All Blood Runs Red

by Phil Keith

  In a wrenching and tearful scene, Kitty and his daughters helped Bullard pack a big knapsack. He had his old rifle from his French Legionnaire days but carrying that through Paris would be an invitation to disaster, with all the German troops around. He also had a pistol he had picked up along the way, but again, and for the same reasons, his daughters begged him not to take it. If he was stopped and searched by the Germans they could execute him on the spot for having a gun in his possession. If he found his old comrades, he would pick up a weapon from them, or so he hoped.

  The backpack was stuffed with tins of sardines, sausages, crackers, cigarettes, a flask of wine, and two volumes on The Lafayette Flying Corps—proof, in Bullard’s mind, that he was who he said he was, if questioned. Lastly, he stuffed fifteen hundred francs in his pockets. All the rest of his meager funds he left with Kitty, to use on behalf of his girls.

  No one spoke the obvious—that this could be their last moments together on earth. The tears and sobs said that for all of them. Bullard’s plan was vague but his resolve was firm: if he found his old mates, he would fight with them—if they let him, considering he was an “old man” at forty-four and no longer in fighting shape. Should he survive, all would be good. If not, well, defeating the Nazis was the preferred outcome, no matter the cost. He was confident they would find each other when peace and sanity were restored. Lacking that, and the defeat of the French, they discussed escaping to Spain via Biarritz. Bullard had contacts in Biarritz, including Mrs. James, and was confident that he could get them all out of the country. Kitty’s task was to get them to Biarritz when Bullard sent word for her to do so.

  After hugging and saying their final goodbyes, Kitty demanded, “Now, get out of Paris as fast as you can.”

  After one final kiss, Bullard trudged down the stairs and into the streets with his fifty-pound pack. He went to the nearest metro station and boarded a train to Port d’Italie, the southern-most portal of the old city. Outside the station, he found the A-4 main road east, toward Épinal and the Vosges region. He immediately fell in with a handful of old Poilus, like himself, veterans of the Great War. A couple of the men had even donned faded and well-worn remnants of their old uniforms. Grim-faced and determined, they backslapped one another and trudged along—just like the old days.

  * * *

  1 The Veterans of Foreign Wars, chartered in 1899, is restricted to those who served “on foreign soil or waters” during any declared conflict.

  2 TIC Magazine, Albany, NY, September 1948.

  3 Dr. Sparks organized his ambulance corps and led it to the front, but he was forced to flee for Spain after Paris fell to the Nazis. He was captured by the Spanish police and was looking at a firing squad, on the orders of Joseph Goebbels. His old contact, Marshal Pétain, intervened on Sparks’s behalf and gave him the choice of evacuation to North Africa or returning to the United States. Sparks chose America, and after he returned, he accepted a commission as a major in the US Army Dental Corps. Illness forced his disability retirement in 1943. He moved to Texas and established an oral surgery practice, and that is where he spent the remainder of his days.

  4 France’s then second-highest military medal for bravery.

  5 Dr. Gros returned to the United States in late 1940, settling in Pennsylvania. He died there, of a stroke, in October 1942.

  20

  FRIENDS FOUND...AND LOST

  For Eugene Bullard and the other old soldiers, their first struggle was trying to swim against the tide of humanity flowing in the opposite direction, frightened exiles desperate not to be overtaken by the German tsunami of troops and tanks. Refugees of all stripes clogged the road, pushing and shoving the soldiers aside. Many of the panic-stricken shouted at them, calling them “old fools” and worse. Some begged the men for food, or water, but there was none to spare.

