War is a man-made holocaust fanned into destructive flames from the ashes of past hatreds. It devastates all that lies in its path, pushing mankind backward to the dark ages, while each new war creates fresh war scars that time will not heal. From the seeds of these hatreds made by war, a newer, more scientific, and deadlier war than the war preceding it, is fought by every second generation of warring nations.
Throughout the history of mankind men have carried that fear in their hearts, until the day comes when they march to new wars made by the minority that rule them. Left to his own devises man seeks only peace and security and a means to escape the ever-present annihilation by war. To gain this he continues his age-old quest for new lands upon which the seeds of war-made hatreds have not yet fallen.
Sailing uncharted seas he reaches out for new frontiers in lands unknown, to build there a surety of life on ideals of peace. From this source, new and peace-loving nations have been created and are peopled today by a new race. A race of the free-born, not contaminated by the poisonous weeds of petty hatreds of their ancestral heritage.
Such is the new nation of America, whose sons of today have yet to learn the devastating and cancerous effects of war-born hatreds. For this new nation has fought only for its existence. It has never warred to take from its neighbors. It has fought only for the right to live a life free of the mistakes of its ancestors. It has fought for a weaker neighbor, that the neighbor might live as free-born peoples. In the World war of 1914-18, it listened to the siren call of the lands of its ancestry and sent the best of its manhood and gave of its great re-sources to fight a war that was supposed to end wars.
The roaring voices of the madmen of Mars have sounded again to direct the movements of great armies of men engaged in mortal combat over the same century -old, blood-stained battlefields. The frenzied insanity of all wars has been brought to the surface once more and the youth of today, who are the progenitors of tomorrow have been sacrificed once again because hatreds born of war will not die.
Those of us, who live in peace, want only peace, and those of us who have tasted of war in those war- mad countries want it no more. How best can we preserve this peace which is our greatest possession today? Shall it be by entangling ourselves in the threads of age-old hatreds of the Old World? By strengthening our national defenses to make ourselves impregnable te nations who will forever be at war? Most certainly a strong defense is our greatest assurance of continuing in the path of peaceful pursuits. This defense cannot come alone from great air flotillas, great navies and armies. Some of that defense must come from what people think and from their attitude toward the menace to national security.
What do the people of America really know of war? How many have felt the full weight of war? Throughout the nation today there are innumerable war-veteran fathers listening to the same questions my son is now asking me about war. No doubt every son is talking to his father in the same vein, for it is the youth of today whose lives are forfeited if we should act without wisdom.
How can one best answer the questions that youth is asking today? The fear of our sons being sacrificed because of the folly of an unjustified foreign war is pounding in the heart of every adult in America. Whether the youth of today shall go to war or not, they should be mentally prepared for all of war's ugliness and brutality.
They should know everything of war that those who have experienced it can tell them. They can learn war's futility from the lips of those who have seen and felt its pain. They can learn of battlefields and what it is like to bleed out one's life before the guns, only from those who have seen it. Such knowledge and mental preparedness for war is as vital a part of national defense as is the armada of modern warfare.
Is this not the story that every veteran who "went over the top," would tell his and his neighbor's son?
SO YOU WANT TO BE A SOLDIER, SON?
Son of mine, I cannot tell all things I should to you,
I lack the words that describe what soldiers will go through;
No words of mine can ever show fresh blood upon a field,
Where warring soldiers meet to fight and neither one will yield.
For I know that war in your eyes is but a dress parade,
That it is a great adventure where heros brave are made;
I know I cannot make you see bodies maimed beyond repair,
Or make you feel the emptiness that comes with war's despair.
I wish that I had words to tell of its filthy slaughter mill,
Where you and all the youth of time has gone at someone's will;
I wish that God would give me thoughts so here I could express,
All that one can learn of war and its barren ugliness.
That you may know war as it is, how little each life bought,
All the empty years that follow after each new war is fought;
So listen son, and listen well, to those who know war's cost,
There are no victors in a war for though they won they lost.
Yesterday
THE blackness of the night cloaked the movements of Lieutenant Snell as he crept closer to the enemy line. When he was well forward, the ghastly light of enemy star shells lit up No-Man's-Land in a dull, unnatural hue. The lieutenant crouched low, his tense body hugging the ground.
He prayed that he might be taken for some debris or tree, rather than a mark for enemy sharpshooters. Hearing the quick rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire directly ahead of him, and the zinging sound of bullets close by, be knew he was the target. Raising his eyes toward the sound of the guns he could see barbed wire entanglements ahead. Outlined against the flare-lit sky, they looked like black strands of some giant cobweb.
The sound of whining bullets ceased. The sputtering machine guns were silent. The flares poised in the air as though festooned there by the hand of fate. The few seconds of waiting time was an eternity to him. Slowly the flares settled earthward. In their fast dimming glow the lieutenant could see why his three missing night raiders had not returned.
As the last gleam of light faded from the sky he crept wearily from the ground and started back to his own lines. No longer a commander of men, he was just a college boy from home sobbing his heart out in the night.
YOU'RE IN THE ARMY NOW
I'm going to be a soldier tomorrow! Oh, boy! Soon I'll be a lieutenant, or maybe a captain. Who knows? I might even get to be a general! How I have waited for this day!
When war first broke out the marine guy told me I was too short to get into the marines. Then the army man said I was four pounds underweight. I argued that I'd come all the way from Calgary, up in Canada, to enlist. He said it didn't make a damn bit of difference if I had come from Timbuctoo, they weren't taking any scrubs.
I shot back: "They are taking anything they can get in Canada, and glad to get them. If the U.S.A. is in the war long enough they will be glad to take anything they can get too, even us scrubs."
Scrubs! The big mug! Who did he think he was? Just because he had a couple of silver bars on the shoulder of his uniform and spurs strapped on his big fancy boots. I'd show him!
I started to tell him off for proper. Just then a big guy with two stripes on his khaki coat came up and grabbed me, and pulled me out of the line of other fellows trying to enlist. He gave me a hard shove.
"On your way, punk," he said. "Can't you see the captain's busy? He's got a lot on his mind, fellow, a lot."
He gave me another shove. "Get going, punk."
I got, but I was boiling mad. The big tramp! If he didn't have that uniform on, I'd show him!
Today - six months later - it's different. The smart old army is glad to get me. Just like I said it would be. They put my number in a bat and drew it out, along with a few million other numbers. That business of enlisting was a grand bust. Uncle Sam soon found out that everybody wasn't so nuts to get in the Army as he thought they would be.
I am going as an alternate. The guy who was supposed to show up "forgot" to report, so they are sending me instead. That is how I came to get in ahead of time. Wait until I get into a uniform! I'll show that goateed captain who called me a scrub! I'll show him! Boy, but I hope he really is my captain! I'll make it tough for him. The big egg, calling me a scrub! Well, every dog has his day. So far I'm just a pup-but I'll grow.
Today they lined us all up at the armory. I took
a vow and signed some papers. Got shoved around a lot, too. All those smart army guys yelling this and yelling that at you. You would think a fellow didn't have any rights at all. Then they told us to "fall in," and most of us didn't know what they meant. They had us make a big line four men abreast, and started marching us to the depot.
A swell band led the parade. We carried our suitcases as we marched. A big, husky, loud-mouthed fellow who was in the jewelry business was at the head of us marchers. I thought he was going with us. Found out later he led all the parades-as far as the depot. The sidewalks were lined with people, most of them waving at us. It was just noon. There were lots of girls from offices standing there. Some of the people were yelling, "Bring back the Kaiser-bring back the Kaiser." The band was playing "Over There." Boy, were we stepping it! I saw a lot of people I knew, and was I proud! Had a big silly grin on my face. Then we got to the station I saw Mom and Dad there. Dad ran over and shook my hand, patted me on the back, and choked up when he said, "Good luck, son, come back safe." Mom was crying to beat the band. That took that grin off my face in a hurry.
Some soldier guy kept yelling, "Get back in line, you guys . . . back in line don't break rank stay in line ... you rookies."
Then we boarded the train and started for camp. Exit civilian ... Entre soldat! (That "soldat" is a new French word I've learned already.) Boy! I'm in the Army now!
At nightfall we came to the camp and unloaded from the train. It was raining to beat hell. Soaked to the skin, we hiked a mile or two, passing a lot of new buildings. Every few minutes we would hear some fellows yelling from the windows. "How do you like it, soldier?" "Step lively, rookie step lively or you'll get sunburned." "Where you from, soldier?" We would yell back where we were from . . . then they'd all gang up and yell, "never heard of it!" And laugh like hell. It wasn't any joke for us, though, and we were soaked to the skin when someone finally yelled "halt! "
We halted alongside a long army tent that missed the ground by about two feet. It was well lighted, and you could see men's legs from the knees down, shuffling through the tent. The army fellow in charge of us kept yelling out our names. As called, each would start through the door of the tent. Pretty soon we heard a lot of laughing from those who were going through.
Someone was saying in a monotonous drone: "Now say ah! . . . say ah! . . . that's right . . . say it again . . . ah!" Then we would hear someone else say . . . "ah ... ah - . .". - . and start laughing. Soaking wet, we stood there waiting our turn, getting more and more curious about those constant "ah's."
It wasn't long before I knew. Then it came my turn to go through, and I learned that it was just the first of a lot of physical examinations the army put you through before they decided to keep you.
Just as I was coming out of the tent a sergeant at the door said, "Got a cigar, buddy?"
I hesitated for a moment. I only had one.
He bellowed in a hard-boiled voice, "Come on, rooky, give it to me."
I gave it to him. He was putting the old army bee on me and I was too green to know it.
Finally we were taken to one of the new buildings that turned out to be our barracks. Dog-tired, we rolled into the line of army cots, without taking time to undress. Wet as I was, I slept soundly, until awakened by a voice with the roar of a cannon, "Come on, you rookies . . . roll out . . . roll out you're in the army now!"
I rubbed my eyes and saw that it was not yet daylight.
We had breakfast, then started through a series of physical tests. First they tested our eyes, then our ears, then our teeth. They made all kinds of notes on paper. I never did find out what for. Then they took us into a room and ordered us to strip off. Without a stitch on we started hopping around. First on one foot, then the other. It was a stiff grind. As we finished they would take our pulse and heart beat. We sure got a going over. Many of the fellows failed to pass the test and we never did see them any more.
If you passed the test and were pronounced fit and sound, then you would swear allegiance to the flag and You were in the "Army Grand." Oh, boy, what a grand and glorious feeling! Bring on your Germans!
No sooner had they told me that I was in the army for sure than two soldiers with tape measures grabbed me and started measuring me. And bow they measured me! I'll bet they measured my feet ten times. When I asked them why, the sergeant said, "It's the most important part of you, dummy." They never had any respect for us rookies. They would take us out and drill us for hours over rocky fields without even asking if we wanted a rest.
If we complained they put us on some kind of "duty." Mostly "fatigue" and "policing up" duty. "Policing up" meant chasing elusive bits of paper, burned out Fatimas, Chesterfields, Camels, and Lucky Strikes around the big grounds of our new home. I never picked up so damn many cigarette and cigar butts in my life.
They gave us all kinds of shots in the arm. We would walk down a long line of men with both arms bare to the shoulder, and two soldiers would grab us, one on each side, jab two needlefuls of some kind of germs into us, to keep some other kind of germs out. Every time we turned around for the first few days we would get another shot in the arm. At reveille many a soldier standing there fell flat on his face from the effects of these shots. After the first week the effects wore off and we were all right again.
By that time my tired and aching muscles were beginning to harden a little. But I needed shoes badly. My patent leather "bests" that I had worn to camp were done for. So after all those careful foot measurements they threw a pair of shoes at me two sizes too big, and heavy as lead. I had got hold of a pair of army pants about one size too big. Finally I got a coat. It was too small. My arms popped out, with the end
of the sleeves about three inches above my wrists. And the bat! That was murder! It sat on my head like a peanut. If I wasn't a pretty sight when my folks and my girl came over to see me!
Right away Susie said, "Well, where in the world did you get that outfit ... !"
I felt like a plugged nickel.
We are getting a little "army wise" now. I am getting so I can take it, and the army ain't so bad. The sergeant made me an acting-corporal. I am the same as a superintendent over seven other men. Boy, do I
make them rookies step! And how! We all wonder when we are going overseas. In the meantime I have learned how to play "black jack," and give the dice an "army roll" on a blanket.
Every fifteen minutes there is a rumor in the army.
Most of them came from a long building that isn't the guard house. The woods are full of those rumors. First we hear that "we are going to leave for France tomorrow" . . . then . . . "we are going to be sent to the Spruce Division at Vancouver, to cut spruce logs for making airplanes" . . . then . . . "we are going to be shipped to France by the way of Russia. Sailing orders are waiting for us to take the transports from San Francisco to Vladivostok." Nothing happens, except that they take us out on the field and drill hell out of us each day.
Finally we do get moving orders. This time they are on the level. We are to leave Camp Lewis in twenty-four hours. I got word to my folks and they came over to tell me goodbye. Then we were off on the train, but not for France as we supposed. It is for another camp, Camp Kearney, California. There we became a part of the 40th Division-the Sunrise Division-in name as well as in fact. They would get us up before the moon went to bed and start us on long hikes. Once they sent us on a ten day hike, over the scorching sands of Southern California. I'll never forget that if I live to be a million.
IT AIN'T NO FUN IT AIN'T
It ain't no fun a-marching in the blistering white-hot heat,
Keeping pace to sergeants' cadence with your tired and aching feet;
With the sweat a-rolling from your brow, a pack upon your shoulder,
And the sun a-beating down on you in a ball of red-hot smolder.
It ain't no fun a-thinking of the girl you left behind,
With your mind a constant wonder if her love's the lasting kind;
While all the time you're marching, toughening up to be a soldier,
And with every step you're taking,
you feel ten or twelve years older.
It ain't no fun a-sleeping
'neath a sky that's wet and dreary
When you're bones are all a-creaking
and your body's sore and weary;
It ain't no fun a-learning
how to be a soldier true,
When all the time you're wishing
that the war was done and through.
It ain't no fun to do "K.P.,"
while other soldiers dance,
It ain't no fun a-wondering
if we'll ever get to France;
It ain't no fun to do things
that you never understand,
It ain't no fun a-soldiering
in the tough old "Army Grand."
War is a man-made holocaust fanned into destructive flames from the ashes of past hatreds. It devastates all that lies in its path, pushing mankind backward to the dark ages, while each new war creates fresh war scars that time will not heal. From the seeds of these hatreds made by war, a newer, more scientific, and deadlier war than the war preceding it, is fought by every second generation of warring nations.
Throughout the history of mankind men have carried that fear in their hearts, until the day comes when they march to new wars made by the minority that rule them. Left to his own devises man seeks only peace and security and a means to escape the ever-present annihilation by war. To gain this he continues his age-old quest for new lands upon which the seeds of war-made hatreds have not yet fallen.
Sailing uncharted seas he reaches out for new frontiers in lands unknown, to build there a surety of life on ideals of peace. From this source, new and peace-loving nations have been created and are peopled today by a new race. A race of the free-born, not contaminated by the poisonous weeds of petty hatreds of their ancestral heritage.
Such is the new nation of America, whose sons of today have yet to learn the devastating and cancerous effects of war-born hatreds. For this new nation has fought only for its existence. It has never warred to take from its neighbors. It has fought only for the right to live a life free of the mistakes of its ancestors. It has fought for a weaker neighbor, that the neighbor might live as free-born peoples. In the World war of 1914-18, it listened to the siren call of the lands of its ancestry and sent the best of its manhood and gave of its great re-sources to fight a war that was supposed to end wars.
The roaring voices of the madmen of Mars have sounded again to direct the movements of great armies of men engaged in mortal combat over the same century -old, blood-stained battlefields. The frenzied insanity of all wars has been brought to the surface once more and the youth of today, who are the progenitors of tomorrow have been sacrificed once again because hatreds born of war will not die.
Those of us, who live in peace, want only peace, and those of us who have tasted of war in those war- mad countries want it no more. How best can we preserve this peace which is our greatest possession today? Shall it be by entangling ourselves in the threads of age-old hatreds of the Old World? By strengthening our national defenses to make ourselves impregnable te nations who will forever be at war? Most certainly a strong defense is our greatest assurance of continuing in the path of peaceful pursuits. This defense cannot come alone from great air flotillas, great navies and armies. Some of that defense must come from what people think and from their attitude toward the menace to national security.
What do the people of America really know of war? How many have felt the full weight of war? Throughout the nation today there are innumerable war-veteran fathers listening to the same questions my son is now asking me about war. No doubt every son is talking to his father in the same vein, for it is the youth of today whose lives are forfeited if we should act without wisdom.
How can one best answer the questions that youth is asking today? The fear of our sons being sacrificed because of the folly of an unjustified foreign war is pounding in the heart of every adult in America. Whether the youth of today shall go to war or not, they should be mentally prepared for all of war's ugliness and brutality.
They should know everything of war that those who have experienced it can tell them. They can learn war's futility from the lips of those who have seen and felt its pain. They can learn of battlefields and what it is like to bleed out one's life before the guns, only from those who have seen it. Such knowledge and mental preparedness for war is as vital a part of national defense as is the armada of modern warfare.
Is this not the story that every veteran who "went over the top," would tell his and his neighbor's son?
SO YOU WANT TO BE A SOLDIER, SON?
Son of mine, I cannot tell all things I should to you,
I lack the words that describe what soldiers will go through;
No words of mine can ever show fresh blood upon a field,
Where warring soldiers meet to fight and neither one will yield.
For I know that war in your eyes is but a dress parade,
That it is a great adventure where heros brave are made;
I know I cannot make you see bodies maimed beyond repair,
Or make you feel the emptiness that comes with war's despair.
I wish that I had words to tell of its filthy slaughter mill,
Where you and all the youth of time has gone at someone's will;
I wish that God would give me thoughts so here I could express,
All that one can learn of war and its barren ugliness.
That you may know war as it is, how little each life bought,
All the empty years that follow after each new war is fought;
So listen son, and listen well, to those who know war's cost,
There are no victors in a war for though they won they lost.
Yesterday
THE blackness of the night cloaked the movements of Lieutenant Snell as he crept closer to the enemy line. When he was well forward, the ghastly light of enemy star shells lit up No-Man's-Land in a dull, unnatural hue. The lieutenant crouched low, his tense body hugging the ground.
He prayed that he might be taken for some debris or tree, rather than a mark for enemy sharpshooters. Hearing the quick rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire directly ahead of him, and the zinging sound of bullets close by, be knew he was the target. Raising his eyes toward the sound of the guns he could see barbed wire entanglements ahead. Outlined against the flare-lit sky, they looked like black strands of some giant cobweb.
The sound of whining bullets ceased. The sputtering machine guns were silent. The flares poised in the air as though festooned there by the hand of fate. The few seconds of waiting time was an eternity to him. Slowly the flares settled earthward. In their fast dimming glow the lieutenant could see why his three missing night raiders had not returned.
As the last gleam of light faded from the sky he crept wearily from the ground and started back to his own lines. No longer a commander of men, he was just a college boy from home sobbing his heart out in the night.
YOU'RE IN THE ARMY NOW
I'm going to be a soldier tomorrow! Oh, boy! Soon I'll be a lieutenant, or maybe a captain. Who knows? I might even get to be a general! How I have waited for this day!
When war first broke out the marine guy told me I was too short to get into the marines. Then the army man said I was four pounds underweight. I argued that I'd come all the way from Calgary, up in Canada, to enlist. He said it didn't make a damn bit of difference if I had come from Timbuctoo, they weren't taking any scrubs.
I shot back: "They are taking anything they can get in Canada, and glad to get them. If the U.S.A. is in the war long enough they will be glad to take anything they can get too, even us scrubs."
Scrubs! The big mug! Who did he think he was? Just because he had a couple of silver bars on the shoulder of his uniform and spurs strapped on his big fancy boots. I'd show him!
I started to tell him off for proper. Just then a big guy with two stripes on his khaki coat came up and grabbed me, and pulled me out of the line of other fellows trying to enlist. He gave me a hard shove.
"On your way, punk," he said. "Can't you see the captain's busy? He's got a lot on his mind, fellow, a lot."
He gave me another shove. "Get going, punk."
I got, but I was boiling mad. The big tramp! If he didn't have that uniform on, I'd show him!
Today - six months later - it's different. The smart old army is glad to get me. Just like I said it would be. They put my number in a bat and drew it out, along with a few million other numbers. That business of enlisting was a grand bust. Uncle Sam soon found out that everybody wasn't so nuts to get in the Army as he thought they would be.
I am going as an alternate. The guy who was supposed to show up "forgot" to report, so they are sending me instead. That is how I came to get in ahead of time. Wait until I get into a uniform! I'll show that goateed captain who called me a scrub! I'll show him! Boy, but I hope he really is my captain! I'll make it tough for him. The big egg, calling me a scrub! Well, every dog has his day. So far I'm just a pup-but I'll grow.
Today they lined us all up at the armory. I took
a vow and signed some papers. Got shoved around a lot, too. All those smart army guys yelling this and yelling that at you. You would think a fellow didn't have any rights at all. Then they told us to "fall in," and most of us didn't know what they meant. They had us make a big line four men abreast, and started marching us to the depot.
A swell band led the parade. We carried our suitcases as we marched. A big, husky, loud-mouthed fellow who was in the jewelry business was at the head of us marchers. I thought he was going with us. Found out later he led all the parades-as far as the depot. The sidewalks were lined with people, most of them waving at us. It was just noon. There were lots of girls from offices standing there. Some of the people were yelling, "Bring back the Kaiser-bring back the Kaiser." The band was playing "Over There." Boy, were we stepping it! I saw a lot of people I knew, and was I proud! Had a big silly grin on my face. Then we got to the station I saw Mom and Dad there. Dad ran over and shook my hand, patted me on the back, and choked up when he said, "Good luck, son, come back safe." Mom was crying to beat the band. That took that grin off my face in a hurry.
Some soldier guy kept yelling, "Get back in line, you guys . . . back in line don't break rank stay in line ... you rookies."
Then we boarded the train and started for camp. Exit civilian ... Entre soldat! (That "soldat" is a new French word I've learned already.) Boy! I'm in the Army now!
At nightfall we came to the camp and unloaded from the train. It was raining to beat hell. Soaked to the skin, we hiked a mile or two, passing a lot of new buildings. Every few minutes we would hear some fellows yelling from the windows. "How do you like it, soldier?" "Step lively, rookie step lively or you'll get sunburned." "Where you from, soldier?" We would yell back where we were from . . . then they'd all gang up and yell, "never heard of it!" And laugh like hell. It wasn't any joke for us, though, and we were soaked to the skin when someone finally yelled "halt! "
We halted alongside a long army tent that missed the ground by about two feet. It was well lighted, and you could see men's legs from the knees down, shuffling through the tent. The army fellow in charge of us kept yelling out our names. As called, each would start through the door of the tent. Pretty soon we heard a lot of laughing from those who were going through.
Someone was saying in a monotonous drone: "Now say ah! . . . say ah! . . . that's right . . . say it again . . . ah!" Then we would hear someone else say . . . "ah ... ah - . .". - . and start laughing. Soaking wet, we stood there waiting our turn, getting more and more curious about those constant "ah's."
It wasn't long before I knew. Then it came my turn to go through, and I learned that it was just the first of a lot of physical examinations the army put you through before they decided to keep you.
Just as I was coming out of the tent a sergeant at the door said, "Got a cigar, buddy?"
I hesitated for a moment. I only had one.
He bellowed in a hard-boiled voice, "Come on, rooky, give it to me."
I gave it to him. He was putting the old army bee on me and I was too green to know it.
Finally we were taken to one of the new buildings that turned out to be our barracks. Dog-tired, we rolled into the line of army cots, without taking time to undress. Wet as I was, I slept soundly, until awakened by a voice with the roar of a cannon, "Come on, you rookies . . . roll out . . . roll out you're in the army now!"
I rubbed my eyes and saw that it was not yet daylight.
We had breakfast, then started through a series of physical tests. First they tested our eyes, then our ears, then our teeth. They made all kinds of notes on paper. I never did find out what for. Then they took us into a room and ordered us to strip off. Without a stitch on we started hopping around. First on one foot, then the other. It was a stiff grind. As we finished they would take our pulse and heart beat. We sure got a going over. Many of the fellows failed to pass the test and we never did see them any more.
If you passed the test and were pronounced fit and sound, then you would swear allegiance to the flag and You were in the "Army Grand." Oh, boy, what a grand and glorious feeling! Bring on your Germans!
No sooner had they told me that I was in the army for sure than two soldiers with tape measures grabbed me and started measuring me. And bow they measured me! I'll bet they measured my feet ten times. When I asked them why, the sergeant said, "It's the most important part of you, dummy." They never had any respect for us rookies. They would take us out and drill us for hours over rocky fields without even asking if we wanted a rest.
If we complained they put us on some kind of "duty." Mostly "fatigue" and "policing up" duty. "Policing up" meant chasing elusive bits of paper, burned out Fatimas, Chesterfields, Camels, and Lucky Strikes around the big grounds of our new home. I never picked up so damn many cigarette and cigar butts in my life.
They gave us all kinds of shots in the arm. We would walk down a long line of men with both arms bare to the shoulder, and two soldiers would grab us, one on each side, jab two needlefuls of some kind of germs into us, to keep some other kind of germs out. Every time we turned around for the first few days we would get another shot in the arm. At reveille many a soldier standing there fell flat on his face from the effects of these shots. After the first week the effects wore off and we were all right again.
By that time my tired and aching muscles were beginning to harden a little. But I needed shoes badly. My patent leather "bests" that I had worn to camp were done for. So after all those careful foot measurements they threw a pair of shoes at me two sizes too big, and heavy as lead. I had got hold of a pair of army pants about one size too big. Finally I got a coat. It was too small. My arms popped out, with the end
of the sleeves about three inches above my wrists. And the bat! That was murder! It sat on my head like a peanut. If I wasn't a pretty sight when my folks and my girl came over to see me!
Right away Susie said, "Well, where in the world did you get that outfit ... !"
I felt like a plugged nickel.
We are getting a little "army wise" now. I am getting so I can take it, and the army ain't so bad. The sergeant made me an acting-corporal. I am the same as a superintendent over seven other men. Boy, do I
make them rookies step! And how! We all wonder when we are going overseas. In the meantime I have learned how to play "black jack," and give the dice an "army roll" on a blanket.
Every fifteen minutes there is a rumor in the army.
Most of them came from a long building that isn't the guard house. The woods are full of those rumors. First we hear that "we are going to leave for France tomorrow" . . . then . . . "we are going to be sent to the Spruce Division at Vancouver, to cut spruce logs for making airplanes" . . . then . . . "we are going to be shipped to France by the way of Russia. Sailing orders are waiting for us to take the transports from San Francisco to Vladivostok." Nothing happens, except that they take us out on the field and drill hell out of us each day.
Finally we do get moving orders. This time they are on the level. We are to leave Camp Lewis in twenty-four hours. I got word to my folks and they came over to tell me goodbye. Then we were off on the train, but not for France as we supposed. It is for another camp, Camp Kearney, California. There we became a part of the 40th Division-the Sunrise Division-in name as well as in fact. They would get us up before the moon went to bed and start us on long hikes. Once they sent us on a ten day hike, over the scorching sands of Southern California. I'll never forget that if I live to be a million.
IT AIN'T NO FUN IT AIN'T
It ain't no fun a-marching in the blistering white-hot heat,
Keeping pace to sergeants' cadence with your tired and aching feet;
With the sweat a-rolling from your brow, a pack upon your shoulder,
And the sun a-beating down on you in a ball of red-hot smolder.
It ain't no fun a-thinking of the girl you left behind,
With your mind a constant wonder if her love's the lasting kind;
While all the time you're marching, toughening up to be a soldier,
And with every step you're taking,
you feel ten or twelve years older.
It ain't no fun a-sleeping
'neath a sky that's wet and dreary
When you're bones are all a-creaking
and your body's sore and weary;
It ain't no fun a-learning
how to be a soldier true,
When all the time you're wishing
that the war was done and through.
It ain't no fun to do "K.P.,"
while other soldiers dance,
It ain't no fun a-wondering
if we'll ever get to France;
It ain't no fun to do things
that you never understand,
It ain't no fun a-soldiering
in the tough old "Army Grand."
War is a man-made holocaust fanned into destructive flames from the ashes of past hatreds. It devastates all that lies in its path, pushing mankind backward to the dark ages, while each new war creates fresh war scars that time will not heal. From the seeds of these hatreds made by war, a newer, more scientific, and deadlier war than the war preceding it, is fought by every second generation of warring nations.
Throughout the history of mankind men have carried that fear in their hearts, until the day comes when they march to new wars made by the minority that rule them. Left to his own devises man seeks only peace and security and a means to escape the ever-present annihilation by war. To gain this he continues his age-old quest for new lands upon which the seeds of war-made hatreds have not yet fallen.
Sailing uncharted seas he reaches out for new frontiers in lands unknown, to build there a surety of life on ideals of peace. From this source, new and peace-loving nations have been created and are peopled today by a new race. A race of the free-born, not contaminated by the poisonous weeds of petty hatreds of their ancestral heritage.
