Don
Martin diary entry for Monday, July 15, 1918:
Big offensive started last night midnight as I predicted. Has been an
exciting day. Big gun began sending
shells into Meaux at half past six this morning. One struck close to the hotel
Sirene and uprooted big tree and left great hole in street. Everyone excited.
Correspondents particularly. Had breakfast while shells falling every ten
minutes all around. People started at once to leave Meaux. [Edwin] James [New York Times] and I
rushed out of town to corps headquarters, knowing big offensive had begun.
Returned to Meaux despite big gun shelling and I wrote a hurried cable for New
York. Then went away up to the Twenty-eighth and Third division headquarters.
Was within four miles of line. In midst of big batteries sending shells over on
Germans. Germans have advanced across Marne at several points. Americans held
two points. Looks not very good but have confidence in ability of French to
hold. Think Germans will advance many kilometers. Drive is toward Chalons.
Here is a second dispatch dated July 15, published in the New York Herald on Tuesday, July 16.
Don
Martin Sees Army Preparing for
Hun Drive and Their Valiant Stand
By Don
Martin
Special Correspondent of
the Herald with the American Armies in France
[Special Cable to the Herald]
WITH THE AMERICAN ARMIES IN FRANCE, Monday
[July 15]
As the Huns’ giant
offensive was launched the Americans were attacked at several points. As I
write they are showing the same gallantry and bravery as before. They are
fighting in the region south of Jaulgonne and also east of Rheims, where the
men are having their first test of war’s inferno.
A vigorous attack was
made by the Germans in an effort to recapture Vaux. Last evening they threw an
intense deluge of shells into the town, lasting two hours, followed by a
drenching of gas. Early this morning the German infantry attempted to advance.
They entered Vaux but the Americans held their fire, waiting to enfilade them,
which they did, leaving a mass of Germans dead. The Americans took twenty-eight
prisoners.
In the vicinity of
Jaulgonne, where the Americans a month ago earned distinction, a large
detachment of Americans was fighting side by side with the French. A desperate
attack started at that point. The Germans hurled a hurricane of shells for
hours at them, followed by gas. Afterward the Germans crossed the river in the
face of the deadly fire of our guns.
I went to points back of the line last night
and this morning and saw the deluge of shells from the big guns. The roar was
louder that any ever heard in this region since the beginning of the war. At
the same time the German big guns were throwing shells at ten minutes intervals
into cities close to Paris.
French Not Scared
I was in one of these
cities when, at six o’clock this morning, the first shell fell. It did slight
material damage. The French stood in the streets and hurried to places to see
the effects of the shells. If the Germans expect to terrify the people their
effort is a failure.
The French and
Americans are ready to meet the German assault, which it was understood would
begin on July 14. It extends from Château-Thierry to the east of Rheims, the
object being to straighten the line and give a powerful front before Paris.
It is hard to learn
the details, but the belief is that this is the supreme effort of the Germans,
who are ready to sacrifice men like cattle in order to frighten the Allies by
threatening Paris, which they will not get.
From where I am
writing I can see the flash of the great guns belching their answer to the
Germans, which are loosening a roar that is reverberating from the hills on
both sides of the Marne. The French fire covers the whole region south of
Rheims, extending east in a solid line of deadly “seventy-fives,” which already
have caused havoc among the Germans. It is known that the Germans have large
guns trained on the whole region south of the present line, which they have
been massing for weeks.
Why Huns Waited
The delay in the
attack was caused by the determination of the Germans to wait till they were
ready to proceed like clockwork. This morning at daybreak I saw American
airplanes fly to the German lines to drive away peeping Boches who were eager
to see the effect of their own artillery. Now airplanes are buzzing in all
directions, waiting to attack the Germans. There are hundreds of indications
back of the front for fifty miles or more that the world is in the midst of its
greatest battle. Americans are at half a dozen points in the front line, all sure
to give a brilliant account of themselves.
Don Martin also wrote a dispatch on the
start of the German offensive for Paris, which was published in the Paris
Herald on July 16.
AMERICANS TAKE PART IN TASK OF RESISTANCE
German
Barrage on Their Line Drenches Them in Gas—
Shelling Fairly Drags Up Ground—
Enemy Prisoners Are
Taken.
(SPECIAL TELEGRAM TO
THE HERALD.)
By
DON MARTIN.
WITH THE AMERICAN ARMIES, Monday. [July
15]
Americans took part in the Allied
resistance to the new German offensive. They were in the line at several points,
and from all that can be learned at the time this despatch is written, they
have conducted themselves with their usual valor and dash. They captured in the
neighborhood of 500 prisoners, and it was stated that this number might grow.
