Their British friends frowned on all this activity. “ ‘Uns are cookin’ up something narsty.” An offensive might come any day.
Gasmask drills were instituted.
Spring was early. There were flowers in the gardens of wrecked houses. Songbirds were singing in the trees along the sluggish green Doignt that flowed into the Somme at this point. The men were enjoying the mild presages of the first French spring any of them had ever seen.
On March 22 a Captain Davis, who had been ordered to return to their old billeting center to settle some claims of damage presented by the villagers, rejoined his unit. He had come through Paris without learning that anything particular was going on at the front, but when he stepped out from the train at Amiens he found the railroad station under heavy attack from the air. Getting out of Amiens as quick as he could he made it back to Peronne by road without too much difficulty, but there he found that the British had orders to burn all the fine bridges they had gone to so much trouble to build. The Americans’ orders were to fall back on their dump of engineer equipment at Chaulnes, some fifteen kilometers to the south.
The roads were getting crowded. The sky was full of noise. Airraids were continuous.
They had hardly settled into their cantonments at Chaulnes when orders came to destroy all equipment, even field desks. With only the service records and the men’s packs they were to retreat another twentyfive kilometers to Moreuil on the Amiens-Montdidier railroad. There they pitched shelter tents. The weather was pleasant.
On the morning of March 27 the 6th Engineers were informed that their colonel had volunteered them to join the British defense of Amiens. British lorries carried them out to a point on the road between Warfusse and Abancourt. Although they already had their Springfields and their bayonets, there they were issued British rifles too. The British rifle, they reported, was less accurate but handier for rough field work. The trenches to the right of the road had been wellbuilt, but to the left where the engineers were, they were barely started. The Americans were hard at work digging themselves funkholes, when they heard a lot of noise to the right of the road, shrapnel, machineguns, mortar fire; the rough field work had begun.
They were working engineers with little combat training. They were lying in an open field. Behind them was a small wood. In front of them was the advancing German Army. It gave them a lonesome feeling. Hearts were thumping. Hands were cold on the riflestocks. Eyes were glued to the sights.
The Britishers in the trenches to the right of the road started, so Captain Davis put it, “retiring in some disorder and quite a hurry.” An order came from the American colonel to hold and to close up with the troops to the right. At the same moment an excited British major appeared who ordered the Americans out of their trench. He told them to form a line, retire three paces and fire; and then to retire another three paces and fire again, just like at Waterloo. The order seemed rather humorous to the Americans because there weren’t any Germans in sight to fire at.
A British general, maybe it was Carey himself, appeared on the scene and made a great outcry that the damned Yankees were running away. The damned Yankees went back into their trench and promptly helped repulse a German attack.
They spent all that day in the trenches without grub and with very little water.
Next day was fine. The Germans shelled. The blue sky filled with cotton blobs of shrapnel. The 6th Engineers stayed put. There were a few casualties. By this time they were getting regular British rations. Next day the Germans started shelling up and down the line. “It was like a feu de joie with guns,” noted the captain in his journal. The shells sounded like a swarm of bees moving up and down the trenches. Jerry must be having trouble with supply because he was economizing on his ammunition. Eight casualties. Everybody was tense. German infantry was advancing in the shelter of a fold in the land.
All at once the Americans were amazed to see what looked like a haywagon coming towards them down the St. Quentin road. Couldn’t be a farmer’s haywagon, something funny about the wheels. A lieutenant pumped a few bullets from a Springfield into the haywagon and out popped a couple of jerries. They sure ran. When the hay fell away the thing turned out to be an eight inch howitzer.
Later the same day they captured a man who claimed to be an English sergeant. He’d been asking too many questions about whether the Americans had any machineguns. Of course they hadn’t. He talked English all right. Next day the jerries came over in what looked like English planes, captured planes maybe, and machinegunned the trenches. This was the engineers’ fourth day in the lines.
After dark that night the headquarters company was transferred to another line of trenches. These were better built and had barbed wire entanglements in front of them but they were full of water. The following night they were shifted again to a point north of the road. There a few Hun snipers bothered them but there was no other activity. Next night they were taken out of the line for good. The men were relieved in small groups. The Huns sent up starshells to see what was happening. The 6th Engineers had lost two officers and twenty men killed and more than a hundred wounded or missing.
They were billeted at a place called Glissy for a rest. They slept all the first day. An Englishspeaking girl who came nosing around was arrested for a spy. The men were sent in batches into Abbeville for showers. After their showers they were served out British uniforms, the only fresh clothes available. Now they were Royal Engineers for fair.
A couple of days later they were back near Amiens working on the bridges again, this time on the Somme. From where they worked on a tubular bridge to be swung across the Somme they could see the shells taking bites out of the tall pinnacles of the Amiens cathedral in the distance. They worked quietly. No extra bloodpressure. The shelling was far away. They’d had their baptism of fire.