Such is the new nation of America, whose sons of today have yet to learn the devastating and cancerous effects of war-born hatreds. For this new nation has fought only for its existence. It has never warred to take from its neighbors. It has fought only for the right to live a life free of the mistakes of its ancestors. It has fought for a weaker neighbor, that the neighbor might live as free-born peoples. In the World war of 1914-18, it listened to the siren call of the lands of its ancestry and sent the best of its manhood and gave of its great re-sources to fight a war that was supposed to end wars.
The roaring voices of the madmen of Mars have sounded again to direct the movements of great armies of men engaged in mortal combat over the same century -old, blood-stained battlefields. The frenzied insanity of all wars has been brought to the surface once more and the youth of today, who are the progenitors of tomorrow have been sacrificed once again because hatreds born of war will not die.
Those of us, who live in peace, want only peace, and those of us who have tasted of war in those war- mad countries want it no more. How best can we preserve this peace which is our greatest possession today? Shall it be by entangling ourselves in the threads of age-old hatreds of the Old World? By strengthening our national defenses to make ourselves impregnable te nations who will forever be at war? Most certainly a strong defense is our greatest assurance of continuing in the path of peaceful pursuits. This defense cannot come alone from great air flotillas, great navies and armies. Some of that defense must come from what people think and from their attitude toward the menace to national security.
What do the people of America really know of war? How many have felt the full weight of war? Throughout the nation today there are innumerable war-veteran fathers listening to the same questions my son is now asking me about war. No doubt every son is talking to his father in the same vein, for it is the youth of today whose lives are forfeited if we should act without wisdom.
How can one best answer the questions that youth is asking today? The fear of our sons being sacrificed because of the folly of an unjustified foreign war is pounding in the heart of every adult in America. Whether the youth of today shall go to war or not, they should be mentally prepared for all of war's ugliness and brutality.
They should know everything of war that those who have experienced it can tell them. They can learn war's futility from the lips of those who have seen and felt its pain. They can learn of battlefields and what it is like to bleed out one's life before the guns, only from those who have seen it. Such knowledge and mental preparedness for war is as vital a part of national defense as is the armada of modern warfare.
Is this not the story that every veteran who "went over the top," would tell his and his neighbor's son?
SO YOU WANT TO BE A SOLDIER, SON?
Son of mine, I cannot tell all things I should to you,
I lack the words that describe what soldiers will go through;
No words of mine can ever show fresh blood upon a field,
Where warring soldiers meet to fight and neither one will yield.
For I know that war in your eyes is but a dress parade,
That it is a great adventure where heros brave are made;
I know I cannot make you see bodies maimed beyond repair,
Or make you feel the emptiness that comes with war's despair.
I wish that I had words to tell of its filthy slaughter mill,
Where you and all the youth of time has gone at someone's will;
I wish that God would give me thoughts so here I could express,
All that one can learn of war and its barren ugliness.
That you may know war as it is, how little each life bought,
All the empty years that follow after each new war is fought;
So listen son, and listen well, to those who know war's cost,
There are no victors in a war for though they won they lost.
Yesterday
THE blackness of the night cloaked the movements of Lieutenant Snell as he crept closer to the enemy line. When he was well forward, the ghastly light of enemy star shells lit up No-Man's-Land in a dull, unnatural hue. The lieutenant crouched low, his tense body hugging the ground.
He prayed that he might be taken for some debris or tree, rather than a mark for enemy sharpshooters. Hearing the quick rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire directly ahead of him, and the zinging sound of bullets close by, be knew he was the target. Raising his eyes toward the sound of the guns he could see barbed wire entanglements ahead. Outlined against the flare-lit sky, they looked like black strands of some giant cobweb.
The sound of whining bullets ceased. The sputtering machine guns were silent. The flares poised in the air as though festooned there by the hand of fate. The few seconds of waiting time was an eternity to him. Slowly the flares settled earthward. In their fast dimming glow the lieutenant could see why his three missing night raiders had not returned.
As the last gleam of light faded from the sky he crept wearily from the ground and started back to his own lines. No longer a commander of men, he was just a college boy from home sobbing his heart out in the night.
YOU'RE IN THE ARMY NOW
I'm going to be a soldier tomorrow! Oh, boy! Soon I'll be a lieutenant, or maybe a captain. Who knows? I might even get to be a general! How I have waited for this day!
When war first broke out the marine guy told me I was too short to get into the marines. Then the army man said I was four pounds underweight. I argued that I'd come all the way from Calgary, up in Canada, to enlist. He said it didn't make a damn bit of difference if I had come from Timbuctoo, they weren't taking any scrubs.
I shot back: "They are taking anything they can get in Canada, and glad to get them. If the U.S.A. is in the war long enough they will be glad to take anything they can get too, even us scrubs."
Scrubs! The big mug! Who did he think he was? Just because he had a couple of silver bars on the shoulder of his uniform and spurs strapped on his big fancy boots. I'd show him!
I started to tell him off for proper. Just then a big guy with two stripes on his khaki coat came up and grabbed me, and pulled me out of the line of other fellows trying to enlist. He gave me a hard shove.
"On your way, punk," he said. "Can't you see the captain's busy? He's got a lot on his mind, fellow, a lot."
He gave me another shove. "Get going, punk."
I got, but I was boiling mad. The big tramp! If he didn't have that uniform on, I'd show him!
Today - six months later - it's different. The smart old army is glad to get me. Just like I said it would be. They put my number in a bat and drew it out, along with a few million other numbers. That business of enlisting was a grand bust. Uncle Sam soon found out that everybody wasn't so nuts to get in the Army as he thought they would be.
I am going as an alternate. The guy who was supposed to show up "forgot" to report, so they are sending me instead. That is how I came to get in ahead of time. Wait until I get into a uniform! I'll show that goateed captain who called me a scrub! I'll show him! Boy, but I hope he really is my captain! I'll make it tough for him. The big egg, calling me a scrub! Well, every dog has his day. So far I'm just a pup-but I'll grow.
Today they lined us all up at the armory. I took
a vow and signed some papers. Got shoved around a lot, too. All those smart army guys yelling this and yelling that at you. You would think a fellow didn't have any rights at all. Then they told us to "fall in," and most of us didn't know what they meant. They had us make a big line four men abreast, and started marching us to the depot.
A swell band led the parade. We carried our suitcases as we marched. A big, husky, loud-mouthed fellow who was in the jewelry business was at the head of us marchers. I thought he was going with us. Found out later he led all the parades-as far as the depot. The sidewalks were lined with people, most of them waving at us. It was just noon. There were lots of girls from offices standing there. Some of the people were yelling, "Bring back the Kaiser-bring back the Kaiser." The band was playing "Over There." Boy, were we stepping it! I saw a lot of people I knew, and was I proud! Had a big silly grin on my face. Then we got to the station I saw Mom and Dad there. Dad ran over and shook my hand, patted me on the back, and choked up when he said, "Good luck, son, come back safe." Mom was crying to beat the band. That took that grin off my face in a hurry.
Some soldier guy kept yelling, "Get back in line, you guys . . . back in line don't break rank stay in line ... you rookies."
Then we boarded the train and started for camp. Exit civilian ... Entre soldat! (That "soldat" is a new French word I've learned already.) Boy! I'm in the Army now!
At nightfall we came to the camp and unloaded from the train. It was raining to beat hell. Soaked to the skin, we hiked a mile or two, passing a lot of new buildings. Every few minutes we would hear some fellows yelling from the windows. "How do you like it, soldier?" "Step lively, rookie step lively or you'll get sunburned." "Where you from, soldier?" We would yell back where we were from . . . then they'd all gang up and yell, "never heard of it!" And laugh like hell. It wasn't any joke for us, though, and we were soaked to the skin when someone finally yelled "halt! "
We halted alongside a long army tent that missed the ground by about two feet. It was well lighted, and you could see men's legs from the knees down, shuffling through the tent. The army fellow in charge of us kept yelling out our names. As called, each would start through the door of the tent. Pretty soon we heard a lot of laughing from those who were going through.
Someone was saying in a monotonous drone: "Now say ah! . . . say ah! . . . that's right . . . say it again . . . ah!" Then we would hear someone else say . . . "ah ... ah - . .". - . and start laughing. Soaking wet, we stood there waiting our turn, getting more and more curious about those constant "ah's."
It wasn't long before I knew. Then it came my turn to go through, and I learned that it was just the first of a lot of physical examinations the army put you through before they decided to keep you.
Just as I was coming out of the tent a sergeant at the door said, "Got a cigar, buddy?"
I hesitated for a moment. I only had one.
He bellowed in a hard-boiled voice, "Come on, rooky, give it to me."
I gave it to him. He was putting the old army bee on me and I was too green to know it.
Finally we were taken to one of the new buildings that turned out to be our barracks. Dog-tired, we rolled into the line of army cots, without taking time to undress. Wet as I was, I slept soundly, until awakened by a voice with the roar of a cannon, "Come on, you rookies . . . roll out . . . roll out you're in the army now!"
I rubbed my eyes and saw that it was not yet daylight.
We had breakfast, then started through a series of physical tests. First they tested our eyes, then our ears, then our teeth. They made all kinds of notes on paper. I never did find out what for. Then they took us into a room and ordered us to strip off. Without a stitch on we started hopping around. First on one foot, then the other. It was a stiff grind. As we finished they would take our pulse and heart beat. We sure got a going over. Many of the fellows failed to pass the test and we never did see them any more.
If you passed the test and were pronounced fit and sound, then you would swear allegiance to the flag and You were in the "Army Grand." Oh, boy, what a grand and glorious feeling! Bring on your Germans!
No sooner had they told me that I was in the army for sure than two soldiers with tape measures grabbed me and started measuring me. And bow they measured me! I'll bet they measured my feet ten times. When I asked them why, the sergeant said, "It's the most important part of you, dummy." They never had any respect for us rookies. They would take us out and drill us for hours over rocky fields without even asking if we wanted a rest.
If we complained they put us on some kind of "duty." Mostly "fatigue" and "policing up" duty. "Policing up" meant chasing elusive bits of paper, burned out Fatimas, Chesterfields, Camels, and Lucky Strikes around the big grounds of our new home. I never picked up so damn many cigarette and cigar butts in my life.
They gave us all kinds of shots in the arm. We would walk down a long line of men with both arms bare to the shoulder, and two soldiers would grab us, one on each side, jab two needlefuls of some kind of germs into us, to keep some other kind of germs out. Every time we turned around for the first few days we would get another shot in the arm. At reveille many a soldier standing there fell flat on his face from the effects of these shots. After the first week the effects wore off and we were all right again.
By that time my tired and aching muscles were beginning to harden a little. But I needed shoes badly. My patent leather "bests" that I had worn to camp were done for. So after all those careful foot measurements they threw a pair of shoes at me two sizes too big, and heavy as lead. I had got hold of a pair of army pants about one size too big. Finally I got a coat. It was too small. My arms popped out, with the end
of the sleeves about three inches above my wrists. And the bat! That was murder! It sat on my head like a peanut. If I wasn't a pretty sight when my folks and my girl came over to see me!
Right away Susie said, "Well, where in the world did you get that outfit ... !"
I felt like a plugged nickel.
We are getting a little "army wise" now. I am getting so I can take it, and the army ain't so bad. The sergeant made me an acting-corporal. I am the same as a superintendent over seven other men. Boy, do I
make them rookies step! And how! We all wonder when we are going overseas. In the meantime I have learned how to play "black jack," and give the dice an "army roll" on a blanket.
Every fifteen minutes there is a rumor in the army.
Most of them came from a long building that isn't the guard house. The woods are full of those rumors. First we hear that "we are going to leave for France tomorrow" . . . then . . . "we are going to be sent to the Spruce Division at Vancouver, to cut spruce logs for making airplanes" . . . then . . . "we are going to be shipped to France by the way of Russia. Sailing orders are waiting for us to take the transports from San Francisco to Vladivostok." Nothing happens, except that they take us out on the field and drill hell out of us each day.
Finally we do get moving orders. This time they are on the level. We are to leave Camp Lewis in twenty-four hours. I got word to my folks and they came over to tell me goodbye. Then we were off on the train, but not for France as we supposed. It is for another camp, Camp Kearney, California. There we became a part of the 40th Division-the Sunrise Division-in name as well as in fact. They would get us up before the moon went to bed and start us on long hikes. Once they sent us on a ten day hike, over the scorching sands of Southern California. I'll never forget that if I live to be a million.
IT AIN'T NO FUN IT AIN'T
It ain't no fun a-marching in the blistering white-hot heat,
Keeping pace to sergeants' cadence with your tired and aching feet;
With the sweat a-rolling from your brow, a pack upon your shoulder,
And the sun a-beating down on you in a ball of red-hot smolder.
It ain't no fun a-thinking of the girl you left behind,
With your mind a constant wonder if her love's the lasting kind;
While all the time you're marching, toughening up to be a soldier,
And with every step you're taking,
you feel ten or twelve years older.
It ain't no fun a-sleeping
'neath a sky that's wet and dreary
When you're bones are all a-creaking
and your body's sore and weary;
It ain't no fun a-learning
how to be a soldier true,
When all the time you're wishing
that the war was done and through.
It ain't no fun to do "K.P.,"
while other soldiers dance,
It ain't no fun a-wondering
if we'll ever get to France;
It ain't no fun to do things
that you never understand,
It ain't no fun a-soldiering
in the tough old "Army Grand."
War is a man-made holocaust fanned into destructive flames from the ashes of past hatreds. It devastates all that lies in its path, pushing mankind backward to the dark ages, while each new war creates fresh war scars that time will not heal. From the seeds of these hatreds made by war, a newer, more scientific, and deadlier war than the war preceding it, is fought by every second generation of warring nations.
Throughout the history of mankind men have carried that fear in their hearts, until the day comes when they march to new wars made by the minority that rule them. Left to his own devises man seeks only peace and security and a means to escape the ever-present annihilation by war. To gain this he continues his age-old quest for new lands upon which the seeds of war-made hatreds have not yet fallen.
Sailing uncharted seas he reaches out for new frontiers in lands unknown, to build there a surety of life on ideals of peace. From this source, new and peace-loving nations have been created and are peopled today by a new race. A race of the free-born, not contaminated by the poisonous weeds of petty hatreds of their ancestral heritage.
Such is the new nation of America, whose sons of today have yet to learn the devastating and cancerous effects of war-born hatreds. For this new nation has fought only for its existence. It has never warred to take from its neighbors. It has fought only for the right to live a life free of the mistakes of its ancestors. It has fought for a weaker neighbor, that the neighbor might live as free-born peoples. In the World war of 1914-18, it listened to the siren call of the lands of its ancestry and sent the best of its manhood and gave of its great re-sources to fight a war that was supposed to end wars.
The roaring voices of the madmen of Mars have sounded again to direct the movements of great armies of men engaged in mortal combat over the same century -old, blood-stained battlefields. The frenzied insanity of all wars has been brought to the surface once more and the youth of today, who are the progenitors of tomorrow have been sacrificed once again because hatreds born of war will not die.
Those of us, who live in peace, want only peace, and those of us who have tasted of war in those war- mad countries want it no more. How best can we preserve this peace which is our greatest possession today? Shall it be by entangling ourselves in the threads of age-old hatreds of the Old World? By strengthening our national defenses to make ourselves impregnable te nations who will forever be at war? Most certainly a strong defense is our greatest assurance of continuing in the path of peaceful pursuits. This defense cannot come alone from great air flotillas, great navies and armies. Some of that defense must come from what people think and from their attitude toward the menace to national security.
What do the people of America really know of war? How many have felt the full weight of war? Throughout the nation today there are innumerable war-veteran fathers listening to the same questions my son is now asking me about war. No doubt every son is talking to his father in the same vein, for it is the youth of today whose lives are forfeited if we should act without wisdom.
How can one best answer the questions that youth is asking today? The fear of our sons being sacrificed because of the folly of an unjustified foreign war is pounding in the heart of every adult in America. Whether the youth of today shall go to war or not, they should be mentally prepared for all of war's ugliness and brutality.
They should know everything of war that those who have experienced it can tell them. They can learn war's futility from the lips of those who have seen and felt its pain. They can learn of battlefields and what it is like to bleed out one's life before the guns, only from those who have seen it. Such knowledge and mental preparedness for war is as vital a part of national defense as is the armada of modern warfare.
Is this not the story that every veteran who "went over the top," would tell his and his neighbor's son?
SO YOU WANT TO BE A SOLDIER, SON?
Son of mine, I cannot tell all things I should to you,
I lack the words that describe what soldiers will go through;
No words of mine can ever show fresh blood upon a field,
Where warring soldiers meet to fight and neither one will yield.
For I know that war in your eyes is but a dress parade,
That it is a great adventure where heros brave are made;
I know I cannot make you see bodies maimed beyond repair,
Or make you feel the emptiness that comes with war's despair.
I wish that I had words to tell of its filthy slaughter mill,
Where you and all the youth of time has gone at someone's will;
I wish that God would give me thoughts so here I could express,
All that one can learn of war and its barren ugliness.
That you may know war as it is, how little each life bought,
All the empty years that follow after each new war is fought;
So listen son, and listen well, to those who know war's cost,
There are no victors in a war for though they won they lost.
Yesterday
THE blackness of the night cloaked the movements of Lieutenant Snell as he crept closer to the enemy line. When he was well forward, the ghastly light of enemy star shells lit up No-Man's-Land in a dull, unnatural hue. The lieutenant crouched low, his tense body hugging the ground.
He prayed that he might be taken for some debris or tree, rather than a mark for enemy sharpshooters. Hearing the quick rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire directly ahead of him, and the zinging sound of bullets close by, be knew he was the target. Raising his eyes toward the sound of the guns he could see barbed wire entanglements ahead. Outlined against the flare-lit sky, they looked like black strands of some giant cobweb.
The sound of whining bullets ceased. The sputtering machine guns were silent. The flares poised in the air as though festooned there by the hand of fate. The few seconds of waiting time was an eternity to him. Slowly the flares settled earthward. In their fast dimming glow the lieutenant could see why his three missing night raiders had not returned.
As the last gleam of light faded from the sky he crept wearily from the ground and started back to his own lines. No longer a commander of men, he was just a college boy from home sobbing his heart out in the night.
YOU'RE IN THE ARMY NOW
I'm going to be a soldier tomorrow! Oh, boy! Soon I'll be a lieutenant, or maybe a captain. Who knows? I might even get to be a general! How I have waited for this day!
When war first broke out the marine guy told me I was too short to get into the marines. Then the army man said I was four pounds underweight. I argued that I'd come all the way from Calgary, up in Canada, to enlist. He said it didn't make a damn bit of difference if I had come from Timbuctoo, they weren't taking any scrubs.
I shot back: "They are taking anything they can get in Canada, and glad to get them. If the U.S.A. is in the war long enough they will be glad to take anything they can get too, even us scrubs."
Scrubs! The big mug! Who did he think he was? Just because he had a couple of silver bars on the shoulder of his uniform and spurs strapped on his big fancy boots. I'd show him!
I started to tell him off for proper. Just then a big guy with two stripes on his khaki coat came up and grabbed me, and pulled me out of the line of other fellows trying to enlist. He gave me a hard shove.
"On your way, punk," he said. "Can't you see the captain's busy? He's got a lot on his mind, fellow, a lot."
He gave me another shove. "Get going, punk."
I got, but I was boiling mad. The big tramp! If he didn't have that uniform on, I'd show him!
Today - six months later - it's different. The smart old army is glad to get me. Just like I said it would be. They put my number in a bat and drew it out, along with a few million other numbers. That business of enlisting was a grand bust. Uncle Sam soon found out that everybody wasn't so nuts to get in the Army as he thought they would be.
I am going as an alternate. The guy who was supposed to show up "forgot" to report, so they are sending me instead. That is how I came to get in ahead of time. Wait until I get into a uniform! I'll show that goateed captain who called me a scrub! I'll show him! Boy, but I hope he really is my captain! I'll make it tough for him. The big egg, calling me a scrub! Well, every dog has his day. So far I'm just a pup-but I'll grow.
Today they lined us all up at the armory. I took
a vow and signed some papers. Got shoved around a lot, too. All those smart army guys yelling this and yelling that at you. You would think a fellow didn't have any rights at all. Then they told us to "fall in," and most of us didn't know what they meant. They had us make a big line four men abreast, and started marching us to the depot.
A swell band led the parade. We carried our suitcases as we marched. A big, husky, loud-mouthed fellow who was in the jewelry business was at the head of us marchers. I thought he was going with us. Found out later he led all the parades-as far as the depot. The sidewalks were lined with people, most of them waving at us. It was just noon. There were lots of girls from offices standing there. Some of the people were yelling, "Bring back the Kaiser-bring back the Kaiser." The band was playing "Over There." Boy, were we stepping it! I saw a lot of people I knew, and was I proud! Had a big silly grin on my face. Then we got to the station I saw Mom and Dad there. Dad ran over and shook my hand, patted me on the back, and choked up when he said, "Good luck, son, come back safe." Mom was crying to beat the band. That took that grin off my face in a hurry.
Some soldier guy kept yelling, "Get back in line, you guys . . . back in line don't break rank stay in line ... you rookies."
Then we boarded the train and started for camp. Exit civilian ... Entre soldat! (That "soldat" is a new French word I've learned already.) Boy! I'm in the Army now!
At nightfall we came to the camp and unloaded from the train. It was raining to beat hell. Soaked to the skin, we hiked a mile or two, passing a lot of new buildings. Every few minutes we would hear some fellows yelling from the windows. "How do you like it, soldier?" "Step lively, rookie step lively or you'll get sunburned." "Where you from, soldier?" We would yell back where we were from . . . then they'd all gang up and yell, "never heard of it!" And laugh like hell. It wasn't any joke for us, though, and we were soaked to the skin when someone finally yelled "halt! "
We halted alongside a long army tent that missed the ground by about two feet. It was well lighted, and you could see men's legs from the knees down, shuffling through the tent. The army fellow in charge of us kept yelling out our names. As called, each would start through the door of the tent. Pretty soon we heard a lot of laughing from those who were going through.
Someone was saying in a monotonous drone: "Now say ah! . . . say ah! . . . that's right . . . say it again . . . ah!" Then we would hear someone else say . . . "ah ... ah - . .". - . and start laughing. Soaking wet, we stood there waiting our turn, getting more and more curious about those constant "ah's."
It wasn't long before I knew. Then it came my turn to go through, and I learned that it was just the first of a lot of physical examinations the army put you through before they decided to keep you.
Just as I was coming out of the tent a sergeant at the door said, "Got a cigar, buddy?"
I hesitated for a moment. I only had one.
He bellowed in a hard-boiled voice, "Come on, rooky, give it to me."
I gave it to him. He was putting the old army bee on me and I was too green to know it.
Finally we were taken to one of the new buildings that turned out to be our barracks. Dog-tired, we rolled into the line of army cots, without taking time to undress. Wet as I was, I slept soundly, until awakened by a voice with the roar of a cannon, "Come on, you rookies . . . roll out . . . roll out you're in the army now!"
I rubbed my eyes and saw that it was not yet daylight.
We had breakfast, then started through a series of physical tests. First they tested our eyes, then our ears, then our teeth. They made all kinds of notes on paper. I never did find out what for. Then they took us into a room and ordered us to strip off. Without a stitch on we started hopping around. First on one foot, then the other. It was a stiff grind. As we finished they would take our pulse and heart beat. We sure got a going over. Many of the fellows failed to pass the test and we never did see them any more.
If you passed the test and were pronounced fit and sound, then you would swear allegiance to the flag and You were in the "Army Grand." Oh, boy, what a grand and glorious feeling! Bring on your Germans!
No sooner had they told me that I was in the army for sure than two soldiers with tape measures grabbed me and started measuring me. And bow they measured me! I'll bet they measured my feet ten times. When I asked them why, the sergeant said, "It's the most important part of you, dummy." They never had any respect for us rookies. They would take us out and drill us for hours over rocky fields without even asking if we wanted a rest.
If we complained they put us on some kind of "duty." Mostly "fatigue" and "policing up" duty. "Policing up" meant chasing elusive bits of paper, burned out Fatimas, Chesterfields, Camels, and Lucky Strikes around the big grounds of our new home. I never picked up so damn many cigarette and cigar butts in my life.
They gave us all kinds of shots in the arm. We would walk down a long line of men with both arms bare to the shoulder, and two soldiers would grab us, one on each side, jab two needlefuls of some kind of germs into us, to keep some other kind of germs out. Every time we turned around for the first few days we would get another shot in the arm. At reveille many a soldier standing there fell flat on his face from the effects of these shots. After the first week the effects wore off and we were all right again.
By that time my tired and aching muscles were beginning to harden a little. But I needed shoes badly. My patent leather "bests" that I had worn to camp were done for. So after all those careful foot measurements they threw a pair of shoes at me two sizes too big, and heavy as lead. I had got hold of a pair of army pants about one size too big. Finally I got a coat. It was too small. My arms popped out, with the end
of the sleeves about three inches above my wrists. And the bat! That was murder! It sat on my head like a peanut. If I wasn't a pretty sight when my folks and my girl came over to see me!
Right away Susie said, "Well, where in the world did you get that outfit ... !"
I felt like a plugged nickel.
We are getting a little "army wise" now. I am getting so I can take it, and the army ain't so bad. The sergeant made me an acting-corporal. I am the same as a superintendent over seven other men. Boy, do I
make them rookies step! And how! We all wonder when we are going overseas. In the meantime I have learned how to play "black jack," and give the dice an "army roll" on a blanket.
Every fifteen minutes there is a rumor in the army.
Most of them came from a long building that isn't the guard house. The woods are full of those rumors. First we hear that "we are going to leave for France tomorrow" . . . then . . . "we are going to be sent to the Spruce Division at Vancouver, to cut spruce logs for making airplanes" . . . then . . . "we are going to be shipped to France by the way of Russia. Sailing orders are waiting for us to take the transports from San Francisco to Vladivostok." Nothing happens, except that they take us out on the field and drill hell out of us each day.
Finally we do get moving orders. This time they are on the level. We are to leave Camp Lewis in twenty-four hours. I got word to my folks and they came over to tell me goodbye. Then we were off on the train, but not for France as we supposed. It is for another camp, Camp Kearney, California. There we became a part of the 40th Division-the Sunrise Division-in name as well as in fact. They would get us up before the moon went to bed and start us on long hikes. Once they sent us on a ten day hike, over the scorching sands of Southern California. I'll never forget that if I live to be a million.
IT AIN'T NO FUN IT AIN'T
It ain't no fun a-marching in the blistering white-hot heat,
Keeping pace to sergeants' cadence with your tired and aching feet;
With the sweat a-rolling from your brow, a pack upon your shoulder,
And the sun a-beating down on you in a ball of red-hot smolder.
It ain't no fun a-thinking of the girl you left behind,
With your mind a constant wonder if her love's the lasting kind;
While all the time you're marching, toughening up to be a soldier,
And with every step you're taking,
you feel ten or twelve years older.
It ain't no fun a-sleeping
'neath a sky that's wet and dreary
When you're bones are all a-creaking
and your body's sore and weary;
It ain't no fun a-learning
how to be a soldier true,
When all the time you're wishing
that the war was done and through.
It ain't no fun to do "K.P.,"
while other soldiers dance,
It ain't no fun a-wondering
if we'll ever get to France;
It ain't no fun to do things
that you never understand,
It ain't no fun a-soldiering
in the tough old "Army Grand."
ON OUR WAY TO WAR
WE had hardly settled down in Camp Kearney when we were placed in "quarantine." That was about the best thing we seemed to do. Twice before at the camp which we had just left we had been quarantined, and here we were again right in the middle of it. A soldier's life isn't as easy as it looks on those recruiting posters. You can take that from one who was learning, and learning fast.
If adventure means being yodelled out of a sound sleep by a bugle call and working from five in the morning until ten at night, doing everything except fighting, then I'll take prunes for mine.
Just when a guy's muscles are getting hardened up so he stays put on his legs, then some officer or colonel slaps him in quarantine, because the army is afraid of a bug they can't even see. A fine business ... ! Sitting around in a tent that holds eight men and about two tons of fine sifting red desert sand. Some life ... huh!
Only thing that a guy can do in a spot like this is to join a quartet. Every squad has two of them, so that's nothing new. We had one like every other squad, except that ours was the best. We sang such stirring songs as "Keep your head down Fritzi Boy …, K…K…K . . Katy . . . Beautiful Katy, I'll be Waiting for you at the K . . K . . K . .
Kitchen Door ... . . . . 'You're in the army now, you're not behind the Plow . . . You'll never get rich . . .Just doing your hitch . . . You're in the army now and that old standby, "Sweet Adeline."
My specialty was "Silver Threads Among the Gold" and I sure knocked them for a loop with my old top-tenor. We must have been pretty good, because one night when we were singing extra low, the major sent over his top-sergeant to ask us if we were the owners of those "God-blessed Blankity ... blank ... gorgeous voices?"
We said, "We was. .
Then the top-sergeant said very gently, "Follow me! "
The next thing we knew we was in the guard house. The major said we were disturbing the peace and sleep of some real soldiers.
We knew the major was only kidding and that the whole thing was a frame-up by the other quartets who were jealous.
We hadn't been in the guard house but four days when an orderly came in and told us to get back to our company "toot-sweet," that we were leaving for France that night.
Naturally we thought it was just another "army rumor." This time we were mistaken and we rolled our packs and loaded on the trains bound for some unknown destination. By a zig-zag route over first one main trunk railway line and then another, we rode east-ward for seven days and nights.
