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| "Going over the top. Allied troops with full equipment are seen leaving their trench and advancing to attack. This the moment that tried mens' souls, and showed themselves and their comrades the stuff that was in them (Photo from I.F.S.)" "America's War For Humanity" by Thomas Russell |
Immediately men began to drop. Cries and moans, yells and screams rent the air, and could be heard even above the roaring of cannon and bursting shells of the enemy. Shells were bursting over head and underfoot. The very air was exploding in our faces. The ground was moving, rolling under our feet. Enemy machine gun bullets were tearing through our soldiers like so much hail and taking a great toll. It was a roaring furnace, all fire, smoke, hot lead and shrapnel in which it seemed we were all trapped and must perish, but some of us went on and on.
I do not believe there was a man who went over the top that morning who did not pray and pray aloud. I did and every man I passed, or who passed me, was doing so. Some did not know how to pray before, but God in his pity gave them the knowledge then.
A large swamp lay between our lines and the Germans. In order to get us across this our engineers had built some walks under cover of the night. We soon found that crossing on these was much too slow and as we were losing troops heavily, Captain McCormack, our company commander, took the lead and plunged into the swamp. We all followed, holding our rifles over our head. Breaking through the scum and water up to our armpits, we crossed the swamp.
On the other side, the ground was marshy and would not hold our weight. Unless we could step on a bunch of water grass, we were continually pulling each other out of the mire. This condition of the ground probably saved a lot of men from getting hit by shrapnel. As the shells lit here, although their detonation was instantaneous, they would bury in the mud and then explode. We got through the marsh, then came the German wire entanglement. We walked on top of the wires instead of trying to wade through it, but a lot of us broke through several times and got entangled. It was tough going. Soldiers everywhere were tearing their clothes in frantic efforts to extricate themselves and get to the trench and at the Germans.
We gained the trench, captured Germans - guns, ammo and all - then swept on to our objective. It had taken six hours. The boys on our left were meeting with more resistance and did not reach their objective until sometime later and then only after reinforcements.
We dug in on the crest of a hill on the edge of a woods where the Germans continually bombarded us with whiz bangs. We promptly named the place Whiz-bang Woods. We held this position for several days, then just prior to our next drive we were taken back a short distance to get ready to go again.
We were in a deep dugout when one evening an intelligence officer came and asked for privates Deaton and Bertog. They were just the sort of fellows he was looking for to go on patrol. He explained he needed men who were not afraid of anything or to go anywhere. He and the fellows who went with him were going to locate the enemy, wherever they were, across the Meuse River.
Deaton and Bertog were all eyes and ears - that suited them fine. They were ready to go anywhere anyone else would go. If no one else would go, given permission, they would.
I had been out on patrol several times and can’t say that I liked it - certainly not enough to volunteer my services. After the officers had explained what was expected of the boys he said: "Now I don’t want anyone to go who is liable to get cold feet, but I need four men, and if you two (meaning Deaton and Bertog) know of anyone you think who’ll fill the bill, or would want to go along, name them."
Both at once said "Dermody." The Lieutenant looked at me. "How about it, Dermody, will you go along?" What else could I do but say - "Sure, I’ll go."
Well, I was second gunner to our gun team and our Captain objected to my going. It was against army rules for any of the gun teams to go on patrols - they must stay together. The Captain and the Lieutenant argued, then took it up with Headquarters. The Captain won. I had said a prayer that he would but didn’t tell the boys that. Instead, I raved because I couldn’t go. However, they needed two more and not finding anyone who cared to go, or who they cared to go with, nobody went.
One thing I disliked other than going on patrol was standing guard out in no-man’s-land guarding the boys while they dug trenches at night. On one occasion several of us went forward under cover of night to dig trenches closer to the German lines. I was once detailed to stand guard, positioned between the diggers and the Germans. As quiet as we went about it the Germans knew something was going on and began throwing up flares which illuminated all the ground where the boys were digging and we were standing guard. One flare after another went up, compelling us to stand perfectly motionless, expecting every moment to be seen standing there and be mowed down by machine gun bullets. It seemed impossible they could not see us standing there in the bright light of their flares. Many times, of course, they could see - then those guards would be numbered amongst those lost in action.
Standing there from one to three hours at a stretch just waiting to have your life snuffed out with hot lead was extremely hard on our nerves. Being fairly well shattered anyway by this time, our minds also numb, we went about what we were supposed to do mechanically.