A barrage began at nine o'clock
on Sunday night, and continued incessantly for hours. It was a creeping barrage
which covered an area miles deep, and is said to have been one of the most
ferocious during the entire war. Gas-shells were mixed with shrapnel and high
explosives, and meantime big guns were hurling shells into towns and cities far
back.
The Germans fairly chopped up the
earth, leveling woods and destroying everything in the path of their shells.
During the forenoon of today the Americans made a counterattack, driving the
Germans back and killing large numbers of them. Large groups were surrounded
and captured.
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| River Marne at Chateau Thierry
Don Martin wrote a lengthy
tribute to the Marines on July 15, which was mailed to New York and published
in the New York Herald on Sunday, August 4, 1918 under a banner headline “WITH DON MARTIN AT THE AMERICAN ARMY’S FRONT IN
FRANCE.”
Marine’s One Big Family All Ready to Die for One Another at Any Moment
Don Martin Reveals “Devilhounds,” as Germans Call Them, as They Live
and Fight—French Proud to Fight Beside Them
By DON MARTIN
Special Correspondent
of the Herald with the American Armies in France
[Special to the
Herald]
WITH THE AMERICAN ARMIES IN FRANCE, July 15
The Devilhounds—that is what the
Germans call them.
The Green Devils—that is what the
French sometimes call them.
The Marines—that’s what they call
themselves.
General Pershing, in presenting
Distinguished Service Crosses to thirty-seven of them, said they had written a
brilliant page in American history; that the folks back home were thrilled when
they read of their gallant record. A distinguished French general who
participated in the ceremony shook his head admiringly as the honor men and
1,000 other members of the Marines marched by. Then he said,--
“Wonderful! Americans! Wonderful
soldiers! It is splendid to be fighting by their side!”
The ceremony was held in a broad
field between a château and the Marne River. The Marines had not yet brushed
all the dirt of the trenches from their uniforms. Four companies faced the
château and ahead of them stood the men chosen for the honor roll. American and
French officers stood on a rising slope and watched a series of manoevres of
the soldiers.
American Airs in Mediaeval Setting
Previous to the formality of
pinning the crosses on the heroes the regimental band gave a concert which
unquestionably quickened the pulses of every American within hearing. It played
“My Old Kentucky Home,” “Carry Me Back to Old Virginia,” “Yankee Doodle,”
“There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night,” “My Country, ‘Tis of Three
and “The Star Spangled Banner.”
It was indeed an inspiring
picture—American soldiers fresh from the trenches where they earned everlasting
distinction, standing beside the historic Marne; the Stars and Stripes whipping
in a brisk breeze in the midst of a scene strikingly European if not mediaeval,
and the strains of the American national anthem floating out over all.
The band gave a good account of
itself despite the fact that its original personnel has been materially
changed.
“We’re using utility
infielders—pinch hitters—mostly now,” said the leader.
I knew why but it is interesting to
hear the leader’s own story.
“You see we ran short of litter bearers
during the fighting at Belleau Wood and the band boys turned in. A lot of them
stayed there and some others are in the hospital, but we’ve got the band
patched up fairly well and if we have a month or two to rehearse we’ll be right
on the job.”
A more interesting and picturesque
group of men than the marines does not exist. The secret of their splendid
success may be found largely in the fact that they pull together. They are not
seeking personal distinction. They are striving always to add lustre to the
name marines. They are proud of it. They say they are all one family; that
discipline is not the first order of the day when they are at rest, but that
there is not a single marine who would not walk straight into death any time if
by doing so he could save the life of a comrade or if he even stood a chance of
saving a life.
Tried and Found Not Wanting
There was more or less brilliant
romance connected with the marines. In the last two months they have been put
in the scales and weighed and they have “made good.” They have had more than a
month in the front line and it was a month of a hellish inferno during which
they suffered losses, as the casualty lists already printed show. But during
that time they inflicted staggering losses upon the Germans. Some months ago I spent
three days and nights with the marines in the Verdun sector. They were then in
the front line, in a ravine, and were experiencing their first shellfire. They
were as cool then as veterans. On several occasions they went out on raiding
parties to bring in a German, dead or alive—this is the most effective way of
getting information about the enemy—and they never returned empty handed.
Recently I spent a day and a night with them just after they came out of the
front line. At luncheon with the officers of a well known regiment I asked,
rather friendly, where Captain ____, Lieutenant ___ or Lieutenant ___ was.
“Belleau” was the reply, or
“Bouresches.”
Some of the officers of whom I
asked were killed. Others are in hospitals. And yet the marines were at that
moment, fretting because they were out of the line; longing to go back at once
to the zone where death stalks constantly and never fails, any night or any
day, to take its toll.
