WWI Centennial: The French and Americans Advance On a Broad Front

H.D. Girdwood, Library of Congress, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain
H.D. Girdwood, Library of Congress, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Erik Sass is covering the events of the war exactly 100 years after they happened. This is the 314th installment in the series. Read an overview of the war to date here.

JULY 26-AUGUST 5, 1918: FRENCH AND AMERICAN ADVANCE ON BROAD FRONT

In the two weeks following the fatal failure of Operation Marneschutz-Reims and the pivotal Battle of Chateau-Thierry from July 18-22, 1918, the climactic Second Battle of the Marne saw the German Seventh and Ninth Armies conduct a fighting withdrawal from the Marne salient under continuous pressure from the French Fifth, Sixth, Ninth and Tenth Armies. Beginning with the French Tenth Army’s opening surprise counter-attack on July 18, French and American infantry went into battle supported for the first time by hundreds of tanks and coordinated air support, pioneering the combined arms tactics that would come to dominate much of 20th-century warfare.

Map of the Western Front, July 1918
Erik Sass

The retreat gave up territory previously conquered by the Germans during Operation Blücher-Yorck, from which they had threatened Paris, boosting morale among the Allies and sending German confidence to new lows. After months of doubt, American fighting prowess at Belleau Wood and Chateau-Thierry helped reassure French and British political leaders that the worst was over. With more Americans arriving every day, shifting manpower ratios meant the Germans no longer enjoyed numerical superiority on the Western Front. The total number of active German divisions fell from 251 in May to 239 in July (American divisions were twice the size of European divisions, while most German divisions were understrength or second-class “trench” rather than “attack” divisions). The Franco-American victory in the Second Battle of the Marne set the stage for a second Allied offensive near Amiens, mounted by the British Expeditionary Force on August 8—a devastating blow which German chief strategist Erich Ludendorff remembered as “the black day of the German Army.”

Graph of Allied divisions in World War I July 1918
Erik Sass

The Second Battle of the Marne was many American troops’ introduction to modern mass warfare, as they pushed the Germans back from the Marne River and across its northern tributaries, the Ourcq and Vesle. They converged on the town of Fère-en-Tardenois, with support from French heavy artillery (the Americans were also armed with French field artillery in the form of the famous 75-millimeter field gun). Elmer Sherwood, an American soldier with the 42nd (Rainbow) Division, described the savage fighting, a return to the incredibly bloody opening days of the war:

“It is open warfare, every man for himself out there. The Germans have the advantage of being on the defensive and they use their machine guns almost exclusively, raking the fields with them, but we are always advancing and destroying them. Our artillery has difficulty in keeping up with the advance but we make short work of the machine guns when we get up. Of the 75 batteries, sometimes a gypsie gun (single) is sent up with the infantry and it fires into the Boche positions.”

American troops often outran their own supply lines, leaving them with little to eat besides emergency rations and whatever they could forage from the ruined countryside. American units experienced the attrition typical of the fiercest fighting during the First World War. Sherwood noted on July 27:

“I have talked to some doughboys from the front lines. Three fellows asked where they could find a kitchen; had had nothing but a box of hard tack for four days. Their capt and two lieutenants were killed and 90 percent of their company had been put out of action.”

Like their European peers before them, the Americans encountered countless scenes of horror across the shattered landscape. Sherwood described the aftermath of battle at Chateau-Thierry:

“I saw an American today lying there and one of his legs was 50 feet away. A German with half his face blown away lay there, black now and rotting with maggots pouring from his wound, and in his discarded coat was found his picture as he had once been, a big fine-looking youngster, pictures of his folks were there too. Could any thing be more terrible? But it is common these days.”

Sherwood later wrote in his diary that “the odor of dead things permeated the atmosphere everywhere.” Another doughboy recalled how, near the front where the American 26th and 42nd Divisions were engaged, “I probably saw a thousand or more of our American soldiers with every conceivable kind of wound—some with legs or arms blown away, some with eyes shot out, many with chins gone, others with every muscle in their bodies shaking as with palsy, shell-shocked, some with bodies burned by gas so badly that they were black” (below, U.S. Marines with gas masks). And an American sergeant surveying the aftermath of fighting at the River Ourcq on August 3, 1918 noted, “I have seen more dead Americans in this little time than I ever did before in all my life, and the smell was so bad that nearly all of the men put handkerchiefs over their faces.”