Subconsciously our minds were always in the States, at home, separated from our bodies by more than 3,000 miles of water and land. What I saw in France, Germany, Luxembourg, even the River Rhine registered only in the back of my head. I saw nothing beautiful in this land of beauty - only the horrors of war.
Early on the morning of Oct. 8 we went over the top to cross the Meuse River. Led by Major Allen, our battalion was placed between two divisions. We crossed the Meuse and swept on across the country fighting until 11 o’clock that night. Then we dug in.
While digging in this night I was swinging a pick, a very dull pick, when tearing at a chunk of the chalky ground I struck a glancing lick. The force of the blow carried the pick on down to drive it into the top of my foot. There was no doctor. The captain came to me the next morning and said, "I hear you stuck a pick in your foot." I replied, "Yes sir." He said, "Well you can’t go back. We’re short men now."
That angered me. He evidently thought I’d done it on purpose so I answered: "Well, Captain, who in the hell asked to go back? I wouldn’t go back if you sent me. But I would like to have a rifle."
He asked, "Where’s yours?" I answered "Here it is" and showed it to him, stock busted off and rear site gone. While carrying it in front of me the day before it had been hit by a hunk of shrapnel and I had nothing left but the barrel and bayonet.
The captain asked "How do you think I’m going to get you a gun now?" I told him I’d get one myself just as soon as we reached the German lines and I’d get a good one, a German one, that was longer and better than ours. I was burning and didn’t care what I said.
Well, I soon got my rifle, but while I had my pick of German rifles or our own, I took one of our own. One of our boys fell close to me - I needed a rifle, he didn’t anymore.
On the morning of Oct. 9 we were meeting stubborn resistance from the enemy. We were losing heavily. Time and again boys on my right and left would fall. Every few seconds I would find myself fighting beside new buddies. I was walking by the side of one lad when he was shot in the center of the forehead. He actually took a step or two before he pitched forward on his face. I have been by the side of others who were shot through the chest, through the heart, and the neck. Vital places all, to cause instant death, but they would always take a step or two after they were hit.
Even death itself could not take away those last utterances that were on the lips of every doughboy. It was "They got me." or "I got hit, " or "I’m hit." or "I got that one."
These horrors of war of which I write did not all happen in one battle. They occurred during different times and at different places during my nine months across, six of them on and near the front - holding the front lines, on patrols, and in battle skirmishes.
On this morning (Oct. 9) our battalion fought its way into the Argonne Forest where we wounded, killed and captured many Germans and lost many of our own men in return. Just before entering the Argonne woods we were held up by intense machine gun fire. While we were all sitting around in shell holes, I rolled a cigarette for myself and one for another buddy, Roy Dixon. Roy had dry matches, I had dry tobacco. So between the two of us we had it made. Into this relative calm came of course the voice of Private Bertog.
"What are we stopping here for? We can’t win the war sitting here. Let’s go up in those woods and see what’s in there Dermody."
Behind us someone yelled, "Hey you fellas, there’s machine guns in there." We yelled back, "We know it - that’s what we’re going after," and simultaneously Bertog yelled, "There’s no machine guns in there, that’s just your imagination." We were a couple of hundred feet into the woods when we found out there were plenty of guns in there. To make matters worse, our soldiers had decided to come forward firing as they came, catching us between two fires. We jumped into a shell hole. Bertog cracked: "I don’t mind the Germans shooting at us but these Yanks are liable to kill a fellow." While we were waiting in the shell hole for the rest of the boys to catch up, someone shouted "Hello, Dermody." I looked around to find one of my best buddies, Elmo Dool, who had been made a runner, going by on an errand. He waved at me and smiled as machine gun bullets whistled past and shells tore up the ground all around him. That was the last time I got to see him till years after the war was over.
We waited in the hole till the rest of the troops came up to us - and we never tried such a stunt again.
We were getting close to the Germans who were entrenched deep in the woods. The underbrush was so dense we had to crawl on hands and knees to get through the tangles. In addition to machine gun fire they were showering us with hand grenades. The boys all around me were being hit, either wounded or killed, faster than you could count them at times. Dixon was shot through the knee and went down. As he fell bullets bounced off his helmet. Our Corporal Fengel was standing erect shooting his rifle at the Germans whenever they poked a head above the trench.