  After a full day and a night with only brief rests, the little band of middle-aged veterans passed Château Thierry, a major battle site of the last war. They trudged on, past Reims, and finally arrived in Chalons, about halfway to their goal. It was there that the men were informed that Épinal and the even closer town of Bar-le-Duc had already fallen into German hands. Worse, for Bullard, was a staggering piece of news: he was told that his old outfit, the heroic 170th, had been wiped out to the last man.1

  There was nothing to do but turn around and join the surge back to Paris. The grueling return journey took twice as long, three days in all. Once back at Port d’Italie, Bullard planned to duck back into the city, reassure his children he was okay, then try to find another avenue toward the fight. Much to his shock, he was barred from reentering the city. The gendarmes, then taking their orders from the Germans, told him that Paris was too full of refugees already—there was no more room. No amount of coaxing, pleading, bribing or threatening worked.

  Bullard began a walk around the walls of the city, looking for a way to sneak in. He found not even a crack unguarded. At the Port d’Orléans, he finally gave up. He heard yet another rumor that the French 51st Infantry was making a stand at Orléans, so he struck out to the south, heading there.

  This march was even worse than the one toward Épinal. The crowds were growing more frantic, searching for scraps of food and drops of water. Humanity, to Bullard, seemed to have come unglued. People were doing things that they never would have done in normal society. Men and women openly defecated in full view along the roads, women had babies in ditches, and the stronger preyed upon the weaker, stealing their food, money, their clothes, even their shoes. Pitiful cries for help went unheeded, the wounded went uncared for, the dead unburied.

  The German dive-bombers were a constant, deadly menace. There was no air cover from the French or any other air force. Although some Luftwaffe pilots refused to carry out orders to strafe unarmed and innocent civilians, other, less-principled pilots did. The teeming crowds were nothing more than target practice and they died in hordes, their twisted corpses sprawled across the roads.

  Bullard came under attack on the main highway just outside of Chartres. A Stuka descended, howling, upon the crowds. When the plane finally peeled away, he crawled out of the roadside ditch to witness a horrific tableau. Smashed and broken bodies were everywhere. Pieces of human flesh were still smoldering from the bombs. Shrieks and moans created a cacophony from Hell. As Bullard staggered away he saw a young boy standing in the road screaming uncontrollably, shaking, his eyes crossing and uncrossing. At his feet lay the two halves of a woman, neatly severed at the waist, probably the child’s mother. She still held a chicken drumstick, half-eaten, clutched in her right fist.

  Bullard tried to comfort the child, to drag him away, but he would not stop screaming and shaking, kicking and fighting. With tears in his eyes, and the loud wail of yet another Stuka gathering speed overhead, Bullard dove back into the ditch he had just exited. The bombs came incredibly close, shaking the earth. When he emerged a second time, there was not a shred of the boy left in sight, nor any piece of his dead mother. He trod on, filled with dread.

  Amazingly, just past Chartres, he came upon an old friend. Bob Scanlon and Bullard had served together in the Foreign Legion and he and Scanlon had shared several boxing cards in London and Paris before the Great War. As with Bullard, Scanlon ended up at Verdun where a shell fragment nearly tore off his right hand. The wound effectively ended his boxing career but after the war, he, too, stayed on in Paris and made a decent living training other boxers and working in and around some of the clubs as a bouncer. He had also secured a small part in a 1918 silent movie, today largely forgotten, called Doing Their Bit. Along that terrible road, he was just one more refugee hoping to get out of harm’s way.

  Amidst the horror, feeling untethered from reality, it was a great comfort for each man to find a kindred spirit. The sense of camaraderie would not last long, however. Shortly after their reunion, and agreeing to march on together, another dive-
bombing attack sent each man jumping into shell craters. One bomb landed close enough to Bullard to half bury him in dirt and debris. Unfortunately, that bomb had landed in what he believed was Bob Scanlon’s shell hole. When Bullard crawled out, there was no sign of Scanlon anywhere. He was shocked and horrified, but there was no time to grieve. He had to push on, and he did.

  Bullard’s food supplies were nearly gone—his wine, finished. He had made the mistake of sitting down by the roadside a few days back to have a bite to eat. He was immediately mobbed by a throng of starving people, begging for even the tiniest scrap. They had nearly overwhelmed him, and he, out of the kindness he always displayed for the downtrodden, had shared almost half of his stash. Only a fast jog and his strong physique dissuaded the crowd from robbing him blind of the rest of his resources. From that moment forward, Bullard paused to eat only at night, and in a field or copse of trees far off the road, and even then, only a few furtive bites, lest he be discovered.