Before we boarded the trains our quartet had their heads shaved by the company barber. What I mean he didn't leave a hair standing! As the troop train rolled across the nation we took our rightful place as the major's official quartet.
At every little town where we stopped we would give our lungs some exercise. The first stop was at San Bernardino, which was better known to us as San Ber-doo. There we were met at the station by a swarm of beautiful young California girls. Boy, there were some honies in that bunch. They were acting as canteen girls and meeting all the trains. They would pass out cigarettes, home made delicacies, and once in a while a kiss or two. That is, if you were good looking enough to come up to their new standards of what it took to be a hero.
Did we go to town with our songs? And how we did! I sang four encores to "Silver Threads Among the Gold," myself! We finished our stirring repertoire of songs with the sure fire number that ended with the words . . . "with your hair-cut just as short as . . . with your hair cut just as short as . . . with your hair cut just as short as mine!" Then on the final bar we would all four of us bow as gentlemen should, and with a courtly gesture sweep off our hats, exposing our bald domes.
We crossed high and dry Arizona and New Mexico, where we saw many wooden like Indians draped in colorful blankets, together with a scattering of cowboys and a few girls at the desert stations. Then we swung north into Colorado, and there again we met beautiful young ladies who were helping us "win the war."
Our first stop of any importance was La Junta, or La Hunta, as it was called. As usual, our humble and meek quartet, who by now figured that they were "some pumpkins," put on our singing act. The rest of the troop on the train must have been waiting for this to happen. No sooner had we finished our "finale song," and were sweeping our hats from our baldheads, than it happened. Without warning about forty of the soldiers piled on top of us and bore us to the ground.
The next thing we knew both the doughboys and the canteen-girls were giving us a watermelon shampoo, seeds and all, from the famous La Junta melons, which the girls were passing out to the soldiers. The sweet, sticky juices ran down the tight fitting collars of our woolen khaki shirts and stuck to our bodies like glue. It felt like a bunch of ants covering you from head to feet. There was no way of taking a bath until we hit our destination, and we didn't even know where that was or when we would land there.
That tamed us down for the rest of the trip. One of the quartet said he wondered if the major himself had wired ahead and fixed up that surprise for us. That he "had seen him sending a lot of wires all along the line." Personally, I don't think any major would treat his quartet that way.
About the fourth or fifth day we landed in Chicago, on the South Side. There wasn't a white man in sight except ourselves. For exercise the major had the whole troop doing double-quick time up and down the thickly populated streets adjoining the troop trains.
There again we were met with the cheers of the bystanders. Only here the cheers were interspersed with some good old-fashioned "Down South" dialect, and such expressions as these . . . "Man, lookah at them thahr solduah boys . . . umh . . . umh . . . ain't they scrumpshus? . . . jist lookah at them boys strut . . . umph . . . umph . . . man . . . ain't that sumpfin? ... Go gits the Kizer, boys ... we uns is right back of you . . . don't forgit to bring home the bacon ... and . . . save the rine foh me . . . won't youh, honey-bunches ... !"
They meant what they said and we sure got a kick out of them. After about two hours of this, we loaded, and the trains started rolling again. We continued eastward, and many of our boys who had been born and raised in the Far West and Pacific Coast States got their first glimpse of the great factory districts of the East.
I will never forget to my dying day the reception we received as we passed through the town of Bethlehem. The whistles of the great steel factories never stopped blowing all the time our train was slowly passing through the city . . . Boy, did we get a thrill out of that! How proud we were to be Americans, and that we were in uniform and on our way to fight a war
to end wars-at least that's what we thought then.
Later we were to learn that the blowing whistles of the steel mills of Bethlehem was a form of patriotism that could very well be likened to the spouting of some of the patriots and Liberty bond salesmen.
We were to learn also that the patriots who held truest to their words and ideals were those who made few promises and had little to say at the time of our going.
As the shrieking whistles of the steel town faded in the distance, one of our quartet said ...
"Hear that, boys? . . . that ain't nothing . . . just wait until we come home ... wait until we come home . . . then you'll see a real reception!"
That poor devil never came home, but he never lost his illusions.
On the evening of the seventh day we landed at Jersey City, New Jersey. Within a few hours we were transferred on ferry boats to Long Island, and many of us got our first glimpse of New York City. Waiting at the docks were trains that took us to Camp Mills, located near Garden City, Long Island, a distance of about twenty miles from the lights of Broadway.
Completely tired out from our long ride in the overcrowded troop train, we were led to our new headquarters, where we were to rest and wait for a boat to be readied to take us to France. As we lay there three thousand miles from home, we wondered . . .
"How long before we are loaded on the boats?"
We Sail For France
WHEN we landed at Camp Mills we thought that all we had to do was to lay around and take it easy while we waited for sailing orders. We got fooled because the first morning after we had finished breakfast our sergeant came up to us and said, "Come on suckers, you're on my detail. Follow me." We followed and found ourselves headed for the depot, where we were put to work unloading the box cars which were standing on the sidetrack. We carried everything from heavy sacks of beans and sides of meat to barrels of nails. We learned about the work part of the army, and we slaved at it during the remaining three day stay there.
It was one of the hottest days on record when we marched from Camp Mills to the trains that were to take us to the docks. To help it along, those of us who had joined up in the Pacific Northwest still wore heavy woolen uniforms. The army had been too busy to change them for lighter material more in keeping with the change in climate.
Each man rolled his blankets up in a long thin roll. Then he put them over the top and the sides of an already overloaded pack. There was no place left to put our overcoats. So we put them on our backs! Tie that one if you can. With the thermometer at 90 in the shade.
After leaving the trains we were loaded on big ferry boats that took us to Hoboken. There we got our first glimpse of the ship that was to take us to France.
After three hours of weary waiting we finally went up the gang plank of our boat, the good ship Nestor. She had been in service for years as a meat freighter between Australia and England. John Bull must have forgotten to clean it before he let Uncle Sam use it for a transport. It reeked to high heaven of year-old smells of sheep. Chicago's packing house district was sweet essence of lilac in comparison.
Our platoon was assigned to bunk in the lowest part of the hold of the ship. When we reached there we were all in. We peeled off our overcoats, and about everything else. The sweat was running off of us in rivelets. But what a relief to be sitting down again! That night we laid on the deck of the boat without a stitch on, gasping for air in that heat-laden atmosphere, and praying that we would soon be towed out to sea.
Sometime in the middle of the night we felt a cool breeze blowing. We were moving at last. Then we dozed off and slept. We awakened early next morning to find ourselves far from sight of land. Looking about us we found that our ship was one of some six or eight in the convoy. Each ship was heavily camouflaged with a bewildering array of zig-zag designs painted on its sides. The convoy was flanked on either side by two U.S. Navy destroyers. At the head of the fleet one of Uncle Sam's battleships majestically led the way. It was a comforting sight.
For two days the battleship and destroyers stayed with us. Then, sometime during the night, they left.
That was the time the doughboys began to appreciate the Navy. Gone was the sense of safety brought by those heavily-armored fighting ships. Instead we were filled with fear of the sea and the submarines. Then and there was born the profound respect we hold for the boys in blue who man the Navy ships.
THE NAVY TOOK US OVER
The Navy took us over and the Navy brought us back,
Two million doughboys more or less were saved from sub's attack;
The transports leaving U.S.A.,
would have been but few,
Without that span of navy boys, without their courage true.
The papers told of battles of doughboys deep in France,
But seldom of the Navy
that patrolled the seas of chance;
Never a word of endless nights that kept us safe from harm,
How Navy by its ceaseless work was Army's strong right arm.
The eyes of the nation seemed to be on uniforms of brown,
There was much of hero worship when the soldiers came to town;
He was praised in every army camp or when on a dress parade,
Few ever saw the Navy work, or knew of what 'twas made.
The Navy took us over, a dangerous job done well,
The Navy shared war's dangers as it ploughed each ocean swell;
The Navy was the guardian of plain doughboys like me,
It was the Nation's "Seeing Eye," that kept us safe at sea.
WELL, we soldier boys don't envy the sailors any more. We are three days out from shore now and already the list of sea-sick passengers on our troop transport is a long one. Our quartet hasn't been able to peep a note up till now.
The name Nestor, which someone gave to this tub we are sailing on in about the year one, is the right name. It is a nestor, all right. A nestor of all the rotten smells my blunt and not too sensitive nose has ever had the privilege of sniffing. To help it along, the hammocks where we sleep are placed in two rows, one on top of the other. The top row bumps the ceiling, and the man sleeping in the hammock below is bumped by the body of the man in the top row. Half the night you find yourself either on the floor or on the way there. It takes a chimpanzee with an extra strong pair of hands to hang in one of these canvas bags that are called "hammocks."
The port holes are kept closed for fear of showing any light for enemy subs to shoot at. So there we were, stewing in our own sweat. Between the odor, the heat, and the lack of air, it was impossible to sleep. To get relief some of us would gang up in the latrine and swap yarns. At that it was about the cleanest place on the ship. If we popped our heads out of the hatch to get a breath of air, some sailor with a cockney accent would shove us back and say, "Blymme ... why'nt you beggars ever stand 'itched?"
The food they served us was something to forget-. Yet it still sticks in my memory. I've knocked around some in my time and been in some pretty tough holes, and have seen food of all kinds, but the very worst of it was a chef's delight compared to what was rationed out to us on the Nestor. Bad as it was, the portions were less than half what they should be for a man on land, much less one at sea, where appetites increase.
Breakfast and dinner were our heartiest meals. In order to obtain food we were given ration tickets. Then two or three men were appointed for ration detail from each table. These tables seated fourteen to eighteen men. They would take the tickets and stand in line for hours before they could cash them in at the food commissary. There they would receive a certain amount of bread, sugar, tea, or whatever the slip called for. We were fed mutton, mutton, and then more mutton for dinner. The meat was old and strong, and tasted the same, as the ship smelled.
For supper the usual meal was a piece of cheese about the size of a dollar for each man and some crackers with plenty of pink tea. Tea that was really pink, and sickly to smell and taste. Finally complaints were made to our major and he raised billy hell with the captain of the ship. After that the food was a little better. But very little.
Every day we would have three or four life boat drills. Clang! . . . would go the bell, and we would make a dive for our life-saving belts, get them around our necks and start tying them as we ran quickly to our assigned stations, close to where small boats swung from their davits. This was to insure our own safety in case we were attacked by submarines, of which there was an ever constant menace.
One thing happened during the trip that compensated for some of the more unpleasant parts of it. The lieutenant in charge of our platoon was very military and precise. He was tied up heart and soul in his I.D.R. book. That was the blue book of Infantry Drill Regulations, and this lieutenant knew it backward and forward from cover to cover. Before entering the army via the route of National Guards, he had been an all-star football player on one of the California college teams. He was always rushing about as though he were still carrying the ball.
At the time this incident happened we were far north in the Atlantic, where it was a common thing to see icebergs. We had just come through the tail end of a bad storm. Due to the roughness of the sea some pretty sick boys answered the bell for life drill. Then this military-conscious lieutenant would force us to stand at attention for a minute or two, with the boat rolling, pitching, and swapping ends. Immediately the sickest of the boys would have to make for the rail and "heave Jonah."
During this procedure our lieutenant would look on in a bored and disdainful way, and start telling them to "brace up and be men." On this occasion he had just started to go through his performance when we noticed that green look coming around his gills. He started gulping a little and tried to stick it out. But it was no go, and he headed for the rail. As he hit the rail he took off his hat and heaved.
Some unfortunate soldier on the deck directly above him also hit the rail at the same time. Sad to relate, the lieutenant was on the receiving end of whatever the poor sufferer on the deck above had to give. To the tune of our hearty guffaws he dolefully turned over his command to one of his sergeants. We were beginning to feel that war had its compensations.
When we were one day out of Liverpool our convoy was met by two destroyers of the U.S. Navy. Fear of the subs parted with this thrilling sight, and confidence again swelled in our breasts. Overhead was an English "blimp," shaped like a great cigar wrapped in silver-hued tin foil, following our convoy for miles. As we drew closer to our destination, we saw the dim outline of Ireland on the right, and later, Scotland on our left. We could see the misty clouds hanging close to their hills and mountains, bringing thoughts of home to us Pacific Coast boys. Late that night the boat docked at Liverpool.
ENGLAND
ARRIVING at Liverpool, we wobbled down the gang planks on the "sea legs" we had acquired during our thirteen-day trip across the Atlantic. With overloaded packs on our backs, we formed a ragged line of marching men, as we went up the cobblestone streets, hundreds of years old, to the trains waiting to take us across England.
"Were we all eyes?" I'll tell the world we were!
Now we were getting our first glimpse of a foreign country. As we passed the aged, dingy little buildings along the waterfront, and the quaint "pubs" that lay enroute to the station, I'll bet our eyes were as big as apples.
The impressions were fleeting, but lasting. Narrow streets, funny looking little trams instead of street cars, ragged civilians near the boat, two wizened old women selling dried up oranges. Some English soldiers standing on the sidewalks, watching us go by. Some of them shouting, "Glad to see you, Yank!" Then before we knew it we were at the railway station.
Here we got a real surprise as we loaded into the continental trains, with their odd little individual compartments holding eight people each. Though we were exhausted and weak from the effects of the food on the Nestor, we nevertheless all felt like kings as we looked out of our own little compartments when the train pulled out of the station at a high speed, leaving the outskirts of the famous port of Liverpool behind us.
The trip across England was an "Alice in Wonderland" adventure to all of us. The factory districts and towns of Manchester and Leeds, with their continuous blocks on blocks of red brick houses, was something new to us. The monotony was broken only by street separations. The farming country of England and its quiet and orderly villages left a lasting impression. There were so many shades of green; the farms were so small; separated by well-planned and trimmed hedges; they brought forth many "ah's" of admiration from us American soldiers, who knew only the wide, sweeping farms of the West.
Arriving late that night at Winchester, one of the famous old cities of England, we unloaded from the trains, and after a brief rest started up the old Roman road built by Caesar in his invasion of Britain in the year 54 B.C. Soon we arrived at Camp Winanal Downs. This was a large English army camp, and there we were well fed, and rested for three days before leaving for France.
We were given a one day furlough and visited the ancient and historically interesting sights in Winchester such as the old church that had stood for hundreds of years and is of world-wide fame. A British Tommy, who was convalescing from wounds received in France, offered to show several of us around. Three of us went with him and we hired a horse and cart and spent most of the day riding around in the small villages and farming area close to the camp. Here we saw thatched houses as old as the early history of England itself, and many quaint pubs or taverns, from which hung the swinging brass signs, telling the name of each pub, such as "The House of the Lion," etc. These we visited and tasted of the ale, which was bitter and not to our liking. At the end of the day we returned to camp and bid our new made soldier friend goodbye. We offered to pay him for his courtesy, but he would not have it that way, and said he had had more fun that day than in any day in years.
After our short rest at the English camp we were again bound for the front. This time our destination was Southampton, but a short distance away. Here we were to embark on the final stretch of our last and most dangerous sea-going trip. We were to cross the English Channel to land at Le Havre, France.
At Southampton we embarked on an American ship named the "Harvard," by coincidence a ship that once I had ridden when it had traveled American waters. It was good to see American sailors again. After the trip across the Atlantic under guidance of the "Limejuicers" -the English Transports-the sight of our own American sailors was a welcome one.
The trip to France was a short one, and the crossing was made over night. Our boat was so crowded that there was little space in which to lie down and rest. Most of us sat up and exchanged news of home, and wondered what France would be like. We passed a ship enroute, with a great Red Cross on its side in electric lights . . . that was quite a sight to us, and we
learned that it was a hospital boat bringing home wounded soldiers.
This gave us something to think about, for now, as we were nearing the end of our journey, we were learning for the first time the more serious side of war. Then, with dawn, our transport landed at the port of Le Havre, and soon we were to set our feet on French soil.
We Sail For France
WHEN we landed at Camp Mills we thought that all we had to do was to lay around and take it easy while we waited for sailing orders. We got fooled because the first morning after we had finished breakfast our sergeant came up to us and said, "Come on suckers, you're on my detail. Follow me." We followed and found ourselves headed for the depot, where we were put to work unloading the box cars which were standing on the sidetrack. We carried everything from heavy sacks of beans and sides of meat to barrels of nails. We learned about the work part of the army, and we slaved at it during the remaining three day stay there.
It was one of the hottest days on record when we marched from Camp Mills to the trains that were to take us to the docks. To help it along, those of us who had joined up in the Pacific Northwest still wore heavy woolen uniforms. The army had been too busy to change them for lighter material more in keeping with the change in climate.
Each man rolled his blankets up in a long thin roll. Then he put them over the top and the sides of an already overloaded pack. There was no place left to put our overcoats. So we put them on our backs! Tie that one if you can. With the thermometer at 90 in the shade.
After leaving the trains we were loaded on big ferry boats that took us to Hoboken. There we got our first glimpse of the ship that was to take us to France.
After three hours of weary waiting we finally went up the gang plank of our boat, the good ship Nestor. She had been in service for years as a meat freighter between Australia and England. John Bull must have forgotten to clean it before he let Uncle Sam use it for a transport. It reeked to high heaven of year-old smells of sheep. Chicago's packing house district was sweet essence of lilac in comparison.
Our platoon was assigned to bunk in the lowest part of the hold of the ship. When we reached there we were all in. We peeled off our overcoats, and about everything else. The sweat was running off of us in rivelets. But what a relief to be sitting down again! That night we laid on the deck of the boat without a stitch on, gasping for air in that heat-laden atmosphere, and praying that we would soon be towed out to sea.
Sometime in the middle of the night we felt a cool breeze blowing. We were moving at last. Then we dozed off and slept. We awakened early next morning to find ourselves far from sight of land. Looking about us we found that our ship was one of some six or eight in the convoy. Each ship was heavily camouflaged with a bewildering array of zig-zag designs painted on its sides. The convoy was flanked on either side by two U.S. Navy destroyers. At the head of the fleet one of Uncle Sam's battleships majestically led the way. It was a comforting sight.
For two days the battleship and destroyers stayed with us. Then, sometime during the night, they left.
That was the time the doughboys began to appreciate the Navy. Gone was the sense of safety brought by those heavily-armored fighting ships. Instead we were filled with fear of the sea and the submarines. Then and there was born the profound respect we hold for the boys in blue who man the Navy ships.
THE NAVY TOOK US OVER
The Navy took us over and the Navy brought us back,
Two million doughboys more or less were saved from sub's attack;
The transports leaving U.S.A.,
would have been but few,
Without that span of navy boys, without their courage true.
The papers told of battles of doughboys deep in France,
But seldom of the Navy
that patrolled the seas of chance;
Never a word of endless nights that kept us safe from harm,
How Navy by its ceaseless work was Army's strong right arm.
The eyes of the nation seemed to be on uniforms of brown,
There was much of hero worship when the soldiers came to town;
He was praised in every army camp or when on a dress parade,
Few ever saw the Navy work, or knew of what 'twas made.
The Navy took us over, a dangerous job done well,
The Navy shared war's dangers as it ploughed each ocean swell;
The Navy was the guardian of plain doughboys like me,
It was the Nation's "Seeing Eye," that kept us safe at sea.
WELL, we soldier boys don't envy the sailors any more. We are three days out from shore now and already the list of sea-sick passengers on our troop transport is a long one. Our quartet hasn't been able to peep a note up till now.
The name Nestor, which someone gave to this tub we are sailing on in about the year one, is the right name. It is a nestor, all right. A nestor of all the rotten smells my blunt and not too sensitive nose has ever had the privilege of sniffing. To help it along, the hammocks where we sleep are placed in two rows, one on top of the other. The top row bumps the ceiling, and the man sleeping in the hammock below is bumped by the body of the man in the top row. Half the night you find yourself either on the floor or on the way there. It takes a chimpanzee with an extra strong pair of hands to hang in one of these canvas bags that are called "hammocks."
The port holes are kept closed for fear of showing any light for enemy subs to shoot at. So there we were, stewing in our own sweat. Between the odor, the heat, and the lack of air, it was impossible to sleep. To get relief some of us would gang up in the latrine and swap yarns. At that it was about the cleanest place on the ship. If we popped our heads out of the hatch to get a breath of air, some sailor with a cockney accent would shove us back and say, "Blymme ... why'nt you beggars ever stand 'itched?"
The food they served us was something to forget-. Yet it still sticks in my memory. I've knocked around some in my time and been in some pretty tough holes, and have seen food of all kinds, but the very worst of it was a chef's delight compared to what was rationed out to us on the Nestor. Bad as it was, the portions were less than half what they should be for a man on land, much less one at sea, where appetites increase.
Breakfast and dinner were our heartiest meals. In order to obtain food we were given ration tickets. Then two or three men were appointed for ration detail from each table. These tables seated fourteen to eighteen men. They would take the tickets and stand in line for hours before they could cash them in at the food commissary. There they would receive a certain amount of bread, sugar, tea, or whatever the slip called for. We were fed mutton, mutton, and then more mutton for dinner. The meat was old and strong, and tasted the same, as the ship smelled.
For supper the usual meal was a piece of cheese about the size of a dollar for each man and some crackers with plenty of pink tea. Tea that was really pink, and sickly to smell and taste. Finally complaints were made to our major and he raised billy hell with the captain of the ship. After that the food was a little better. But very little.
Every day we would have three or four life boat drills. Clang! . . . would go the bell, and we would make a dive for our life-saving belts, get them around our necks and start tying them as we ran quickly to our assigned stations, close to where small boats swung from their davits. This was to insure our own safety in case we were attacked by submarines, of which there was an ever constant menace.
One thing happened during the trip that compensated for some of the more unpleasant parts of it. The lieutenant in charge of our platoon was very military and precise. He was tied up heart and soul in his I.D.R. book. That was the blue book of Infantry Drill Regulations, and this lieutenant knew it backward and forward from cover to cover. Before entering the army via the route of National Guards, he had been an all-star football player on one of the California college teams. He was always rushing about as though he were still carrying the ball.
At the time this incident happened we were far north in the Atlantic, where it was a common thing to see icebergs. We had just come through the tail end of a bad storm. Due to the roughness of the sea some pretty sick boys answered the bell for life drill. Then this military-conscious lieutenant would force us to stand at attention for a minute or two, with the boat rolling, pitching, and swapping ends. Immediately the sickest of the boys would have to make for the rail and "heave Jonah."
During this procedure our lieutenant would look on in a bored and disdainful way, and start telling them to "brace up and be men." On this occasion he had just started to go through his performance when we noticed that green look coming around his gills. He started gulping a little and tried to stick it out. But it was no go, and he headed for the rail. As he hit the rail he took off his hat and heaved.
Some unfortunate soldier on the deck directly above him also hit the rail at the same time. Sad to relate, the lieutenant was on the receiving end of whatever the poor sufferer on the deck above had to give. To the tune of our hearty guffaws he dolefully turned over his command to one of his sergeants. We were beginning to feel that war had its compensations.
When we were one day out of Liverpool our convoy was met by two destroyers of the U.S. Navy. Fear of the subs parted with this thrilling sight, and confidence again swelled in our breasts. Overhead was an English "blimp," shaped like a great cigar wrapped in silver-hued tin foil, following our convoy for miles. As we drew closer to our destination, we saw the dim outline of Ireland on the right, and later, Scotland on our left. We could see the misty clouds hanging close to their hills and mountains, bringing thoughts of home to us Pacific Coast boys. Late that night the boat docked at Liverpool.
ENGLAND
ARRIVING at Liverpool, we wobbled down the gang planks on the "sea legs" we had acquired during our thirteen-day trip across the Atlantic. With overloaded packs on our backs, we formed a ragged line of marching men, as we went up the cobblestone streets, hundreds of years old, to the trains waiting to take us across England.
"Were we all eyes?" I'll tell the world we were!
Now we were getting our first glimpse of a foreign country. As we passed the aged, dingy little buildings along the waterfront, and the quaint "pubs" that lay enroute to the station, I'll bet our eyes were as big as apples.
The impressions were fleeting, but lasting. Narrow streets, funny looking little trams instead of street cars, ragged civilians near the boat, two wizened old women selling dried up oranges. Some English soldiers standing on the sidewalks, watching us go by. Some of them shouting, "Glad to see you, Yank!" Then before we knew it we were at the railway station.
Here we got a real surprise as we loaded into the continental trains, with their odd little individual compartments holding eight people each. Though we were exhausted and weak from the effects of the food on the Nestor, we nevertheless all felt like kings as we looked out of our own little compartments when the train pulled out of the station at a high speed, leaving the outskirts of the famous port of Liverpool behind us.
The trip across England was an "Alice in Wonderland" adventure to all of us. The factory districts and towns of Manchester and Leeds, with their continuous blocks on blocks of red brick houses, was something new to us. The monotony was broken only by street separations. The farming country of England and its quiet and orderly villages left a lasting impression. There were so many shades of green; the farms were so small; separated by well-planned and trimmed hedges; they brought forth many "ah's" of admiration from us American soldiers, who knew only the wide, sweeping farms of the West.
Arriving late that night at Winchester, one of the famous old cities of England, we unloaded from the trains, and after a brief rest started up the old Roman road built by Caesar in his invasion of Britain in the year 54 B.C. Soon we arrived at Camp Winanal Downs. This was a large English army camp, and there we were well fed, and rested for three days before leaving for France.
We were given a one day furlough and visited the ancient and historically interesting sights in Winchester such as the old church that had stood for hundreds of years and is of world-wide fame. A British Tommy, who was convalescing from wounds received in France, offered to show several of us around. Three of us went with him and we hired a horse and cart and spent most of the day riding around in the small villages and farming area close to the camp. Here we saw thatched houses as old as the early history of England itself, and many quaint pubs or taverns, from which hung the swinging brass signs, telling the name of each pub, such as "The House of the Lion," etc. These we visited and tasted of the ale, which was bitter and not to our liking. At the end of the day we returned to camp and bid our new made soldier friend goodbye. We offered to pay him for his courtesy, but he would not have it that way, and said he had had more fun that day than in any day in years.
After our short rest at the English camp we were again bound for the front. This time our destination was Southampton, but a short distance away. Here we were to embark on the final stretch of our last and most dangerous sea-going trip. We were to cross the English Channel to land at Le Havre, France.
At Southampton we embarked on an American ship named the "Harvard," by coincidence a ship that once I had ridden when it had traveled American waters. It was good to see American sailors again. After the trip across the Atlantic under guidance of the "Limejuicers" -the English Transports-the sight of our own American sailors was a welcome one.
The trip to France was a short one, and the crossing was made over night. Our boat was so crowded that there was little space in which to lie down and rest. Most of us sat up and exchanged news of home, and wondered what France would be like. We passed a ship enroute, with a great Red Cross on its side in electric lights . . . that was quite a sight to us, and we
learned that it was a hospital boat bringing home wounded soldiers.
This gave us something to think about, for now, as we were nearing the end of our journey, we were learning for the first time the more serious side of war. Then, with dawn, our transport landed at the port of Le Havre, and soon we were to set our feet on French soil.
We Sail For France
WHEN we landed at Camp Mills we thought that all we had to do was to lay around and take it easy while we waited for sailing orders. We got fooled because the first morning after we had finished breakfast our sergeant came up to us and said, "Come on suckers, you're on my detail. Follow me." We followed and found ourselves headed for the depot, where we were put to work unloading the box cars which were standing on the sidetrack. We carried everything from heavy sacks of beans and sides of meat to barrels of nails. We learned about the work part of the army, and we slaved at it during the remaining three day stay there.
It was one of the hottest days on record when we marched from Camp Mills to the trains that were to take us to the docks. To help it along, those of us who had joined up in the Pacific Northwest still wore heavy woolen uniforms. The army had been too busy to change them for lighter material more in keeping with the change in climate.
Each man rolled his blankets up in a long thin roll. Then he put them over the top and the sides of an already overloaded pack. There was no place left to put our overcoats. So we put them on our backs! Tie that one if you can. With the thermometer at 90 in the shade.
After leaving the trains we were loaded on big ferry boats that took us to Hoboken. There we got our first glimpse of the ship that was to take us to France.
After three hours of weary waiting we finally went up the gang plank of our boat, the good ship Nestor. She had been in service for years as a meat freighter between Australia and England. John Bull must have forgotten to clean it before he let Uncle Sam use it for a transport. It reeked to high heaven of year-old smells of sheep. Chicago's packing house district was sweet essence of lilac in comparison.
Our platoon was assigned to bunk in the lowest part of the hold of the ship. When we reached there we were all in. We peeled off our overcoats, and about everything else. The sweat was running off of us in rivelets. But what a relief to be sitting down again! That night we laid on the deck of the boat without a stitch on, gasping for air in that heat-laden atmosphere, and praying that we would soon be towed out to sea.
Sometime in the middle of the night we felt a cool breeze blowing. We were moving at last. Then we dozed off and slept. We awakened early next morning to find ourselves far from sight of land. Looking about us we found that our ship was one of some six or eight in the convoy. Each ship was heavily camouflaged with a bewildering array of zig-zag designs painted on its sides. The convoy was flanked on either side by two U.S. Navy destroyers. At the head of the fleet one of Uncle Sam's battleships majestically led the way. It was a comforting sight.
For two days the battleship and destroyers stayed with us. Then, sometime during the night, they left.
That was the time the doughboys began to appreciate the Navy. Gone was the sense of safety brought by those heavily-armored fighting ships. Instead we were filled with fear of the sea and the submarines. Then and there was born the profound respect we hold for the boys in blue who man the Navy ships.
