"Retreat? Hell!"

(Reprinted in the Improvement Era, by permission, from January Cos- mopolitan; copyright, 1918, by the International Magazine Company.)

By William Almon Wolff.

At the end of May, 1918, the Germans, having won their great victories of March and April, were sweeping down the valleys of the Oise and the Marne toward Paris. Their purpose — — their grandiose plan to end the war was at last fully revealed. They had smashed Gough's Fifth British Army in Picardy; they had fallen like a thunderbolt upon the weak joint in Flanders where the British and the Portuguese armies met; they had swept the French from the Chemin des Dames. The French, hurling themselves into the breach, had averted the ultimate disaster of separation from the British in the north. But in the little town, which must still be nameless, where the French head- quarters were, a depression such as not even the black days of the Verdun attack in 1916 had produced held complete sway. Here, laboring almost literally night and day in a French hospital, there was an American nurse. Because I may not tell vou her true name, I shall call her Mary Standish. War had long since ceased to be a new thing in her experience. She had known trying times before. She had seen France staggering under terrible blows, but recoiling always, shaking a bloody head and uttering the immortal, defiant cry of the men of Verdun: "They shall not pass!" Now it was different. When, for a little space, she was free from her work in the wards of pain, ominous, low-toned talk came to her ears. Could nothing stop the Germans? It seemed not. They were coming on. Every hour the thunder of their guns was louder. Every hour the gray wave came nearer. French officers, weary-eyed^ exhausted, shrugged thejr shoulders. Paris was doomed. All the lives that Ypres had cost had been wasted, for the Channel ports, too, must go. And — — when men talked of a new line beyond Paris of a reorganiza- tion in the south of France and of waiting for Pershing and his Americans to be ready, they were greeted with tired, patient, pitiful looks. The end was near. France had made her last effort. She had given all she had to give, lost all she had to

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lose. And her all was not enough. Help might be coming but it would come too late. Mary Standish remembered a speech — — Lloyd-George some one said it was Lloyd-George had made, in which he had said that the epitaph of the war would be those tragic words: "Too late." A gloom, a depression such as she had never known, weighed down the spiritsof Mary Standish. Hope had died. The wounded? The sight of them, as she ministered to them, the heroism with which they bore their, indescribable agonies tore her as keenly as on the first day of her work in a war-hospital. But it was not the wounded who depressed her. She had grown accustomed to them. It was the hopelessness of staff-officers, of — the men who knew who could read the inner meaning of the ever-growing roar of battle that never ceased, who understood the tragic significance of the communiques that told of the ever- receding line of the fighting. The order came for the evacuation of the hospital. Mary Standish saw the men who were in her charge into the ambu- lances that were to carry them further from the front. Her own — orders took her to Chateau-Thierry Chateau-Thierry, spanning the Marne, the sacred Marne, where Joffre had, as men had for four terrible years believed, forever turned back the German hordes from Paris and the heart of France. German shells were falling in Chateau-Thierry when she arrived. A rubble of brick and stone lay in the long main street. And through the town there passed, away from the fight- ing, toward Paris, a stream of camions, of guns, of wounded men who were able to make their slow way rearward. The French were in retreat. Already, in the brief space of Mary Standish's journey from the headquarters town, there had come a vital, a terrible, an ominious change. The Germans were coming, swift- ly, inevitably. A new battle of the Marne was developing, and Mary Standish dared not hope for such a miracle as old Joffre had wrought in 1914. She went into the new hospital to which she was assigned. — She found herself in a shambles a place of horrors such as all she had seen of this war had failed to teach her to dream this world could hold. For three days and three nights she worked, snatching ten minutes of sleep as she leaned against a wall from time to time. Shells were falling all about. German air-planes, flying overhead, saw the red cross that marked a hospital, and hailed the target joyously. Wounded men came in so fast that there was no hope of caring for all of them. Ambulance after ambulance was waved on at the door, despite the sentence of death that was passed by the gesture upon the men it carried.

