Wow, amazing history, and poem
Death at Rouge Bouquet
from J. Michael Finn
On February 27, 1918, the 165th Regiment of the 42nd Rainbow Division (New York Fighting 69th) arrived for duty in the trenches in the Rouge Bouquet sector in France.
On March 7 at Rouge Bouquet, the enemy began an artillery barrage of the American trenches. One shell landed on the roof of a dugout in which 1st Lieutenant John Norman and 21 men of E Company were assembled.
The men were buried under mud, dirt and beams. Major William “Wild Bill” Donovan rushed to rescue the trapped men. He jumped into the hole and began digging. Two men were rescued and five bodies recovered. The voices of other survivors including Lieutenant Norman could be heard from the dugout. After hours of intense rescue efforts under heavy enemy artillery fire, the rescue had to be halted. The bodies of fifteen soldiers, including Lieutenant Norman’s still remained in the dugout. Father Francis Patrick Duffy, the Senior Chaplain of the 42nd Division, conducted Last Rights and the regiment placed a tablet naming the dead at the dugout.
Catholic poet and member of the 165th Regiment, Alfred Joyce Kilmer, wrote the great poem Rouge Bouquet to memorialize the men who died. The poem was read aloud by Father Duffy for the first time that St. Patrick’s Day. Sergeant Patrick Stokes stood near Father Duffy and played “Taps” before the last lines of each verse. Major Donovan was awarded the French medal Croix de Guerre for his actions during the incident at Rouge Bouquet.
In commemoration of Veterans Day and the 90th Anniversary of th end of World War I, the following is Kilmer’s poem:
Rouge Bouquet
By: Alfred Joyce Kilmer
In a wood they call Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave today,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth 10 meters thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.
He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
And fled away.
Now over the grave abrupt and clear
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugles sing:
“Go to sleep!
Go to sleep!
Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell.
Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,
You will not need them any more.
Danger’s past;
Now at last,
Go to sleep!”
There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand
Smiling with their holy eyes
On this new-come band.
St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
and touches the aureole on his hair
As he sees them stand saluting there,
His stalwart sons:
And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
The Gael’s blood runs.
And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
From the wood called Rouge Bouquet,
A delicate cloud of bugle notes
That softly say:
“Farewell!
Farewell!
Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!
Your souls shall be where the heroes are
And your memory shine like the morning-star.
Brave and dear,
Shield us here.
Farewell!”