THE NAVY TOOK US OVER
The Navy took us over and the Navy brought us back,
Two million doughboys more or less were saved from sub's attack;
The transports leaving U.S.A.,
would have been but few,
Without that span of navy boys, without their courage true.
The papers told of battles of doughboys deep in France,
But seldom of the Navy
that patrolled the seas of chance;
Never a word of endless nights that kept us safe from harm,
How Navy by its ceaseless work was Army's strong right arm.
The eyes of the nation seemed to be on uniforms of brown,
There was much of hero worship when the soldiers came to town;
He was praised in every army camp or when on a dress parade,
Few ever saw the Navy work, or knew of what 'twas made.
The Navy took us over, a dangerous job done well,
The Navy shared war's dangers as it ploughed each ocean swell;
The Navy was the guardian of plain doughboys like me,
It was the Nation's "Seeing Eye," that kept us safe at sea.
WELL, we soldier boys don't envy the sailors any more. We are three days out from shore now and already the list of sea-sick passengers on our troop transport is a long one. Our quartet hasn't been able to peep a note up till now.
The name Nestor, which someone gave to this tub we are sailing on in about the year one, is the right name. It is a nestor, all right. A nestor of all the rotten smells my blunt and not too sensitive nose has ever had the privilege of sniffing. To help it along, the hammocks where we sleep are placed in two rows, one on top of the other. The top row bumps the ceiling, and the man sleeping in the hammock below is bumped by the body of the man in the top row. Half the night you find yourself either on the floor or on the way there. It takes a chimpanzee with an extra strong pair of hands to hang in one of these canvas bags that are called "hammocks."
The port holes are kept closed for fear of showing any light for enemy subs to shoot at. So there we were, stewing in our own sweat. Between the odor, the heat, and the lack of air, it was impossible to sleep. To get relief some of us would gang up in the latrine and swap yarns. At that it was about the cleanest place on the ship. If we popped our heads out of the hatch to get a breath of air, some sailor with a cockney accent would shove us back and say, "Blymme ... why'nt you beggars ever stand 'itched?"
The food they served us was something to forget-. Yet it still sticks in my memory. I've knocked around some in my time and been in some pretty tough holes, and have seen food of all kinds, but the very worst of it was a chef's delight compared to what was rationed out to us on the Nestor. Bad as it was, the portions were less than half what they should be for a man on land, much less one at sea, where appetites increase.
Breakfast and dinner were our heartiest meals. In order to obtain food we were given ration tickets. Then two or three men were appointed for ration detail from each table. These tables seated fourteen to eighteen men. They would take the tickets and stand in line for hours before they could cash them in at the food commissary. There they would receive a certain amount of bread, sugar, tea, or whatever the slip called for. We were fed mutton, mutton, and then more mutton for dinner. The meat was old and strong, and tasted the same, as the ship smelled.
For supper the usual meal was a piece of cheese about the size of a dollar for each man and some crackers with plenty of pink tea. Tea that was really pink, and sickly to smell and taste. Finally complaints were made to our major and he raised billy hell with the captain of the ship. After that the food was a little better. But very little.
Every day we would have three or four life boat drills. Clang! . . . would go the bell, and we would make a dive for our life-saving belts, get them around our necks and start tying them as we ran quickly to our assigned stations, close to where small boats swung from their davits. This was to insure our own safety in case we were attacked by submarines, of which there was an ever constant menace.
One thing happened during the trip that compensated for some of the more unpleasant parts of it. The lieutenant in charge of our platoon was very military and precise. He was tied up heart and soul in his I.D.R. book. That was the blue book of Infantry Drill Regulations, and this lieutenant knew it backward and forward from cover to cover. Before entering the army via the route of National Guards, he had been an all-star football player on one of the California college teams. He was always rushing about as though he were still carrying the ball.
At the time this incident happened we were far north in the Atlantic, where it was a common thing to see icebergs. We had just come through the tail end of a bad storm. Due to the roughness of the sea some pretty sick boys answered the bell for life drill. Then this military-conscious lieutenant would force us to stand at attention for a minute or two, with the boat rolling, pitching, and swapping ends. Immediately the sickest of the boys would have to make for the rail and "heave Jonah."
During this procedure our lieutenant would look on in a bored and disdainful way, and start telling them to "brace up and be men." On this occasion he had just started to go through his performance when we noticed that green look coming around his gills. He started gulping a little and tried to stick it out. But it was no go, and he headed for the rail. As he hit the rail he took off his hat and heaved.
Some unfortunate soldier on the deck directly above him also hit the rail at the same time. Sad to relate, the lieutenant was on the receiving end of whatever the poor sufferer on the deck above had to give. To the tune of our hearty guffaws he dolefully turned over his command to one of his sergeants. We were beginning to feel that war had its compensations.
When we were one day out of Liverpool our convoy was met by two destroyers of the U.S. Navy. Fear of the subs parted with this thrilling sight, and confidence again swelled in our breasts. Overhead was an English "blimp," shaped like a great cigar wrapped in silver-hued tin foil, following our convoy for miles. As we drew closer to our destination, we saw the dim outline of Ireland on the right, and later, Scotland on our left. We could see the misty clouds hanging close to their hills and mountains, bringing thoughts of home to us Pacific Coast boys. Late that night the boat docked at Liverpool.
ENGLAND
ARRIVING at Liverpool, we wobbled down the gang planks on the "sea legs" we had acquired during our thirteen-day trip across the Atlantic. With overloaded packs on our backs, we formed a ragged line of marching men, as we went up the cobblestone streets, hundreds of years old, to the trains waiting to take us across England.
"Were we all eyes?" I'll tell the world we were!
Now we were getting our first glimpse of a foreign country. As we passed the aged, dingy little buildings along the waterfront, and the quaint "pubs" that lay enroute to the station, I'll bet our eyes were as big as apples.
The impressions were fleeting, but lasting. Narrow streets, funny looking little trams instead of street cars, ragged civilians near the boat, two wizened old women selling dried up oranges. Some English soldiers standing on the sidewalks, watching us go by. Some of them shouting, "Glad to see you, Yank!" Then before we knew it we were at the railway station.
Here we got a real surprise as we loaded into the continental trains, with their odd little individual compartments holding eight people each. Though we were exhausted and weak from the effects of the food on the Nestor, we nevertheless all felt like kings as we looked out of our own little compartments when the train pulled out of the station at a high speed, leaving the outskirts of the famous port of Liverpool behind us.
The trip across England was an "Alice in Wonderland" adventure to all of us. The factory districts and towns of Manchester and Leeds, with their continuous blocks on blocks of red brick houses, was something new to us. The monotony was broken only by street separations. The farming country of England and its quiet and orderly villages left a lasting impression. There were so many shades of green; the farms were so small; separated by well-planned and trimmed hedges; they brought forth many "ah's" of admiration from us American soldiers, who knew only the wide, sweeping farms of the West.
Arriving late that night at Winchester, one of the famous old cities of England, we unloaded from the trains, and after a brief rest started up the old Roman road built by Caesar in his invasion of Britain in the year 54 B.C. Soon we arrived at Camp Winanal Downs. This was a large English army camp, and there we were well fed, and rested for three days before leaving for France.
We were given a one day furlough and visited the ancient and historically interesting sights in Winchester such as the old church that had stood for hundreds of years and is of world-wide fame. A British Tommy, who was convalescing from wounds received in France, offered to show several of us around. Three of us went with him and we hired a horse and cart and spent most of the day riding around in the small villages and farming area close to the camp. Here we saw thatched houses as old as the early history of England itself, and many quaint pubs or taverns, from which hung the swinging brass signs, telling the name of each pub, such as "The House of the Lion," etc. These we visited and tasted of the ale, which was bitter and not to our liking. At the end of the day we returned to camp and bid our new made soldier friend goodbye. We offered to pay him for his courtesy, but he would not have it that way, and said he had had more fun that day than in any day in years.
After our short rest at the English camp we were again bound for the front. This time our destination was Southampton, but a short distance away. Here we were to embark on the final stretch of our last and most dangerous sea-going trip. We were to cross the English Channel to land at Le Havre, France.
At Southampton we embarked on an American ship named the "Harvard," by coincidence a ship that once I had ridden when it had traveled American waters. It was good to see American sailors again. After the trip across the Atlantic under guidance of the "Limejuicers" -the English Transports-the sight of our own American sailors was a welcome one.
The trip to France was a short one, and the crossing was made over night. Our boat was so crowded that there was little space in which to lie down and rest. Most of us sat up and exchanged news of home, and wondered what France would be like. We passed a ship enroute, with a great Red Cross on its side in electric lights . . . that was quite a sight to us, and we
learned that it was a hospital boat bringing home wounded soldiers.
This gave us something to think about, for now, as we were nearing the end of our journey, we were learning for the first time the more serious side of war. Then, with dawn, our transport landed at the port of Le Havre, and soon we were to set our feet on French soil.
WE ARRIVE IN FRANCE
As we disembarked from the transport on the long wharf at Le Havre, we found ourselves in the center of much feverish activity. A new sharpness gathered in the voices of the officers and non-comms, who gave us quick marching orders. With packs on our backs, we marched up the streets of Le Havre at a rapid pace, having little, if any, time to wonder about the newness of this strange land. The funny looking people looked upon us as an old and familiar sight, because many troops had landed here before.
The street urchins followed the troops along begging for "souvenir . . . cigarette . . . souvenir . . . cigarette." They would make a mad scramble for them as we would toss them some of our American tailor-made "butts." The architecture of the buildings differed greatly from those we had seen in England, and this was noticed by many of us at the time of the first ten-minute rest period.
Continuing our hike for a distance of about five kilometers, we climbed a great hill that led to an English rest camp on its crest. Here we were to rest during the night and the next day. It was here that we got the first real surprise of the war.
This great camp was the clearing house for many different kinds of troops, who were assembled from the incoming boats, then reassorted and sent to their respective destinations, "Somewhere in France." In that barbed wire enclosure which held tight the boundries of the camp, we found soldiers from many different nations. Next to our camp were a contingent of Scotch soldiers from South Africa. In spite of their kilties and their brogue, they were more like Americans in their manner and way of thinking than any people I had ever met, or was ever to meet.
They told us of Johannesburg and Capetown, the southernmost tip of Africa. We, in turn, told them of the far off West of America, its great plains and mountains, and our fairyland of the Pacific Northwest, with its great wooded hills of spruce and fir trees. The time seemed all too short between us, as we saw them preparing to leave at noon the next day.
In a far off corner of the rest camp a group of English soldiers were gathered, and many of them were singing hymns in a low voice, while others were praying as though to themselves. Our own group of half-baked kids who thought we were men twice-grown, scoffed at them among ourselves. We little realized then what we were to do under like circumstances. That going home for "leave," then up into the lines again, month after month, year after year, was more than enough to make anyone pray for peace. Each time the older faces were fewer in number, each time the new faces filling the ranks were those of fresh troops like ours.
No wonder those older campaigners, who knew the full meaning of war, held that ceremony among themselves as they parted from their comrades for separate sections of the war front.
That night we moved from the rest camp and hiked down the long hill to the railroad. There we loaded on the French boxcars which were to carry us into the interior of France for further training before we continued on to the front lines.
These box-cars were strictly honies, marked Hommes Quarante Et Chevaux Heit, and about half the size of our boxcars at home. They were supposed to hold 40 men or 8 horses, and God knows how many soldiers. Hardly had we got the door closed, than with a short, sharp "toot ... toot," the train started moving.
Sleep was impossible. We did not have room to lie down, and there were from four to eight of us standing at all times. I thought to myself, "Isn't this a funny way for France to transport men who were going to fight to save their country?" By now my bubbling- over patriotism was starting to cool down a little. So far no reception committee had welcomed us to France. After a night and part of a day on the trains we landed at the village of La Guersh, tired, hungry, and pretty well fed up with our ride.
Unloading here, we got a chance to stretch our cramped arms and legs, then hiked a distance of ten kilometers to the small village of Grouserve, which was to be our headquarters. When the troops were halted outside the town, and we had received another good old army health lecture, the major then mentioned the fact that we were to go directly to our "billets."
With the word "billets," we immediately thought of sleeping in barns alongside of cows and horses, or in some chicken coop. This was the impression all of us had gathered from something or other we had read, or the "baloney" that had been fed to us at camps back home.
Imagine our surprise when we found that our "billets" were the attics of the French homes of the village, the same kind of homes that had proved so picturesque and interesting to us as we had journeyed across France. We entered our new quarters via ladders that led to the windows. Then the fun started.
Out came the French-English dictionaries which we had studied so arduously on our trip across the Atlantic, and a mob of hungry doughboys turned loose on a group of astounded French peasants, asking for "des eols . . . des eols . . . pomme de terre . . . and . . . du pan." Soon they understood what we meant, and as this was the first time they had seen American troops, they only too willingly supplied us from their own limited stock of food.
Our ration trucks had been delayed in reaching us. On arrival they quickly repaid the French peasants for their kindness, supplying them with things they bad so long gone without in their three years of war.
During our two week stay at this headquarters we were given an unusually hard workout, drilling 44 as skirmishers" over the muddy fields of the farms close by the village. All the while it had been raining continuously. By now we were becoming accustomed to these people, and they to us. So when an American aviator who had lost his bearings descended among us he received a royal reception from our troops, as well as from the villagers themselves. This broke up the tedium of training, and gave us something to talk about for a few days.
On the tenth day of our stay the first order came through for replacement troops to go to the front lines. About sixty of our company marched off for the first active duty that was later to come to all of us. We were a solemn-faced bunch of kids, though, when we saw them going. Once again was borne to us the fact that war, was not the picnic we had so long thought. Within a few days the balance of our company was to follow, as a replacement to a combat division in the front lines.
IN A FRENCH VILLAGE
ALL the way over to France we were lectured on how to behave ourselves with the ladies when we got off the boat. Of course we were only going to a war. So we might as well be polite about it. By the time we landed in France we were so darned scared that half of us wouldn't even look out of the corner of our eye at any of the French girls on the docks at Le Havre. That was only half of us. I can only speak for my side. In time that wore off, as the officers knew it would. Almost any time you found an American doughboy he would have a French girl cornered, talking to her. The army billeted us in little French f arming towns, where most all the Frogs had big manure piles in front of their houses (an indication of their wealth).
Most of the village belles were anything but petite. In f act, they were big and buxom, and strong as horses. We used to go to the river near the town, where we would loll around on the bridges watching the village belles spank the dirt out of the clothes with a short-handled wooden paddle. I'll bet some of these dames washed the same clothes over every day, for you were a cinch to find them there any time you passed by.
We started throwing Ivory soap to them, and their eyes were as big as saucers when they saw the first bar of it floating. They said in French that it was "magic soap," and they all started shouting for "Souvenir, Monsieur . . . Souvenir . . ." The doughboy that had the biggest supply of soap was king. By then we had run out of money, as we hadn't had a pay day yet, so more than one time a crap game was held, using soap or anything else that would pass for souvenirs, instead of money.
Between us teaching them some choice slang, and their talking back to us in French, our "Bridge Brigade" was beginning to learn to speak their language a bit. After a while the timidness left the soldiers, and as the French girls were seldom shy, it made both sides even. Then we were beginning to enjoy this thing called war.
Some romances were started there, eventually culminating in marriages, and the bringing of French brides home after the war. Mostly, the French girls were just about the same as our girls would be at home under like circumstances. A little flirtatious, a trifle romantic, and young enough to welcome anything that would break up the monotony of living in a village with a population of only a few hundred. Doing the same things over and over, day in and day out, and waiting, watching, and hoping to pick off a boyhood sweetheart who would march them up to the marriage block. There was hardly anything unusual or harmful in the mild flirtations that were taking place. After all, the American doughboys were not old men when they were sent to France. And the army can get just a little monotonous at times.
In the army we had a few farm boys, some city clerks, and others from practically every walk of life. Most of them were just big bashful kids. So when our company Beau Brummel, Joe O'Toole, (who had every French dame in the village eating out of his hand) talked, we listened with open cars and minds to the tales of his exploits and romantic campaigns among the fair sex.
Put yourself in our place for a minute. Home-sick kids three to six thousand miles from home, won. dering about home and "the girl they left behind" most of the time. We were all ears when Joe told us of his romantic campaign with "Wee . . . Wee . . . Marie! "
OUI... OUI ... MARIE!
One day in the rain, in quaint Cirfontaine,
I was walking down the street,
When I happened by chance, in a window to glance, and there sat a maid cute and sweet.
With big coy eyes, as blue as the skies, "entre soldat" . . . she bid,
Wet to the skin, I bravely walked in, sat down and took off me lid.
"Parley voo Francay?" was the best I could say, to that beautiful French girl there,
"Mon Dieu mon pet but vous are wet,"
"it even dreep from your 'air."
"Bonjour Monsieur, but you are a dear, so beeg . . . so strong . . . an' so gran' ,
Seet in theez chair, while I frire pomme-de-terre, make yourself home . . . onderstan'?"
So wet as a goat, I took off me coat, and hung it up close to the fire,
She peeled the spuds, while I dried me duds, as we listened to the French Crieur.
She gave me a drink, it was not from the sink, and her eyes laughed up into mine,
My clothes were half dry, and I don't know why, but somehow I was feeling just fine.
you know how you feel, when through a good meal, with wine and a woman there,
Our language was broken, so little was spoken,
but still we got on pretty fair.
it was "Monsieur ... please doan', I know you're tres bon', but no like I to hug and to squeeze,"
As I started to go, she said, "you will catch col', see . . . you're starting already to sneeze!"
"Mon brave soldat, stay right where you're at, an' I let you keeze my scheek,"
And was I sore, when I heard the front door, slowly open up with a squeak.
Then into the room, a big voice did boom, "Marie! . . . Come out here my dear;"
There stood the French Crieur, or I am a liar, she answered, "Bon pere . . . I hear."
"Oh pardoan me . . . your frien' I no see," and he closed the door with a bang,
She was giggling by then, so I kissed her again, while the tea kettle merrily sang.
She hugged me tight, so I told her goodnight, and she cried . . . "Mon pet . . . kiss-ka-dee?"
"It's a kiss from O'Toole," I said like a fool, 4'and it's one on the house and me."
The town clock boomed ten, and I left her then, as she hummed a sweet French refrain,
I marched right on, whistling "Sweet Madelon," and headed for home in the rain.
Well the rain came down, on that sleepy old town,/' but it made no difference to me,
For I'd learned that night, it is best to not fight, with "Mon dieu . . . mon pet . . . sweet Marie!"'
PETE LETS HIS RIFLE RUST
EVERYONE should know Pete. He was a real character. In spite of his harelip and hard-to-understand talk, he has had a wealth of experience and knows life.
I first met him at Camp Kearney, California. At the time I was a rookie assigned to the 40th Division. The camp was built on the red sands of Southern California, near San Diego. Each company was billeted in a group of small tents, with each tent holding a squad of eight men. The tents were set in street formation and the men were assigned to them in alphabetical order. All the men in our tent had the prefix "Me" to their name. So we nicknamed the tent, "The House of Macks."
Pete had his bunk next to mine. We took to one another like a couple of stray ducks out of sight of water. I could readily understand his harelip accent and acted as interpreter to the rest of the squad. Pete had done a hitch in the army in the Philippine Islands. He had hoboed all over the world. Done everything, from stoking coal on a tramp French steamer, living off cocoanuts down in a South Sea Isle, and stealing chickens in Dakota.
When he learned that I had spent a year and a half seeing America from the rods of a freight train and the decks and blinds of fast moving passenger trains, he cottoned to me and stuck like glue. We exchanged many a reminiscence about "side-door" pullmans, little or unknown "water tanks," and the famous or hardly known "jungle-camps" of the itinerant traveler. We had both met Sailor Jack (Jack London) and others famous for their hobo trade marks carved and painted on water tanks from one end of the U.S.A. to the other.
By the time we landed in France we were inseparable. Pete did most of his talking to me and I still acted as interpreter to the gang. We drew the same bunk assignment in the first town we stopped at in France. Our bunk room, or billet, had formerly been used to store hay in. It was large and weather proof, but always cold and damp because of the constant rain.
Moving an entire division of forty thousand men into any area is a big job-doubly so when you are thousands of miles from the base of supplies. Because of this our food supply was days behind us, forcing us to live on half rations. Under such circumstances men grow sulky, surly, and hard to manage, particularly so as they have too much time to think. To overcome this our major, who was a regular army man and experienced, kept us busy working.
The work consisted of hard military training. From early morning until the day's end he kept us busy doing "As Skirmishers." He was teaching us an invaluable war formation that later on no doubt saved many of our lives. The company would march out to the edge of town to one of the soggy wet fields. Then we would "fix bayonets," scatter out about ten to twenty feet apart and "charge" a supposed enemy. The trick was to advance a few feet, then drop quickly to the ground. Then charge forward and drop to the ground again. Repeat this for several hours over a muddy field, with a sweeping, cold rain drenching you to the skin, and on a half empty stomach, and you are fit to be tied.
At the end of the day, when we returned to our bunks, we were all in but our shoe-strings. Five times out of six we would be told to "clean and oil our muddy rifles" for inspection before chow.
On one such occasion, at the end of a particularly hard day, Pete, on hearing the order, looked at the corporal, then at me, his face full of deepest disgust. He picked up his rifle, slammed it across the room, and then turned to me and said:
"Meth, you know what I'm gonta do when thith war ith over?"
"No, Pete. What are you going to do?"
"When I get dithcharged at Bwooklin, I'm gonta take thith wifle with me. Then I'm gonta went me a woom, with a window!"
"What for, Pete?"
". . . a window that lookths out over a bwack yard. Then I'm gonta take thitb damn wifle and stick it in the corner of the fenth. If its wainin', then I'm gonta let it wain! If the thun's shinin' then I'm gonta spwinkle water on it."
"Why, Pete?"
"Nether mind why, Macth. Then I'm gonta go to my woom and thit by the window all day long ... and I'm gonta look at thith damn wifle and thay ... wust, you thun-of-a-gun, wust!"
He meant every word of it. But he never got the chance to make good his threat, as he was soon in the front lines. Some three weeks later we got news of his death. He had been shot down by a sniper while bringing in three German prisoners. He had captured them single-handed when taking a dangerous machine-gun nest.
WE ARRIVE IN FRANCE
As we disembarked from the transport on the long wharf at Le Havre, we found ourselves in the center of much feverish activity. A new sharpness gathered in the voices of the officers and non-comms, who gave us quick marching orders. With packs on our backs, we marched up the streets of Le Havre at a rapid pace, having little, if any, time to wonder about the newness of this strange land. The funny looking people looked upon us as an old and familiar sight, because many troops had landed here before.
The street urchins followed the troops along begging for "souvenir . . . cigarette . . . souvenir . . . cigarette." They would make a mad scramble for them as we would toss them some of our American tailor-made "butts." The architecture of the buildings differed greatly from those we had seen in England, and this was noticed by many of us at the time of the first ten-minute rest period.
Continuing our hike for a distance of about five kilometers, we climbed a great hill that led to an English rest camp on its crest. Here we were to rest during the night and the next day. It was here that we got the first real surprise of the war.
This great camp was the clearing house for many different kinds of troops, who were assembled from the incoming boats, then reassorted and sent to their respective destinations, "Somewhere in France." In that barbed wire enclosure which held tight the boundries of the camp, we found soldiers from many different nations. Next to our camp were a contingent of Scotch soldiers from South Africa. In spite of their kilties and their brogue, they were more like Americans in their manner and way of thinking than any people I had ever met, or was ever to meet.
They told us of Johannesburg and Capetown, the southernmost tip of Africa. We, in turn, told them of the far off West of America, its great plains and mountains, and our fairyland of the Pacific Northwest, with its great wooded hills of spruce and fir trees. The time seemed all too short between us, as we saw them preparing to leave at noon the next day.
In a far off corner of the rest camp a group of English soldiers were gathered, and many of them were singing hymns in a low voice, while others were praying as though to themselves. Our own group of half-baked kids who thought we were men twice-grown, scoffed at them among ourselves. We little realized then what we were to do under like circumstances. That going home for "leave," then up into the lines again, month after month, year after year, was more than enough to make anyone pray for peace. Each time the older faces were fewer in number, each time the new faces filling the ranks were those of fresh troops like ours.
No wonder those older campaigners, who knew the full meaning of war, held that ceremony among themselves as they parted from their comrades for separate sections of the war front.
That night we moved from the rest camp and hiked down the long hill to the railroad. There we loaded on the French boxcars which were to carry us into the interior of France for further training before we continued on to the front lines.
These box-cars were strictly honies, marked Hommes Quarante Et Chevaux Heit, and about half the size of our boxcars at home. They were supposed to hold 40 men or 8 horses, and God knows how many soldiers. Hardly had we got the door closed, than with a short, sharp "toot ... toot," the train started moving.
Sleep was impossible. We did not have room to lie down, and there were from four to eight of us standing at all times. I thought to myself, "Isn't this a funny way for France to transport men who were going to fight to save their country?" By now my bubbling- over patriotism was starting to cool down a little. So far no reception committee had welcomed us to France. After a night and part of a day on the trains we landed at the village of La Guersh, tired, hungry, and pretty well fed up with our ride.
Unloading here, we got a chance to stretch our cramped arms and legs, then hiked a distance of ten kilometers to the small village of Grouserve, which was to be our headquarters. When the troops were halted outside the town, and we had received another good old army health lecture, the major then mentioned the fact that we were to go directly to our "billets."
With the word "billets," we immediately thought of sleeping in barns alongside of cows and horses, or in some chicken coop. This was the impression all of us had gathered from something or other we had read, or the "baloney" that had been fed to us at camps back home.
Imagine our surprise when we found that our "billets" were the attics of the French homes of the village, the same kind of homes that had proved so picturesque and interesting to us as we had journeyed across France. We entered our new quarters via ladders that led to the windows. Then the fun started.
Out came the French-English dictionaries which we had studied so arduously on our trip across the Atlantic, and a mob of hungry doughboys turned loose on a group of astounded French peasants, asking for "des eols . . . des eols . . . pomme de terre . . . and . . . du pan." Soon they understood what we meant, and as this was the first time they had seen American troops, they only too willingly supplied us from their own limited stock of food.
Our ration trucks had been delayed in reaching us. On arrival they quickly repaid the French peasants for their kindness, supplying them with things they bad so long gone without in their three years of war.
During our two week stay at this headquarters we were given an unusually hard workout, drilling 44 as skirmishers" over the muddy fields of the farms close by the village. All the while it had been raining continuously. By now we were becoming accustomed to these people, and they to us. So when an American aviator who had lost his bearings descended among us he received a royal reception from our troops, as well as from the villagers themselves. This broke up the tedium of training, and gave us something to talk about for a few days.
On the tenth day of our stay the first order came through for replacement troops to go to the front lines. About sixty of our company marched off for the first active duty that was later to come to all of us. We were a solemn-faced bunch of kids, though, when we saw them going. Once again was borne to us the fact that war, was not the picnic we had so long thought. Within a few days the balance of our company was to follow, as a replacement to a combat division in the front lines.
IN A FRENCH VILLAGE
ALL the way over to France we were lectured on how to behave ourselves with the ladies when we got off the boat. Of course we were only going to a war. So we might as well be polite about it. By the time we landed in France we were so darned scared that half of us wouldn't even look out of the corner of our eye at any of the French girls on the docks at Le Havre. That was only half of us. I can only speak for my side. In time that wore off, as the officers knew it would. Almost any time you found an American doughboy he would have a French girl cornered, talking to her. The army billeted us in little French f arming towns, where most all the Frogs had big manure piles in front of their houses (an indication of their wealth).
Most of the village belles were anything but petite. In f act, they were big and buxom, and strong as horses. We used to go to the river near the town, where we would loll around on the bridges watching the village belles spank the dirt out of the clothes with a short-handled wooden paddle. I'll bet some of these dames washed the same clothes over every day, for you were a cinch to find them there any time you passed by.
We started throwing Ivory soap to them, and their eyes were as big as saucers when they saw the first bar of it floating. They said in French that it was "magic soap," and they all started shouting for "Souvenir, Monsieur . . . Souvenir . . ." The doughboy that had the biggest supply of soap was king. By then we had run out of money, as we hadn't had a pay day yet, so more than one time a crap game was held, using soap or anything else that would pass for souvenirs, instead of money.
Between us teaching them some choice slang, and their talking back to us in French, our "Bridge Brigade" was beginning to learn to speak their language a bit. After a while the timidness left the soldiers, and as the French girls were seldom shy, it made both sides even. Then we were beginning to enjoy this thing called war.
Some romances were started there, eventually culminating in marriages, and the bringing of French brides home after the war. Mostly, the French girls were just about the same as our girls would be at home under like circumstances. A little flirtatious, a trifle romantic, and young enough to welcome anything that would break up the monotony of living in a village with a population of only a few hundred. Doing the same things over and over, day in and day out, and waiting, watching, and hoping to pick off a boyhood sweetheart who would march them up to the marriage block. There was hardly anything unusual or harmful in the mild flirtations that were taking place. After all, the American doughboys were not old men when they were sent to France. And the army can get just a little monotonous at times.
In the army we had a few farm boys, some city clerks, and others from practically every walk of life. Most of them were just big bashful kids. So when our company Beau Brummel, Joe O'Toole, (who had every French dame in the village eating out of his hand) talked, we listened with open cars and minds to the tales of his exploits and romantic campaigns among the fair sex.