The spirit found among the officers
is the spirit found in the ranks. One had to be with the marines only a short
time to see how true it is that “we are all one family,” and that one marine is
ready to do anything any time for another marine. I asked Lieutenant Colonel
Logan Feland, of Philadelphia, how he explained the fact that the marines have
not lost a prisoner.
“Only explanation I can think of is
that the marines fight till some one is killed. That’s the way they all do, I
understand.”
The Lieutenant Colonel, who only a
day before had been decorated by the commanding general, would say no more on
that subject. He was rewarded for courage he displayed in the face of what
seemed certain death. He led his men into a German machine gun nest. Many
Americans dropped, but when the gun was taken the Lieutenant Colonel was in the
lead. He is idolized by every man in his battalion. But the same is true of them
all. It hardly seems just to speak of one and omit mention of the others,
because they all showed in the fighting at the village of Bouresches, at the
Bois de Belleau (since named the Bois de Brigade de Marines) and in the
vicinity of Torcy that they are made of the same stuff. Fear is a thing unknown
to any of them.
Among the privates are men of
virtually every nationality—soldiers of fortune, boys, men in middle age. I was
talking with Captain W. L. Crabb, of the Sixty-sixth company, a native of Lexington,
Ky., and was through all the fighting at the three points mentioned.
How the Viewpoint Changes
“It’s a curious thing, he said,
“how one’s mental attitude changes. When we were put in the line first and were
up near Verdun, shells used to strike in the neighborhood. When a big one would
bang the boys would all come out and say, “Where’d she hit?” Some one would
shout back, “Pretty close—not more than a quarter mile off.” When we got down
in this sector shells were falling all the time, everywhere. When one would
sound especially close, some one would shout, “Where’d it land?” Then some one
would shout back, “Oh, way off—wasn’t within a hundred feet of us.”
I asked Captain Crabb if, during
the thirty odd days he spent in the front line, he could recall any period of
two hours when there was no sound of shells or guns.
He smiled. Several officers nearby
also smiled.
“Two hours! Not two minutes. A good
deal of the time shells were falling reasonably close by, but constantly there
was the thunder of our own guns and the roar of the German heavies—shells
whistling both ways a good deal of the time. But then the boys got used to it.”
“We’ve got just one kick,”
interjected a lieutenant with attempted seriousness. “We’ve all got a pocketful
of money and no place to go. We don’t mind being killed, but it seems only fair
that the government ought to give us a chance to spend our wad. I’m only
worrying for fear I’ll be killed with money unspent.”
I was eager to talk with a man who
had no delicacy in telling of a hand to hand combat with a German. I asked
Crabb if he knew of such a man.
“Sure, lots of them. C___, come
here!”
A color sergeant stepped over and
saluted.
“Sergeant, did you ever kill a
German in a hand to hand fight?”
“Sure.”
“Tell us about it.”
The sergeant was obviously more or
less puzzled at the request, but he told his story briefly
Sergeant Killed Three Germans
“At Belleau, with three of my men,
we ran into a bunch of twenty Germans. They shouted ‘Kamerad,’ but changed
their minds and began to shoot. We rushed them with bayonets. We brought back
two prisoners.
“I know
about the prisoners, but did you kill a German yourself?”
“Yes, I killed three, one with my
bayonet, which broke, one with the butt of my rifle and one with this trench
knife.”
“Did they kill any of your men in
the close in fight?”
“No, they can’t fight unless they’re
all together and have machine guns and grenades.”
The sergeant who so simply told this
grim tale of killing is a most interesting character. He is a Serbian by birth,
but he lived in Austria for a time and twelve years ago went to Minneapolis. He
was in Austria when the war started and was forced into the army. He deserted
as soon as he got the opportunity and joined the American army, which was not
yet, of course, in Europe.
He is a sturdy type, who likes to
fight. He fought at Tripoli and in Bulgaria and is a soldier all through. He
speaks French, Serbian, German, Spanish, Italian and several of the Slovak
languages.
Sergeant James L. Knoblow, of Cedar
Street, Buffalo, himself of German parentage, modestly told a brief story of
the capture by himself and ten men of twenty-three German prisoners.
“It was at Belleau. We rounded up
two machine gun crews and marched them and some others back. We had to kill a
few.”
Knoblow said he used his fists on
one German who attempted to fire his revolver at close range. From the size of
the sergeant’s fist and the brawn back of it, I fancied the German soldier’s
face was badly disfigured, and the sergeant admitted that the deduction was
correct. This marine is twenty-three years old, six feet tall and weighs an
even 200 pounds.
