The Idaho Republican. [volume] (Blackfoot, Idaho) 1904-1932, 1915-07-09
IN THICK OF FIGHT.
Fierce ExaItation Of Battle Told
by FrenChman.
Corporal Describes the Hoarse Shouts,
the Rasp Of Steel on Steel, the
Appeals for Mercy In Street
Fighting.

Paris. mo more excitement; al
astonishing calm fills us as we opeI
fire upon the Germans who have taken
cover in the houses in the outskirts
of the village" writes Charles Tar
dieu in a recent installment of his
Impressions of Corporal" published
In the Figaro.
From windows, embrasures, from
the cover of doorways they blaze away
at US. Forty bodies are strewn across
the interval between us; few wound
ed men are scrambling and wriggling
In the mud. Little by little we re
gain our breath.
AT the top of the village street de
pouches a company of German infan
try. A hellish fire welcomes them
but still they come on, sowing their
dead by files Faster and faster we
pump our breech bolts. Their first
ranks crumple, they tramp over them;
the next rank falls, still they come
on. At last their chief, huge devil
of an officer, who is waving them on,
goes down. A new volley drops seven
or eight more men. This time they
stop, hesitate second, then turn and
run.
'Charge!' roars the captain. Give
them the steel!' We rush in, our two
buglers, their neck veins swelling,
playing us the heart.stirring notes OF
the charge. A heroic intoxication
swells through us and we run like be-
ings possessed into the narrow streets,
through the humming bullets.
Into houses, through gardens, past
open doorways the skirmishers throw
themselves, to come out with dripping
bayonets. No more shots-death
shrieks, groans, hoarse shouts, piteous
cries for mercy are mingled with the
crash Of falling furniture, the slam
ming of doors, the nasty rasp of steel
on steel. And over it all the strident
notes of the charge!
From each house as it is silenced
pour our men, some of them wounded
Hatless, coatless, without their packs;
one man has discarded his blouse and
is working with his sleeves rolled up.
"Trampling on the corpses that
strew the way, leaping over obstruc-
tons, we make our way up the street,
when a machine gun section appears
in front of us. But before they have
time to unlimber we are upon them.
An instant of hard work with butt
and steel and its crew is down be-
side their overturned piece. We pass
on.
Into the cross street we turn. A
few bodies are lying there; one house
is burning briskly. Spiked helmets
bob over the walls as their wearers
retreat through the gardens. A scat
tered fire is heard on all sides. At
the end of the street, behind. bar,
ricade of overturned wagons and wine
barrels, some of the Germans who still
hold out open up on US. Charge bay
onet!'
I'VE rush on, when shattered win
dow bursts open and the head OF
Lugagne, the bugier of the Third, pops
out, blowing a frantic charge. Our
comrades, making the frontal attack,
have won their way through.
Sweeping everything before them,
our comrades join us, shouting with
the Joy Of battle as they scale the
barricade. By groups, rallied at haz-
ard, we search the houses. All who
show fight are finished; those who sur
render are rapidly hurried to the rear.
At last there are no living forms but
those clad in French uniforms and we
arrive at the other end of the village,
which is now completely cleaned out.
Our officers, in the dusk, rally their
men, bringing order out of the confu-
sion. Some three hundred prisoners,
livid, trembling, are herded into the
courtyard of house, under guard OF
the sergeant major and twenty men.
They will be well guarded,
But what is this? Crash! Booooom!
They are opening fire with their artil-
lery upon the village. The captain
comes running.
Corporal, what are you loafing
there for? Find the major and ask
for orders!'
Il 60 running, aimlessly. The ma
jor? Where is he? Bodies, bodies
everywhere. Wounded men who whim-
per, helmets, knapsacks, rifles, strewn
about. Blood everywhere-on the
walls, on the doors, on the paving
stones. Cries, shouted orders, the
plants of the wounded. A stream
If injured men looking for the sur
yeon.
Somewhere a bugle blows the as
;embly and rush through the wound
I'd, who are patching themselves up
Is best they can, some dragging a
eg, some with arms In sings.
"fTha rnainr9 Whera Ia the I