“This is where we stop ‘em, lads, “a youthful lieutenant told them as they trudged toward the enemy. “Else they‘ll be in Paris before Christmas.”
From Chateau-Thierry they headed north toward a game preserve called Belieau Wood, singing songs as they marched. One platoon singing one song, the second answering with another.
K-K-K-Katie, K-K-K-Katie,
You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore,
When the m- m-m-moon shines, over the c—c-c-cowshed,
I’ll be w-w-w-waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.
Answered by:
You may forget the gas and shells, parley—voo,
You may forget the gas and shells, parley.-voo,
You may forget the gas and shells,
But you‘ll never forget the mademoiselles,
Hinky-dinky parley-voo.
They were singing as they approached the park. The Germans fired the first shot.
This time, Keegan went down with a shell fragment in the leg. He dragged himself to a battered wall where he found three Marines clustered around a machinegun, dead long enough that bags had begun to feast on them. Then there was a lull in the battle and he leaned his cheek against the wall, biting his lip to keep back the pain. An uneasy silence fell on the glen where he lay.
He was surprised by the first of the Germans. They were on horseback, like a ghost posse, suddenly materializing in the swirling smoke of battle. The hooves of their horses were wrapped in gunny cloth and their halters and cinches were greased to cut down the noise. They moved slowly and silently over the battered ground, their guns at the ready. Keegan started firing and he kept firing, his teeth rattling as the heavy machinegun kicked and thundered under hand, firing until the barrel of the gun was glowing red, warped from the heat, and the ammo belts were scattered empty around him.
When he stopped, the world stopped. There was not a sound. Not a bird singing, nor the wind sighing, nor even the cries of the wounded. There was silence. Before him was a grotesque frieze, as though the horses with their legs stretched up in the air and the men sprawled like sacks around them were posing for a photograph. Only then did the ghastly pain from the hole in his leg fire his brain and he screamed and passed out.
In the hospital he found Jocko Nayles, his face half covered in a bloody bandage, his bloody eye socket swollen with pus, lying in his mud caked uniform raving with fever. This time it wits Keegan who urged his friend away from death.
The French gave him the Croix de Guerre and the Americans a Silver Star and his second Purple Heart. He had been in Europe only four months.
It was at the coffee bar in the hospital that Keegan first met Bert Rudman, a cocky young man starched and clean in a field coat and campaign hat, scratching out a story with a stub of pencil on a grungy sheaf of folded paper.
“Hi,” Rudman had greeted him holding out his hand, “I’m Bert Rudman, Herald Tribune out of Paris.”
“Keegan,” was all the youngster had mumbled back.
“Were you at Belleau Wood?”
“I think so.”
“How bad is it?” Rudman asked, nodding toward his leg.
“Bad enough to get me home. “He paused for a moment and then, “Did we win?”
Rudman had stared at him for a moment, the significance of his question slowly sinking in. Then he smiled. “You sure did, kiddo. Kicked the Kaiser’s ass right back where it came from and then some.”
“That’s good, “ Keegan said.
“Hell yes, it’s good. Know what they’re callin ‘you Marines? Devil Hounds. Is that a Croix de Guerre on your shirt?”
