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Chapter Sixteen


Father Francis P. Duffy

Father Francis P. Duffy



165th Infantry Staging Area, France

Less than a week in, the offensive into the Argonne Forest had already tallied the highest butcher’s bill of American lives of any operation in the Great War to date. The untested divisions of the AEF’s V Corps had fought valiantly, but inexpertly, in the vanguard of the attack, and every yard of progress was costly. The region’s wooded hills were littered with German fortifications. Terrain and weather slowed and disrupted support from the French and American tank units assigned to support the offensive.

Worse, the American sector of advance was flanked by the unfordable Meuse River, the heights beyond which offered clear observation and fields of fire for artillery and machine guns all along the American axis of advance.

The closed terrain and ubiquitous wire obstacles made maneuver so slow going that many infantry units found it difficult to keep pace with the creeping barrages meant to support their attacks. The shelling passed over German defenses before the Americans were ready for their assault, thus allowing the defenders to engage advancing American infantry at the maximum effective range that visibility and their weapons allowed, without hindrance from suppressing indirect fires.

The forwardmost units in the attack had no way to communicate directly with the artillery’s fire direction centers, so American commanders at the front faced a brutal tactical problem. Halt the advance and wait the hours necessary for a runner to find a field phone tied back to the artillery and convince them to adjust fire, or attack in the face of rapidly mounting piles of dead and maimed men to maintain initiative.

General Pershing knew that just beyond the main German line of defense between the towns of Landres and Landres-et-St. Georges lay open terrain and lighter defenses—and the Germans, however hard they fought, were weary from four years of war. The enemy did not have inexhaustible reserves of fresh troops. So, with a bloody-minded determination that would’ve done credit to Ulysses S. Grant, Pershing pressed the attack. He committed his reserves—including the 42nd Division.

The Rainbow Division roused from her bivouac near St. Mihiel and marched forth under cover of night into the abattoir. The Fighting 69th led the way. Sigi joined Colonel Donovan and Father Duffy on a promontory to watch the procession of the regiment toward the front.

Shiny new captain’s bars glinted in the night on Sigi’s collar across from the brass crossed rifles of the infantry. He’d been promoted but did not yet have command of a company. Donovan promised it was coming but seemed to keep putting off the reassignment. Donovan said it was because Sigi was vital as his adjutant to help him stay organized and free of niggling details so that he could command the battalion effectively.

Sigi knew that was true, as far as it went, but it rankled him deeply. He hadn’t been manning a typewriter during the St. Mihiel Offensive, but had been right beside Donovan, running messages between companies and back to higher headquarters and doing anything Donovan needed to keep command and control of the 1st Battalion. Donovan had recommended him for two more Citation Stars. But Donovan knew how badly Sigi wanted a chance to command, and neither Sigi’s intellect nor courage had been found wanting—so why was Sigi still on the bench?

Father Duffy was praying over the advancing troops as Sigi approached him on the hilltop, so Sigi stayed quiet and bowed his head. In the midst of Father Duffy’s eloquent prayers, though, the troops started singing out a cadence.

“Ohhh, Lulu has a bicycle,

“Her seat runs back to front,

“And every time she sits on it,

“It goes right up ’er—BANG BANG LULU!

“Lulu’s gone away!

“Who’s gonna bang on Lulu?

“While Lulu is away?”

A peal of laughter escaped Sigi before he was able to lock it down and reestablish his bearing. Donovan shot him a reproving glance, but Duffy merely finished his prayer. But as he walked away, shaking his head, he muttered, “Never such a group of ruffians in need of Jay-sus as our lads.”


There was no raucous singing during the next night’s movement into the Argonne sector. Residual green clouds of German gas prompted the regiment into their gas masks, making the night movement even more confusing and dangerous than normal. Ranging up and down the column while having to breathe through the gas mask filter exhausted Sigi rapidly. Only sheer terror at the idea of appearing weak in front of the men kept him on his feet.