Put yourself in our place for a minute. Home-sick kids three to six thousand miles from home, won. dering about home and "the girl they left behind" most of the time. We were all ears when Joe told us of his romantic campaign with "Wee . . . Wee . . . Marie! "
OUI... OUI ... MARIE!
One day in the rain, in quaint Cirfontaine,
I was walking down the street,
When I happened by chance, in a window to glance, and there sat a maid cute and sweet.
With big coy eyes, as blue as the skies, "entre soldat" . . . she bid,
Wet to the skin, I bravely walked in, sat down and took off me lid.
"Parley voo Francay?" was the best I could say, to that beautiful French girl there,
"Mon Dieu mon pet but vous are wet,"
"it even dreep from your 'air."
"Bonjour Monsieur, but you are a dear, so beeg . . . so strong . . . an' so gran' ,
Seet in theez chair, while I frire pomme-de-terre, make yourself home . . . onderstan'?"
So wet as a goat, I took off me coat, and hung it up close to the fire,
She peeled the spuds, while I dried me duds, as we listened to the French Crieur.
She gave me a drink, it was not from the sink, and her eyes laughed up into mine,
My clothes were half dry, and I don't know why, but somehow I was feeling just fine.
you know how you feel, when through a good meal, with wine and a woman there,
Our language was broken, so little was spoken,
but still we got on pretty fair.
it was "Monsieur ... please doan', I know you're tres bon', but no like I to hug and to squeeze,"
As I started to go, she said, "you will catch col', see . . . you're starting already to sneeze!"
"Mon brave soldat, stay right where you're at, an' I let you keeze my scheek,"
And was I sore, when I heard the front door, slowly open up with a squeak.
Then into the room, a big voice did boom, "Marie! . . . Come out here my dear;"
There stood the French Crieur, or I am a liar, she answered, "Bon pere . . . I hear."
"Oh pardoan me . . . your frien' I no see," and he closed the door with a bang,
She was giggling by then, so I kissed her again, while the tea kettle merrily sang.
She hugged me tight, so I told her goodnight, and she cried . . . "Mon pet . . . kiss-ka-dee?"
"It's a kiss from O'Toole," I said like a fool, 4'and it's one on the house and me."
The town clock boomed ten, and I left her then, as she hummed a sweet French refrain,
I marched right on, whistling "Sweet Madelon," and headed for home in the rain.
Well the rain came down, on that sleepy old town,/' but it made no difference to me,
For I'd learned that night, it is best to not fight, with "Mon dieu . . . mon pet . . . sweet Marie!"'
PETE LETS HIS RIFLE RUST
EVERYONE should know Pete. He was a real character. In spite of his harelip and hard-to-understand talk, he has had a wealth of experience and knows life.
I first met him at Camp Kearney, California. At the time I was a rookie assigned to the 40th Division. The camp was built on the red sands of Southern California, near San Diego. Each company was billeted in a group of small tents, with each tent holding a squad of eight men. The tents were set in street formation and the men were assigned to them in alphabetical order. All the men in our tent had the prefix "Me" to their name. So we nicknamed the tent, "The House of Macks."
Pete had his bunk next to mine. We took to one another like a couple of stray ducks out of sight of water. I could readily understand his harelip accent and acted as interpreter to the rest of the squad. Pete had done a hitch in the army in the Philippine Islands. He had hoboed all over the world. Done everything, from stoking coal on a tramp French steamer, living off cocoanuts down in a South Sea Isle, and stealing chickens in Dakota.
When he learned that I had spent a year and a half seeing America from the rods of a freight train and the decks and blinds of fast moving passenger trains, he cottoned to me and stuck like glue. We exchanged many a reminiscence about "side-door" pullmans, little or unknown "water tanks," and the famous or hardly known "jungle-camps" of the itinerant traveler. We had both met Sailor Jack (Jack London) and others famous for their hobo trade marks carved and painted on water tanks from one end of the U.S.A. to the other.
By the time we landed in France we were inseparable. Pete did most of his talking to me and I still acted as interpreter to the gang. We drew the same bunk assignment in the first town we stopped at in France. Our bunk room, or billet, had formerly been used to store hay in. It was large and weather proof, but always cold and damp because of the constant rain.
Moving an entire division of forty thousand men into any area is a big job-doubly so when you are thousands of miles from the base of supplies. Because of this our food supply was days behind us, forcing us to live on half rations. Under such circumstances men grow sulky, surly, and hard to manage, particularly so as they have too much time to think. To overcome this our major, who was a regular army man and experienced, kept us busy working.
The work consisted of hard military training. From early morning until the day's end he kept us busy doing "As Skirmishers." He was teaching us an invaluable war formation that later on no doubt saved many of our lives. The company would march out to the edge of town to one of the soggy wet fields. Then we would "fix bayonets," scatter out about ten to twenty feet apart and "charge" a supposed enemy. The trick was to advance a few feet, then drop quickly to the ground. Then charge forward and drop to the ground again. Repeat this for several hours over a muddy field, with a sweeping, cold rain drenching you to the skin, and on a half empty stomach, and you are fit to be tied.
At the end of the day, when we returned to our bunks, we were all in but our shoe-strings. Five times out of six we would be told to "clean and oil our muddy rifles" for inspection before chow.
On one such occasion, at the end of a particularly hard day, Pete, on hearing the order, looked at the corporal, then at me, his face full of deepest disgust. He picked up his rifle, slammed it across the room, and then turned to me and said:
"Meth, you know what I'm gonta do when thith war ith over?"
"No, Pete. What are you going to do?"
"When I get dithcharged at Bwooklin, I'm gonta take thith wifle with me. Then I'm gonta went me a woom, with a window!"
"What for, Pete?"
". . . a window that lookths out over a bwack yard. Then I'm gonta take thitb damn wifle and stick it in the corner of the fenth. If its wainin', then I'm gonta let it wain! If the thun's shinin' then I'm gonta spwinkle water on it."
"Why, Pete?"
"Nether mind why, Macth. Then I'm gonta go to my woom and thit by the window all day long ... and I'm gonta look at thith damn wifle and thay ... wust, you thun-of-a-gun, wust!"
He meant every word of it. But he never got the chance to make good his threat, as he was soon in the front lines. Some three weeks later we got news of his death. He had been shot down by a sniper while bringing in three German prisoners. He had captured them single-handed when taking a dangerous machine-gun nest.
WE ARRIVE IN FRANCE
As we disembarked from the transport on the long wharf at Le Havre, we found ourselves in the center of much feverish activity. A new sharpness gathered in the voices of the officers and non-comms, who gave us quick marching orders. With packs on our backs, we marched up the streets of Le Havre at a rapid pace, having little, if any, time to wonder about the newness of this strange land. The funny looking people looked upon us as an old and familiar sight, because many troops had landed here before.
The street urchins followed the troops along begging for "souvenir . . . cigarette . . . souvenir . . . cigarette." They would make a mad scramble for them as we would toss them some of our American tailor-made "butts." The architecture of the buildings differed greatly from those we had seen in England, and this was noticed by many of us at the time of the first ten-minute rest period.
Continuing our hike for a distance of about five kilometers, we climbed a great hill that led to an English rest camp on its crest. Here we were to rest during the night and the next day. It was here that we got the first real surprise of the war.
This great camp was the clearing house for many different kinds of troops, who were assembled from the incoming boats, then reassorted and sent to their respective destinations, "Somewhere in France." In that barbed wire enclosure which held tight the boundries of the camp, we found soldiers from many different nations. Next to our camp were a contingent of Scotch soldiers from South Africa. In spite of their kilties and their brogue, they were more like Americans in their manner and way of thinking than any people I had ever met, or was ever to meet.
They told us of Johannesburg and Capetown, the southernmost tip of Africa. We, in turn, told them of the far off West of America, its great plains and mountains, and our fairyland of the Pacific Northwest, with its great wooded hills of spruce and fir trees. The time seemed all too short between us, as we saw them preparing to leave at noon the next day.
In a far off corner of the rest camp a group of English soldiers were gathered, and many of them were singing hymns in a low voice, while others were praying as though to themselves. Our own group of half-baked kids who thought we were men twice-grown, scoffed at them among ourselves. We little realized then what we were to do under like circumstances. That going home for "leave," then up into the lines again, month after month, year after year, was more than enough to make anyone pray for peace. Each time the older faces were fewer in number, each time the new faces filling the ranks were those of fresh troops like ours.
No wonder those older campaigners, who knew the full meaning of war, held that ceremony among themselves as they parted from their comrades for separate sections of the war front.
That night we moved from the rest camp and hiked down the long hill to the railroad. There we loaded on the French boxcars which were to carry us into the interior of France for further training before we continued on to the front lines.
These box-cars were strictly honies, marked Hommes Quarante Et Chevaux Heit, and about half the size of our boxcars at home. They were supposed to hold 40 men or 8 horses, and God knows how many soldiers. Hardly had we got the door closed, than with a short, sharp "toot ... toot," the train started moving.
Sleep was impossible. We did not have room to lie down, and there were from four to eight of us standing at all times. I thought to myself, "Isn't this a funny way for France to transport men who were going to fight to save their country?" By now my bubbling- over patriotism was starting to cool down a little. So far no reception committee had welcomed us to France. After a night and part of a day on the trains we landed at the village of La Guersh, tired, hungry, and pretty well fed up with our ride.
Unloading here, we got a chance to stretch our cramped arms and legs, then hiked a distance of ten kilometers to the small village of Grouserve, which was to be our headquarters. When the troops were halted outside the town, and we had received another good old army health lecture, the major then mentioned the fact that we were to go directly to our "billets."
With the word "billets," we immediately thought of sleeping in barns alongside of cows and horses, or in some chicken coop. This was the impression all of us had gathered from something or other we had read, or the "baloney" that had been fed to us at camps back home.
Imagine our surprise when we found that our "billets" were the attics of the French homes of the village, the same kind of homes that had proved so picturesque and interesting to us as we had journeyed across France. We entered our new quarters via ladders that led to the windows. Then the fun started.
Out came the French-English dictionaries which we had studied so arduously on our trip across the Atlantic, and a mob of hungry doughboys turned loose on a group of astounded French peasants, asking for "des eols . . . des eols . . . pomme de terre . . . and . . . du pan." Soon they understood what we meant, and as this was the first time they had seen American troops, they only too willingly supplied us from their own limited stock of food.
Our ration trucks had been delayed in reaching us. On arrival they quickly repaid the French peasants for their kindness, supplying them with things they bad so long gone without in their three years of war.
During our two week stay at this headquarters we were given an unusually hard workout, drilling 44 as skirmishers" over the muddy fields of the farms close by the village. All the while it had been raining continuously. By now we were becoming accustomed to these people, and they to us. So when an American aviator who had lost his bearings descended among us he received a royal reception from our troops, as well as from the villagers themselves. This broke up the tedium of training, and gave us something to talk about for a few days.
On the tenth day of our stay the first order came through for replacement troops to go to the front lines. About sixty of our company marched off for the first active duty that was later to come to all of us. We were a solemn-faced bunch of kids, though, when we saw them going. Once again was borne to us the fact that war, was not the picnic we had so long thought. Within a few days the balance of our company was to follow, as a replacement to a combat division in the front lines.
IN A FRENCH VILLAGE
ALL the way over to France we were lectured on how to behave ourselves with the ladies when we got off the boat. Of course we were only going to a war. So we might as well be polite about it. By the time we landed in France we were so darned scared that half of us wouldn't even look out of the corner of our eye at any of the French girls on the docks at Le Havre. That was only half of us. I can only speak for my side. In time that wore off, as the officers knew it would. Almost any time you found an American doughboy he would have a French girl cornered, talking to her. The army billeted us in little French f arming towns, where most all the Frogs had big manure piles in front of their houses (an indication of their wealth).
Most of the village belles were anything but petite. In f act, they were big and buxom, and strong as horses. We used to go to the river near the town, where we would loll around on the bridges watching the village belles spank the dirt out of the clothes with a short-handled wooden paddle. I'll bet some of these dames washed the same clothes over every day, for you were a cinch to find them there any time you passed by.
We started throwing Ivory soap to them, and their eyes were as big as saucers when they saw the first bar of it floating. They said in French that it was "magic soap," and they all started shouting for "Souvenir, Monsieur . . . Souvenir . . ." The doughboy that had the biggest supply of soap was king. By then we had run out of money, as we hadn't had a pay day yet, so more than one time a crap game was held, using soap or anything else that would pass for souvenirs, instead of money.
Between us teaching them some choice slang, and their talking back to us in French, our "Bridge Brigade" was beginning to learn to speak their language a bit. After a while the timidness left the soldiers, and as the French girls were seldom shy, it made both sides even. Then we were beginning to enjoy this thing called war.
Some romances were started there, eventually culminating in marriages, and the bringing of French brides home after the war. Mostly, the French girls were just about the same as our girls would be at home under like circumstances. A little flirtatious, a trifle romantic, and young enough to welcome anything that would break up the monotony of living in a village with a population of only a few hundred. Doing the same things over and over, day in and day out, and waiting, watching, and hoping to pick off a boyhood sweetheart who would march them up to the marriage block. There was hardly anything unusual or harmful in the mild flirtations that were taking place. After all, the American doughboys were not old men when they were sent to France. And the army can get just a little monotonous at times.
In the army we had a few farm boys, some city clerks, and others from practically every walk of life. Most of them were just big bashful kids. So when our company Beau Brummel, Joe O'Toole, (who had every French dame in the village eating out of his hand) talked, we listened with open cars and minds to the tales of his exploits and romantic campaigns among the fair sex.
Put yourself in our place for a minute. Home-sick kids three to six thousand miles from home, won. dering about home and "the girl they left behind" most of the time. We were all ears when Joe told us of his romantic campaign with "Wee . . . Wee . . . Marie! "
OUI... OUI ... MARIE!
One day in the rain, in quaint Cirfontaine,
I was walking down the street,
When I happened by chance, in a window to glance, and there sat a maid cute and sweet.
With big coy eyes, as blue as the skies, "entre soldat" . . . she bid,
Wet to the skin, I bravely walked in, sat down and took off me lid.
"Parley voo Francay?" was the best I could say, to that beautiful French girl there,
"Mon Dieu mon pet but vous are wet,"
"it even dreep from your 'air."
"Bonjour Monsieur, but you are a dear, so beeg . . . so strong . . . an' so gran' ,
Seet in theez chair, while I frire pomme-de-terre, make yourself home . . . onderstan'?"
So wet as a goat, I took off me coat, and hung it up close to the fire,
She peeled the spuds, while I dried me duds, as we listened to the French Crieur.
She gave me a drink, it was not from the sink, and her eyes laughed up into mine,
My clothes were half dry, and I don't know why, but somehow I was feeling just fine.
you know how you feel, when through a good meal, with wine and a woman there,
Our language was broken, so little was spoken,
but still we got on pretty fair.
it was "Monsieur ... please doan', I know you're tres bon', but no like I to hug and to squeeze,"
As I started to go, she said, "you will catch col', see . . . you're starting already to sneeze!"
"Mon brave soldat, stay right where you're at, an' I let you keeze my scheek,"
And was I sore, when I heard the front door, slowly open up with a squeak.
Then into the room, a big voice did boom, "Marie! . . . Come out here my dear;"
There stood the French Crieur, or I am a liar, she answered, "Bon pere . . . I hear."
"Oh pardoan me . . . your frien' I no see," and he closed the door with a bang,
She was giggling by then, so I kissed her again, while the tea kettle merrily sang.
She hugged me tight, so I told her goodnight, and she cried . . . "Mon pet . . . kiss-ka-dee?"
"It's a kiss from O'Toole," I said like a fool, 4'and it's one on the house and me."
The town clock boomed ten, and I left her then, as she hummed a sweet French refrain,
I marched right on, whistling "Sweet Madelon," and headed for home in the rain.
Well the rain came down, on that sleepy old town,/' but it made no difference to me,
For I'd learned that night, it is best to not fight, with "Mon dieu . . . mon pet . . . sweet Marie!"'
PETE LETS HIS RIFLE RUST
EVERYONE should know Pete. He was a real character. In spite of his harelip and hard-to-understand talk, he has had a wealth of experience and knows life.
I first met him at Camp Kearney, California. At the time I was a rookie assigned to the 40th Division. The camp was built on the red sands of Southern California, near San Diego. Each company was billeted in a group of small tents, with each tent holding a squad of eight men. The tents were set in street formation and the men were assigned to them in alphabetical order. All the men in our tent had the prefix "Me" to their name. So we nicknamed the tent, "The House of Macks."
Pete had his bunk next to mine. We took to one another like a couple of stray ducks out of sight of water. I could readily understand his harelip accent and acted as interpreter to the rest of the squad. Pete had done a hitch in the army in the Philippine Islands. He had hoboed all over the world. Done everything, from stoking coal on a tramp French steamer, living off cocoanuts down in a South Sea Isle, and stealing chickens in Dakota.
When he learned that I had spent a year and a half seeing America from the rods of a freight train and the decks and blinds of fast moving passenger trains, he cottoned to me and stuck like glue. We exchanged many a reminiscence about "side-door" pullmans, little or unknown "water tanks," and the famous or hardly known "jungle-camps" of the itinerant traveler. We had both met Sailor Jack (Jack London) and others famous for their hobo trade marks carved and painted on water tanks from one end of the U.S.A. to the other.
By the time we landed in France we were inseparable. Pete did most of his talking to me and I still acted as interpreter to the gang. We drew the same bunk assignment in the first town we stopped at in France. Our bunk room, or billet, had formerly been used to store hay in. It was large and weather proof, but always cold and damp because of the constant rain.
Moving an entire division of forty thousand men into any area is a big job-doubly so when you are thousands of miles from the base of supplies. Because of this our food supply was days behind us, forcing us to live on half rations. Under such circumstances men grow sulky, surly, and hard to manage, particularly so as they have too much time to think. To overcome this our major, who was a regular army man and experienced, kept us busy working.
The work consisted of hard military training. From early morning until the day's end he kept us busy doing "As Skirmishers." He was teaching us an invaluable war formation that later on no doubt saved many of our lives. The company would march out to the edge of town to one of the soggy wet fields. Then we would "fix bayonets," scatter out about ten to twenty feet apart and "charge" a supposed enemy. The trick was to advance a few feet, then drop quickly to the ground. Then charge forward and drop to the ground again. Repeat this for several hours over a muddy field, with a sweeping, cold rain drenching you to the skin, and on a half empty stomach, and you are fit to be tied.
At the end of the day, when we returned to our bunks, we were all in but our shoe-strings. Five times out of six we would be told to "clean and oil our muddy rifles" for inspection before chow.
On one such occasion, at the end of a particularly hard day, Pete, on hearing the order, looked at the corporal, then at me, his face full of deepest disgust. He picked up his rifle, slammed it across the room, and then turned to me and said:
"Meth, you know what I'm gonta do when thith war ith over?"
"No, Pete. What are you going to do?"
"When I get dithcharged at Bwooklin, I'm gonta take thith wifle with me. Then I'm gonta went me a woom, with a window!"
"What for, Pete?"
". . . a window that lookths out over a bwack yard. Then I'm gonta take thitb damn wifle and stick it in the corner of the fenth. If its wainin', then I'm gonta let it wain! If the thun's shinin' then I'm gonta spwinkle water on it."
"Why, Pete?"
"Nether mind why, Macth. Then I'm gonta go to my woom and thit by the window all day long ... and I'm gonta look at thith damn wifle and thay ... wust, you thun-of-a-gun, wust!"
He meant every word of it. But he never got the chance to make good his threat, as he was soon in the front lines. Some three weeks later we got news of his death. He had been shot down by a sniper while bringing in three German prisoners. He had captured them single-handed when taking a dangerous machine-gun nest.
SUNNY FRANCE
Ever since I landed here, Things have looked so dull and drear, Wonder if this war's in vain, Wonder why there's so much rain?
My face and hands are badly peeled, Drilling in a sodden field, My body aches from chills and pains, Still it rains and rains and rains.
Tomorrow we'll be on our way, To the front I hear them say, Tonight they load us on the trains, Wonder why it always rains?
The guy who wrote of "Sunny France," Must have been in an awful trance, If that old sun would just break through, Perhaps I wouldn't feel so blue.
Clouds a-scooting overhead, I've hiked and hiked 'till I'm damn near dead, I am wet and cold clear to the skin, Wonder when we're "Going In?"
Earth seems all a-quiver with fright, Gosh, I'd like to be home tonight, Never thought I would be "Over Here," Lord . . . but rain makes a fellow feel queer.
Have been in the lines now thirty days, Know that I am changed in plenty of ways, Now I know why I had that training, Wonder if it ever will stop raining?
We were relieved from the lines last night, Gee . . . but this beard of mine is a fright, Must have hiked a thousand kilos or more, Damn this rain ... it's making me sore.
I've been soaking wet since early fall, Now in November I'm getting it all, Now that old Heinie is on the run, I wonder if this rain is raining for fun?
The gang is not talking much today, What they are thinking none can say, We just got the news . . . "The war is done," That must be right! Because there's the sun!
WE GO INTO THE LINES
AT last we were ready to "go over the top." Endless months of drill were at an end. Here in the heart of the Argonne Forest, completely hidden from ever searching enemy planes, we prepared for the grim business of war.
The dull "boom-boom" of heavy artillery had kept us awake through the night. The screeching shells overhead brought us full realization that at last we were on the ground of the fight.
As each shell exploded far to our rear, I felt little tremors and chills running up and down my spine. A feeling of unrest came over me. Was it fear? We had not been there long enough to know.
It was a serious group of youngsters who peered at one another through the haze of early morning. Gone were the merry making and quips of bravado. Instead, we spoke low-voiced, then silently went about gathering together our equipment preparatory to going
into the trenches.
Throughout the night it had rained steadily. We were damp and chilled to the bone. No warming fires were made. Soon the sun came up. We ventured into small patches of cleared land to absorb the warmth of its rays.
Suddenly we heard the faint double-whirred sound of an enemy plane overhead. The bugler quickly sounded "alarm." We beat a hasty retreat to the protection of the dense underbrush and trees of the forest.
Our officers were grim-lipped and nervous. In hushed voices they told us to "keep under cover." The sharp, staccato note of our anti-aircraft gun was a com-forting sound to our apprehensive ears.
An old timer, who had been through several campaigns, said, "Dat's nuttin' buddy. Wait 'til yuz gets a load dumped on yuh." He spoke the jargon of New York's East Side, but even the dumbest recruit among us knew what he meant.
Night has come again. The rain has stopped. Through the drifting clouds overhead the moon shows through in pale white streaks. We wait expectantly in the forest. We are all quiet with our own thoughts. The order comes to move up to our position. We start for the "lines."
GOING IN
On a moonlit turnpike with comrades I hiked, On my way up to No-Man's-Land, While artillerymen rode a-top of their load, Our heels kicked up the sand.
The squeak of the packs on our weary backs, Kept time to the clanking of steel, While helmets gleamed in an endless stream We marched through Iss-sur-Tille.
French troops on our right, kept pace through the night, While the moon looked pale and sad, It seemed a mission of madmen and fools, With all of the world gone mad.
When our shadows would fall on forested wall, A ghostly specter they'd make, Our hopes dangled there, like a half-uttered prayer, As we marched along toward our wake.
We felt all a-chill as topping a hill, We saw in the valley below, Where the enemy lay in wait of his prey, Then the "gods of war" let go.
Men moaned in pain, but shrieked in vain, The air was a blanket of lead, Through that hell roaring din, our souls shrunk within, As death took the toll from our dead.
We would have given our soul to get out of that hole But the devil was calling the air, In this grim rigadoon we danced to his tune On the war fields of France over there.
The fight kept on til come the bleak -dawn, Then we started to bury our dead, Who taught us to kill . . . surely it wasn't God's will, Some dictator blundered instead.
JUST BEFORE THE JUMP OFF
AFTER leaving the safety of our lines and the protection of the forest we marched steadily forward to the front. Everywhere was evidence of a vast movement to the front. The road we traveled was crowded with light artillery which rumbled along toward the front and half the time we found ourselves crowded off the road to make way for them, while we marched in single file. It seemed as though we had marched through half the night before we came to the ruins of a village that had once been La Harazee.
Here we entered the Ravine D'Argonne, the heart of the forest of the Argonne. We met the French troops who had held this position for four years and they came out of the trenches in single file as our men passed in. They would shake their heads and say something in French. Our interpreter told us they said that the Argonne could not be taken, that the French had tried it in the early part of the war and lost thousands of men. Nice encouragement for us who were about to make our first attack.
All along the line of march, we had been heavily loaded down with bandoliers containing ammunition. Some of us had as many as four of them slung over our shoulders and many were carrying two and three musette bags, containing the different kinds of hand grenades. These delicate and destructive hand shells were dangerous to carry as they were time bombs, requiring only the release of a small metal pin from the top of the bomb to cause its explosion.
So as we walked steadily forward in the old trench which we had taken over from the French, the possibility of premature explosions of the bombs in the musette bags was a source of real fear to all of us. By now we had seen far in front of us the dull red horizon that was caused by artillery bombardment, and we had been hearing the whistling of large shells as they passed overhead ever since we took over the trench.
At first we were jittery and nervous, but as time passed and we pushed forward toward our objective this wore off and we got so that we even lost fear of the musette bags and their contents.
Possibly an hour had passed since we started our slow trip when a short ways ahead of us there was the sound of a loud explosion and the flash of exploding shells. We thought that we had been fired on by the enemy and one of their shells had landed squarely in the trench. As we heard the moaning of wounded we cautiously went to them, fearing that other shells would soon land among us. We need not have feared that then. What had taken place was a premature explosion of the hand grenades that we had feared earlier in the night. There were several men badly wounded and one or two dead. As near as anyone could figure the musette bag had bumped into a rocky turn in the trench, releasing one bomb that in turn caused a general explosion of all the bombs in the bag.
Calls were sent out for stretcher bearers and as they came up, another man and I were assigned to load one of the wounded soldiers on the stretcher and carry him back to La Harazee. All the while the poor devil was moaning for someone to put him out of his misery. The sergeant told us to hurry because the man was losing blood rapidly. We would have hurried anyway for by now fear was taking hold of us as we had for the first time seen the dead and wounded of war. All the way back to La Harazee the poor devil on the stretcher begged us to shoot him. In the darkness we did not recognize him and I did not learn until after the Armistice that he was one of our original squad from Camp Lewis.
Finally we reached headquarters at La Harazee where we turned over our heavy burden to the doctor in charge of the first aid station there. While there we were questioned about the accident by officers at headquarters, but there was little we could tell. Our arms and backs ached from the strain of the heavy load and we were wet with sweat from the effect of the hurried trip. After a short rest we started back up the trench and now we found what a lonesome trip it could be. Going up before had not been so bad as we had been with the gang, but now with just the two of us, we felt the full force of loneliness and hurried forward as fast as possible to overtake our companions.
A short distance from where the accident had happened, we were met by a runner stationed there who told us to follow him. Within a few minutes we found ourselves being led down the clay steps of a dugout deep under the surface. There in the dim-lit candlelight we found our platoon resting, waiting for orders that would take them over the top in the early morning.
Gathered in the dugout were both recruit and veteran. Most of the recruits were just bewildered kids who were now beginning to realize what they were in for. The effects of the accident were still visible among them for their faces had a wax-white appearance in the flickering candle light. The veterans whom we had joined were hardened to death and apparently paid little if any attention to what had happened.
Under the running stream of bantering talk which the veterans kept rolling we could sense deeper meanings to the words than appeared on the surface. Most of the veterans were New Yorkers and had been through a campaign on the Aisne River that had badly depleted their numbers. Our division of Westerners now made up the forty per cent of the 77th Division who had either been killed or were now in the hospitals.
In spite of the fear I held of what lay ahead, I began to take an interest in following the talk and in watching the reactions of different men. I felt that the whole purpose of it was to keep up the morale of the green troops gathered there. The greatest kidder of the lot was a hard-boiled Irish-American corporal named Gallagher and he was sounding off about what a picnic the Argonne would be after what they had gone through in the Aisne sector. According to him we were lucky to be here instead of there. Then he would tell impossible tales of what bad taken place and make them so fantastic everyone there knew he was ribbing us.
A swarthy faced Jewish boy who was a sergeant, kept trying to stop Gallagher and there was some amusing conversation between the two in rich Irish brogue and Jewish dialect. It broke the tension of the men gathered there and seemed to be what Gallagher was aiming at for he ended his long discourse by saying, "You see fellows, war is as simple as that."
A young boy still in his teens looked at Gallagher and said "No, it isn't as simple as that, Gallagher."
"What do you mean by that?" said Gallagher.
"Oh, I don't know exactly," replied the boy. "I wonder why there has to be wars."
"There'll always be wars for suckers like you and me," replied Gallagher.
"But why, Gallagher, why? When I was in high school, just before I joined the army, I was the honor student in my history class. I thought I knew all about war just from reading it. Now I f eel like all I ever read in any of the pages was the romance of the soldier and particularly the American soldier. All their heroic deeds. But since what happened tonight . . . I never realized what it must have been like until I saw those men die."
"That's nothin' kid, forget it. Say but you said something about history. I never went none to school but since I been in this war racket here, I often wondered how many times we Americans was at war? Maybe you know, huh kid?" He motioned the rest of us to keep quiet and stay out of the talk.
