just ahead and we realized
that the appreciation of things of beauty would have to
be suspended until our work was over. Again, it was
brought home, for there was the unmistakable whistle of
one coming in-just the old desultory firing of an
inactive front. All were cautioned to be careful and keep
out of sight and any reconnaissance forward of the
batteries had to be in French uniforms.
The battery positions had to be prepared, the trail pits
dug, and the troublesome orienting completed. Cover too,
had to be found, for no one knew exactly how much the
Boche suspected and he usually backed up his suspicions
with a little H. E.
The woods bristled with guns. Here you could see the
little graceful 75's, and there the long serpent-like
heavier rifles, and, in little unexpected nooks and
hollows, the uglier businesslike snouts of our own
howitzers.
We found our first real dugouts, some that would hold six
hundred or seven hundred men, well equipped with bunks,
water, and electric lights. A single small hillside could
swallow a regiment and still yawn for more.
Overhead the sky was bright blue, spotted here and there
with fleecy clouds, behind which an occasional plane
would dart to escape the avalanche of bursting shells
sent up by the anti-aircrafts. Time and again the Hun
would try to come over, only to be driven back. Late in
the afternoon, two huge bombing squadrons drifted over to
harass the lines of communication. The night came and
again the stillness of the great forest closed down. The
stars were large and near, and a bright moon flecked the
ground with silver between the trees. Now and then a
shell went over, and now and then one came back; and it
was still again.
Another morning was here and no news. The telephone lines
were laid, but we were under orders not to talk or even
ring up, for fear of Germans listening-in and discovering
our preparations. The last work on the guns was finished
and the regiment reported ready.
Just before noon a messenger arrived, his arms full of
papers. He told us as he handed them over that all lines
were to be tested by noon by ringing and saying
"Oui" or some other French word. The papers
were maps and barrage orders-the first news of our part
in the great offensive. There followed hours of feverish
figuring so that all data for the guns would be ready and
checked, the shells separated, and the charges prepared
for action at any time. By nightfall, everything was set
and ready for the word that would send over the greatest
avalanche of shells ever poured on any enemy.
Darkness came on. Suddenly a ruddy flash and then another
lit the heavens, bringing the trees and battered
buildings into sharp relief against a lurid field. The
heavens were filled with never-ceasing lightning that
sent ugly screaming things on their way to destroy, while
the air beat on our ears and the very earth rocked with
the thunder of it. Not until three hours later did the
iron throats abate their howl of hate and then only to
shift-some to the creeping barrage, others to zones where
men and material would collect.
The morning was bright but the unceasing roar rolled on
and on. Now and then, away to the left, could be heard
the singsong of a French seventy- five barrage, and to
the rear, the heavy crash of a big one sending over its
hundreds of pounds of high explosive. Noon came and the
fire slackened, but there was no news. We knew that the
infantry had gone across, but scattered battalion reports
gave little information.
By noon the order to advance had arrived. Not far, but
over the ridge, through the old French reserve line and
down into the valley of the Biesme. Here, we saw, for the
first time, what four years of war meant. Heaps of
grown-over ruins, myriads of trenches and wire, and
cleverly built dugouts that made each hill a protective
abode. Such dugouts could have been conceived only by the
French. There were ornate homelike entrances, comfortable
rooms with fireplaces and long extending tunnels that
burrowed and intercommunicated within the hills. In one
of the larger ones, there were the unmistakable recent
evidences of cows, chickens, and pigs. Such were the
hardships of the Argonne before September 26, 1918.
The road running through the valley north of the river
was a slowly moving mass of supply transports, infantry,
engineers, and artillery, all pressing forward to their
new battle line. Near this road at La Harazee, the guns
first went into position. Here the artillery sat down to
wait, for there were indefinite reports and no chance of
observation and the firing was confined to scattered
shoots at definitely dangerous areas.
Now we had our first chance to see the real Argonne.
First a slightly battered, grand old strip of woods,
filled beneath with heavy brush through which were strung
masses of heavy wire. Here and there a few logs and
sandbags showed where some old wet and musty dugout went
down thirty feet or more into the clay, where one might
find a doughboy's full equipment, except the very
fighting tools. Then the old No Man's Land, a waste of
broken stumps, blackened and burned and everywhere thrown
up in masses of yellow and grayish dirt.
For two days the lines did not seem to move but reports
showed them farther and ever farther away until the news
of the "Lost Battalion" reached us. At first,
it was only a rumor spreading as rumors go but later
confirmed in the regimental Post Command itself where
every word was interrupted by the whine of the bullets
overhead. All this time we waited, firing now and then as
targets were given, but never performing any carefully
adjusted work.
