When the village of Bouresches was clean of Huns, their artillery made it hot for the conquerors. So marines and the doughboys found it their turn to seek shelter. They did this so well that after hours of shelling they had hardly lost another man.
Meanwhile, the troops not needed to defend the village from counter-attacks of the enemy, rapidly re-formed and turned to make the first assault on Belleau Wood, a hill crowned with a jungle of trees and thickets. This stronghold of the enemy had for three days proved impregnable. After the artillery had hammered it a while, tearing to pieces half the trees on its southern edge, a reorganized regiment of marines made a final charge, yelling like Indians, and gained the crest. Then they swept through the forest, broke up the enemy machine-gun nests and drove nearly double their number of Huns out of the place. This was the bloodiest hand-to-hand fighting, for they had to use the bayonet almost exclusively. Even at this game the Americans proved themselves superior to the enemy, not only man to man, but when fighting in formation. Necessarily it was a scattering fight, but it illustrated the personal valor and intelligence of the Yanks.
Thus, on June 11, 1918, the German strongholds at and near Château-Thierry sector were captured, and their line pushed back over three miles. Never again were the Huns to advance, but always to retreat until the war ended. They had, as it were, run against a stone wall from the top of which now floated the Stars and Stripes.
Corporal Stapley had been among those to charge into and capture Bouresches. He had, of course, been in the ranks with his platoon, dashing forward, dropping on the ground, hearing the bullets sing above and around him; then going on again, blinded to everything but the mad desire to come up with those machine-gun nests and to destroy the men and guns which were trying so hard to destroy him and his comrades. And reach the positions of the gun nests they did. But as some of Stapley’s squad charged a group of six Huns pivoting a gun around and working frantically with the mechanism, Clem was aware that only three other men were with him. He dimly remembered seeing one or two of them fall, and fail to get up again. But there was no time to think of this now. With bayonets leveled, his comrades followed their fleet-footed corporal and were upon the boches before they could shoot. “Kamerad!” called out one fellow, lifting high his hands, and the others, throwing down their weapons, followed suit. Another marine squad followed without an officer. Clem took command of this also.