The high school lad's interest was aroused as he replied, "Well, I never thought it out before . . . let me see . . . Outside of the Indian fighting, our first war was for Independence in our war with England in 1776." Gallagher broke in, "How long did that last kid?" "Oh, about eight years," said the kid, "and then we had the war of 1812 with the English . . ." "Gee," interrupted Gallagher, "just like that . . . out of one war and into another. When was the next one kid?"
By now the boy had forgotten his recent fear of death and was showing great interest in his discussion as he was turning over in his mind the chronological arrangements of events. Gallagher too was thoroughly interested in the information he was receiving. The rest of the gang in the dugout had began to draw around the two in a semi-circle and were all ears as the boy continued.
"Then there was the Mexican war and the battle of the Alamo in Texas in 1842, and the civil war in 1864 between the North and the South and that lasted for four years . - . until 1868."
Gallagher broke in again. "Yeah I remember that war. I always heard me old man talking about how his father got killed on the last day of that war . . ."
"Gee," said the Jewish sergeant, "but dat wuz tough, Gallagher."
"Yeah," said Gallagher, "but go on, kid, tell us some more.-
"Well, there isn't much more to tell," answered the kid. "After that came the Spanish-American war, when our country fought Spain to free the Cubans and the Phillipines, then came this world war that we are in now."
"You tell 'em" said the sergeant, "the vun ve vere sucked into."
Just then the lieutenant in charge of our platoon broke in and said, "Come on fellows, break it up and get some sleep. You're going to need it and there are only a few hours left to get it."
The men went back to their places in the dugout and the candles were blown out one by one, but not before one lad over in the deep comer of the dugout had broken out in a series of chuckles. The lieutenant went over to him, quieted him down and asked what was so funny. The lad finally said, "I was thinking of something I read in a letter I got from my uncle just before we started up here."
"What was that," said the lieutenant.
"Oh nothing except what war does to everyone. It was a letter from a deeply religious uncle of mine. He wrote me that he knew I would come through all right, to have faith in God, and that I should give those damn Germans hell. Now there is a complicity of emotions for you, lieutenant . . . God . . . Hell….War and love all in one line."
The last candle was extinguished and most of us lay there wide awake staring into the darkness of the dugout, nervously waiting for zero hour of five a.m., when we were to jump off and go over the top.
OUR FIRST BATTLE
THROUGHOUT the night as we lay in the dugout our artillery had been hammering at the enemy line to make as great a wedge as possible for the advance which was to follow. Long before dawn we crawled out of the dugout and advanced a considerable distance in the trenches before we were ordered to halt.
The early morning chill bit into the very marrow of our bones and the heavy morning mist was as thick as a San Francisco fog. We could see but a few feet ahead of us. We scattered out in formation along the trench and waited there with fixed bayonets. Whenever possible a green recruit was teamed up with a seasoned veteran. When we spoke at all it was in whispers, which was pointless because our heavy guns were now beating out a roaring barrage. Finally the sergeant said "Get ready fellows, we're about to go over." The order was given and we scrambled up over the top of the trenches.
As we reached the ground above we fully expected to be met by enemy fire. We followed the veteran alongside of us and did as he did. He advanced cautiously in a half crouched position. The mist which hung low to the ground protected our movement but could also have been our doom, were we to come suddenly against enemy opposition. Nothing happened, though, and we advanced considerably before we halted and spread out over the cold wet ground.
The sergeant in command had sent runners back to bring up our supporting position to form a second line behind ours. A runner finally put in an appearance and told the sergeant be could not find the sup-porting company, that he had lost his bearings in the thick fog and bad been fortunate to find his way back to his command. The sergeant let loose with a barrage of choice curse words and wanted to know if there was anybody in the blankity blank outfit that could go two feet without getting lost. I told him that I thought I could follow any ground that two hundred men had just passed over. "Okay," said the sergeant, "if you're so damn smart go to it." He gave me a written order to be delivered to the captain of our supporting line.
I started out alone, and had no trouble following the ground we had just come over. But before I had gone far we began to receive a counter-barrage from the Germans. Bewildered at first and badly afraid, I took shelter in one of the many old shell holes in the land I was crossing.
After laying there for a few minutes I noticed that the firing was intermittent and that there were few shells landing anywhere near me. Ahead I could hear the steady firing of American rifles and knew that our gang was in action. That steadied me for some reason and my first case of goose pimples began to disappear and I ventured forth again, intent on showing the sergeant that the message could be delivered. His caustic comments had got under my skin and I kept tracing the trail of our recent footsteps and went steadily toward where we had just jumped off.
I was surprised that we had advanced so far in such a short time, but finally I reached the trench where we had waited for our first zero hour. Not finding our supporting company there I continued on for a short distance to the rear, finding no trace of them there. I moved over to the left and swung back again far to the right, where I found the captain of this waiting company. He had missed us the first time and had been sending out his own runners to establish liaison with our company. His runners had been unable to locate us because of intense fog and two were just returning as I arrived. He instructed me to take back a message to my sergeant and tell him he was in line of support now and advancing directly behind us.
As I started back for my company, the enemy barrage again began falling into the American lines. This time it was heavier and several shells broke close by. What would happen to me if one of them landed I tried not to think.
I must have been about halfway back when I heard a low moaning and a soldier calling feebly "First aid, first aid . . ." Approaching the place where the sounds were coming from I saw one of the men of our company. The shock of the scene stopped me cold and I just stood there staring at him. His face was covered with blood and his coat was spattered with guts and the flesh of a human. He looked at me with wide unseeing-eyes and kept moaning "First aid, first aid . ."
I asked him if he was wounded and he said "Yes, badly." I asked him where and be pointed to his head.
No blood was flowing nor could I see anything that looked like a wound. I asked where the company was and he said that they were fighting way up ahead. I didn't know what to do. Should I pack him on my shoulder back to the supporting company, which was closer than ours, or leave him and go on and deliver the message to the sergeant?
I decided to take him back to first aid. When he heard that the look of relief came into his eyes and he said he could get back if be could lean on me. In a short while he was walking by himself, holding onto my arm. Soon we met the captain I had just left and I learned that the boy was shell-shocked. What I thought was his wounds were part of the remains of a buddy of his on which a shell had made a direct hit ... this soldier had been close enough to be spattered and he was suffering from the shock of the explosion. With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach I went forward to my company and delivered the message to the sergeant.
The company was advancing rapidly and meeting only scattered resistance. Before noon we had captured an old but well-kept trench which was occupied by a small rear-guard of German soldiers, left there to retard our advance as long as possible. Their resistance was half-hearted and we jumped into the trench at will- A few Germans raised their hands and yelled at the top of their voices "Kamerad, kamerad. Don't shoot. We are the Landwehrs (the old ones). We have families. Don't shoot." None were hurt. We gazed at them curiously for a moment as a guard was placed over them. Then we continued our advance, and within an hour we got into our first real fighting.
Advancing up the trench we had just captured, we came to a break in the line and started to leave the trench. As we were crawling over the top we were met with a burst of gunfire that took a quick toll of those who were first out of the trench. There we met well -organized resistance and as we shot into the dense shrubbery at enemies we could not see, we were getting our first real baptism of fire. It is strange how quickly you learn all of war's sounds and what they mean. The chatter of the machine guns and the sharp whining zing of bullets were within a few hours as familiar a sound as street cars to city dwellers. Instinctively you learned how best to protect yourself by utilizing the terrain of the ground over which you were fighting.
In spite of this resistance our men left the trench and advanced through the dense underbrush of the forest. We were at the beginning of the ravine of the Argonne and knew now that what we bad just come through was play to what faced us. Here the underbrush was so dense that our only means of advance was by paths that had been cut through the forest by the Germans or their prisoners. As we fought up these paths our losses became increasingly heavy. Just before nightfall we were coming down the hillside through a small open space in the woods and were approaching another hill. Suddenly our advance was stopped and we suffered the heaviest losses of the day.
From concealed positions at the top of the hill which we were approaching came a sweeping cross fire of machine guns that took heavy toll of the men in our company. Within the space of a few minutes all around us lay the killed and wounded. We were no longer recruits-we were now seasoned veterans. We had had our baptism of fire and as we dug ourselves in that night, there was none among us who would not have given his soul to be out of war.
THE HUNCH
In a candle-lit dugout up in the lines,
(a place I'll never forget),
Lieutenant Walsh slowly lit his pipe,
Captain Whiting a cigarette;
The command sprawled out on the cold wet ground,
dead-weary from the fight,
And gave a silent prayer of thanks,
to be safe on this war-mad night.
The dugout was shaped like a giant bowl,
deep in the bowels of the earth,
While the men that huddled within its walls,
were far from their home and hearth;
There was "Dixie Kid" from Georgia,
and "Montana Slim" from Butte,
An Indian guide we called "Silent Stride,"
and a clerk from New York named "Ciite."
For a moment or two there was bantering talk,
and many a jesting crack,
With never a word about those not there,
the men who never came back;
Whiting, our leader, spoke in tones low,
telling his plans for tomorrow,
When a soldier who'd lost his twin brother that day,
sobbed aloud in heart-broken sorrow.
it is hell to see men break down and cry
when something cracks within,
And a silence fell on his sobbing sounds
as loud as an unearthly din;
Walsh reached over and slapped the lad
for his sobbing was sad to see,
The slap spun the boy halfway around
but returned him to sanity.
The sobbing ceased, we looked at the ground,
none had a word to say,
Each one among us knew too well,
that some would "go west" next day;
Whiting and Walsh talked in whispers
until Whiting shouted "Hell no!"
"I have a hunch its me not you
who will be the next to go."
Dawn came again, we went over the top,
with Whiting in the lead,
And we ran into a counter attack
that came with terrific speed;
We were out-numbered two to one,
when the desperate fight begun,
Until that night, 'neath stark moonlight,
we fought until the battle was won.
Then in that night, in the dim candle light,
we counted our numbers so few;
Among those missing were Whiting and Walsh,
their hunches last night proved true;
The command sprawled around on the dugout ground,
waiting once more for the dawn,
Where in God's sight, whether wrong or right,
they would serve as a War Lord's pawn.
SUNNY FRANCE
Ever since I landed here, Things have looked so dull and drear, Wonder if this war's in vain, Wonder why there's so much rain?
My face and hands are badly peeled, Drilling in a sodden field, My body aches from chills and pains, Still it rains and rains and rains.
Tomorrow we'll be on our way, To the front I hear them say, Tonight they load us on the trains, Wonder why it always rains?
The guy who wrote of "Sunny France," Must have been in an awful trance, If that old sun would just break through, Perhaps I wouldn't feel so blue.
Clouds a-scooting overhead, I've hiked and hiked 'till I'm damn near dead, I am wet and cold clear to the skin, Wonder when we're "Going In?"
Earth seems all a-quiver with fright, Gosh, I'd like to be home tonight, Never thought I would be "Over Here," Lord . . . but rain makes a fellow feel queer.
Have been in the lines now thirty days, Know that I am changed in plenty of ways, Now I know why I had that training, Wonder if it ever will stop raining?
We were relieved from the lines last night, Gee . . . but this beard of mine is a fright, Must have hiked a thousand kilos or more, Damn this rain ... it's making me sore.
I've been soaking wet since early fall, Now in November I'm getting it all, Now that old Heinie is on the run, I wonder if this rain is raining for fun?
The gang is not talking much today, What they are thinking none can say, We just got the news . . . "The war is done," That must be right! Because there's the sun!
WE GO INTO THE LINES
AT last we were ready to "go over the top." Endless months of drill were at an end. Here in the heart of the Argonne Forest, completely hidden from ever searching enemy planes, we prepared for the grim business of war.
The dull "boom-boom" of heavy artillery had kept us awake through the night. The screeching shells overhead brought us full realization that at last we were on the ground of the fight.
As each shell exploded far to our rear, I felt little tremors and chills running up and down my spine. A feeling of unrest came over me. Was it fear? We had not been there long enough to know.
It was a serious group of youngsters who peered at one another through the haze of early morning. Gone were the merry making and quips of bravado. Instead, we spoke low-voiced, then silently went about gathering together our equipment preparatory to going
into the trenches.
Throughout the night it had rained steadily. We were damp and chilled to the bone. No warming fires were made. Soon the sun came up. We ventured into small patches of cleared land to absorb the warmth of its rays.
Suddenly we heard the faint double-whirred sound of an enemy plane overhead. The bugler quickly sounded "alarm." We beat a hasty retreat to the protection of the dense underbrush and trees of the forest.
Our officers were grim-lipped and nervous. In hushed voices they told us to "keep under cover." The sharp, staccato note of our anti-aircraft gun was a com-forting sound to our apprehensive ears.
An old timer, who had been through several campaigns, said, "Dat's nuttin' buddy. Wait 'til yuz gets a load dumped on yuh." He spoke the jargon of New York's East Side, but even the dumbest recruit among us knew what he meant.
Night has come again. The rain has stopped. Through the drifting clouds overhead the moon shows through in pale white streaks. We wait expectantly in the forest. We are all quiet with our own thoughts. The order comes to move up to our position. We start for the "lines."
GOING IN
On a moonlit turnpike with comrades I hiked, On my way up to No-Man's-Land, While artillerymen rode a-top of their load, Our heels kicked up the sand.
The squeak of the packs on our weary backs, Kept time to the clanking of steel, While helmets gleamed in an endless stream We marched through Iss-sur-Tille.
French troops on our right, kept pace through the night, While the moon looked pale and sad, It seemed a mission of madmen and fools, With all of the world gone mad.
When our shadows would fall on forested wall, A ghostly specter they'd make, Our hopes dangled there, like a half-uttered prayer, As we marched along toward our wake.
We felt all a-chill as topping a hill, We saw in the valley below, Where the enemy lay in wait of his prey, Then the "gods of war" let go.
Men moaned in pain, but shrieked in vain, The air was a blanket of lead, Through that hell roaring din, our souls shrunk within, As death took the toll from our dead.
We would have given our soul to get out of that hole But the devil was calling the air, In this grim rigadoon we danced to his tune On the war fields of France over there.
The fight kept on til come the bleak -dawn, Then we started to bury our dead, Who taught us to kill . . . surely it wasn't God's will, Some dictator blundered instead.
JUST BEFORE THE JUMP OFF
AFTER leaving the safety of our lines and the protection of the forest we marched steadily forward to the front. Everywhere was evidence of a vast movement to the front. The road we traveled was crowded with light artillery which rumbled along toward the front and half the time we found ourselves crowded off the road to make way for them, while we marched in single file. It seemed as though we had marched through half the night before we came to the ruins of a village that had once been La Harazee.
Here we entered the Ravine D'Argonne, the heart of the forest of the Argonne. We met the French troops who had held this position for four years and they came out of the trenches in single file as our men passed in. They would shake their heads and say something in French. Our interpreter told us they said that the Argonne could not be taken, that the French had tried it in the early part of the war and lost thousands of men. Nice encouragement for us who were about to make our first attack.
All along the line of march, we had been heavily loaded down with bandoliers containing ammunition. Some of us had as many as four of them slung over our shoulders and many were carrying two and three musette bags, containing the different kinds of hand grenades. These delicate and destructive hand shells were dangerous to carry as they were time bombs, requiring only the release of a small metal pin from the top of the bomb to cause its explosion.
So as we walked steadily forward in the old trench which we had taken over from the French, the possibility of premature explosions of the bombs in the musette bags was a source of real fear to all of us. By now we had seen far in front of us the dull red horizon that was caused by artillery bombardment, and we had been hearing the whistling of large shells as they passed overhead ever since we took over the trench.
At first we were jittery and nervous, but as time passed and we pushed forward toward our objective this wore off and we got so that we even lost fear of the musette bags and their contents.
Possibly an hour had passed since we started our slow trip when a short ways ahead of us there was the sound of a loud explosion and the flash of exploding shells. We thought that we had been fired on by the enemy and one of their shells had landed squarely in the trench. As we heard the moaning of wounded we cautiously went to them, fearing that other shells would soon land among us. We need not have feared that then. What had taken place was a premature explosion of the hand grenades that we had feared earlier in the night. There were several men badly wounded and one or two dead. As near as anyone could figure the musette bag had bumped into a rocky turn in the trench, releasing one bomb that in turn caused a general explosion of all the bombs in the bag.
Calls were sent out for stretcher bearers and as they came up, another man and I were assigned to load one of the wounded soldiers on the stretcher and carry him back to La Harazee. All the while the poor devil was moaning for someone to put him out of his misery. The sergeant told us to hurry because the man was losing blood rapidly. We would have hurried anyway for by now fear was taking hold of us as we had for the first time seen the dead and wounded of war. All the way back to La Harazee the poor devil on the stretcher begged us to shoot him. In the darkness we did not recognize him and I did not learn until after the Armistice that he was one of our original squad from Camp Lewis.
Finally we reached headquarters at La Harazee where we turned over our heavy burden to the doctor in charge of the first aid station there. While there we were questioned about the accident by officers at headquarters, but there was little we could tell. Our arms and backs ached from the strain of the heavy load and we were wet with sweat from the effect of the hurried trip. After a short rest we started back up the trench and now we found what a lonesome trip it could be. Going up before had not been so bad as we had been with the gang, but now with just the two of us, we felt the full force of loneliness and hurried forward as fast as possible to overtake our companions.
A short distance from where the accident had happened, we were met by a runner stationed there who told us to follow him. Within a few minutes we found ourselves being led down the clay steps of a dugout deep under the surface. There in the dim-lit candlelight we found our platoon resting, waiting for orders that would take them over the top in the early morning.
Gathered in the dugout were both recruit and veteran. Most of the recruits were just bewildered kids who were now beginning to realize what they were in for. The effects of the accident were still visible among them for their faces had a wax-white appearance in the flickering candle light. The veterans whom we had joined were hardened to death and apparently paid little if any attention to what had happened.
Under the running stream of bantering talk which the veterans kept rolling we could sense deeper meanings to the words than appeared on the surface. Most of the veterans were New Yorkers and had been through a campaign on the Aisne River that had badly depleted their numbers. Our division of Westerners now made up the forty per cent of the 77th Division who had either been killed or were now in the hospitals.
In spite of the fear I held of what lay ahead, I began to take an interest in following the talk and in watching the reactions of different men. I felt that the whole purpose of it was to keep up the morale of the green troops gathered there. The greatest kidder of the lot was a hard-boiled Irish-American corporal named Gallagher and he was sounding off about what a picnic the Argonne would be after what they had gone through in the Aisne sector. According to him we were lucky to be here instead of there. Then he would tell impossible tales of what bad taken place and make them so fantastic everyone there knew he was ribbing us.
A swarthy faced Jewish boy who was a sergeant, kept trying to stop Gallagher and there was some amusing conversation between the two in rich Irish brogue and Jewish dialect. It broke the tension of the men gathered there and seemed to be what Gallagher was aiming at for he ended his long discourse by saying, "You see fellows, war is as simple as that."
A young boy still in his teens looked at Gallagher and said "No, it isn't as simple as that, Gallagher."
"What do you mean by that?" said Gallagher.
"Oh, I don't know exactly," replied the boy. "I wonder why there has to be wars."
"There'll always be wars for suckers like you and me," replied Gallagher.
"But why, Gallagher, why? When I was in high school, just before I joined the army, I was the honor student in my history class. I thought I knew all about war just from reading it. Now I f eel like all I ever read in any of the pages was the romance of the soldier and particularly the American soldier. All their heroic deeds. But since what happened tonight . . . I never realized what it must have been like until I saw those men die."
"That's nothin' kid, forget it. Say but you said something about history. I never went none to school but since I been in this war racket here, I often wondered how many times we Americans was at war? Maybe you know, huh kid?" He motioned the rest of us to keep quiet and stay out of the talk.
The high school lad's interest was aroused as he replied, "Well, I never thought it out before . . . let me see . . . Outside of the Indian fighting, our first war was for Independence in our war with England in 1776." Gallagher broke in, "How long did that last kid?" "Oh, about eight years," said the kid, "and then we had the war of 1812 with the English . . ." "Gee," interrupted Gallagher, "just like that . . . out of one war and into another. When was the next one kid?"
By now the boy had forgotten his recent fear of death and was showing great interest in his discussion as he was turning over in his mind the chronological arrangements of events. Gallagher too was thoroughly interested in the information he was receiving. The rest of the gang in the dugout had began to draw around the two in a semi-circle and were all ears as the boy continued.
"Then there was the Mexican war and the battle of the Alamo in Texas in 1842, and the civil war in 1864 between the North and the South and that lasted for four years . - . until 1868."
Gallagher broke in again. "Yeah I remember that war. I always heard me old man talking about how his father got killed on the last day of that war . . ."
"Gee," said the Jewish sergeant, "but dat wuz tough, Gallagher."
"Yeah," said Gallagher, "but go on, kid, tell us some more.-
"Well, there isn't much more to tell," answered the kid. "After that came the Spanish-American war, when our country fought Spain to free the Cubans and the Phillipines, then came this world war that we are in now."
"You tell 'em" said the sergeant, "the vun ve vere sucked into."
Just then the lieutenant in charge of our platoon broke in and said, "Come on fellows, break it up and get some sleep. You're going to need it and there are only a few hours left to get it."
The men went back to their places in the dugout and the candles were blown out one by one, but not before one lad over in the deep comer of the dugout had broken out in a series of chuckles. The lieutenant went over to him, quieted him down and asked what was so funny. The lad finally said, "I was thinking of something I read in a letter I got from my uncle just before we started up here."
"What was that," said the lieutenant.
"Oh nothing except what war does to everyone. It was a letter from a deeply religious uncle of mine. He wrote me that he knew I would come through all right, to have faith in God, and that I should give those damn Germans hell. Now there is a complicity of emotions for you, lieutenant . . . God . . . Hell….War and love all in one line."
The last candle was extinguished and most of us lay there wide awake staring into the darkness of the dugout, nervously waiting for zero hour of five a.m., when we were to jump off and go over the top.
OUR FIRST BATTLE
THROUGHOUT the night as we lay in the dugout our artillery had been hammering at the enemy line to make as great a wedge as possible for the advance which was to follow. Long before dawn we crawled out of the dugout and advanced a considerable distance in the trenches before we were ordered to halt.
The early morning chill bit into the very marrow of our bones and the heavy morning mist was as thick as a San Francisco fog. We could see but a few feet ahead of us. We scattered out in formation along the trench and waited there with fixed bayonets. Whenever possible a green recruit was teamed up with a seasoned veteran. When we spoke at all it was in whispers, which was pointless because our heavy guns were now beating out a roaring barrage. Finally the sergeant said "Get ready fellows, we're about to go over." The order was given and we scrambled up over the top of the trenches.
As we reached the ground above we fully expected to be met by enemy fire. We followed the veteran alongside of us and did as he did. He advanced cautiously in a half crouched position. The mist which hung low to the ground protected our movement but could also have been our doom, were we to come suddenly against enemy opposition. Nothing happened, though, and we advanced considerably before we halted and spread out over the cold wet ground.
The sergeant in command had sent runners back to bring up our supporting position to form a second line behind ours. A runner finally put in an appearance and told the sergeant be could not find the sup-porting company, that he had lost his bearings in the thick fog and bad been fortunate to find his way back to his command. The sergeant let loose with a barrage of choice curse words and wanted to know if there was anybody in the blankity blank outfit that could go two feet without getting lost. I told him that I thought I could follow any ground that two hundred men had just passed over. "Okay," said the sergeant, "if you're so damn smart go to it." He gave me a written order to be delivered to the captain of our supporting line.
I started out alone, and had no trouble following the ground we had just come over. But before I had gone far we began to receive a counter-barrage from the Germans. Bewildered at first and badly afraid, I took shelter in one of the many old shell holes in the land I was crossing.
After laying there for a few minutes I noticed that the firing was intermittent and that there were few shells landing anywhere near me. Ahead I could hear the steady firing of American rifles and knew that our gang was in action. That steadied me for some reason and my first case of goose pimples began to disappear and I ventured forth again, intent on showing the sergeant that the message could be delivered. His caustic comments had got under my skin and I kept tracing the trail of our recent footsteps and went steadily toward where we had just jumped off.
I was surprised that we had advanced so far in such a short time, but finally I reached the trench where we had waited for our first zero hour. Not finding our supporting company there I continued on for a short distance to the rear, finding no trace of them there. I moved over to the left and swung back again far to the right, where I found the captain of this waiting company. He had missed us the first time and had been sending out his own runners to establish liaison with our company. His runners had been unable to locate us because of intense fog and two were just returning as I arrived. He instructed me to take back a message to my sergeant and tell him he was in line of support now and advancing directly behind us.
As I started back for my company, the enemy barrage again began falling into the American lines. This time it was heavier and several shells broke close by. What would happen to me if one of them landed I tried not to think.
I must have been about halfway back when I heard a low moaning and a soldier calling feebly "First aid, first aid . . ." Approaching the place where the sounds were coming from I saw one of the men of our company. The shock of the scene stopped me cold and I just stood there staring at him. His face was covered with blood and his coat was spattered with guts and the flesh of a human. He looked at me with wide unseeing-eyes and kept moaning "First aid, first aid . ."
I asked him if he was wounded and he said "Yes, badly." I asked him where and be pointed to his head.
No blood was flowing nor could I see anything that looked like a wound. I asked where the company was and he said that they were fighting way up ahead. I didn't know what to do. Should I pack him on my shoulder back to the supporting company, which was closer than ours, or leave him and go on and deliver the message to the sergeant?
I decided to take him back to first aid. When he heard that the look of relief came into his eyes and he said he could get back if be could lean on me. In a short while he was walking by himself, holding onto my arm. Soon we met the captain I had just left and I learned that the boy was shell-shocked. What I thought was his wounds were part of the remains of a buddy of his on which a shell had made a direct hit ... this soldier had been close enough to be spattered and he was suffering from the shock of the explosion. With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach I went forward to my company and delivered the message to the sergeant.
The company was advancing rapidly and meeting only scattered resistance. Before noon we had captured an old but well-kept trench which was occupied by a small rear-guard of German soldiers, left there to retard our advance as long as possible. Their resistance was half-hearted and we jumped into the trench at will- A few Germans raised their hands and yelled at the top of their voices "Kamerad, kamerad. Don't shoot. We are the Landwehrs (the old ones). We have families. Don't shoot." None were hurt. We gazed at them curiously for a moment as a guard was placed over them. Then we continued our advance, and within an hour we got into our first real fighting.
Advancing up the trench we had just captured, we came to a break in the line and started to leave the trench. As we were crawling over the top we were met with a burst of gunfire that took a quick toll of those who were first out of the trench. There we met well -organized resistance and as we shot into the dense shrubbery at enemies we could not see, we were getting our first real baptism of fire. It is strange how quickly you learn all of war's sounds and what they mean. The chatter of the machine guns and the sharp whining zing of bullets were within a few hours as familiar a sound as street cars to city dwellers. Instinctively you learned how best to protect yourself by utilizing the terrain of the ground over which you were fighting.
In spite of this resistance our men left the trench and advanced through the dense underbrush of the forest. We were at the beginning of the ravine of the Argonne and knew now that what we bad just come through was play to what faced us. Here the underbrush was so dense that our only means of advance was by paths that had been cut through the forest by the Germans or their prisoners. As we fought up these paths our losses became increasingly heavy. Just before nightfall we were coming down the hillside through a small open space in the woods and were approaching another hill. Suddenly our advance was stopped and we suffered the heaviest losses of the day.
From concealed positions at the top of the hill which we were approaching came a sweeping cross fire of machine guns that took heavy toll of the men in our company. Within the space of a few minutes all around us lay the killed and wounded. We were no longer recruits-we were now seasoned veterans. We had had our baptism of fire and as we dug ourselves in that night, there was none among us who would not have given his soul to be out of war.
THE HUNCH
In a candle-lit dugout up in the lines,
(a place I'll never forget),
Lieutenant Walsh slowly lit his pipe,
Captain Whiting a cigarette;
The command sprawled out on the cold wet ground,
dead-weary from the fight,
And gave a silent prayer of thanks,
to be safe on this war-mad night.
The dugout was shaped like a giant bowl,
deep in the bowels of the earth,
While the men that huddled within its walls,
were far from their home and hearth;
There was "Dixie Kid" from Georgia,
and "Montana Slim" from Butte,
An Indian guide we called "Silent Stride,"
and a clerk from New York named "Ciite."
For a moment or two there was bantering talk,
and many a jesting crack,
With never a word about those not there,
the men who never came back;
Whiting, our leader, spoke in tones low,
telling his plans for tomorrow,
When a soldier who'd lost his twin brother that day,
sobbed aloud in heart-broken sorrow.
it is hell to see men break down and cry
when something cracks within,
And a silence fell on his sobbing sounds
as loud as an unearthly din;
Walsh reached over and slapped the lad
for his sobbing was sad to see,
The slap spun the boy halfway around
but returned him to sanity.
The sobbing ceased, we looked at the ground,
none had a word to say,
Each one among us knew too well,
that some would "go west" next day;
Whiting and Walsh talked in whispers
until Whiting shouted "Hell no!"
"I have a hunch its me not you
who will be the next to go."
Dawn came again, we went over the top,
with Whiting in the lead,
And we ran into a counter attack
that came with terrific speed;
We were out-numbered two to one,
when the desperate fight begun,
Until that night, 'neath stark moonlight,
we fought until the battle was won.