As they neared the jump-off point it became apparent that there hadn’t been time for grave details to sweep the area since the last wave of American attacks. The brown-uniformed bodies of doughboys were strewn throughout the woods like broken toys as they approached the front. Distended and bloated, mangled and eviscerated, each corpse was a unique horror. One man’s abdomen lay wide open with his entrails splayed over a nearby log. Another looked whole, save for a grim rictus on his face. A third sat as if merely resting, but a second look revealed a gaping, bloody hole where the right top quadrant of his skull should have been.

Sigi steadfastly turned his eyes away from the corpses and shut out everything except putting one foot in front of another and checking his mimeographed map and compass at every intersection to verify they were on course. Through an act of will, he confined his universe to the map, the route, the men, shielding his sanity for the fight ahead.


Setback and slaughter, advance and retreat; the Argonne ground upon Sigi in a way he hadn’t imagined possible until now. Planned tank support failed to arrive. Only a pittance of grenades, vital in assaulting bunkers, found their way to the attacking battalions. And Bangalore torpedoes, equally necessary for cutting wire obstacles, were in even shorter supply. Without tanks or Bangalores, the men were reduced to manually cutting through the triple-strand obstacles employed by the Germans, a process entirely too lengthy while under fire.

Coordination in the woods under constant fog and rain, not to mention enemy shelling and long-range machine gun fire, was a nightmare. Messages to and from higher headquarters and flanking units arrived out of sequence—when they arrived at all. The dispatch runners and junior officers entrusted with those messages took some of the highest casualties per capita.

At one point the 69th overextended and lost contact with the unit to their left, the 167th Alabama. They’d had to withdraw under fire to reestablish their lines and avoid being surrounded and cut off by a German counterattack.

It was only after days of battle and hundreds of men killed and maimed, that the men of the 69th finally reached sight of the German main defensive line between Landres and Landres-et St. Georges. But the 1st Battalion, more than a thousand men strong by table of organization, had fewer than two hundred officers and men combat effective.

Sigi huddled next to Donovan and a combined team of their own infantrymen and some engineers from the 117th. Another volley of fire from the regimental Stokes mortars impacted on and around the formidable, concrete-reinforced German machine gun positions before them. Donovan, resplendent with Distinguished Service Cross and Croix de Guerre pinned to his tunic, waved his hand forward.

“Follow me, 1st Battalion!”

Donovan leapt from their crater and ran toward the German wire. Sigi followed close on his heels, looking about to ensure the men were keeping up. A German artillery barrage that dwarfed their own mortar fire landed all around them, but still Donovan pressed onward as if the steel and fire falling from the sky were of no more concern than the autumn showers. And his men followed.

A burst from a German machine gun sent one of their engineers spinning to the ground. Sigi grabbed the wire cutters out of the man’s pack. A line of machine gun rounds kicked up spurts of mud behind him as he dove for cover behind a thick tree, just shy of the wire.

Amidst the chaos, Donovan stood tall, urging his men onward. Sigi sprinted to catch up, tossed the wire cutters to one of the soldiers, then tried to remonstrate with Donovan.

“Sir, you’ve got to get down, you’re going to get your head blown off!”

Donovan shook off the caution.

“If I don’t urge them on, the boys will break,” Donovan shouted to be heard over the artillery and machine guns. Then he grinned, a mad glint in his eye. “This is why we get paid the big bucks, Sigi!”

The German wire was arrayed in multiple rows, each in triple strand. A hundred yards away, one of Company B’s breach teams disappeared in a cloud of orange and gray as an artillery shell landed squarely among them. The man Sigi had thrown the wire clippers to fell back, streams of blood pouring out exit wounds on his back as the German MGs claimed another victim.

Sigi looked around desperately, but none of the breach teams were making progress, and every minute more men fell dead and dying among the wire. Another burst of fire impacting mere feet away sent Sigi diving for cover again. Donovan cried out, and when Sigi looked back, his commanding officer was clutching his leg, blood welling from multiple bullet holes.

“Mullaney, Riley, help me get him back,” Sigi shouted.

“No,” Donovan shouted through gritted teeth. “I’m not leaving my men.”

Sigi motioned for the men to start dragging Donovan against his will.

“We’re just getting you to cover, sir,” Sigi shouted.