World War I marines with gas masks, July 1918
U.S. Marine Corps Archives, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

Many of the American troops movements were conducted at night, in hopes of maintaining secrecy, and with it the element of surprise. But, as always, night marches presented their own array of unique miseries. On August 4, 1918 Vernon Kniptash, another soldier the 42nd Division, wrote in his diary:

“Since the last writing things have been more or less a nightmare and I don’t remember any of the events in the order in which they occurred. It’s been days of fighting and nights of hiking. We just can’t keep up with the Bosche; he’s retreating so fast. A night hike is terrible. The roads are jammed with traffic and when the column does move it’s a nail-like affair. A kilometer an hour is good time. You walk 10 minutes and then you’re held up for 20. It’s sure aggravating, to say the least. Men are continually getting lost from their organizations and there’s confusion everywhere.”

Robert Patterson, an American soldier in the 77th Division, also deplored the endless night marches as American troops moved up to the front:

“These moves in the dark were to avoid observation by enemy airplanes. All night marches are alike. At the start the men are in high spirits, singing, laughing, and cracking jokes. By midnight the gaiety begins to die down, and by two or three o’clock it has vanished. The only sound then is the shuffle of feet and curses at the stones and ruts in the road. If it is raining, nothing is more cheerless than a night march.”

As bad as things were for ordinary Allied soldiers, they were even worse for their enemies. German troops faced severe food shortages and the demoralizing consequences of defeat, in addition to the influenza epidemic now sweeping their tired, undernourished ranks. There was now a widespread recognition in Germany that government propaganda portraying Americans as undisciplined rabble, incapable of fighting, was far off the mark. Evelyn, Princess Blucher, an Englishwoman married to a German aristocrat living in the German countryside, wrote in her diary in July 1918:

“Another discussion touched on the extraordinary way in which Germany has always underrated the importance of the danger coming from America, almost the whole country making fun of and laughing at the idea of an American army … I wonder why they did not listen to the few wise people who perceived the danger of the American intervention in all its sinister meaning, as it is now proving to be the final undoing of Germany.”

On July 29, 1918, the German officer Herbert Sulzbach lamented in his diary that the Marne River seemed especially unlucky for the Germans, having delivered two historic defeats:

“It’s the Marne down there, yes, the Marne, that’s done this to us once again! It began down there with the loss of Chateau-Thierry, then it moved up to Fère-en-Tardenois, and now here. We feel terribly depressed and filled with pain at having to give up all that ground which was so dearly paid for, all the more since we held the line here so brilliantly. My God, we thought July was going to be different!”

On August 1 Sulzbach added, “really and truly, after these last few days, and particularly after the last 24 hours, I feel completely at the end of my tether. You really can’t call this the human race any more.” Two days later he expressed feelings of exhaustion and despair, undoubtedly shared by millions of young men his age across Europe:

“Four years of war have thus been spent in the field. By degrees I’ve reached the age of 24, and the splendid years of one’s youth are being spent on this mad business of killing. The finest time our lives is tearing away from us. Now and then you have your somber thoughts—no wonder after these 48 months.”

Of course, it wasn’t just German soldiers grappling with fear and despair. A generation of young men and women had been forced to stare death in the face every day for four long years, with psychological effects that would linger and shape the course of 20th-century history. Eric Evans, an Australian soldier, wrote in his diary on July 25, 1918:

“Today I have rewritten my letters to Mother, Father, and Dot to be posted in case of my death. I’m sending them to London this time. I feel quite heavy-hearted somehow now. God grant the letters will never be of any use. I am far from ready to die and have far too much to live for … I am as ready as I ever will be and yet no man is ever totally ready to enter into a duel with death and his own emotions.”

The war had also left an existential divide between veterans and civilians that would prove to be one of the most significant social and political divisions in post-war Europe. John Tucker, a British soldier, reflected on civilians’ failure to understand soldiers’ experiences, even at this late stage of the war, predicting that the gap would remain forever. “I found it irritating to mix with civilian men, feeling that those who had been in the [civilian] services were a different breed, with nothing in common with me,” he wrote. “They did not belong to the great brotherhood and could not possibly understand us.”

See the previous installment or all entries, or read an overview of the war.

The Disturbing Reason Schools Tattooed Their Students in the 1950s

Kurt Hutton, Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Kurt Hutton, Hulton Archive/Getty Images

When Paul Bailey was born at Beaver County Hospital in Milford, Utah on May 9, 1955, it took less than two hours for the staff to give him a tattoo. Located on his torso under his left arm, the tiny marking was rendered in indelible ink with a needle gun and indicated Bailey’s blood type: O-Positive.