  Outside of Poupry, north of Orléans, he was out of water. He spotted a fountain in the small village square, still burbling, but nearly dry. He filled his canteen quickly. A crowd trailing behind him saw that he had found some water, and they rushed the square, trampling one another, like an angry herd of beasts, to get to what small trickles were left. Shoving, pushing, and fistfights erupted as Bullard quickly moved away. Several tortured men eyed his canteen enviously, but his face and boxer’s posture kept them at bay. He moved on briskly, saddened by what he was witnessing. Images of the last war, the stench of death, the trenches, the desperation of humanity, returned in a flood of unwanted ghostly memories. All of it nearly overwhelmed him. Only thoughts of his daughters kept him pushing ahead.

  When Bullard arrived in Orléans, he learned that the 51st Regiment was still fighting, and still in the city. He got directions to its headquarters, near the eastern edge of town, and headed off to find them.

  * * *

  The principal objectives of the German war machine were, at that time, concentrated in the northwest of France and the Low Countries. The Wehrmacht swept over Belgium, Holland, and Luxembourg and completed an end run around the Maginot Line with astonishing speed. In the east, along the Swiss, Italian, and German borders, the Maginot Line held up better than in the north, but the Germans knew that to spend much time smashing into these well-prepared fortifications would be a waste of energy, so their main thrust went around the far western end of the Line and through the Ardennes.

  As Bullard searched for the 51st Regiment in Orléans, most French opposition had already been overcome. The battle for France was, in reality, already over, but pockets of resistance, such as the fractured forces in Orléans, refused to surrender. The Germans pressed on, thrusting deeper into the heart of the country, wiping away these uncoordinated and vastly inferior forces wherever they found them.

  The German 6th Army Group, which had participated in the capture of Paris, was ordered to proceed south, which they did, battling and sweeping away the French as they went. As they barreled through Chartres, they set their sights on Orléans. The 6th would be the primary German force that Gene Bullard would encounter in the following days. It was an army of 285,000 men facing, perhaps, one tenth that number.

  The headquarters of the 51st Regiment was hunkered in a nondescript, stuccoed, single-story building on the eastern side of the city. Soldiers were hustling in and out of the structure, some carrying weapons, others stacks of papers and records, getting ready to abandon the position and move farther south. A harried sergeant came rushing out of the entrance, looking around for a courier to take a message to the front. He spied Bullard approaching and distractedly asked him what he wanted.

  “I would like to speak to your commander, Sergeant.”

  “For what purpose? As you can see, we’re a little busy.”

  “I want to fight.”

  The sergeant did not laugh. There was little to laugh about those days. He scrutinized Bullard more carefully, perhaps recognizing something in addition to a middle-aged, ragtag refugee. “You were in the last war, I take it,” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes. The 170th.”

  “Hah! Les Hirondelles du Mort. Fine outfit. Our commander was in the 170th.”

  Bullard’s jaw dropped, “Mon Dieu! What is his name?”

  “Major Bader, Roger Bader. Did you know him?”

  “Incredible,” Bullard nearly shouted. “Yes, I knew him well. He was my lieutenant. We fought at Verdun together.”

  “Well, he’s now our major. He’s inside. Perhaps he will see you.”

  Bullard thanked the sergeant, who had more pressing matters, and rushed inside the dusty building to find his old comrade. It didn’t take long for Bullard to spot him. “Major! Major Bader!” he shouted down the hall.

  Bader turned, staring, wondering what calamity he needed to address next. His eyes widened. “Bullard! Is that you?”

  “Yes, mon lieutenant... I am sorry, I mean ‘major,’ it is me, Corporal Bullard.”

  The two men shook hands, clearly pleased to see one another.