Back in the relative safety of the shell hole, Mullaney started tying a tourniquet around Donovan’s leg. Examining the stalled attack before him, Donovan’s expression grew grim.

“Goddamnit, pull the men back,” Donovan said. “This slaughter isn’t getting us anywhere. Riley, get back to the regimental CP and tell the Mortar Company to lay down fifty-fifty HE and smoke to cover our withdrawal. Sigi, go tell the remaining commanders to pull their men back.”

Most of the company commanders were dead or missing, but the NCOs Sigi was able to find were only too happy to abandon the doomed assault, except when he tried to reach the remnants of Company D on the far right flank, there was no way to get to them—and no way for them to get out of their positions huddled down at the edge of the wire behind rocks and stumps of trees.

When he relayed the message to Donovan, Donovan frowned, lost in thought for several seconds. He looked to the far right.

“All right, Sigi, here’s what you’re going to do,” Donovan said. “Take command of Company C. Rally them and as many machine guns as you can find, take up position in that patch of woods,” Donovan indicated the spot he was talking about with a knife-hand. “It’s not a viable position for more than a few minutes, but from that point you should have an angle to provide enough suppressive fire for Company D to withdraw.”

“Yes, sir,” Sigi said. “Sir, we need to get you evacuated, you could lose that leg.”

“Hang my leg, Abramovich, I’m not leaving until the battalion is safe. Now carry out my orders!”

Sigi sprinted to where a group of men lay, back in the tree line, exhausted and looking shellshocked. He couldn’t see an officer, so he scanned as rapidly as possible until he spotted a senior sergeant, a big fellow with black hair and a boxer’s nose. Sigi knew his name—he knew almost all their names at this point.

“Sergeant Hanrahan, gather all that’s left of Charlie Company,” Sigi said. “D Company is pinned down. We’re headed to the tree line five hundred yards that way to provide them covering fire so they can pull out, too.”

Before Hanrahan could answer, Corporal Higgins, the ginger bastard who’d been making snide remarks since day one, cut in. “Hey, Captain, you ain’t our CO, we’re not going anywhere for you—”

“Higgins, shut your fucking mouth,” Sigi snapped. “Colonel Donovan just gave me command of this company, he’s in that shell hole, you can go ask him but do it after we rescue Company D. If you give me any more of your horseshit, I’ll have you tried for insubordination and if your squad isn’t ready to move in thirty seconds, I’ll throw in misbehavior before the enemy and have you FUCKING SHOT. Now, MOVE.”

Higgins snapped his mouth shut. Hanrahan grinned.

“Yes, sir,” Hanrahan said. “You heard him, Higgins, get the other NCOs and let’s move.”

With the help of his NCOs, Sigi mustered fifty-five riflemen, a Chauchat machine gun team, and one of the new Browning M1917 gun teams. Sigi led his new command through a ravine that gave them cover and concealment from nearly all angles of fire. Only occasional near misses from machine gun bursts and rifle fire marred their journey, but they lost no one getting to their new firing position. One by one, Sigi positioned each of the ad hoc sections amidst the trees, assigning hasty sectors of fire. He told them to hold their fire until the Vickers machine gun team that anchored the company’s center opened up.

“After you open up, I’ll sprint out and tell the Company D boys to pull back,” Sigi told the NCOs, well aware that he would be running out into the open, not only exposed to enemy fire, but in clear view of an NCO he’d just threatened to have shot.

Fortune favors the bold . . . 

Instructions given, Sigi returned to the center of the line, took a deep breath, and slapped the Vickers gunner on his shoulder.

“Fire!”

Two machine guns and almost three-score rifles opened up. Concrete chipped away at the firing slits of the German bunkers and their fire slackened. Sigi dashed, covering the ground in great bounds. His men’s rounds snapped over his head as he pushed as fast as his legs would carry him, shouting at the top of his lungs the whole way.

“Pull back, boys! We’ve got you covered!”

The men of Company D, having been under fire and taking heavy losses for the better part of the morning, stirred slowly. Sigi reached their lines before the bulk of them were on their feet and moving to the rear. Sigi put his shoulder under the arm of a man hobbled by a mangled calf. He continued to shout encouragement to the company to move.