“It is believed to be the youngest baby ever to have his blood type tattooed on his chest,” reported the Beaver County News, cooly referring to the infant as an “it.” A hospital employee was quick to note parental consent had been obtained first.

The permanent tattooing of a child who was only hours old was not met with any hysteria. Just the opposite: In parts of Utah and Indiana, local health officials had long been hard at work instituting a program that would facilitate potentially life-saving blood transfusions in the event of a nuclear attack. By branding children and adults alike with their blood type, donors could be immediately identified and used as “walking blood banks” for the critically injured.

Taken out of context, it seems unimaginable. But in the 1950s, when the Cold War was at its apex and atomic warfare appeared not only possible but likely, children willingly lined up at schools to perform their civic duty. They raised their arm, gritted their teeth, and held still while the tattoo needle began piercing their flesh.

 

The practice of subjecting children to tattoos for blood-typing has appropriately morbid roots. Testifying at the Nuremberg Tribunal on War Crimes in the 1940s, American Medical Association physician Andrew Ivy observed that members of the Nazi Waffen-SS carried body markings indicating their blood type [PDF]. When he returned to his hometown of Chicago, Ivy carried with him a solution for quickly identifying blood donors—a growing concern due to the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950. The conflict was depleting blood banks of inventory, and it was clear that reserves would be necessary.

School children sit next to one another circa the 1950s
Reg Speller, Fox Photos/Getty Images

If the Soviet Union targeted areas of the United States for destruction, it would be vital to have a protocol for blood transfusions to treat radiation poisoning. Matches would need to be found quickly. (Transfusions depend on matching blood to avoid the adverse reactions that come from mixing different types. When a person receives blood different from their own, the body will create antibodies to destroy the red blood cells.)

In 1950, the Department of Defense placed the American Red Cross in charge of blood donor banks for the armed forces. In 1952, the Red Cross was the coordinating agency [PDF] for obtaining blood from civilians for the National Blood Program, which was meant to replenish donor supply during wartime. Those were both measures for soldiers. Meanwhile, local medical societies were left to determine how best to prepare their civilian communities for a nuclear event and its aftermath.

As part of the Chicago Medical Civil Defense Committee, Ivy promoted the use of the tattoos, declaring them as painless as a vaccination. Residents would get blood-typed by having their finger pricked and a tiny droplet smeared on a card. From there, they would be tattooed with the ABO blood group and Rhesus factor (or Rh factor), which denotes whether or not a person has a certain type of blood protein present.

The Chicago Medical Society and the Board of Health endorsed the program and citizens voiced a measure of support for it. One letter to the editor of The Plainfield Courier-News in New Jersey speculated it might even be a good idea to tattoo Social Security numbers on people's bodies to make identification easier.

Despite such marked enthusiasm, the project never entered into a pilot testing stage in Chicago.

Officials with the Lake County Medical Society in nearby Lake County, Indiana were more receptive to the idea. In the spring of 1951, 5000 residents were blood-typed using the card method. But, officials cautioned, the cards could be lost in the chaos of war or even the relative quiet of everyday life. Tattoos and dog tags were encouraged instead. When 1000 people lined up for blood-typing at a county fair, two-thirds agreed to be tattooed as part of what the county had dubbed "Operation Tat-Type." By December 1951, 15,000 Lake County residents had been blood-typed. Roughly 60 percent opted for a permanent marking.

The program was so well-received that the Lake County Medical Society quickly moved toward making children into mobile blood bags. In January 1952, five elementary schools in Hobart, Indiana enrolled in the pilot testing stage. Children were sent home with permission slips explaining the effort. If parents consented, students would line up on appointed tattoo days to get their blood typed with a finger prick. From there, they’d file into a room—often the school library—set up with makeshift curtains behind which they could hear a curious buzzing noise.

When a child stepped inside, they were greeted by a school administrator armed with indelible ink and wielding a Burgess Vibrotool, a medical tattoo gun featuring 30 to 50 needles. The child would raise their left arm to expose their torso (since arms and legs might be blown off in an attack) and were told the process would only take seconds.

A child raises his hand in class circa the 1950s
Vecchio/Three Lions/Getty Images

Some children were stoic. Some cried before, during, or after. One 11-year-old recounting her experience with the program said a classmate emerged from the session and promptly fainted. All were left with a tattoo less than an inch in diameter on their left side, intentionally pale so it would be as unobtrusive as possible.