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The details of those days and nights, Mary Standish will never be able to remember. But when the order for the evacu- ation came, after three days, she put her hand to her aching head and found that she still wore the sodden, shapeless thing that had been her hat. She went out, staggering, reeling from sheer exhaustion, physical, spiritual, emotional, into the smoke- filled air. The roar of the advancing battle filled her ears. Sun and blue sky were hidden by the smoke of the fires the German shells had lighted in the town. And all about her there was the confusion, the horrid din of a retreat that had become a flight. French guns went rumbling by. Poilus, blood-stained bandges about their heads, stole rides upon their carriages. And, heads bowed upon their breasts, other men plodded on, utterly spent and weary, holding their places grimly in the clogged road that led to what might still, for a few hours or days, be deemed to be safety. Mary Standish caught her breath in horror and sheer pity at the things she saw. She went out of Chateau-Thierry toward Paris in an ambulance. It was a flight, not a retreat, that she saw — and saw for the first time. Rifles that had been flung away lay all along the road, packs, all the impedimenta that soldiers carry. Her mind flew back to Zola's description of the debacle of 1870. These Frenchmen had given up. They had done their best, had given to the utmost, and, in spite of them, the Prus- sian was to have his way. — And she knew these men. She had lived with them, nursed them, seen them suffer and die for this France of theirs that now they were ready to yield to the invader. She had seen them suffer, without a cry, agonies such as men had never, since time began, been called upon to bear.* She knew the quality of their heroism; she knew them as men of the same breed as those who at Verdun had faced steel with their bared breasts, who, on the summit of Mount Kemmel, in April, had fought until the last man died. And now these men —these Frenchmen whom she loved, whom she put above all the men she had ever known or dreamed of, by reason of what — she knew of them had given up. They had fought their fight. Mary Standish 's head sank. Sobs shook her; tears blinded her so that she could not look before her and see what might be upon the Paris road. And then she roused herself. She was conscious, suddenly, of a change in the appearance of the Frenchmen who were pressing on, away from Chateau-Thierry. They had ceased to plod along, wearily, steadily, as the men a quarter of a mile behind had done. They began to gather in little groups and stare along the road. The ambulance stopped, drew up be- side the road, leaving a clear space.

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"Qu'est-ce que c'est, done?" she asked the driver wearily. "Sais pas, mamselle" he answered. "I don't know. An order — They had stopped at a bend in the road. The highway stretched on, rising to the crest of a little hill, and Mary Stand- ish, her eyes obeying the impulse given by those about her, stared toward the crest. The road, as it rose, was still clogged with troops. But now officers began to clear it. The men were herded to the sides of the road. Camions drove into the ditch. Some strange thing was in prospect. But it was her ears, not her eyes, that first gave Mary Standish a clue. She heard singing beyond the crest of the hill. Incredu- lous, she started to her feet, her hands caught to her breast, and stared. Frenchmen did not sing so. And then her staring eyes saw a drab wave break over the crest of that hill and come pour- ing down as a comber breaks over a rock. The sun shone down upon rifle-barrels. And on the drab wave swept. Another — wave came first, a wave of sound. Mary Standish's breath came in great choking gasps as she listened and stared. And now she could hear the words: "Send the word, send the word Over there That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming

The roar of the guns from behind continued. But, in spite of their thunder, a sort of awed silence was upon that place, that stretch of the countryside of France. The din of the retreat had died down. Only the rhythmic beat of the marching men and the swelling chorus of the song:

"Over there, say a prayer; Send the word, send the word to beware. We'll be over; we're coming over, And we won't be back till its over over HERE!"

Mary Standish stood up and screamed. She waved her arms. On came the column of men in olive drab. She could see the faces of the men of her own race and breed now — clear-eyed, — smooth-skinned, confident, alert. And young so young, and fresh. Behind her came the roar of a racing motor. A car sped up. A French staff-officer, his face white, drawn, lined with care and weariness, sprang out. He approached an American officer upon whose shoulder-strap there was a silver leaf. Mary Standish heard their words. "Lieutenant-Colonel Wise," said the Frenchman, saluting, "of the United States Marines?" "Yes, sir," said Colonel Wise, returning the salute. But, though he had paused, the marines went on, singing.