Luncheon at Doullens
The German thrust towards Amiens shocked the British and French leadership into taking one more reluctant step towards a unified command. Each meeting of the Supreme War Council was revealing more cross purposes among the Allies. Pétain’s plan for assigning a few French and British divisions to a general reserve, which could be thrown into the line under a single commander wherever the need was greatest, was several times approved in principle but never put into effect. Only that naïve American, tonguetied old General Bliss, seemed wholeheartedly for it. His protests that it was the only logical plan were met by smiles and supercilious shrugs.
Clemenceau backed the general reserve for a while as an entering wedge for obtaining the supreme command for a Frenchman; but, so he told the story later, when he broached such a possibility to Sir Douglas Haig, the British Field Marshal jumped up with his hands over his head like a jackinthebox and cried, “Monsieur Clemenceau, I have only one chief, my king.”
The latest meeting of the Supreme War Council in London on March 14 had proved particularly futile. The British produced so many arguments against the general reserve that even Clemenceau gave the impression of having been talked around to their way of thinking. Only Clemenceau’s chief of staff, General Foch, stood his ground and insisted on putting himself on record with a long acidulous protest in writing. His stubbornness embroiled him with the grumpy old Tiger. The two Frenchmen left London on very bad terms indeed.
Ferdinand Foch, like Joffre, was a product of the Pyrenees. But unlike the anticlerical Joffre, he came of a devoutly Catholic family. His education was Jesuit. The Franco-Prussian war found him preparing for a military career at the Jesuit school of St. Clément in Metz. The taking over of the ancient French fortress city by the Prussians made an indelible impression on the ardent and studious youth of nineteen. As much as Clemenceau he dedicated his life to la revanche, but his career was among the old regime elements in the army and the clergy that never really accepted a French republic, neither the First, nor the Second, nor the Third. His father was an official of the Second Empire. His brother was a Jesuit priest. His silent hatred of democratic politics stood him in ill ste
ad in the army. Though admittedly the artillery officer most learned in the classics of warfare, promotions came hard. In spite of their political differences Clemenceau, who appreciated brains, during his premiership in 1907 appointed Foch to be director of the Ecole de Guerre. As director of the French war college Foch made friends with his opposite number in England, the whimsical and slightly crackbrained Sir Henry Wilson, during the first interchanges of the entente cordiale. They became so congenial that he invited Sir Henry to his daughter’s wedding.
When war broke out Foch was charged with the defense of Nancy. His son and his soninlaw were both killed during the first year. Foch made himself a brilliant reputation in command of the Ninth Army under Joffre in the first battle of the Marne, but after the disasters on the Somme in 1916 he shared Joffre’s eclipse and was relegated to the post of inspector general on the Swiss border. Pétain brought him back as Chief of Staff, with offices in the Invalides, and ever since that day Foch had been stringing his wires towards eventual attainment of the supreme command. Since Robertson’s retirement, Sir Henry Wilson, again Foch’s opposite number as British Chief of Staff, had taken, in a chaffing sort of way, to promoting his French friend’s qualifications for generalissimo.
The extent of the disaster before Amiens began to dawn on the British Government during the Palm Sunday weekend. Lloyd George, who was out of town, received a desperate wire from Haig begging him to do something to induce the French to get troops into the widening gap between the French and British armies. He called up Lord Milner, his Secretary of State for War, one of the few cabinet officers still in London, and told him to leave for France immediately. The Prime Minister had to have an on the spot report. Milner, he added hurriedly, had full authority to do anything necessary.
Milner picked up General Wilson at Versailles and all day Monday the twentyfifth the two of them went careening over the French roads in a staffcar from one inconclusive conference to another. Confusion everywhere. Recriminations. Haig complaining that the divisions Pétain had promised had failed to appear; Pétain accusing Haig of letting go strong points he had given his word to hold.
Haig was shaken. He had lost selfconfidence to the point that he admitted tremulously to Milner that if that was the only way of getting his flank covered he was willing to take orders from a Frenchman. To spare Haig’s feelings Milner and Wilson were talking up Clemenceau as generalissimo with Foch as his technical adviser.
They found the Tiger at Compiègne, his eyes sunk behind his cheekbones, his mustache shaggier than usual. He told them gruffly that the only possible remedy was the immediate unification of command. Meanwhile Haig had sent word that he was too busy to come to Compiègne. A meeting was arranged for the following day with all the chief French and British commanders, at the little rural center of Doullens, about midway between Amiens and the sea, to come to a final decision.
Clemenceau spent Monday night in Paris. His sleep as usual was disturbed by airraids. A mysterious longrange gun, soon to be nicknamed Big Bertha, had started dropping shells at twenty minute intervals into the French capital. It was evidently the longest range gun ever fired.
The city, while not exactly panicky, was tense. Though outwardly the Premier gave an impression of confidence he was making secret arrangements for the evacuation of the most important government offices in case of need. The nervous and the rich were leaving already. Trains for Lyons and the Midi were full of standees. At the same time the gare du Nord was choking up pitifully with refugees arriving with their bundles and boxes from the invaded north.
The people who had decided to stick it out were in good spirits. Sunday afternoon the boulevards were unusually lively. The President of the Republic visited the sites of the explosions and brought the nation’s condolences to the bereaved and the wounded. Holidaymakers were more curious than frightened about the projectiles from Big Bertha. The Parisians were pointing out to each other that they weren’t doing much damage after all.
