THEY CALLED US DEVIL DOGS
Most of the regiment was deployed in this shallow trench area about 500 yards from the woods, more or less, that afternoon. It was to be a timed mass assault. Basically, at 5 O’clock, we would all come out of the trench, form a rumble formation and advance towards the woods. It was assured there would be casualties, but the idea was that we would overwhelm the enemy. There was a little artillery preparation, really just some harassment, nothing effective. Then at 5 PM somebody at the top gave the signal and it worked its way down to the lieutenants and sergeants and we with echoing hollers and the blowing of whistles, we moved out.
Immediately on the other side of the trench was a wheat field that spanned almost all the way to the woods, about 800 yards. At its edges there were beans or beets planted but for the most part it was one huge wheat field. In those days wheat grew taller than it does now, it was almost up to our shoulders, so it looked like it might give us some concealment. I remember going into the wheat, the sun shining and the stalks crunching under hundreds of boots. It was a pleasant spring day and you could easily forget what we were up to. I watched Lieutenant Timmerman plodding through the stalks, his gas mask around his chest and cane in his hand, stepping high like he was in deep mud. It looked queer to me and I looked to Corporal Larson, who was in the rank next to me, with a smile. Larson sternly reminded me to keep my eyes front. Before I could even think him a sourpuss, the machine guns opened up on us.
From the wood line came a constant rain of machine gun fire sweeping left to right and back, clipping off the stalks of wheat and the men in between them. I remember thinking the bullets sounded just like crickets, loud crickets. I also remember the men were falling just like mown grass. There was shouting and screaming near and far. It was hard to make anything out. I saw a man fall in front and to the right of me, and right away the man behind him stepped up to take his place. Nobody stopped to help the fallen, we were ordered to keep up the lines and replace the gaps. Carl Williams fell in front of me, and I double-timed into his spot, looking down at him as I went. I couldn’t see where he was hit, but he didn’t move. Eyes front, we went on with the assault. It was un-nerving, why weren’t we taking cover? We were under fire, it was our training not to stand out in the open and let ourselves get shot at, but we had orders to get to the woods. I could hear the sergeants shouting, “Keep moving! Fill in!” It’s funny, I found myself praying, but not for safety. I was praying for the nerve to keep going, not to give up, not to let my unit down.
Somewhere in the middle of the field I tripped over a fallen man. It was lucky too, because as soon as I hit the ground I felt the shockwave of a string of bullets run right down my neck. That’s no exaggeration either. I had on a light backpack and at least three rounds ripped right through the pack. Then I felt something hit me like somebody had kicked me in the face. Things went black for just a second, then they came back and I thought I was shot. From the pain in my head and my neck, though, I was sure I’d been kicked or punched. It was enormous and confusing, why did my neck hurt so much? I felt around my neck and I wasn’t hit. One of the straps of my pack was cut but one was still there so that was ok. Then my knuckles scraped against the jagged rim of my helmet and I understood what had tried to snap my neck. A machine gun bullet had come so close to hitting me that it went through the rim of my helmet. I laid as flat as I could and hoped the shooting would stop. I could see the man I had tripped over was shot many times, probably mostly on the ground and was far past living. I didn’t recognize him, he wasn’t from my company. Either I had wandered out of line or he had. It scared the hell out of me. I felt like I was right there at death’s doorway and this guy was inside while I was still outside. Again, the machine gun bullets came raking back right and over top of me, thankfully a little higher this time. Somehow Corporal Collier was then standing right over me, pulling me by my shirt and telling me to get moving.
I stood up to one knee, pushing myself away from the dead man with my other leg. I took two steps before I saw the other men were coming toward me and I was turned the wrong way. Somehow, in the bullets and the fear, I still had time to be embarrassed for my disorientation. I did an about-face and headed back towards the woods, having no idea where the line was supposed to be now. I double-timed up to Collier, thinking he could put me back in line. I hollered to him but he didn’t hear me, so I ran up to him and grabbed his shoulder. “Corporal!” I yelled, and I pulled him back on top of me. For the second time in five minutes, I had stumbled in the field, and I was about to apologize to Collier when I saw the perfectly round hole in his chin that caused him to fall on me. It looked like a dimple in his chin except that his jaw had shattered and his lower teeth were now a jagged line of chips, bone and blood across his face. He didn’t move at all and his eyes were absolutely as clear as they had been a minute ago when he spoke to me, but he was gone, no doubt. I pulled myself up by my rifle again and felt this intense pain, like I had a sharp rock in my shoe. Only it wasn’t in my shoe, it was in my knee. I sat back down and then quickly thought it better to lie flat. I felt down and lifted my knee up to see what was wrong. It was swollen like a grapefruit and my pants were torn. There was a little blood, but I wasn’t bleeding. I decided to give it a go and see if I could get to the woods. I started at a crawl for a couple of hundred yards. When I got to the edge of the woods, it was all brambles and briars, rose bushes and I was under the angle of fire of most of the guns so I got up and dashed into the wood line. That makes it sound too graceful, which it wasn’t at all. I hobbled into the wood line like some kind of rabid animal, hopping sideways and crashing through the brush.
Belleau Wood as seen from the approach of the 83rd Company, in 1918.