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"You are welcome, Colonel. You are in time to cover the retreat. I am instructed to request you to hold the Germans, when you get in touch with their advance, as long as you can. Yon will then retreat to the trenches we shall have prepared for you." "'Retreat?'" said Wise. "'Retreat?' Hell! We've just come. We'll let the boches do the retreating!" Mary Standish thinks she screamed again. Brown-faced boys looked at her and grinned and waved their hands. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks. And then she found herself joining, in a sort of croak, the chorus of the song: "The Yanks are coming, The drums rum-tumming everywhere. Over there, say a prayer; Send the word, send the word to beware. We'll be over; we're coming over, And we won't go back till it's over over HERE!" And now, all about her, marvelous things were happening to the souls of men. Shoulders were straightening. And, here and there, poilus were stooping to retrieve abandoned rifles, were slipping into the olive-drab ranks that opened to admit a splash of the horizon blue. And the marines went on went for- — ward, singing, boasting, toward the hell she had been leaving. Swiftly they passed. Eight thousand of them there were she had learned to reckon the numbers of marching columns of — troops. Pitifully few yes! But she was sure of them, as, sud- denly, mysteriously, the French were sure of them. They were going to stop the Germans, to make the boches do the retreating, as Wise had promised they would. Her eyes strained after them, melting into the long road, long after the ambulance had re- sumed its journey. Her eyes and her heart and her prayers fol- lowed them. She wished, as never in all her life before she had wished for anything, that she might see and know what they would do. The marines went on. Singing, marching to the lilt of their song, they went on. And near the little town of Meaux they came into contact, for the first time, with the Germans. They had sped a hundred and twenty-five miles from Verdun in the night, in great motor-trucks, to reach this field. And they had come at the fifty-ninth minute of the last hour. If they did not stop the Germans, the Germans would not be stopped. Paris would fall, and, with Paris, the Germans would hold the heart and soul of France. France, in 1914, might have survived the loss of Paris —in 1918, the fall of Paris would mean the fall of France. Off to the right were supporting batteries of seventy-fives, manned by Americans of two regiments of field-artillery. But

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the work that lay ahead was work for infantry, not guns. And it was the marines, the Fifth and Sixth Marines, the commands — of Catlin and of Neville both of whom, for what they did near — Chateau-Thierry, are now brigadier generals upon whom the fate of Paris and of France and of the world depended. It was the first day of June. That day must never be for- gotten. Upon it the sun rose in gloom and black disaster. The end was at hand. But the sun set that night upon a world re- deemed. The marines spread out in a thin skirmish line. They held their fire with rifles and with their machine guns. The Germans came on, serene, confident, blatant in their arrogance and pride of conquest. And then the marines began to fight. Time after time the Germans rushed, only to be sent staggering back, seared, withered. They came to grips, and the marines, blister- ing their hands with the hot barrels of their rifles, beat them back with the butts of their guns. The work was too close, too hot, even, for the bayonet. Those marines, those "devil-dogs" "Teufelhunde" the Germans named them that day — did not know how to fight in the German way. A score of times they were beaten, wiped out, and lacked the brains to know it. They fought on. And, at last, the Germans gave before them — swayed, broke, fell back. And the marines went on. They drove the Germans, incredu- lous, dazed, before them. Three days there were in which Catlin and Neville and their marines held that new Thermopylae. Eight thousand of them went into that fighting— and six thousand two hundred of them were hit! Catlin and Neville were both wounded. But they saved Paris, and, with Paris, France and the world! For all along the front the word of what the marines had done went blazing. The Yanks had come! These were the Americans, of whom such hopes had been had. If eight thou- sand Americans could fight like that, what could not a million accomplish? Victory had been snatched from defeat. Dawn had fol- lowed, indeed, the darkest hour of the night. Paris was safe. The French had gained the time they needed to recoil.

In the days that followed, glory was piled upon glory for the marines. They won Belleau Wood, in the outskirts of Chateau- — Thierry Belleau Wood, known now, and forever to be known, as the "Wood of the American Marines." They played their deathless part in the great advance that began on July 18th, when Foch began his great series of victories. But it was on June 1st that the marines saved France and

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ended Germany's last chance to win the war. Then victory was trembling in the balance. The Germans had to be stopped and — the marines stopped them and drove them back.

France knows the truth. And France has hailed the sur- vivors of the men who met the Germans that day near Meaux as her saviors. It was on the Fourth of Julythat Paris strewed her streets with flowers beneath the marching feet of the men who had saved her. And have you heard the tale of how the marines who carried the Stars and Stripes through Paris that day were chosen? There were three thousand of them, wounded, but still able to be about, pining to get back to the front. They were as- sembled, and a general spoke to them. He told them that they had done all that could be asked of them, but that now another service still was needed. He told them that this new task called for a heroism such as even they had not displayed, and that it might well be that few of them could survive. And then he asked for volunteers among such of them as were physically fit, despite their wounds, to march.

Twenty-six hundred of them stepped forward from their ranks. Twenty-six hundred out of three thousand and the — others were on crutches! And then he told them what this new task was. It was to march through Paris on Independence Day and to receive the thanks of the city they had saved.