  “Corporal, I wish there was more time to think about old memories, but sadly there is not. We have to pull back to our next line of defense. We’re moving out now. Perhaps later?”

  “I understand, sir. But I am here to help you. To fight. Please let me help you.”

  Bader did not hesitate. A volunteer was a volunteer, and men were desperately needed. Plus, he knew what kind of soldier Eugene Bullard had been—a good one—and he still looked to be in shape despite the years he had acquired. “Very well. I have no time to argue.” With that, Bader grabbed a nearby sheet of paper and scribbled a quick note.

  “Here, Bullard. Your orders. Take them to Capitaine Voiseaux. He commands my machine-gun company. You’ll find them on the south bank of the Loire. They are there to hold off the German advance as long as they can. We expect the Boche to arrive tonight. Au revoir, mon ami. Bon chance.”

  “Oui, mon commandant. Merci.”

  An hour later, after Bullard had located him, Captain Voiseaux hurriedly read the commandant’s message. When he finished he gave the old Poilu the once-over and sighed.

  “Very well, Sergeant, the major speaks very highly of you. Are you ready to join in on this madness?”

  “Oui, mon capitaine, but I am confused. You said ‘sergeant’?”

  “Yes, that’s what the commandant’s note says, ‘Bullard is an excellent soldier. Give him a section of good men, and the field rank of sergeant, so the men respect him.’ So, again, Sergeant, are you ready?”

  “Absolument, capitaine!” Bullard beamed with obvious pride in his new—and long overdue—rank.

  “Here is Corporal Miller, from Alsace. Take him and three others to the left of the line. There’s a Hotchkiss there that needs a crew. I’m putting you in charge, Bullard.”

  “I will not disappoint you, sir.”

  “All I ask is that you disappoint the Germans—greatly.”

  Once more, a generation removed, Eugene Bullard made his way toward the front, preparing to repel another German onslaught, with a machine-gun crew.

  * * *

  1 This turned out to not be completely true. At the outbreak of the war, the 170th was stationed on the Franco-German border along a section of the Maginot Line. The regiment was engaged fully from May 16 to June 12, 1940, especially hotly contesting the foe during the Battle of Croutoy on June 9. The area was overrun by the Germans and the 170th retreated to the area around Limoges. The regiment was so badly decimated, having lost over one thousand killed, wounded or missing, that the French Army simply disbanded it on August 6. The proud 170th was reactivated at Épinal on July 1, 1964 and served until 1994, the regiment’s 200th anniversary, when it was disestablished once again.

  21

  WEARY AND WOUNDED (AGAIN)

  The German bombardment of the Fr
ench positions along the river began shortly after eight o’clock that night. The artillery, primarily light howitzer field pieces, with a range of better than ten thousand yards, far outdistanced the machine guns of the 51st. The shells came raining in at an incredible rate and within minutes it was evident that the French troops would have to move or die. Reluctantly, Major Bader pulled all his men back, including Bullard’s small section, which had not yet had a chance to fire even a single round.

  This cat-and-mouse battle continued for the next three days. The German artillery would pound whatever position the French set up; then, after they started withdrawing, the storm troopers would rush forward, secure another position for the artillery, and the game would begin again. During the daylight hours, the misery of the 51st was compounded by the Stuka dive-bombers.

  There was no French air cover. The French Air Force (L’Armée de l’Air), which, prewar, had been plagued with obsolete aircraft, lack of modern weaponry, poor communications equipment, and too few pilots, was not a factor in this desperate fight. Premier Daladier’s thousands of American aircraft, the warbirds he had ordered in 1939 for delivery in early ’40, did not arrive in time. Whatever planes and pilots had survived the initial onslaught of the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe were evacuated to North Africa to “await developments.”

  In short, acting Sergeant Bullard and his comrades in the 51st were fighting a brave but losing battle every step of the way. On June 18, one hundred miles south of Orléans, his second stint fighting for his adopted country would come to an abrupt end.