There was one day of fire to help this " Lost
Battalion" of advancing infantry that had lost
contact on its left and right and had been surrounded by
the Germans. General Johnson himself led his men in a
heartbreaking futile attempt at rescue. By day, planes
loaded with food and ammunition attempted to reach the
sorely tried men but always the precious parcels dropped
in enemy hands.
Situated as they were in the cross part of a T-shaped
ravine with the top pointing towards the enemy, the lost
or beleaguered battalion was completely dominated by the
fire from concrete emplacements on all sides. After many
unsuccessful infantry attempts the artillery was called
upon to demolish the emplacements on the left side of the
T. There was a heavy concentration put on this area by
the whole regiment, which although not adequate to effect
a breach for a successful infantry attack, succeeded in
relieving the situation and breaking up a gathering
German attack.
Soon after this, news came back that they had been
reached and that the Germans were falling back. Everyone
had a new eagerness to get on. Here was the first real
feeling of victory that carried us on to the end. Traces
of pitted mud, each pit filled with yellow water, showed
where the shell-torn road had been. It was a bottomless
sticky affair that would swallow hooves, shoes, and
wheels and hold them fast against the best efforts of man
or horse. Such were the roads that ran forward through
the battered, twisted maze of stumps, trees, and wires.
On and on, the horses and men struggled, through rain,
mud, and darkness. Finally we came upon one of the
wonders of the war-the German dugouts -modest entrances,
well protected with overhanging concrete lids, nicely
modeled rooms with stained wood trimmings, mission
furniture, and tinted walls. Beds, too, with springs
could be found tucked away in cozy little rooms where
open fires gave them charm. There were complete lighting
systems, hot and cold baths, and central mess
establishments. However it was not safe to be too
curious, for often-times, opening a door, lighting a
fire, or switching on a light, blew dugout and all beyond
all possibility of recognition. There were whole towns of
these luxurious quarters, for thus had the Germans been
living when caught by the barrage of September 26th.
After a few days of all these German comforts, fires told
us of a new retreat. There followed a long march through
muddy roads dimly outlined by the fires of German
destruction, past a crossroad about which were
grotesquely twisted shapes that back in 1914 had been
Binarville, shown on the map as a fair-sized town and on
the ground by an unmistakable German sign with letters a
foot high.
Beyond, the Argonne ends, a pointed fringe of thick oak,
covering sharp ridges which jut toward Grand Pre from the
south and command the Aire for long distances on either
side. Behind these ridges between Langon and Grand Ham
were our new positions; the Second and Third Battalions
on the west side of the forest, and the First Battalion
on the east side, and along their sides the infantry and
machine guns were catching their breath for the next
plunge. This was to be one of the hardest phases of the
war for us. By working twenty-four hours a day the masses
of ammunition were brought up and one misty morning the
hills rang again with the barrage that helped in the
downfall of the German's second line.
This second line hinged on Grand Pre, a town built on the
point of a ridge jutting down from the northern end
overlooking all of the crossings of the Aire as well as
the railroad leading up the valley. Above the town, the
cemetery, with its heavy stone terraces, and embankment
walls, overhung the town below like a protecting fortress
and gave excellent machine-gun control of the surrounding
valley. This cemetery was the main obstacle to the
capture of the town. For this reason it was continually
swept by our artillery until only a powdered tortured
mass of stone and earth remained. On both sides, rolling
hills stretched away to the north, behind which were many
Boche batteries of all sizes which were deluged with fire
as soon as discovered. These wooded hills were ideal for
the cleverly concealed German machine guns. Perhaps the
strongest of them was the Bois des Loges, a heavily
wooded crest that sloped to the very banks of the river.
Hidden in the protection of its trees, the Germans had
done their utmost in machine-gun defences. It was the
work of the artillery to crush these nests and kill or
drive out their defenders. After the battle (so well had
the guns done their work) it was hard to see how a
sparrow could have lived through it. There were other
difficult and sensitive places such as Belle Joyeuse Farm
(the German forward Command post), Farm des loges, an
excellent machine-gun fort, and the crossroads at Beffu
le Mort Homme, always crowded with traffic. All of these
received hourly attention up to the time of the attack,
when every gun became intent on crushing each obstacle as
the infantry opposed it.
Over across the railroad, the meadows, and the Aire, the
infantry went to the heights beyond, where the rapidly
thinning ranks dug in. It was then a question of one
machine gun at a time, of appalling losses and just plain
guts. Always, the shells went over and one by one the
machine guns stopped their clamor until at night, St.
