2dLt W. B. Jackson, USMC
MEMORIES OF BLANC MONT RIDGE MASSIF
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Memories of Blanc Mont Ridge Massif
Mr. Toastmaster, Buddies of mine, and Friends:
It is with a feeling of great unworthiness in my heart and humble knowledge of my utter lack of ability, that I stand before you tonight, to try in my small way, to portray to you the memories that surge through us partners of the line, when we think of that battle of battles-Blanc Mont Ridge Massif.
Starting with the twenty sixth day of September, the Allied armies commenced a gigantic offensive that extended from Switzerland to the sea. In Flanders, the valiant little Belgian army had surprised, attacked and decisively defeated the Hun; the English had been successful in passing the Hindenburg line between Cambrai and St. Quentin, capturing thousands of prisoners and hundreds of cannon: the heroic Allied armies of the Orient had overwhelmingly defeated the Bulgars; and the British army in Palestine had captured over fifty thousand prisoners and inflicted a mortal blow upon the Turks. On our own front, the French First and Fourth armies had gained brilliant successes in their preliminary attacks. But in the region of Rhiems the enemy doggedly held his own due to his strong point and almost impregnable position. Until he was torn from this no considerable advance could be made in safety owing to the wedge he would maintain with its edge resting upon Blanc Mont.
Blanc Mont! Shall I ever forget it? It was of a chalky white formation, desolated by the ravages of four years of ceaseless warfare and artillery fire. Pitted with shell holes, gutted by field mines, scarred with trench works and laced and inter-laced with countless mile upon mile of rusty barbed wire, holding death insuring entanglements for the hapless mortal who should undertake to penetrate it. The vegetation had been killed and stunted by gas and powder smoke. Trees had been cut down and splintered by the awful saber of conflict. The villages had been reduced to mere shapeless heaps of white stones which somehow reminded one of tombstones.
Ruin, desolation, destruction and death were the inspiring sights that met the tired eyes of the weary hikers of the Second as they pulled into view of Blanc Mont. For miles they had been hiking over the hard friendless highways of France, passing under burlap camouflage, which hid the roads from enemy observation by day and hung like great bats through the night. Such, I say, was the wondrous spectacle that met their vision as they pulled into view and could see from their hilltop, across that valley of horrors, the dim outlines or their objective.
It was a fitting day for such a sight. The Division arrived shortly after daybreak, tired from miles of night hiking and forced marches. A cold misty rain was falling and many of the men were without overcoats or raincoats. Almost ceaselessly, the heavy artillery along the road was barking a flaming message of defiance to the Huns. I tell you my friends, there was many a man, that morning, supposed to be a blood and bone eating fighting man, who was sick at heart and wished the war was over and that he was safe at home again. How we envied those gunners huddled about their “Heavies”, and I, for one wondered if the barrels of those guns were hot enough to warm my blue fingers chilled by the cold. The hardest time in a scrap, is the night before the jump-off, with the realization of possible death on the morrow for your bedfellow.
Now the jump-off! Along the line of those dreary, battered trench works, a thin feeble filtering of men in olive drab clambered into view and scattered into line, The attack is on. There is something about the American fighting man that makes the blood pound and the heart swell with pride, to watch, under fire, the steady forward progress of a skirmish line in O.D, and to realize that in that line and behind it is the irresistible force of the mailed fist of Uncle Sam. If you have been there, you know what it is . If you have not, then you have missed an opportunity that comes but once in a lifetime.
Imagine if you can, a chain of ridges crowned with massed batteries of artillery and machine guns manned by hostile troops in Prussian field gray, the avenues of approach blocked by barbed wire; and you have a faint idea of the situation on that morning in October. What a work was to be done! Five miles to traverse with narrow fringes of woods, rough valleys, sweeps of open fields, and rocky acclivities to the base of the ridge. No inch of that stretch was removed from German sight. Then what? A series of concrete pillboxes and strong points of great impregnability, with a railhead to furnish supplies and re-enforcements. All that way was rough with rocks, awreck with fallen trees, and all that way a hail of lead and steel to cut and kill and maim. To dream of such a journey, would be madness; to devise it, a thing incredible; to do it, a deed impossible. The French Blue Devils had tried to take this natural fortress and had bee thrown back battered, torn and defeated. Now the Second Division of American troops has been called upon to do this awful deed. They were selected for their valor, their teamwork, and their wonderful undaunted fighting spirit by the commander-in-chief of the Allied Armies. Fully informed as to the importance of their task, they realize that upon them and their success depends the success or failure of the program of the whole of the Allied Armies upon the Western front.
