Memoirs of 2dLt W. B. Jackson, USMC
VERDUN SECTOR
|
Toward the end of March our company was moved up to take over the reserve positions in another quiet sector. We were near the town of Moulainaville la Haute-the gun positions were in a line of old trenches about a mile down in the valley near Moulainaville la Bas. It was claimed that no shell had fallen in this area since 1916 and the Verdun battle. But it had all the atmosphere-real trenches-duck board in the bottom of them-our quarters while on duty at the gun emplacements were in old deep dugouts below ground level (Abris de Bombardment). Company headquarters were in "La Haute"-chow and drinking water were sent down from there and gas attack alarms (of which we novices were quite concerned) were to be given from there by sounding an ancient klaxon type of siren. Once given, everybody was to don masks and not remove them until a runner was sent to company headquarters to receive the all clear word. The first and only time somebody thought there was a gas attack the klaxon was sounded. We all donned masks and each platoon sent a runner up to get the all clear word. I happened to be the runner from our platoon front. I stumbled along the duck boards in the trench in the dark until I reached the highway and started up to Company headquarters. Trying to breathe through a mouthpiece with your nose in a clamp while you stumbled along in the dark was agony. I had not gone very far up the road when I heard a voice mumbling something. I knew there were armed sentries on the road so I halted and tried to mumble the necessary identification words through my mask. Not wishing to get shot, I decided to stand still until I was sure the sentry recognized my identity. Pretty soon he moved down to me and
I went on up to headquarters. Everybody was in masks-nobody knew who had given the alarm-nobody could give the all clear but the officer of the day. Where was he-sleeping in the headquarters room without his gas mask on. As he had suffered no ill effects the all clear was given. That was our last gas-attack alarm in that sector-probably no gas at all in the first place.
It was in this sector that I had the first of several hunches that moved me out of danger. I seemed to hear my deceased father speak to me telling me what to do. (After World War II a medical doctor colleague on the Veterans Administration Rating Board told me they were all hallucinations). Well, hallucinations or not they were very real to me and got me out of numerous tough spots.
In this sector they claimed there had been no shells since nearby Verdun in 1916. As it was extremely cold nights we had permission to patrol between the gun where we were stationed and the next gun down the trench. That way we could keep our feet from freezing. One night I was standing right back of my gun and its emplacement. Suddenly I thought my father spoke to me telling me to "Go down to the next gun William". Without really stopping to wonder or explain, I moved off. I had gone several feet when I heard the whine of a shell coming in. It exploded almost on the emplacement where I had been, splattering me with mud and debris but doing me no injury. However, I vowed there and then that I would follow immediately any such hunch in the future. I did in all but one case and they always took me out of danger. The one time I got the wounding of my leg.
We did not stay in this sector very long. Soon we moved closer to old Verdun to a reserve trench position near the village of Eix. This again was a quiet area. Our duty aside from gun watch etc. was to be on hand with loaded guns ready to fire on a fixed range and traverse in case of a call by rockets for a combined machine gun and artillery barrage. The theory as far as the machine guns were concerned was that if all guns were firing and on their fixed range all sections of no-man's land and the wire entanglements would be covered by their fire. Of course, if any of the guns were out for any reason there would be a relatively free avenue for the enemy to approach the French front lines. While here I served on two different guns. The first was in an old shell hole out in the open field just back of where our reserve line crossed an old road. The front and two sides of the hole had been roughly walled up with loose rock and the back was open and there was no roof. We stood one-man watches and it was weirdly lonesome standing by yourself out in that field in the night time. It was quite cold even though mid spring. During my time on this gun things stayed quiet. I was still a buck private. A week or two later I was told that I was an "Acting Jack" (a corporal without chevrons or pay of that grade). I was placed on a different gun in charge of the gun crew as gun captain. This gun was in an emplacement in the trench proper and was somewhat enclosed. It had a sheet tin and dirt cover. This made for restricted room in which to work on or about the gun. The gunnery sergeant at this platoon was a Serb. He was very capable with the guns and military operations but sort of arrogant towards the men and altogether impressed with his own abilities. French machine gun ammunition had one weak spot. The back end piece of the casing was attached to the casing by a sort of clinching operation apparently. At any rate, under stress and strain the back end piece would often come loose. If this happened in the Gun while firing you were in trouble. The ejection hook would carry the loose end piece back and eject it but the main empty shell-piece would remain in the firing chamber in the barrel. The machine gun would automatically proceed with an attempted reload. Result-the new shell would be driven forward and since the ball and forward end of the cartridge was smaller than the rear end of the empty casing the new shell would jam into the empty and your gun was jammed and out of action. The gun was furnished with a manual
ejection hook and a designated member of the crew would grab it and start clearing the jam. We would pull the gun's piston back. If real lucky this would eject the new shell. Then the manual operator would reach into the barrel and strive to engage the manual hook on the front end of the empty shell and pull it out by hand. Sounds easy but it frequently took some little time even when there was no occasion for excitement. Well, one night the rockets called for a combined artillery and machine gun barrage. We started firing but almost at once the old gun jammed. The whole line was firing and the excitement was running quite high. The operator of the manual ejector hook set vigorously to work but under the pressure was having little luck. Time passed. Suddenly the gunnery sergeant came tearing in. "Give me that hook," he yelled. 'Twas done. "Get out of the way you guys",was next. We did and the gunnery sergeant started working on the jam. Some minutes later the cease fire order was given. The gunnery sergeant was still working on the jam and our gun had not fired more than a dozen rounds. The "gunny" was mad, the fellows were happy and it was a sort of a good time for all but the sergeant.
|
|