Juvin and Grand Pr6 were taken, a main line railroad cut,
huge stores captured, and the Argonne cleared.
Finally the welcome relief came, followed by a march back
through roads crowded with troops, camions, and supply
wagons to our old second position at La Haraz6e in the
now quiet valley of the Biesme. There, many rumors, those
phantom hearsays of armies that come from nowhere and
amount to nothing, had the division on its way to various
camps and rest areas.
At La Harazee there were baths, new clothes, leaves, and
the old close-order drill. The horses were rested and put
on fresh hourly. The guns shone under constant cleaning.
There were band concerts and school. The war was left
behind, we went about without helmets, strolled on the
streets without an ever strained ear listening for one
coming over. The very air seemed sweet and good to
breathe.
One night, there was a visitor. All along the line the
cry "Lights out!" warned us, before the heavy
throbbing told us, of the hated prowlers of the night. He
passed us up to bomb the more important target of
railroads and dumps. Next morning, rumors of returning to
the front were rife, and by night orders were issued that
meant once more the 77th Division was to take up its part
of the now never-ceasing push.
Just after noon, the regiment stripped to the absolutely
necessary transportation-for the horses were far too
few-started again to take its place in the line. That
night, camped in the thick woods under pup tents, we
heard again the old familiar whistle of the shells coming
in. They were scattered, however, and did no harm.
With the morning
came an early start and a long march to a gun-lined area.
There were guns everywhere, along the roads, in
buildings, under trees, and in the open. So many that it
was hard to find room for a battery in the neighborhood
of Cornay-Fleville without overlooking many of the
ordinary requirements of a position. It must have been
hard indeed, provided the Germans knew all, to pick their
particular target, for a shot anywhere would have done
damage.
Then came days of adjustment-for there was good
observation-on which every gun was registered, so that
every round would tell. The Germans were not idle,
however, and flocks of snarling, whistling death were
poured over with much too good precision.
Day after day the air was full of planes and the
puff-specked sky told of their hearty reception on both
sides. Occasionally one would topple and fall, and fill
up the " brought down " list on the next day's
reports.
Much was the
information these 'planes brought -eight hundred guns
behind one hill-seven divisions of Huns ready to cut us
up. Often the new weapon -propaganda-would float down
giving the arguments on both sides in innocent little
leaflets that helped to win the war. It is easy to see
how effective these missives were, for men went hundreds
of meters over shell-swept ground in pursuit of them.
The night the blow that was to knock the Hun to his knees
arrived, everyone was excited and eager. A heavy
counter-battery was expected, but the tremendous weight
of our own guns was to crumple the enemy up like leaves
and blow them away as by an autumn wind. Soon the air was
filled with the most dense and destructive barrage of our
war. It seemed the heavens were shrieking with the agony
of it. The night was made light as day. Morning came- the
fire kept up-the infantry went over but the Germans bad
orders to hold at all cost. Those left stuck to their
posts and all the day it was the old story of clearing a
nest here and a nest there. We fired until our guns
smoked with heat.
During the morning the infantry had hard work of it, but
by noon parts of the line broke through. Plans were made
for us to follow, but because the horses were pitifully
few, the First Battalion had to stay behind at Marcq,
turning its horses over to the battalions going ahead.
Night came, we moved up and started the feverish dash at
the German line that was to end with surrender on the
banks of the Meuse. There were heartbreaking marches over
roads seemingly impassable from mud, mines, and shell
holes; days and nights without food (for ammunition came
first), horses dropping in their harness, men eating
cabbage from the fields, and drinking from filthy shell
holes; and nights of heavy firing. Each man did the work
of ten and would have died to ram home the last shell.
But ever the spirit of victory pulled us on through
hard-won St. Juvin and shell-destroyed Champigneulle, to
Thenorgues and Buzancy; and on beyond to Sommauthe, to
Raucourt, and to Haraucourt, where the Germans cried:
"Enough!"
Behind them, the Boche, left a trail of blood where the
big shells went home; there were men, horses, and
material broken and smashed by the roadside. The Meuse
was reached, the guns in position to fire on Sedan.
Patrols were across the river, when on November 11th a
breathless and beaming messenger brought Foch's message
that hostilities would cease at 11 A.m. For a minute it
was hard to understand; and a non-comprehending silence
spread over all; then a burst of joy, given vent to as
only soldiers can, marked the end of it all. " Fini
la Guerre.
GEORGE E. DYKE,
Captain, 3o6th F. A.