At the same time that grade schoolers—and subsequently high school students—were being imprinted in Indiana, kids in Cache and Rich counties in Utah were also submitting to the program, despite potential religious obstacles for the region's substantial Mormon population. In fact, Bruce McConkie, a representative of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, declared that blood-type tattoos were exempt from the typical prohibitions on Mormons defacing their bodies, giving the program a boost among the devout. The experiment would not last much longer, though.

 

By 1955, 60,000 adults and children had gotten tattooed with their blood types in Lake County. In Milford, health officials persisted in promoting the program widely, offering the tattoos for free during routine vaccination appointments. But despite the cooperation exhibited by communities in Indiana and Utah, the programs never spread beyond their borders.

The Korean conflict had come to an end in 1953, reducing the strain put on blood supplies and along with it, the need for citizens to double as walking blood banks. More importantly, outside of the program's avid boosters, most physicians were extremely reticent to rely solely on a tattoo for blood-typing. They preferred to do their own testing to make certain a donor was a match with a patient.

There were other logistical challenges that made the program less than useful. The climate of a post-nuclear landscape meant that bodies might be charred, burning off tattoos and rendering the entire operation largely pointless. With the Soviet Union’s growing nuclear arsenal—1600 warheads were ready to take to the skies by 1960—the idea of civic defense became outmoded. Ducking and covering under desks, which might have shielded some from the immediate effects of a nuclear blast, would be meaningless in the face of such mass destruction.

Programs like tat-typing eventually fell out of favor, yet tens of thousands of adults consented to participate even after the flaws in the program were publicized, and a portion allowed their young children to be marked, too. Their motivation? According to Carol Fischler, who spoke with the podcast 99% Invisible about being tattooed as a young girl in Indiana, the paranoia over the Cold War in the 1950s drowned out any thought of the practice being outrageous or harmful. Kids wanted to do their part. Many nervously bit their lip but still lined up with the attitude that the tattoo was part of being a proud American.

Perhaps equally important, children who complained of the tattoo leaving them particularly sore received another benefit: They got the rest of the afternoon off.

Grace O'Malley, the Fearless 16th-Century Irish Pirate Queen Who Stood Up to the English

Rockfleet Castle, which Grace O’Malley used as a base
Rockfleet Castle, which Grace O’Malley used as a base

If asked to name a pirate from history, many people will mention Blackbeard or Captain William Kidd. If pressed to name a female pirate, they might mention Anne Bonny, who terrorized the Caribbean alongside Captain "Calico" Jack Rackham in the early 18th century. Anne Bonny, however, was far from the only female pirate to terrorize the seas. More than a century before Bonny's birth, another woman ruled the waves, debated with Queen Elizabeth I, and sat at the head of a prosperous pirate empire. She was Grace O'Malley, Pirate Queen.

Grace With the Cropped Hair

Known in Gaelic as Gráinne Ní Mháille, Grace was born in Ireland sometime around 1530. She was the daughter of Eoghan Dubhdara Ó Máille, ruler of the territory of Umhall and the lord of an ancient, powerful dynasty in the province of Connaught. The Ó Máille family's money came from the seas, raised in the form of taxes levied on anyone who fished off their stretch of the Irish coast. The family were also shrewd traders and merchants, trading (and sometimes plundering) as far away as Spain. Ó Máille castles also dominated the southwest coastline of County Mayo, providing protection from invasion for the wealthy lord's territory. At a time when the Tudors in England were ramping up their conquest of Ireland, such defensive measures were vital.

The folklore of Grace O'Malley begins in her childhood, when she supposedly begged her father to let her join him on a trade mission to Spain. When he refused his daughter's request on the grounds that her long hair would be hazardous on the rolling deck of a ship, she hacked off her mane, earning herself the nickname Gráinne Mhaol, or "Grace with cropped hair."

Though little is known of Grace's early life, when she was about 16 she made a political marriage to Dónal Ó Flaithbheartaigh, heir to the lands of Ó Flaithbheartaigh. It was an excellent dynastic match, but despite bearing her husband three children, Grace wasn't made for housewifery. She had more ambitious plans.