Then in that night, in the dim candle light,
we counted our numbers so few;
Among those missing were Whiting and Walsh,
their hunches last night proved true;
The command sprawled around on the dugout ground,
waiting once more for the dawn,
Where in God's sight, whether wrong or right,
they would serve as a War Lord's pawn.
SUNNY FRANCE
Ever since I landed here, Things have looked so dull and drear, Wonder if this war's in vain, Wonder why there's so much rain?
My face and hands are badly peeled, Drilling in a sodden field, My body aches from chills and pains, Still it rains and rains and rains.
Tomorrow we'll be on our way, To the front I hear them say, Tonight they load us on the trains, Wonder why it always rains?
The guy who wrote of "Sunny France," Must have been in an awful trance, If that old sun would just break through, Perhaps I wouldn't feel so blue.
Clouds a-scooting overhead, I've hiked and hiked 'till I'm damn near dead, I am wet and cold clear to the skin, Wonder when we're "Going In?"
Earth seems all a-quiver with fright, Gosh, I'd like to be home tonight, Never thought I would be "Over Here," Lord . . . but rain makes a fellow feel queer.
Have been in the lines now thirty days, Know that I am changed in plenty of ways, Now I know why I had that training, Wonder if it ever will stop raining?
We were relieved from the lines last night, Gee . . . but this beard of mine is a fright, Must have hiked a thousand kilos or more, Damn this rain ... it's making me sore.
I've been soaking wet since early fall, Now in November I'm getting it all, Now that old Heinie is on the run, I wonder if this rain is raining for fun?
The gang is not talking much today, What they are thinking none can say, We just got the news . . . "The war is done," That must be right! Because there's the sun!
WE GO INTO THE LINES
AT last we were ready to "go over the top." Endless months of drill were at an end. Here in the heart of the Argonne Forest, completely hidden from ever searching enemy planes, we prepared for the grim business of war.
The dull "boom-boom" of heavy artillery had kept us awake through the night. The screeching shells overhead brought us full realization that at last we were on the ground of the fight.
As each shell exploded far to our rear, I felt little tremors and chills running up and down my spine. A feeling of unrest came over me. Was it fear? We had not been there long enough to know.
It was a serious group of youngsters who peered at one another through the haze of early morning. Gone were the merry making and quips of bravado. Instead, we spoke low-voiced, then silently went about gathering together our equipment preparatory to going
into the trenches.
Throughout the night it had rained steadily. We were damp and chilled to the bone. No warming fires were made. Soon the sun came up. We ventured into small patches of cleared land to absorb the warmth of its rays.
Suddenly we heard the faint double-whirred sound of an enemy plane overhead. The bugler quickly sounded "alarm." We beat a hasty retreat to the protection of the dense underbrush and trees of the forest.
Our officers were grim-lipped and nervous. In hushed voices they told us to "keep under cover." The sharp, staccato note of our anti-aircraft gun was a com-forting sound to our apprehensive ears.
An old timer, who had been through several campaigns, said, "Dat's nuttin' buddy. Wait 'til yuz gets a load dumped on yuh." He spoke the jargon of New York's East Side, but even the dumbest recruit among us knew what he meant.
Night has come again. The rain has stopped. Through the drifting clouds overhead the moon shows through in pale white streaks. We wait expectantly in the forest. We are all quiet with our own thoughts. The order comes to move up to our position. We start for the "lines."
GOING IN
On a moonlit turnpike with comrades I hiked, On my way up to No-Man's-Land, While artillerymen rode a-top of their load, Our heels kicked up the sand.
The squeak of the packs on our weary backs, Kept time to the clanking of steel, While helmets gleamed in an endless stream We marched through Iss-sur-Tille.
French troops on our right, kept pace through the night, While the moon looked pale and sad, It seemed a mission of madmen and fools, With all of the world gone mad.
When our shadows would fall on forested wall, A ghostly specter they'd make, Our hopes dangled there, like a half-uttered prayer, As we marched along toward our wake.
We felt all a-chill as topping a hill, We saw in the valley below, Where the enemy lay in wait of his prey, Then the "gods of war" let go.
Men moaned in pain, but shrieked in vain, The air was a blanket of lead, Through that hell roaring din, our souls shrunk within, As death took the toll from our dead.
We would have given our soul to get out of that hole But the devil was calling the air, In this grim rigadoon we danced to his tune On the war fields of France over there.
The fight kept on til come the bleak -dawn, Then we started to bury our dead, Who taught us to kill . . . surely it wasn't God's will, Some dictator blundered instead.
JUST BEFORE THE JUMP OFF
AFTER leaving the safety of our lines and the protection of the forest we marched steadily forward to the front. Everywhere was evidence of a vast movement to the front. The road we traveled was crowded with light artillery which rumbled along toward the front and half the time we found ourselves crowded off the road to make way for them, while we marched in single file. It seemed as though we had marched through half the night before we came to the ruins of a village that had once been La Harazee.
Here we entered the Ravine D'Argonne, the heart of the forest of the Argonne. We met the French troops who had held this position for four years and they came out of the trenches in single file as our men passed in. They would shake their heads and say something in French. Our interpreter told us they said that the Argonne could not be taken, that the French had tried it in the early part of the war and lost thousands of men. Nice encouragement for us who were about to make our first attack.
All along the line of march, we had been heavily loaded down with bandoliers containing ammunition. Some of us had as many as four of them slung over our shoulders and many were carrying two and three musette bags, containing the different kinds of hand grenades. These delicate and destructive hand shells were dangerous to carry as they were time bombs, requiring only the release of a small metal pin from the top of the bomb to cause its explosion.
So as we walked steadily forward in the old trench which we had taken over from the French, the possibility of premature explosions of the bombs in the musette bags was a source of real fear to all of us. By now we had seen far in front of us the dull red horizon that was caused by artillery bombardment, and we had been hearing the whistling of large shells as they passed overhead ever since we took over the trench.
At first we were jittery and nervous, but as time passed and we pushed forward toward our objective this wore off and we got so that we even lost fear of the musette bags and their contents.
Possibly an hour had passed since we started our slow trip when a short ways ahead of us there was the sound of a loud explosion and the flash of exploding shells. We thought that we had been fired on by the enemy and one of their shells had landed squarely in the trench. As we heard the moaning of wounded we cautiously went to them, fearing that other shells would soon land among us. We need not have feared that then. What had taken place was a premature explosion of the hand grenades that we had feared earlier in the night. There were several men badly wounded and one or two dead. As near as anyone could figure the musette bag had bumped into a rocky turn in the trench, releasing one bomb that in turn caused a general explosion of all the bombs in the bag.
Calls were sent out for stretcher bearers and as they came up, another man and I were assigned to load one of the wounded soldiers on the stretcher and carry him back to La Harazee. All the while the poor devil was moaning for someone to put him out of his misery. The sergeant told us to hurry because the man was losing blood rapidly. We would have hurried anyway for by now fear was taking hold of us as we had for the first time seen the dead and wounded of war. All the way back to La Harazee the poor devil on the stretcher begged us to shoot him. In the darkness we did not recognize him and I did not learn until after the Armistice that he was one of our original squad from Camp Lewis.
Finally we reached headquarters at La Harazee where we turned over our heavy burden to the doctor in charge of the first aid station there. While there we were questioned about the accident by officers at headquarters, but there was little we could tell. Our arms and backs ached from the strain of the heavy load and we were wet with sweat from the effect of the hurried trip. After a short rest we started back up the trench and now we found what a lonesome trip it could be. Going up before had not been so bad as we had been with the gang, but now with just the two of us, we felt the full force of loneliness and hurried forward as fast as possible to overtake our companions.
A short distance from where the accident had happened, we were met by a runner stationed there who told us to follow him. Within a few minutes we found ourselves being led down the clay steps of a dugout deep under the surface. There in the dim-lit candlelight we found our platoon resting, waiting for orders that would take them over the top in the early morning.
Gathered in the dugout were both recruit and veteran. Most of the recruits were just bewildered kids who were now beginning to realize what they were in for. The effects of the accident were still visible among them for their faces had a wax-white appearance in the flickering candle light. The veterans whom we had joined were hardened to death and apparently paid little if any attention to what had happened.
Under the running stream of bantering talk which the veterans kept rolling we could sense deeper meanings to the words than appeared on the surface. Most of the veterans were New Yorkers and had been through a campaign on the Aisne River that had badly depleted their numbers. Our division of Westerners now made up the forty per cent of the 77th Division who had either been killed or were now in the hospitals.
In spite of the fear I held of what lay ahead, I began to take an interest in following the talk and in watching the reactions of different men. I felt that the whole purpose of it was to keep up the morale of the green troops gathered there. The greatest kidder of the lot was a hard-boiled Irish-American corporal named Gallagher and he was sounding off about what a picnic the Argonne would be after what they had gone through in the Aisne sector. According to him we were lucky to be here instead of there. Then he would tell impossible tales of what bad taken place and make them so fantastic everyone there knew he was ribbing us.
A swarthy faced Jewish boy who was a sergeant, kept trying to stop Gallagher and there was some amusing conversation between the two in rich Irish brogue and Jewish dialect. It broke the tension of the men gathered there and seemed to be what Gallagher was aiming at for he ended his long discourse by saying, "You see fellows, war is as simple as that."
A young boy still in his teens looked at Gallagher and said "No, it isn't as simple as that, Gallagher."
"What do you mean by that?" said Gallagher.
"Oh, I don't know exactly," replied the boy. "I wonder why there has to be wars."
"There'll always be wars for suckers like you and me," replied Gallagher.
"But why, Gallagher, why? When I was in high school, just before I joined the army, I was the honor student in my history class. I thought I knew all about war just from reading it. Now I f eel like all I ever read in any of the pages was the romance of the soldier and particularly the American soldier. All their heroic deeds. But since what happened tonight . . . I never realized what it must have been like until I saw those men die."
"That's nothin' kid, forget it. Say but you said something about history. I never went none to school but since I been in this war racket here, I often wondered how many times we Americans was at war? Maybe you know, huh kid?" He motioned the rest of us to keep quiet and stay out of the talk.
The high school lad's interest was aroused as he replied, "Well, I never thought it out before . . . let me see . . . Outside of the Indian fighting, our first war was for Independence in our war with England in 1776." Gallagher broke in, "How long did that last kid?" "Oh, about eight years," said the kid, "and then we had the war of 1812 with the English . . ." "Gee," interrupted Gallagher, "just like that . . . out of one war and into another. When was the next one kid?"
By now the boy had forgotten his recent fear of death and was showing great interest in his discussion as he was turning over in his mind the chronological arrangements of events. Gallagher too was thoroughly interested in the information he was receiving. The rest of the gang in the dugout had began to draw around the two in a semi-circle and were all ears as the boy continued.
"Then there was the Mexican war and the battle of the Alamo in Texas in 1842, and the civil war in 1864 between the North and the South and that lasted for four years . - . until 1868."
Gallagher broke in again. "Yeah I remember that war. I always heard me old man talking about how his father got killed on the last day of that war . . ."
"Gee," said the Jewish sergeant, "but dat wuz tough, Gallagher."
"Yeah," said Gallagher, "but go on, kid, tell us some more.-
"Well, there isn't much more to tell," answered the kid. "After that came the Spanish-American war, when our country fought Spain to free the Cubans and the Phillipines, then came this world war that we are in now."
"You tell 'em" said the sergeant, "the vun ve vere sucked into."
Just then the lieutenant in charge of our platoon broke in and said, "Come on fellows, break it up and get some sleep. You're going to need it and there are only a few hours left to get it."
The men went back to their places in the dugout and the candles were blown out one by one, but not before one lad over in the deep comer of the dugout had broken out in a series of chuckles. The lieutenant went over to him, quieted him down and asked what was so funny. The lad finally said, "I was thinking of something I read in a letter I got from my uncle just before we started up here."
"What was that," said the lieutenant.
"Oh nothing except what war does to everyone. It was a letter from a deeply religious uncle of mine. He wrote me that he knew I would come through all right, to have faith in God, and that I should give those damn Germans hell. Now there is a complicity of emotions for you, lieutenant . . . God . . . Hell….War and love all in one line."
The last candle was extinguished and most of us lay there wide awake staring into the darkness of the dugout, nervously waiting for zero hour of five a.m., when we were to jump off and go over the top.
OUR FIRST BATTLE
THROUGHOUT the night as we lay in the dugout our artillery had been hammering at the enemy line to make as great a wedge as possible for the advance which was to follow. Long before dawn we crawled out of the dugout and advanced a considerable distance in the trenches before we were ordered to halt.
The early morning chill bit into the very marrow of our bones and the heavy morning mist was as thick as a San Francisco fog. We could see but a few feet ahead of us. We scattered out in formation along the trench and waited there with fixed bayonets. Whenever possible a green recruit was teamed up with a seasoned veteran. When we spoke at all it was in whispers, which was pointless because our heavy guns were now beating out a roaring barrage. Finally the sergeant said "Get ready fellows, we're about to go over." The order was given and we scrambled up over the top of the trenches.
As we reached the ground above we fully expected to be met by enemy fire. We followed the veteran alongside of us and did as he did. He advanced cautiously in a half crouched position. The mist which hung low to the ground protected our movement but could also have been our doom, were we to come suddenly against enemy opposition. Nothing happened, though, and we advanced considerably before we halted and spread out over the cold wet ground.
The sergeant in command had sent runners back to bring up our supporting position to form a second line behind ours. A runner finally put in an appearance and told the sergeant be could not find the sup-porting company, that he had lost his bearings in the thick fog and bad been fortunate to find his way back to his command. The sergeant let loose with a barrage of choice curse words and wanted to know if there was anybody in the blankity blank outfit that could go two feet without getting lost. I told him that I thought I could follow any ground that two hundred men had just passed over. "Okay," said the sergeant, "if you're so damn smart go to it." He gave me a written order to be delivered to the captain of our supporting line.
I started out alone, and had no trouble following the ground we had just come over. But before I had gone far we began to receive a counter-barrage from the Germans. Bewildered at first and badly afraid, I took shelter in one of the many old shell holes in the land I was crossing.
After laying there for a few minutes I noticed that the firing was intermittent and that there were few shells landing anywhere near me. Ahead I could hear the steady firing of American rifles and knew that our gang was in action. That steadied me for some reason and my first case of goose pimples began to disappear and I ventured forth again, intent on showing the sergeant that the message could be delivered. His caustic comments had got under my skin and I kept tracing the trail of our recent footsteps and went steadily toward where we had just jumped off.
I was surprised that we had advanced so far in such a short time, but finally I reached the trench where we had waited for our first zero hour. Not finding our supporting company there I continued on for a short distance to the rear, finding no trace of them there. I moved over to the left and swung back again far to the right, where I found the captain of this waiting company. He had missed us the first time and had been sending out his own runners to establish liaison with our company. His runners had been unable to locate us because of intense fog and two were just returning as I arrived. He instructed me to take back a message to my sergeant and tell him he was in line of support now and advancing directly behind us.
As I started back for my company, the enemy barrage again began falling into the American lines. This time it was heavier and several shells broke close by. What would happen to me if one of them landed I tried not to think.
I must have been about halfway back when I heard a low moaning and a soldier calling feebly "First aid, first aid . . ." Approaching the place where the sounds were coming from I saw one of the men of our company. The shock of the scene stopped me cold and I just stood there staring at him. His face was covered with blood and his coat was spattered with guts and the flesh of a human. He looked at me with wide unseeing-eyes and kept moaning "First aid, first aid . ."
I asked him if he was wounded and he said "Yes, badly." I asked him where and be pointed to his head.
No blood was flowing nor could I see anything that looked like a wound. I asked where the company was and he said that they were fighting way up ahead. I didn't know what to do. Should I pack him on my shoulder back to the supporting company, which was closer than ours, or leave him and go on and deliver the message to the sergeant?
I decided to take him back to first aid. When he heard that the look of relief came into his eyes and he said he could get back if be could lean on me. In a short while he was walking by himself, holding onto my arm. Soon we met the captain I had just left and I learned that the boy was shell-shocked. What I thought was his wounds were part of the remains of a buddy of his on which a shell had made a direct hit ... this soldier had been close enough to be spattered and he was suffering from the shock of the explosion. With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach I went forward to my company and delivered the message to the sergeant.
The company was advancing rapidly and meeting only scattered resistance. Before noon we had captured an old but well-kept trench which was occupied by a small rear-guard of German soldiers, left there to retard our advance as long as possible. Their resistance was half-hearted and we jumped into the trench at will- A few Germans raised their hands and yelled at the top of their voices "Kamerad, kamerad. Don't shoot. We are the Landwehrs (the old ones). We have families. Don't shoot." None were hurt. We gazed at them curiously for a moment as a guard was placed over them. Then we continued our advance, and within an hour we got into our first real fighting.
Advancing up the trench we had just captured, we came to a break in the line and started to leave the trench. As we were crawling over the top we were met with a burst of gunfire that took a quick toll of those who were first out of the trench. There we met well -organized resistance and as we shot into the dense shrubbery at enemies we could not see, we were getting our first real baptism of fire. It is strange how quickly you learn all of war's sounds and what they mean. The chatter of the machine guns and the sharp whining zing of bullets were within a few hours as familiar a sound as street cars to city dwellers. Instinctively you learned how best to protect yourself by utilizing the terrain of the ground over which you were fighting.
In spite of this resistance our men left the trench and advanced through the dense underbrush of the forest. We were at the beginning of the ravine of the Argonne and knew now that what we bad just come through was play to what faced us. Here the underbrush was so dense that our only means of advance was by paths that had been cut through the forest by the Germans or their prisoners. As we fought up these paths our losses became increasingly heavy. Just before nightfall we were coming down the hillside through a small open space in the woods and were approaching another hill. Suddenly our advance was stopped and we suffered the heaviest losses of the day.
From concealed positions at the top of the hill which we were approaching came a sweeping cross fire of machine guns that took heavy toll of the men in our company. Within the space of a few minutes all around us lay the killed and wounded. We were no longer recruits-we were now seasoned veterans. We had had our baptism of fire and as we dug ourselves in that night, there was none among us who would not have given his soul to be out of war.
THE HUNCH
In a candle-lit dugout up in the lines,
(a place I'll never forget),
Lieutenant Walsh slowly lit his pipe,
Captain Whiting a cigarette;
The command sprawled out on the cold wet ground,
dead-weary from the fight,
And gave a silent prayer of thanks,
to be safe on this war-mad night.
The dugout was shaped like a giant bowl,
deep in the bowels of the earth,
While the men that huddled within its walls,
were far from their home and hearth;
There was "Dixie Kid" from Georgia,
and "Montana Slim" from Butte,
An Indian guide we called "Silent Stride,"
and a clerk from New York named "Ciite."
For a moment or two there was bantering talk,
and many a jesting crack,
With never a word about those not there,
the men who never came back;
Whiting, our leader, spoke in tones low,
telling his plans for tomorrow,
When a soldier who'd lost his twin brother that day,
sobbed aloud in heart-broken sorrow.
it is hell to see men break down and cry
when something cracks within,
And a silence fell on his sobbing sounds
as loud as an unearthly din;
Walsh reached over and slapped the lad
for his sobbing was sad to see,
The slap spun the boy halfway around
but returned him to sanity.
The sobbing ceased, we looked at the ground,
none had a word to say,
Each one among us knew too well,
that some would "go west" next day;
Whiting and Walsh talked in whispers
until Whiting shouted "Hell no!"
"I have a hunch its me not you
who will be the next to go."
Dawn came again, we went over the top,
with Whiting in the lead,
And we ran into a counter attack
that came with terrific speed;
We were out-numbered two to one,
when the desperate fight begun,
Until that night, 'neath stark moonlight,
we fought until the battle was won.
Then in that night, in the dim candle light,
we counted our numbers so few;
Among those missing were Whiting and Walsh,
their hunches last night proved true;
The command sprawled around on the dugout ground,
waiting once more for the dawn,
Where in God's sight, whether wrong or right,
they would serve as a War Lord's pawn.
WE ADVANCE AGAIN
ALL about us is every evidence of a people who had led a peaceful, contented life. Small farms, no longer tilled by the plow. What had once been homes were now shells with walls standing as sentinels guarding the remains.
Town after town we have passed through in this war shattered area. Occasionally we meet French peasants, usually the old ones. They seemed resigned to their fate. In one town they called us "L' Anglaise," mistaking us for English soldiers. When we tell them that we are Americans, they look puzzled and don't seem to understand. As we advance steadily to the far frontier the few peasants we had been seeing are now conspicuous by their absence. We can hear the deep throaty booming of heavy guns, then sharper notes of lighter artillery as we get closer to the front lines.
Near the town of St. Juvin I saw a goat. "Funny," I thought, "straying all by itself. Bleating, wondering where his master is. And we not much better off. Just beaded for the lines with no master to guide us."
Tonight we billeted in a dirty pen of a barn. I am too exhausted to examine the place they told me to bunk down. I can smell the foulness of it, though. Tired as I am, I sleep through it all. It is early morning. We are told to make it on the "double-quick," that hot coffee is waiting.
"Hot coffee!" God, how long since I've tasted anything hot! We rush to the portable kitchens that had overtaken us during the night. The aroma has been taunting me for five minutes as I patiently wait my turn. Eagerly I extend my aluminum cup for some of the precious black golden liquid.
Just as I got the coffee to my lips the bugler sounded a hasty warning. Several enemy planes appeared overhead from out of nowhere. We ran for cover. Nothing happened. The planes stayed but a moment, then faded away. We could see them signaling their artillery. Hastily we started to move forward. I lost half my precious coffee and scorched my throat with the other half.
We had advanced but a short distance to another small village when we met heavy opposition from the enemy entrenched there. Quickly we took cover behind buildings and in an old dilapidated trench.
Watching the enemy ducking in and out of the wrecks of buildings that had once been homes, I could not help thinking what those houses must have meant before fate found us here. The hopes and the dreams that had built them-the sense of security the four walls gave. Yet here we were, a ruthless bunch of madmen, shooting down the remains of what bad once been homes.
VISIONS
In early morn when day is born,
Night shadows start to fade,
I gaze upon a land shell-torn,
The havoc war has made.
And as the mist begins to lift,
Dim lines of a home I see,
Then by the fate's sardonic twist,
A vision comes to me.
Instead of walls that barely stand,
Against the skylines drear,
Quaint cozy rooms I see instead,
And all that life holds dear,
As plainly as 'twere painted there
A family group I see,
Gathered around a fireside,
A child on a father's knee.
He is telling oft told tales of old,
Their childish love to endear,
A wondrous fairyland picture he paints,
With a master's stroke that is clear.
Then comes the end of this simple tale,
Rewarded by cries of delight,
Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes,
As in turn they kiss him goodnight.
Off to bed a-romping they go,
Climbing queer turning stairs,
By a crude old home-made bed
They kneel to say their prayers.
"Bless mama and papa, and give
Peace on Earth, goodwill to men;
Then as the mother tucks them in,
One shyly says, "Amen."
But now the vision fades away,
Once more by the will of fate,
From barren walls comes a war-dog,
Turning loving thoughts to hate.
From my right comes the sound of a "Browning,"
That makes my blood run chill,
My vision is gone, I stand alone ...
My business up here is to kill.
NIGHT FLARES AND RAIDING
FLARES were the bane of every night raider's life in order to get information of enemy activities it was necessary to raid their lines occasionally, capture prisoners, and get information from them. It was common practice, both with the enemy and with our troops.
Raiding parties were never held on moonlight nights. In fact, I remember but few such nights in France. We usually waited for the wettest and blackest night we could find. Then a party of three of four, sometimes six, were detailed to make the raid.
It was dangerous because we were going deep into enemy territory to capture and bring back some of their men alive. Between our lines and the enemy was a strip of land called No-Man's-Land. This had to be crossed before we could reach the enemy lines. Usually that land was well protected from invasion by barbwire entanglements and small trip wires. If we were on old territory fought over before, we would quite often find weatherworn and dilapidated trenches along with the wire.
The only way the enemy could protect himself on dark nights was to keep No-Man's-Land lit up as much as possible. This he did by shooting flares into the skies at intervals. Raids were usually held in the dead of the night. On either the enemy's side or our own, the front lines were guarded by a scattering of a few men. These men were guards. Usually they were expert marksmen or machine-gunners, which made the invasion of raiding parties all the more dangerous.
When a raiding party saw a flare go skyward, they would "freeze," or stiffen and hold their position rigidly, just like a trained hunting dog pointing a bird. Immobility was our best protection. Rigid as a statue, we had a chance of being mistaken for some of the shell shattered trees and stumps scattered over No-Man's-Land. If you made many moves you were sure to draw the attention of some enemy marksman.
The flares were just about like our home fireworks. Instead of a variety of colors they usually cast off a sickly blue-white and sometimes yellow light. They would hang poised in the air for a few seconds, then gradually fade out. The minute a flare was shot into the air you would hear the "tat-tat-tat" of machine guns. Then came the zing of sharpshooters' lead, searching human targets in No-Man's-Land.
The use of flares was a most effective protection, practiced by both sides. The sound of the machine guns is just like the cornpressed-air riveter you hear on a steel construction job.
No one thing outside of air raids could keep your heart jumping and your mind on edge, like duty on a raiding party in the deep black gloom of night.
THE FLARE
Your heart is all a-jumping and your nerves are all a-chill,
When you start to go a-raiding on a night that's dark and still;
You dare not speak in whispers, and you dare not make a sound,
When you go a-sneaking, creeping, o'er that cold war-blasted ground.
When Jerry shoots his star-shells in that war-weird night,
You are a mark for snipers shooting, your heart is filled with fright;
You lay stock-still and breathless and you pray you'll not be shot,
When his blue-white flare lights up the sky you wait for - God knows what.
Throughout a night that-is sometimes dim and sometimes lit by flare,
Through an endless age in No-Man's-Land you crawl and pray and swear;
If you live to see the dawn again you will know you learned "Out There,"
The thing that put real fear in you was Jerry's blue-white flare.
IT'S A LOUSY ARMY AT THE BEST
EVERYBODY in this man's army is getting fed up with army life. The chow is nothing to brag about. Before we hit the lines we thought it was tough, but now that we're in the lines we know that it was AAA food we had been served. Now that we are existing on dried bully beef and hard tack that pulls all the fillings from your teeth, we can appreciate what we used to grumble about. But at that it is better than an empty belly so most of us have learned to quit grumbling about the food. A certain pal of mine, Dick Coe, was always complaining about the food but today he floored me when he started his complaint against the army. Here was what was on his mind. I am the champion fall guy for these groaners.
"Without a question, Mae, this is the lousiest army I was ever in. And the worst part of it is these damn greybacks. The way they breed and multiply on a soldier beats all hell.
"Only yesterday I 'read my shirt.' Took it off and peeled to the skin. Then sat in a raw, damp wind just for the privilege of getting rid of these pests. Cleaned off every last one of them, and went through my shirt and tunic. Must have been a million eggs in the seams. Even went over my cap and leggings. It took three whole hours, Mac. When I finished I would have sworn I was the cleanest man in the A.E.F.
"Here it is less than twelve hours after, and I am alive with the crawly pests again. Wonder what it
would seem like to have a nice clean bath? To have clean underwear to crawl into? And socks that weren't rotting on your feet. And shoes that you could get into without a crowbar, and that you could lift with one hand.
,,I had all those things once. When? A thousand years ago, I guess. Remember, Mac, when we joined up? Maybe that was the time. Remember all those medals we were going to win? Then come home and show off? Knock our girls for a loop? Remember that, Mac?"
"We never thought about greybacks then, did we? Cooties, some calls them. Either way they are a pain in the neck to me. I'd like to split everyone of their cute little throats with the hot point of a razor blade. Which reminds me, I even dug them out of my hair yesterday, and one or two loose ones out of this nice red beard I am wearing.
"Wouldn't my girl think I was a cute little hero if she could see me now? Dammit, Mac, I can't stand it any longer. I am going to sit down in this damn French mud and 'read my shirt again. War or no war. I am going to get rid of these damn cooties."
COOTIES
When you are standing at attention,
And cooties bite and scratch below,
And your lousy captain bawls you out,
Ain't it bell?-Well I'll say so.
Have you ever had that itchy troop
Doing squads both East and West,
Across your tired shoulders
And underneath your vest?
Or in your helmet-sweated hair,
Or on your pain-racked shins,
The way those devils pinch and bite,
Is a climax to war's sins.
In the "lines" big generals bad them,
Every captain raised his share,
But there was plenty hell a-popping,
When a "buck" had one to spare.
You can have my flock of grey ones,
For I sure have had my fill,
And if Napoleon started this,
He's the bird I'd like to kill.
A SNIPER'S DUTY
I HAVE tried to avoid doing sniper's duty, first at camp, then in the lines. The sergeant told the captain I was a good shot. That's what comes from being raised on a ranch, spending half your time with a rifle in your hand. I didn't mind hunting then, but this is different. Or is it? After all, a life is a life - even to a dumb animal. I vow to God on high, if I am spared to come through this alive I will never fire another rifle.
I don't like this business of being hidden, lying in wait for the sight of the enemy. With these high powered rifles and telescopic sights, what chance would they have? A man is not like an animal, that can sense
danger by the powers it possesses. He cannot smell danger with the shifting of the wind. He can only guess at it, and usually he guesses wrong.
