British intelligence officer who acted as
interpreter, volunteered to go as guide although he had no familiarity
with the swamp-infested forest area. It was dark long before we reached
the broad cutting. No one will forget the ordeal of that night march.
Could not see the man ahead of you. Ears told you he was tripping over
fallen timber or sloshing in knee-deep bog hole. Hard breathing told the
story of exertion. Only above and forward was there a faint streak of
starlight that uncertainly led us on and on south toward the vicinity of
the Bolo positions.

Hours later we emerge from the woods cutting into a great marsh. Far in
the dark on the other side we must hit the cutting in the heavy pine
woods. For two hours we struggle on. We lose our direction. The marsh is
a bog. To the right, to the left, in front the tantalizing optical
illusion lures us on toward an apparently firmer footing. But ever the
same, or worse, treacherous mire. We cannot stand a moment in a spot. We
must flounder on. The column has to spread. Distress comes from every
side. Men are down and groggy. Some one who is responsible for that body
of men sweats blood and swears hatred to the muddler who is to blame.
How clearly sounds the exhaust of the locomotives in the Bolo camp on
the nearby railroad. Will their outguards hear us? Courage, men, we must
get on.

This is a fine end. D-- that unverified old map the Colonel has. It did
not show this lake that baffles our further struggles to advance. Detour
of the unknown lake without a guide, especially in our present exhausted
condition, is impossible. (Two weeks later with two Russian guides and
American officers who had explored the way, we thought it a wonderful
feat to thread our way around with a column). Judgment now dictates that
it is best to retrace our steps and cut in at 461 to be in position to
be of use in the reserve or in the consolidation. We have failed to
reach our objective but it is not our fault. We followed orders and
directions but they were faulty. It is a story that was to be duplicated
over and over by one American force after another on the various fronts
in the rainy fall season, operating under British officers who took
desperate chances and acted on the theory that "You Americans," as Col.
Sutherland said, "can do it somehow, you know." And as to numbers, why,
"Ten Americans are as good as a hundred Bolos, aren't they?"

But how shall we extricate ourselves? Who knows w