I was following Private Ryan, loading pans with ammo for him to shoot in the sho sho, a no account French rifle. Ryan was firing the rifle very rapidly, but just tearing up the dirt a few feet ahead of us. I told him to raise his fire. Ryan replied "I’m aiming way over their heads now. I don’t know why they ever took our Lewis guns away from us and gave us these French things to fight with - unless they didn’t want us to hurt anybody." If we ever hit anybody with it, it must have been a glancing bullet.
While we were thus engaged, Corporal Johnson came along, walking right toward the Germans. We yelled for him to get down. He was hard of hearing, and didn’t understand what we meant. He waved and smiled at us and walked straight into the muzzle of a German machine gun. Bullets riddled him instantly.
We finally cleansed the woods of Germans at this point and after giving first aid to our wounded, followed the retreating Huns to their next stand and what proved to be my last fight. Here I would like to interrupt my story to relate a couple of amusing incidents which in themselves give to the readers an idea of the unconquerable spirits of these Yanks.
A big shell lit close to us and the explosion carried several tons of dirt into the air. This dirt opened up like a huge umbrella just before it started to descent on our heads in pieces from the size of bricks to a half-ton or more. Private Bertog looked up and said: "I’ll take the smallest one."
The Germans were retreating and firing at us all the while, with us returning same. Suddenly a large rabbit ran toward us from the Germans. Our boys forgot the Huns and the war and started shooting at the bunny. Some took a shot at it just as it would run between another fellow’s legs while that fellow stabbed at it with his bayonet. Such were the soldiers of World War I.
While giving first aid to our wounded, I had dressed Private Roy Dixon’s knee and helped him back a little ways. Suddenly the Germans opened up on us again and we were forced to lie flat. Dixon was lying on the stretcher with his head resting on his hand, elbow on the ground. He said "Get down, Dermody, before you get hit." I told him I was down as low as he was but he said it didn’t matter whether he got hit or not, he was through fighting anyhow, but I could still go on and help in the war. Then he gave me his .45 automatic. For this I was very grateful and know he must have regarded me as his very best friend. This parting with his gun was a sacrifice for him but he thought it might help me out in a close place now that his usefulness was at an end.
We went on to penetrate farther into the woods as we had done before in other battles, in other woods. We picked our way through the underbrush searching carefully for the enemy. They were all over with snipers concealed, it seemed, behind every tree. We must have seemed like wild game hunters. We carried our guns before us, ready to shoot at any second. We suddenly emerged from the thick brush and saw just ahead of us a plank road. This had been built by the Germans and used to bring supplies and big guns to the front. We immediately stepped back into the brush, since experience had taught us to avoid all roads as they were generally covered by machine gunners. This road was no exception.
As we stepped back into the brush, seven Yanks came up in single file. We cautioned them not to walk on that road. Not heeding us, they walked out onto the road and melted down one by one under the hail of machine gun bullets. Less than 30 seconds after we had warned them, seven American soldiers lay in one tragic pile, all dead.
Several times during this battle in the woods we encountered bands of Germans. Hand-to-hand skirmishes were the result. A Yank on my left was bayoneted under the chin. Many others were killed but we walked on, over the Germans. (I will not give any detailed account of these hand to hand encounters. Almost everyone has read similar accounts. They are terrible enough to think about. I cannot write about them. As I expect to re-read this myself, I do not wish to put my mind through any unnecessary torment. Perhaps if I were a story-writer, I would put it all in and more. I am not writing this as a prize story - not as a story at all. This is written for my relatives and friends and those who are interested in events concerning a soldier’s life in home camps, in France, on the battlefields, in the prison camps of Germany and France and the final discharge.)
Winning all skirmishes, we finally made our way through the woods, reaching the other side with but few men and very little ammo. Here we were given orders to dig in on the crest of a hill. At the foot of this hill was a brush-filled valley, beyond this another hill which we guessed to be about 900 yards distant. The hill across the valley was teeming with German troops which we could see moving about.
By this time there was only about 250 of us left. We had fought our way through and beyond any support from our right or left. Our runners were unable to locate any support to the rear. Our commander, Captain McCormack, realizing our position, sent a runner back to Major Allen to ask what we were to do under these circumstances. No support, few men, little ammo. The major sent back word to hold the lines to the last man.
I was that last man.