Soon Grace was the driving force in the marriage, masterminding a trading network to Spain and Portugal and leading raids on the vessels that dared to sail close to her shores. When her husband was killed in an ambush by a rival clan around 1565, Grace retreated to Clare Island, and established a base of operations with a band of followers. According to legend, she also fell in love with a shipwrecked sailor—and for a time life was happy. But when her lover was murdered by a member of the neighboring MacMahon family, Grace led a brutal assault on the MacMahon castle at Doona and slaughtered his killers. Her actions earned her infamy as the Pirate Queen of Connaught.

Though Grace remarried for the sake of expanding her political clout, she wasn't about to become a dutiful wife. Within a year she was divorced, though pregnant, and living at Rockfleet Castle, which she'd gained in the marriage and which became her center of operations. According to legend, the day after giving birth to to her ex-husband’s son aboard a ship, she leapt from her bed and vanquished attacking corsairs

Grace continued to lead raiding parties from the coast and seized English vessels and their cargo, all of which did little to endear her to the Tudors. She was known for her aggression in battle, and it's said that when her sons appeared to be shirking, she shamed them into action with a cry of "An ag iarraidh dul i bhfolach ar mo thóin atá tú, an áit a dtáinig tú as?"—which roughly translates as "Are you trying to hide in my arse, where you came out of?"

In 1574 an English expedition sailed for Ireland with the aim of putting an end to her exploits once and for all. Though they besieged Rockfleet Castle, no one knew the coastline better than Grace, and she repulsed them with the might of her own ships.

But Grace made history in 1593 after her son was captured by Sir Richard Bingham, the English governor of Connaught. Appointed in 1584, Bingham had taken office as part of English efforts to tighten their hold on Ireland, and in 1586 his men had been responsible for the death of one of Grace's sons. Bingham also took cattle and land from Grace, which only served to increase her thirst for revenge. Yet she was a politician as much as a warrior, and knew that she couldn't hope to beat Bingham and the forces of the English government single-handedly.

Instead, she took the diplomatic route and traveled to England, where she requested an audience with Queen Elizabeth I to discuss the release of her son and the seizure of her lands. In addition, she challenged Gaelic law that denied her income from her husband's land and demanded that she receive appropriate recompense. She argued that the tumult reigning in Connacht had compelled her to "take arms and by force to maintain [my]self and [my] people by sea and land the space of forty years past." Bingham urged the queen to refuse the audience, claiming that Grace was "nurse to all rebellions in the province for 40 years," but Elizabeth ignored his entreaties. Perhaps the monarch was intrigued by this remarkable woman, because Grace's request was granted, and the two women met in September 1593.

A Meeting With the Queen

An 18th-century depiction of the meeting between Grace O'Malley and Elizabeth I
An 18th-century depiction of the meeting between Grace O'Malley and Elizabeth I
Anthologia Hibernica volume II, Wikimedia // Public Domain

Grace's Greenwich Palace summit with the queen has become legendary. She supposedly wouldn't bow to Elizabeth, whom she didn't recognize as the Queen of Ireland. Though dressed in a magnificent gown that befit her status, she also carried a dagger, which she refused to relinquish. The queen, however, was happy to receive her visitor—dagger and all. The summit was conducted in Latin, supposedly the only tongue the two women shared. Ignoring the fact that they were virtually the same age, Elizabeth decided that there was only "pity to be had of this aged woman" whom she believed "will fight in our quarrel with all the world."

By the end of the long meeting, an agreement had been reached. Bingham would be instructed to return Grace's lands, pay her the funds she had demanded, and free her son. In return, Grace would withdraw her support of the Irish rebellion and attack only England's enemies.

Yet the victory was short-lived. Though her son was freed, Bingham's censure was brief, and Grace received back none of the territory she had lost. Grace was furious, and she soon withdrew from public life.

The last years of Grace O’Malley are shrouded in mystery. It’s believed that she died at Rockfleet Castle around 1603—the same year as Queen Elizabeth I. Her memory lives on, not least in the Irish ballads, which remember her with these verses:

In the wild grandeur of her mien erect and high
Before the English Queen she dauntless stood
And none her bearing there could scorn as rude
She seemed well used to power, as one that hath
Dominion over men of savage mood
And dared the tempest in its midnight wrath
And thro' opposing billows cleft her fearless path.

Additional Sources: Granuaile: The Life and Times of Grace O'Malley; Pirate Queen; Anecdotes of the Aristocracy; "The day the Virgin Queen bowed to the pirate queen," Times of London; A Forgotten Part of Ireland; "Gráinne Mhaol, Pirate Queen of Connacht: Behind the Legend," History Ireland.

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