The attack sweeps on like the resistless waves of the ocean. Like the blade of a great saber the assault wave has been swung toward the enemy and even the Prussians admitted that ground taken by the Second Division was never recaptured. On they go, confident in their power and the power of the Nation behind them. They are sons of America glorying in their birth. The artillery is ranging on them now, and the whine followed by a sharp report and a cloud of black smoke leaves a gap in that line, but the wave goes on. Heinie has his typewriters busy now writing us letters and those letters are messages that hurt. Like the cracking whips of a great hemlock fire, the rifles of the German infantrymen take their toll of us. The slender line is now filled with gaps and great holes and all around the shells are falling like huge drops in a rain of fire. But still that line goes forward. The enemy is firing upon us not only from the front but from both flanks as well. A shell fired from one side will sail over the entire line to kill on the opposite flank. As it passes down the line, the men draw down their heads much like turtles withdrawing into their shells. The field resembles plowed ground from shell fire and the crack of machine gun bullets creates such a hubbub that one can hardly hear or think.
On they go! Sheets of flame baptize them, plunging shot tear away men on the left and on the right. It is no longer a regular skirmish line, but mere straggling individuals and God for us all. The hours drag by like reluctant centuries. The batteries thunder on, like the roll of a gigantic kettle drum, punctuated always by the intermittent yelping chatter of Heinie machine guns. Throughout the day that line has moved slowly but steadily forward, and now late in the afternoon it has reached the summit of the ridge. Here under the friendly cover of the hemlocks, orders were received to dig in and consolidate. The sun has dropped to barely a handbreadth above the treetops. Oh if some voice would but bid that sun stand still.
Darkness falls with all its shadowy suspicions of enemies everywhere. The thunder of guns and the whine of shells quiet down to comparative silence, like the noise of a great city at the close of day. The tired men snatch a few hours of rest under the doubtful protection of numerous combat patrols and doubled sentries. All is quiet through the night. At daybreak the line pushes on out of the woods into an open country. No enemy is in sight and with the exception of his leaden messengers he is nowhere in evidence. But these envoys are numerous and emphatic. All through the morning Heinie’s iron sledge beats on, with American hearts loyal and true, on the anvil.
About noon that day we climbed the hill overlooking the village of St. Etienne, the railhead, our objective. As we broke cover on the tip of that hill Heinie opened up from a number of concealed concrete pillboxes with an enfilading fire that created the worst Hell we had ever been in and survived. The outfit was so disorganized by attack and casualties that for the moment we stood helpless. Then through a misunderstood order, we again dug in and consolidated, in full view of our objective. That night, owing to the failure of the French to push forward on our left, the advance battalion of the Fifth regiment of Marines was surrounded and was only saved from serious difficulty by the gallant work of companion Leathernecks of the Sixth regiment.
At daylight the attack was again taken up. The pillboxes of the Boche had been demolished during the night by the splendid unerring fire of the field artillery. The infantry found no difficulty in taking the heavy line of trenches and the railhead itself. In the meantime, the French had advance to our line upon our left and the impossible was done. Blanc Mont was but a memory.
The stately towers of the cathedral of Rheims stood out proudly despite their scars, against the myriad colored Autumn sky that night, free once more. To the eastward, the Americans and the French still sweated amidst the dust and toil of battle.
America’s arm had been drawn back and with the immortal Second Division as its mailed fist, the blow had fallen and the impregnable German line had crumpled like an egg shell. Despite violent counter attacks by fresh divisions of crack Prussian troops, the Second held its position strangling Rheims and the battle was won. The Huns dragged their weary, battered and defeated armies backward toward the Rhine.
The story of this battle is one of the clear sighted, inspiring leadership and the peerless untiring qualities of the best of American blood. The heart of the man who was there, swells with a just pride of achievement when he thinks of Blanc Mont. His feeling is aptly expressed in a portion of the order, published to the Division, by its commanding general, upon returning from its marvelous victory, which read; “To be able to say when this war is over, I belonged to the Second Division, and I fought with it at the battle of Blanc Mont, will be the greatest honor that can come to any man.”
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