“Come on, Colonel Donovan gave the order to regroup! Move it!”

The Germans must have seen their quarry escaping, for their fire increased in intensity and accuracy; six more men fell, but the bulk of what was left of Company D made it to the relative safety of the woods. NCOs counted off their soldiers and checked their ammunition and water supplies. Sigi found there was one lieutenant still alive in Company D, a man Sigi’s own age named Reid.

“Reid, as soon as you have accountability, get your men ready to move back,” Sigi said.

“Yes, sir,” Reid said. “Thank you for coming for us, I thought we were all dead men.”

“Thank Colonel Donovan, it was his idea,” Sigi said, grinning. “Come on, we need to regroup with the others.”

The 1st of the 69th limped out of range of the enemy’s machine guns and out of their artillery observers’ field of vision, back to their jump-off point. True to his word, Donovan refused to be carried from the field until all his men were accounted for and retreating with him.

While Donovan received medical treatment in his command post, Sigi rallied the remaining company officers and reported to the battalion operations officer to coordinate their dispositions. Only after his men were set with security and priorities of work and rest did Sigi head back to the command post to check on his CO.

Major Anderson from Regiment was in the CP, talking animatedly to Donovan, who was still having the bullet wounds in his leg bandaged.

“Sir, Colonel Mitchell insists the next attack has to go as scheduled,” Anderson said. “It will disrupt the entire division’s scheme of maneuver—”

“Anderson, our artillery prep failed,” Donovan said. “Their machine gun emplacements are entirely intact and fortified. We don’t have enough Bangalores or tanks to cut their wire, and I am down to one hundred eighty-six effectives. The 1st Battalion never hesitates to fight, but I’m not ordering my men into a useless slaughter.”

Anderson paused.

“Sir, I understand your objections, but are you refusing a direct order from Colonel Mitchell?”

“Tell Colonel Mitchell that with the proper artillery and engineer support, and a resupply of ammunition and grenades, the 1st Battalion will take Landres et-St. Georges by dinner, but without it, we’ll accomplish nothing but littering the German wire with more American bodies no matter how many times we throw ourselves against their lines.”

Anderson nodded gravely, and he saluted. Donovan returned it. The staff officer left and returned to his car without another word. Sigi looked at Donovan, torn between admiration and anxiety.

“Sir . . . You could be court-martialed.”

Donovan gave Sigi a hard look, his blue eyes piercing.

“Sigmund, an officer who puts his own career ahead of the mission or the men is the worst kind of bastard,” Donovan said, then his tone and expression relaxed. “Besides, they’re not going to take me to trial. Then they would have to put why in the records, and that’s too many generals recorded for posterity as having done damn foolish things.”

“I suppose you’re right, sir.”

“Of course I am, and speaking of promotions— Willis! You got it typed up?”

“Yes, sir, right here, hot off the press!” The personnel NCO brandished a sheet of paper.

“And his name’s spelled right?”

“Uhhhh.” Willis stopped, looked at the paper and looked at Sigi. “No T in Abramovich, right, sir?”

“That’s right, Sergeant,” Sigi said, a little confused.

“Ah, yes, then it’s spelled right,” Willis said, his tone happier. He handed the paper to Sigi, along with a fountain pen. The header included the date and the battalion’s official designation—the 1st of the 165th. The body of the memorandum read:


The undersigned hereby assumes command of Company C, 1st Battalion of the 165th Infantry Regiment.

Abramovich, Sigmund T.

Captain, Infantry


Despite the blood and terror of the last few days, despite the misery and the errors that cost lives, a wave of pleasure washed over him. He’d led men in battle and done well—and now they were his command, officially.

Donovan smiled at him and held out his hand.

“Congratulations, Captain Abramovich,” Donovan said. “I know you’re assuming command under some damned challenging circumstances, but I never met a man who worked harder to earn his guidon.”

Donovan then fixed Sigi with an icy stare. “That said, young captain, the next time you abandon your own company to run a message to another company will be the last.”

Gulping, Sigi answered, “Yes, sir.”




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