Risked Life to Save Men
Among the officers and men who stood before the château and beside the
Marne to be decorated was a mere youth in a second lieutenant’s uniform. He looked hardly eighteen. He was
Arnold B. Godbey, of St. Louis. I looked
him up later and heard his story.
“I didn’t know what I was to be
decorated for,” he said. “I was told to be at that place and I went, but I
didn’t know what it was for. The citation says that I was rewarded for helping
get in some wounded.”
“How many did you bring in?”
“I was a corporal then,” he said,
“and was stationed in a strip of ragged woods on the edge of a pasture.
Opposite the pasture was another piece of woods, and there the Germans were
peppering us with machine guns. A couple of platoons got orders to cross the
pasture to attack the Germans at close range and a lot of them fell on the way
over. Several were moving around and trying to beckon us for help. I went out
and carried one fellow in and then got another. I went out a third time and
dragged in a large fellow, but he died. I wasn’t hit, and it was strange, too,
because the Germans kept their machine guns going right along.
“My chum was out there, too. He was
trying to help some one when he was shot. I went out to bring him in, but
couldn’t do so. He was badly hurt. There was a bullet through his chest and one
through his neck. He knew he would die, and so did I. I poured water down his
throat and fixed him up as comfortably as I could and lay down beside him for
several minutes. He became unconscious, though, and I presume he was dead
before night.”
Can any one wonder at the brilliant
successes of the marines when he knows that they are men with the spirit and
dash of young Godbey? He was promoted to a lieutenancy, but not for
bravery—because he had shown he had the qualifications of an officer. He is
twenty-two years old. His father, he says, is a division superintendent for the
Wabash Railway, with headquarters n St. Louis. The youngster ran away from home
when he was eleven years old, and since then he has been a sort of soldier of
fortune. He has been in the marines eighteen months.
“Do you write home?” I asked him.
“Sometimes.”
“Will you write and tell your
parents about your decoration?”
“No need of that. Probably they’ll
see it in the papers if it’s printed.”
Past Fifty, Still a Fighter
Next to Lieutenant Godbey in the line of heroes stood another type, Marine
Gunner Henry L. Hulbert, gray hair made him a striking contrast to the youth
beside him. Gunner Hulbert presented a curious picture of himself, for he wore
the tunic of a lieutenant who was much smaller than he and his nether garments
were wet. He had swam the Marne in order to be at the appointed spot wringing
wet, but he proudly said he was there according to schedule, which “is what the
code of the marines calls for.”
The natural query of one who sees Gunner Hubert is, “Why is he not an
officer?” He explained it to me. He is too old. He is well past fifty, but is
still a fighter. He was for years a sergeant major. He has always been one of
the picturesque figures in the ranks of the marines. He earned a medal of honor
twenty years ago while serving with the marines in Guam during a hurricane.
This is how he earned his second medal—the one which was presented to him the
other day:--
During the fighting in Belleau the gun to which Hulbert was attached was
wrecked. It became necessary to carry food to the men well up to the front and having
nothing else to do at the time, Hulbert offered to perform the service. It was
a dangerous mission. Nevertheless Hulbert made a dozen trips through a shell
swept region and kept the men in the front line inferno supplied with food. I
asked this soldier where he lives.
“Oh, boy!” he exclaimed, “I haven’t had any home but the army for more than
thirty-five years. I have been with the Marine Corps for twenty years. Before
that I was in the British army. I’m just an army man—just a marine, like all
the boys here.”
Practically every nationality in the
world is represented in the marines. I talked to Private John Kukoski, a cook
who is wearing a Distinguished Service Cross for capturing a machine gun. He is
a Pole and talks with a marked Polish accent. His achievement is the more
notable because he is a cook and was fighting as a volunteer.
Kukoski was born in Poland, but
lived for ten years in Milwaukee.
“My father and mother and younger
brother were in Poland when the Germans took them away somewhere. I haven’t
heard from them. Maybe they are all dead. You understand perhaps why I like to
fight instead of being a cook. I am going to fight every time I get a chance.”
But no story of the marines would be
complete without mention of Sergeant Major John H. Quick, of Charlestown, W.
Va. He received his second medal the other day. The first he received in Cuba
for signaling to his commander under most perilous conditions. He is nearing
middle age, but is still a sergeant major. Several times a commission has been
offered to him, but he has declined. No one seems to know exactly why. Ask the
sergeant and he will say:--
“Being sergeant major suits me all
right.”
Ask some of his lifelong friends and they will say:--
“He doesn’t want to carry around the dignity of an officer. He’s just one
of the boys, and he thinks he’d have to be different if he were an officer.”
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