The appointment at Doullens was for eleven in the morning. Clemenceau and his military aide, General Mordacq, arrived on the dot. A second later President Poincaré and his military aide drove up. Along with them came Monsieur Loucheur, the minister for armaments and aviation. There was no love lost between the President of the Republic and the President of the Council of Ministers, particularly since the scheme for making Clemenceau generalissimo had been bruited about, but in this extremity they greeted each other cordially. Clemenceau, noted Mordacq, was in good spirits. He seemed almost gay.
Lord Milner and General Wilson were late. Since Haig and his staff had filled up the little town hall, the French leaders remained in the prettily gardened little square outside. The day was chilly with a raw wind off the Channel, so they had to walk briskly up and down to keep warm.
Townspeople crowded around them. They were asking if they were going to allow the Germans to come as far as Doullens. Should people pack up and leave? Bitter reproaches lurked under a polite demeanor. The Tiger growled one of his usual phrases about “they shall not pass” through his mustache.
From where he stood it was all too clear that the retreat was continuing. Refugees kept coming along the main road through the square. There were countrypeople in wagons piled high with household goods, lowing cows and flocks of sheep with their tinkling bells, now and then a protesting pig being dragged along, boys pushing handcarts, babycarriages full of prized possessions with the baby in among them, old women in bonnets, old men hobbling on sticks: a sickening repetition of roadside scenes in the tragic summer of 1914.
Among them, marching sedately in step, came pinkfaced detachments of retreating British troops. The Frenchmen were amazed at their expressionless faces. Whenever there was a moment of silence they could hear the German guns like heavy surf in the distance.
The President of the Council and the President of the Republic had only time to exchange a few anxious words before they were joined by General Foch. Foch at sixtyseven was a strutting gamecock of a man with gray blue eyes and an abundant grizzled mustache. He arrived, followed by his staff, with a great air of bustle and confidence. At last he was going to attain the command he’d so long desired. He greeted the heads of the French republic and made his famous gesture of brushing away cobwebs.
“My plan is not complicated,” he exclaimed in harsh trenchant tones. “I want to fight. I’ll fight in the North. I’ll fight on the Somme. I’ll fight on the Aisne, in Lorraine, in Alsace, I’ll fight everywhere and blow after blow I’ll end by knocking out the Boche; he’s no smarter and no stronger than we are.”
Mordacq noted in his journal that Foch seemed to bring a gust of victory with him.
Pétain’s arrival was lugubrious. He came full of complaints. The British were not keeping him properly informed. How could they expect him to send in reinforcements if they wouldn’t stop retreating? “That man,” whispered Pétain to the group about him, when he caught sight of Haig’s tall figure on the steps of the town hall, “will have to capitulate in two weeks.”
The French were nervously comparing their watches with the town clock. Eleven fortyfive. Where the devil were the representatives of the British Government? The sound of the guns seemed to grow louder. Their pacing became nervous, almost feverish. Twelve o’clock struck. No sign of Milner and Wilson.
At twelve five, two British staffcars appeared at full tilt, scattering the refugees as they came. As soon as Lord Milner stepped out of his car, Clemenceau, who had the knack of putting people in the wrong, strode up to him savagely and asked if it were true that the British were planning to evacuate Amiens. Milner protested loudly that Marshal Haig intended no such thing.
He then asked if the French would excuse him for a few minutes so that he could talk to his generals in the mayor’s office. They had had no chance to confer. Marshal Haig and Generals Plumer and Byng led the way into the building. After fifteen minutes they called in the French.
The conference of Doullens began with neatly bearded li
ttle Poincaré presiding.
The Tiger snarled at Haig: was he planning to give up Amiens? Haig said that was the last thing he was planning to do but that he must have French reinforcements to cover his flank. He had no reserves ready to fight.
It was Pétain’s turn to say what he could do. Haig had already turned over to his command the elements of the Fifth Army nearest the French flank. “The Fifth Army,” began Pétain, “has ceased to exist.” He went into a long gloomy account of how for days he’d been trying to find divisions. He had found twentyfour, but most of them were tired and some frazzled from recent combat. The problems of transportation and redeployment would take a long time to solve. It would take time.
Pétain’s words threw a chill over the group. For a while nobody spoke.
Clemenceau grabbed Milner’s arm and backed him into a comer. “We must make an end of this,” he whispered. “What do you propose?”
Milner had come all primed. He immediately proposed putting the French and British armies under the command of General Foch. To sweeten the pill for Pétain and Haig, Milner brought in the word “coordinate.” Pétain announced loftily that indeed he would serve under General Foch. They all looked at Haig.
Mordacq noticed how lined and haggard Haig’s face was. He’d lost the erect look of the wooden soldier perfectly painted and polished. He muttered something about doing everything necessary to serve the general interest.
Clemenceau insisted that the decision be put in writing. Foch’s command must take effect from that moment. General Foch was charged with coordinating the British and French armies on the western front. All present signed the little document. Milner’s signature committed the British cabinet.