immensely imposing by greatness of numbers, three divisions were gathered in ranks on the field. presenting a huge sight of restless attention, they swayed like the waves of a mud-colored sea. before them an officer stood on a platform, his hat in his hand, the wind blowing his hair. not far off, on the outskirts of a ramshackle village, old frenchmen, their wives, and their grandchildren watched. the officer lifted his hand with a gesture, commanding a silence that none could mistake. he hunched up his shoulders and frowned disapproval; he fastened his thumbs in the strap of his belt. his protuberant belly kept him from being an exact replica of an old turkey-cock. now, tearing to shreds the phlegm in his gullet, he opened his mouth:
“men, no doubt some of you, most of you, believe that you are here by chance. that any divisions might have been called in place of you. men, you are not here by chance. it is because i, personally, requested our distinguished commanding officer that your divisions make up my army corps that you are here.”
here he paused. he was a major-general and he was wondering how much longer the war would last, hoping that it would continue through the year.
“i have watched you enter the lines, green and unseasoned troops, at cantigny and chateau-thierry, and assault the enemy with such force that you threw back his most valiant troops, the prussian guards. you have shown your sterling mettle at soissons and saint mihiel, advancing far beyond the objective given you. jaulny and thiaucourt and montfaucon have fallen under your irresistible onslaught. now you may be considered, you are considered, wherever civilization is known, as shock troops, second in valor to none.”
he paused, wondering irresistibly whether his impending rise to lieutenant-general would give his wife access into the more imposing homes of washington.
“and so you are here, good soldiers who have done your duty and are willing to do it again.
“many of you men came over to france with the belief that the war would soon be over and you would return home again to indulge in your inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” (“hooray!” shouted the men.)[222] “you will return home soon, but not as soon as you expected. not until we have pierced the enemy lines and brought them to our feet.” (“take him out—to hell with you—how does he get that way”—the muttered comments rose indistinctly from the sea of mud.) “it depends upon you men right here as to how long you will stay in france. you can stay until hell freezes over or you can renew your good work and be home before you know it. our commanding general has said: ‘hell, heaven, or hoboken by christmas,’ and it is up to us to stand by him.” (“oh, my god—let’s go home—we’re hungry—chow”—ending in a dull chanting, “when do we eat?”)
the general was going along famously. he felt his gift of rhetoric as he never before had felt it. his eyes dimmed and a lump rose in his throat at the frenzied cheering of the men.
“you men are assembled here to-day to be told of the great offensive in which you will soon take part. many of you will not return from it, but that is war. some of you will come off non-commissioned officers, and, as should be the case in a democratic army, others will have a chance to be officers, made so by an act of congress.”
(“pipe down—bunk.”)
he believed that he was being cheered again. he continued his address for fifteen minutes longer than he intended. when he stepped from the platform to the ground there were tears in his eyes.
in making the estimates of the divisions before him, the major-general had only spoken aloud what the men secretly believed—that they were the “finest flower of chivalry,” the epitome of all good soldierly qualities. but to hear themselves so praised sounded unethical, made them embarrassed. had they been told that they were not shock troops, that they were not the best soldiers in the known world, they would have been indignant. therefore they hid their gratitude and commendation under a torrent of mordant remarks. the long lines were formed into squads, demanding food, speculating upon the nearness of the attack, as they marched back to their respective towns where they were billeted.
hicks had not recovered from his despondency. his stomach felt as if he had swallowed a stone every time reference was made to the attack. he had done about enough in this war, he thought, wondering vaguely whether[224] there were no chance of escape. the thought of the sound of the guns depressed him, their monotonous tom-tom beating in memory on his skull like water dripping slowly on a stone. disgusting! and no letters from home, no change of scene, no clean clothing, nothing but the hopelessness of routine, the bullying of petty officers, the prospect of the front.
he was still brooding when the platoon reached its billets in the town to which it had come from the last drive. instead of the unsavory food steaming under a fire in the field kitchen, there was an issue of corned beef, and slabs of black bread to be eaten. the field kitchens were packed, the supply wagons were loaded. the persevering little mules that hauled the machine-gun carts stood waiting. orders were passed for the men to pack up their equipment and be ready to fall into line on the company street in half an hour. “shake it up, you men,” the officers called, walking back and forth past the buildings. “we haven’t got all night.” homebody asked where the platoon was going. “to the front,” an officer answered. “make it snappy.”