The enemy we are fighting seems to be the same as we, except that they speak another language. I notice that when we capture them there seems to be no hatred on their part - or on ours. We exchange one thought more than any other, "What are we fighting one another for, you and IF' Left alone, the average man would never think of war.
Guided by the power-crazed mind of autocrats of royal blood, or the commoner who sits in high position, we are drawn into war like puppets on a string. Puppets cannot speak their minds, not wooden puppets at least. They are managed by the hand of man pulling strings. Human puppets can speak their mind, but seldom do. Like puppets, they too are pulled on strings. Only the strings are made of words by the scant few ... words that become "hinges of death" when the puppets march to war.
These thoughts keep running through my mind as I lay here high up on the hillside, on this hidden outpost. With a high power rifle in my hand. Waiting. Waiting . . . for an enemy to come up that path which lies far below me in the valley.
My eyes are dizzy from steadily watching one spot. The dense underbrush seems to rustle in the breeze. Is it a false alarm? Or is it an enemy coming through the lines. Finally I am sure. I see a greyclad figure below me. He moves cautiously, looking about him carefully before taking a step. I draw my rifle to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sights he is as plain as though he were a few feet in front of me. I could easily kill him from here yet I hesitate to do so. But knowing war for what it is now, that it is either his life or mine, there is nothing left for me to do but pull the trigger. As I felt the heavy recoil of the rifle against my shoulder I knew that another bullet was speeding toward its mark.
I WONDER
1. wonder if my enemy, who is hunting me right now,
Was once a boy the same as I, and took a childish vow,
Never to kill a little bird, or ever rob a nest,
Always to say his prayers at night, before he went to rest.
I wonder if that hand of his that holds a sniper's gun,
Once stroked his mother's hair with love, or her face in boyish fun;
I wonder if his mother is a mother just like mine,
Who says a prayer to God each night, to keep him safe and fine.
I wonder if he thinks of me, as I am thinking too,
I wonder if be doesn't yearn, for his mother sweet and true;
I wonder if he really hates the man he hunts at war,
Or if like me he wonders just what he's fighting for.
I wonder if he sees me now, as I creep up on him,
I wonder if I'm covered by this broken half-leafed limb,
I wonder if he'll aim and fire, when I say "raise up your hands,"
I wonder if our God on high sees us and understands.
I wonder whether he or I will pay the price supreme,
When we come upon each other in this part of war's mad dream;
I wonder if our mothers, will kneel tonight and pray,
To keep their loved sons free from harm, to come back home some day. '
A GODDESS OF MERCY
JOE got back from the hospital today. Said he had never seen anything like it. Twice while he was there they were bombed. Came close, but not close enough to do any harm. Said the nurses there were God's angels on earth. They worked right through bombings and never batted an eyelash. There weren't many of them, but what there were went a long way. It was almost worth getting wounded just to get where you could see an American woman again, and to know that there was something in this war that was decent and clean.
The boy who was on the cot next to Joe's didn't have a chance. The nurse used to come to him every time he started calling for his mother. He was just a kid. It was only a question of time, a few days at the best. A high explosive shell fragment hit him right above the hip. Joe said the nurse was everything to him. When he was delirious she would pretend that she was his mother. The kid would say over and over again, "I knew you would come, mother . . . I knew You would come." And the nurse would take his hand and talk to him. She kept her head turned and was facing Joe. He saw tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept biting her lip to hold them back. Even the hard-boiled guys who lay there forgot about themselves and started pulling for the kid. But they knew it was no use-his number was up.
Joe said the way those nurses stood up under all that strain, he would never know. They would work side by side with the surgeons and then do nursing duty on top of it, until they were dead on their feet, but they still kept on going. They were the real soldiers of war to hear Joe tell it. They were in tougher spots than we were most of the time because of the constant bombing. He said that twice while be was there they were bombed at night by bombing planes, and that all you could do was lay there and pray while you waited for each bomb to bit. That enemy planes were no respecters of hospitals, any more than they were of front line objectives was proven to him, when he lay in that hospital bed flat on his back, unable to move a finger to help himself.
At that though, he said, it was worth the risk to be there, just to lie in a bed again on clean white sheets. It must be like heaven from what Joe says. Someone to bring you grub and have clean water to drink. Boy, that must be heaven, or as close to it as a soldier will ever get.
I had always thought that war was a man's game and that he was the only thing tough enough to stand up under it. Well Joe sure changed my mind about that. I know from my own experience that bombing can put more fear in you than any other form of warfare. You are helpless when in a bombing raid, and when I think of those women working right through those raids on hospitals, and never batting an eyelash, my hat is off to them.
LITTLE GRAY SISTER
How ready your smile for war's wounded things,
How brave your heart though it never sings;
How staunch your fight some life to save,
How truly you are one of war's brave,
As you sit and watch the still nights through;
And pray for some soldier you never knew.
Here in hospitals in war-shattered France,
You too are a soldier taking war's chance;
When a battle is over your fight's just begun,
You are braver than many who carried a gun.
You were mother and sweetheart,
sister and wife,
As you fight the battle of saving a life.
It was you standing by some worn surgeon's side,
Fighting to dam up life's ebbing tide;
You have no medals nor the world's
loud acclaim,
But to the soldier you nursed you will never need fame.
"Little Gray Sister" who fought clay and night,
You were "Goddess of Mercy" and a bit of all right."
A BUDDY GOES WEST'
This business of war is a strange thing. You see men drop alongside of you, coughing and threshing in the throes of death, the blood stream of their wounds gushing to the ground. Yet it does not affect you. Have we not gone for days now with death walking constantly beside us, our steadfast companion?
The whining shells overhead take on a deeper meaning. We can recognize the size of each shell by its sound. The slow turning swishing ones are gas shells. Their slow flight spells greater danger than the roaring big ones higher up. The sharp, whining minnewerfer or whizbang we hear only occasionally, then only when we are fighting at close quarters.
Strangest of all this business of killing are the presentiments or hunches that come to every man. They are uncannily accurate. Among us we say, "unless a shell has my name on it, I'll come out okay." How many of my former comrades have come to me, each with the same look on his face, to bid a last goodbye.
By some intuition deeper than science has yet probed, each man comes to know when he is to "Go West." We soon learned that we could not push these thoughts out of our mind by idle jesting. Each recurrent happening only welded deeper an undeniable truth-that there was some power greater than ours that told us when our time had come.
Less than a third of our original company was left. Casualties had been heavy. The dense underbrush and forest of the Argonne was taking heavy toll of our forces. For four years the Germans had occupied this territory. Every known device of the science of war had been concealed there waiting invading troops. More than sixty thousand Frenchmen had given their lives in an effort to capture it. They did not make a dent on this natural stronghold occupied by the enemy.
Yet there we were, green, raw troops, many of us not out of our 'teens, steadily forging ahead each day, pushing the enemy back at a frightful price of life. We moved with the slow, heavy tread of machines. Stalking through the woods, like walking automatons, we seemed to be without blood, or flesh, or heart, or soul.
On the eve of our last drive my best buddy came to me to say goodbye. We had grown up together back home. So far we bad come through this carnage unscathed. But I knew by the look on his face now that here was another hunch - that his number was up. He had been one of eight selected to go on a dangerous raiding party. He passed me a few trinkets to take back to his folks, and his words still ring in my mind.
TONIGHT I DIE
Out in the night where the cruel wire strands
Of entanglements are laid,
Tonight I shall take the hand of Death And walk with him unafraid.
The sun went down with a ruddy glare As red as the red of gore,
And I gazed at its rays with greedy eyes For me it will rise no more.
I raised my eyes to count each star And bid it a last farewell.
And the brightest one made a long gold line Across the sky as it fell.
I cannot know where we shall meet,
I and the Man called Death,
But I know I will greet him unaware And speak with my final breath.
Long have I seen his shadowed shape, Stalking across the land.
Many the friend that has stumbled out And taken him by the hand.
So the stars wheel by in my last dark sky And this is the end of strife
A watch that glows on my muddy wrist And measures away my life.
THE BOX BARRAGE
DURING the course of our fighting in the Argonne Forest we engaged in a terrific battle that nearly wiped out our company. For days we had been fighting through the heart of the central ravine of the forest steep, heavily wooded banks rose from either side of a creek bed at the bottom of the gulch. We kept pretty close to the path that had been laid out there.
Part of the time we followed the course of the stream. Then the road would rise halfway up the hill. It was at these high points that we were most cautious. For it was in such places that we afforded the best targets for enemy machine guns and snipers, lying concealed everywhere in the dense underbrush of the forest.
To avoid one such exposure, we were given orders to cut a path through the underbrush. This we did with our bayonets. Much to our surprise, we went through without being fired on. We came to a bend in the ravine. Then we could see directly ahead why we had come through without being molested.
In a little clearing in front of us was what remained of a large building. The Germans had been using it as a headquarters. One of our heavy artillery shells had made a direct hit on the roof, crushing it to the ground. The splintered wood and logs were scattered all around. The foundation, which was made of small stones, was crushed and mashed out of shape. The building, sagging there, looked like some great wounded thing waiting for first aid.
Strewn over the ground in front of the building were the bodies of many of the enemy, fully a dozen or more. God alone knew how many were buried inside the building. Many of the bodies did not have a scratch on them. Apparently they had been killed from the shock of the explosion.
Hardly had we reached this opening than we were strafed with machine gun and sniper fire. There was no place for us to go except straight up the hillside. The underbrush offered cover. Quickly we climbed to a ridge and safety near the crest of the hill. We rested there while the top-sergeant counted noses. A regimental runner came to our sergeant, giving him an order.
The order read that we were to advance to the top of the hill. There we would find an apple orchard. We were to wait there for the support of our one pound (Stokes) mortars. Then we were to advance through the orchard until we came to the top of two dugouts. This was to be our objective.
I was close by the sergeant when the order was received.
"Apple orchard," he laughed, "Well, maybe this is a new way of getting our rations."
None of us could imagine an orchard in this forest. All we had seen for days was war-blasted, blackened trees, wounded things of war. Yet when we reached the top of the hill, there was the orchard. Stretching
out for at least a mile ahead, and fully two blocks wide. We learned later that it had been planted there many years before by priests.
Our Stokes mortars came up and were placed in position. A few trial shots were fired towards the tops of two dugouts, which we could see ahead of us. The trees were scattered, and there was much open land between. We were dubious about exposing ourselves in this open country. We had been fighting in the forest long that instinctively we looked to it for protection.
Nothing happened when the trial shots were fired. We waited a few minutes. Then the sergeant gave the order to charge the hill. Spreading out in open formation as skirmishers, we took what scant protection the apple trees offered. Much to our surprise we advanced to our objective without opposition from the enemy. In view of our constant battling for the last week, this puzzled us.
We set up two light machine guns on the tops of two dugouts. To reach them we had to cut our way through about a hundred feet of old barbwire entanglements. This stopped short of the objective by about fifty feet. Between the wire and dugouts was an abandoned trench, built in the zig-zag style common to the earlier front line trenches.
Hardly were the machine guns placed when all hell broke loose. The tense silence of the last half hour turned to an inferno of war made hell; barking guns, whining shells, and the sharp zing of rifle bullets. A German airplane appeared and circled above us. The pilot made no attempt to strafe us with gunfire. In. stead he signaled our position to the German artillery. Knowing what would follow, our men took cover, seeking safety in the old trench behind us.
This was our greatest mistake. Apparently it was just as the Germans had planned it. No sooner were the men lined up in the trench than we found ourselves the center of a box barrage. To form this barrage, the enemy laid their shells down just behind the barbed wire and trench, then hemming it in on both sides, this left our from open for machine gun and rifle fire strafing.
The machine guns on top of the dugouts were manned by five men each. It was a pitiably weak comeback in exchange for the pounding we were taking from the enemy. At any moment we expected to see the Germans come popping out of the two dugouts forming our position. But this did not happen. Instead the German artillery began laying down one pound shells on top of the poor devils huddled in the trench. For them there was no escape. Those of us handling the machine guns were better off in our exposed position, even though it was worth your life to raise up and fire the guns.
There was no avenue of escape except through the barbed wire. Finally our sergeant ordered us to retreat. Then the enemy increased the intensity of their machine gun fire. Enmeshed in that treacherous wire, more than one poor devil passed on to the Great Beyond.
We were ordered to cover the retreat with the machine guns. This we did. In the meantime our one pounders came to the rescue. Reinforced with an additional battery of Stokes mortars, they took a position behind us, pounding the enemy back. Thoroughly disorganized, we fell back to a hill in the rear. After a checkup we learned that nearly ninety men of our company had been killed or wounded in the fight.
That night three of us were placed on outpost duty in the ravine below the hill that had cost us so dearly that day. We had no sooner taken our position when a sniper killed one of my two comrades. I hardly knew the men with me, for the day had been a horrible dream. It was hard to believe it had actually happened. Yet I knew it to be so. As we started to dig a shallow grave to bold the body of our dead comrade, I learned that the other soldier with me was Dago Tony. He was an undersized Italian boy, possibly twenty-eight years of age, an old timer in the company and a veteran of several battles.
Lying there the first night, we broke into confidences, as men under fire will do. We waited throughout the next day. No relief reached us. We felt we were through, and that our numbers were up; that it was only a matter of hours until we would be captured or shot out. Then the Italian boy told me his story.
TREASURES
Treasures in bits of papers,
Treasures in mines of gold,
Treasures in age-dimmed relies,
And in paintings worn and old.
Each to his way of thinking,
Has a treasure in his grasp,
I got mine from a roughneck,
It lay in a simple hand-clasp.
Up in the lines in the heat of a fight,
With the devil as our host,
He had shown us all his tricks and stunts,
In a lonely listening post.
No water, no food, no shelter,
There we had lain for days;
Wounded and slowly dying,
With our eyes beginning to glaze.
The orders had been to hold that post,
Against all odds that might come,
And we were sticking it out alone,
just me and my Dago chum.
I suppose there are those who'd call him a "wop,"
This soldier who lay there with me,
Yet he was fighting hard as I,
Who was cradled in liberty.
It was, "Whata-da-hell? let 'em a-come,
We fight 'em a-hard, you and I!
Whatsa da deeff'? It's-a all for da cause,
And somatime we moosta die.
Myself, I got da sweet-a leetla wife,
That's-a wait at home for me,
Deesa war she's-a one dam tougha game,
But we got to hava liberty."
Then Tony told me his story,
As we lay in post number four,
Why he was so willing to fight and die,
For a land he would always adore.
"When I was joosta leetla boy,
Back cena Sunny Italy,
I heara my father speak of a-thing,
That he calla da Liberty.
He tell of a country datsa paveda with gold,
Where every a-man is da same,
Where me and ever-a-boddy that try,
Has gotta da chance for da fame.
Where no king anda queen can tella you,
Joosta what you got to do,
I'ma get think' to myself,
How grand if datsa true.
So by and by, I grow up,
Beeg, stronga boy, 'bout seexteen,
And come along in a steeraga boat,
To the land of my wonderful dream.
There I find its joosta so true,
Whata papa say she's a-right,
I'ma live ina great free country,
My owna boss, every day and night.
Why evrathing is joosta so free,
You almosta like the bird,
You only worka so much each day,
Not a lika da sheep are you herd.
Den, I meet my sweet-a Marie,
An' we getta marry one day,
Then build a preety leetla home
By time, babee come to stay.
I tella you evrathing is so nice,
I'ma get along joosta fine,
Untila da Kaiz', he getta so fresh,
Joosta 'bout deesa time.
Evrathing he want to take,
Mak-a do joosta what he said,
I tella you, I no lika dat stoff,
I'ma much ratha be dead.
So I graba da gun and come along,
Lik-a all da rest who are here,
'Cause I'ma gonna fight, for a-what is right,
And-a my leetla home so dear.
Please-a wait, you lie quiet,
While I look around a beet,
But-a donta forget, to tell. Marie,
Ina case I'ma mabbe get heet
He took and shook me by the hand,
Then started out alone,
To me it brought an awakening,
To the treasure that I own.
So I'm done with material treasures,
Such as relics, mines, and things,
And treasure instead the memories,
Of love that sacrifice brings.
WE ADVANCE AGAIN
ALL about us is every evidence of a people who had led a peaceful, contented life. Small farms, no longer tilled by the plow. What had once been homes were now shells with walls standing as sentinels guarding the remains.
Town after town we have passed through in this war shattered area. Occasionally we meet French peasants, usually the old ones. They seemed resigned to their fate. In one town they called us "L' Anglaise," mistaking us for English soldiers. When we tell them that we are Americans, they look puzzled and don't seem to understand. As we advance steadily to the far frontier the few peasants we had been seeing are now conspicuous by their absence. We can hear the deep throaty booming of heavy guns, then sharper notes of lighter artillery as we get closer to the front lines.
Near the town of St. Juvin I saw a goat. "Funny," I thought, "straying all by itself. Bleating, wondering where his master is. And we not much better off. Just beaded for the lines with no master to guide us."
Tonight we billeted in a dirty pen of a barn. I am too exhausted to examine the place they told me to bunk down. I can smell the foulness of it, though. Tired as I am, I sleep through it all. It is early morning. We are told to make it on the "double-quick," that hot coffee is waiting.
"Hot coffee!" God, how long since I've tasted anything hot! We rush to the portable kitchens that had overtaken us during the night. The aroma has been taunting me for five minutes as I patiently wait my turn. Eagerly I extend my aluminum cup for some of the precious black golden liquid.
Just as I got the coffee to my lips the bugler sounded a hasty warning. Several enemy planes appeared overhead from out of nowhere. We ran for cover. Nothing happened. The planes stayed but a moment, then faded away. We could see them signaling their artillery. Hastily we started to move forward. I lost half my precious coffee and scorched my throat with the other half.
We had advanced but a short distance to another small village when we met heavy opposition from the enemy entrenched there. Quickly we took cover behind buildings and in an old dilapidated trench.
Watching the enemy ducking in and out of the wrecks of buildings that had once been homes, I could not help thinking what those houses must have meant before fate found us here. The hopes and the dreams that had built them-the sense of security the four walls gave. Yet here we were, a ruthless bunch of madmen, shooting down the remains of what bad once been homes.
VISIONS
In early morn when day is born,
Night shadows start to fade,
I gaze upon a land shell-torn,
The havoc war has made.
And as the mist begins to lift,
Dim lines of a home I see,
Then by the fate's sardonic twist,
A vision comes to me.
Instead of walls that barely stand,
Against the skylines drear,
Quaint cozy rooms I see instead,
And all that life holds dear,
As plainly as 'twere painted there
A family group I see,
Gathered around a fireside,
A child on a father's knee.
He is telling oft told tales of old,
Their childish love to endear,
A wondrous fairyland picture he paints,
With a master's stroke that is clear.
Then comes the end of this simple tale,
Rewarded by cries of delight,
Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes,
As in turn they kiss him goodnight.
Off to bed a-romping they go,
Climbing queer turning stairs,
By a crude old home-made bed
They kneel to say their prayers.
"Bless mama and papa, and give
Peace on Earth, goodwill to men;
Then as the mother tucks them in,
One shyly says, "Amen."
But now the vision fades away,
Once more by the will of fate,
From barren walls comes a war-dog,
Turning loving thoughts to hate.
From my right comes the sound of a "Browning,"
That makes my blood run chill,
My vision is gone, I stand alone ...
My business up here is to kill.
NIGHT FLARES AND RAIDING
FLARES were the bane of every night raider's life in order to get information of enemy activities it was necessary to raid their lines occasionally, capture prisoners, and get information from them. It was common practice, both with the enemy and with our troops.
Raiding parties were never held on moonlight nights. In fact, I remember but few such nights in France. We usually waited for the wettest and blackest night we could find. Then a party of three of four, sometimes six, were detailed to make the raid.
It was dangerous because we were going deep into enemy territory to capture and bring back some of their men alive. Between our lines and the enemy was a strip of land called No-Man's-Land. This had to be crossed before we could reach the enemy lines. Usually that land was well protected from invasion by barbwire entanglements and small trip wires. If we were on old territory fought over before, we would quite often find weatherworn and dilapidated trenches along with the wire.
The only way the enemy could protect himself on dark nights was to keep No-Man's-Land lit up as much as possible. This he did by shooting flares into the skies at intervals. Raids were usually held in the dead of the night. On either the enemy's side or our own, the front lines were guarded by a scattering of a few men. These men were guards. Usually they were expert marksmen or machine-gunners, which made the invasion of raiding parties all the more dangerous.
When a raiding party saw a flare go skyward, they would "freeze," or stiffen and hold their position rigidly, just like a trained hunting dog pointing a bird. Immobility was our best protection. Rigid as a statue, we had a chance of being mistaken for some of the shell shattered trees and stumps scattered over No-Man's-Land. If you made many moves you were sure to draw the attention of some enemy marksman.
The flares were just about like our home fireworks. Instead of a variety of colors they usually cast off a sickly blue-white and sometimes yellow light. They would hang poised in the air for a few seconds, then gradually fade out. The minute a flare was shot into the air you would hear the "tat-tat-tat" of machine guns. Then came the zing of sharpshooters' lead, searching human targets in No-Man's-Land.
The use of flares was a most effective protection, practiced by both sides. The sound of the machine guns is just like the cornpressed-air riveter you hear on a steel construction job.
No one thing outside of air raids could keep your heart jumping and your mind on edge, like duty on a raiding party in the deep black gloom of night.
THE FLARE
Your heart is all a-jumping and your nerves are all a-chill,
When you start to go a-raiding on a night that's dark and still;
You dare not speak in whispers, and you dare not make a sound,
When you go a-sneaking, creeping, o'er that cold war-blasted ground.
When Jerry shoots his star-shells in that war-weird night,
You are a mark for snipers shooting, your heart is filled with fright;
You lay stock-still and breathless and you pray you'll not be shot,
When his blue-white flare lights up the sky you wait for - God knows what.
Throughout a night that-is sometimes dim and sometimes lit by flare,
Through an endless age in No-Man's-Land you crawl and pray and swear;
If you live to see the dawn again you will know you learned "Out There,"
The thing that put real fear in you was Jerry's blue-white flare.
IT'S A LOUSY ARMY AT THE BEST
EVERYBODY in this man's army is getting fed up with army life. The chow is nothing to brag about. Before we hit the lines we thought it was tough, but now that we're in the lines we know that it was AAA food we had been served. Now that we are existing on dried bully beef and hard tack that pulls all the fillings from your teeth, we can appreciate what we used to grumble about. But at that it is better than an empty belly so most of us have learned to quit grumbling about the food. A certain pal of mine, Dick Coe, was always complaining about the food but today he floored me when he started his complaint against the army. Here was what was on his mind. I am the champion fall guy for these groaners.
"Without a question, Mae, this is the lousiest army I was ever in. And the worst part of it is these damn greybacks. The way they breed and multiply on a soldier beats all hell.
"Only yesterday I 'read my shirt.' Took it off and peeled to the skin. Then sat in a raw, damp wind just for the privilege of getting rid of these pests. Cleaned off every last one of them, and went through my shirt and tunic. Must have been a million eggs in the seams. Even went over my cap and leggings. It took three whole hours, Mac. When I finished I would have sworn I was the cleanest man in the A.E.F.
"Here it is less than twelve hours after, and I am alive with the crawly pests again. Wonder what it
would seem like to have a nice clean bath? To have clean underwear to crawl into? And socks that weren't rotting on your feet. And shoes that you could get into without a crowbar, and that you could lift with one hand.
,,I had all those things once. When? A thousand years ago, I guess. Remember, Mac, when we joined up? Maybe that was the time. Remember all those medals we were going to win? Then come home and show off? Knock our girls for a loop? Remember that, Mac?"
"We never thought about greybacks then, did we? Cooties, some calls them. Either way they are a pain in the neck to me. I'd like to split everyone of their cute little throats with the hot point of a razor blade. Which reminds me, I even dug them out of my hair yesterday, and one or two loose ones out of this nice red beard I am wearing.
"Wouldn't my girl think I was a cute little hero if she could see me now? Dammit, Mac, I can't stand it any longer. I am going to sit down in this damn French mud and 'read my shirt again. War or no war. I am going to get rid of these damn cooties."
COOTIES
When you are standing at attention,
And cooties bite and scratch below,
And your lousy captain bawls you out,
Ain't it bell?-Well I'll say so.
Have you ever had that itchy troop
Doing squads both East and West,
Across your tired shoulders
And underneath your vest?
Or in your helmet-sweated hair,
Or on your pain-racked shins,
The way those devils pinch and bite,
Is a climax to war's sins.
In the "lines" big generals bad them,
Every captain raised his share,
But there was plenty hell a-popping,
When a "buck" had one to spare.
You can have my flock of grey ones,
For I sure have had my fill,
And if Napoleon started this,
He's the bird I'd like to kill.
A SNIPER'S DUTY
I HAVE tried to avoid doing sniper's duty, first at camp, then in the lines. The sergeant told the captain I was a good shot. That's what comes from being raised on a ranch, spending half your time with a rifle in your hand. I didn't mind hunting then, but this is different. Or is it? After all, a life is a life - even to a dumb animal. I vow to God on high, if I am spared to come through this alive I will never fire another rifle.
I don't like this business of being hidden, lying in wait for the sight of the enemy. With these high powered rifles and telescopic sights, what chance would they have? A man is not like an animal, that can sense
danger by the powers it possesses. He cannot smell danger with the shifting of the wind. He can only guess at it, and usually he guesses wrong.
The enemy we are fighting seems to be the same as we, except that they speak another language. I notice that when we capture them there seems to be no hatred on their part - or on ours. We exchange one thought more than any other, "What are we fighting one another for, you and IF' Left alone, the average man would never think of war.
Guided by the power-crazed mind of autocrats of royal blood, or the commoner who sits in high position, we are drawn into war like puppets on a string. Puppets cannot speak their minds, not wooden puppets at least. They are managed by the hand of man pulling strings. Human puppets can speak their mind, but seldom do. Like puppets, they too are pulled on strings. Only the strings are made of words by the scant few ... words that become "hinges of death" when the puppets march to war.
These thoughts keep running through my mind as I lay here high up on the hillside, on this hidden outpost. With a high power rifle in my hand. Waiting. Waiting . . . for an enemy to come up that path which lies far below me in the valley.
My eyes are dizzy from steadily watching one spot. The dense underbrush seems to rustle in the breeze. Is it a false alarm? Or is it an enemy coming through the lines. Finally I am sure. I see a greyclad figure below me. He moves cautiously, looking about him carefully before taking a step. I draw my rifle to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sights he is as plain as though he were a few feet in front of me. I could easily kill him from here yet I hesitate to do so. But knowing war for what it is now, that it is either his life or mine, there is nothing left for me to do but pull the trigger. As I felt the heavy recoil of the rifle against my shoulder I knew that another bullet was speeding toward its mark.
I WONDER
1. wonder if my enemy, who is hunting me right now,
Was once a boy the same as I, and took a childish vow,
Never to kill a little bird, or ever rob a nest,
Always to say his prayers at night, before he went to rest.
I wonder if that hand of his that holds a sniper's gun,
Once stroked his mother's hair with love, or her face in boyish fun;
I wonder if his mother is a mother just like mine,
Who says a prayer to God each night, to keep him safe and fine.
I wonder if he thinks of me, as I am thinking too,
I wonder if be doesn't yearn, for his mother sweet and true;
I wonder if he really hates the man he hunts at war,
Or if like me he wonders just what he's fighting for.
I wonder if he sees me now, as I creep up on him,
I wonder if I'm covered by this broken half-leafed limb,
I wonder if he'll aim and fire, when I say "raise up your hands,"
I wonder if our God on high sees us and understands.
I wonder whether he or I will pay the price supreme,
When we come upon each other in this part of war's mad dream;
I wonder if our mothers, will kneel tonight and pray,
To keep their loved sons free from harm, to come back home some day. '
A GODDESS OF MERCY
JOE got back from the hospital today. Said he had never seen anything like it. Twice while he was there they were bombed. Came close, but not close enough to do any harm. Said the nurses there were God's angels on earth. They worked right through bombings and never batted an eyelash. There weren't many of them, but what there were went a long way. It was almost worth getting wounded just to get where you could see an American woman again, and to know that there was something in this war that was decent and clean.
The boy who was on the cot next to Joe's didn't have a chance. The nurse used to come to him every time he started calling for his mother. He was just a kid. It was only a question of time, a few days at the best. A high explosive shell fragment hit him right above the hip. Joe said the nurse was everything to him. When he was delirious she would pretend that she was his mother. The kid would say over and over again, "I knew you would come, mother . . . I knew You would come." And the nurse would take his hand and talk to him. She kept her head turned and was facing Joe. He saw tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept biting her lip to hold them back. Even the hard-boiled guys who lay there forgot about themselves and started pulling for the kid. But they knew it was no use-his number was up.
Joe said the way those nurses stood up under all that strain, he would never know. They would work side by side with the surgeons and then do nursing duty on top of it, until they were dead on their feet, but they still kept on going. They were the real soldiers of war to hear Joe tell it. They were in tougher spots than we were most of the time because of the constant bombing. He said that twice while be was there they were bombed at night by bombing planes, and that all you could do was lay there and pray while you waited for each bomb to bit. That enemy planes were no respecters of hospitals, any more than they were of front line objectives was proven to him, when he lay in that hospital bed flat on his back, unable to move a finger to help himself.
At that though, he said, it was worth the risk to be there, just to lie in a bed again on clean white sheets. It must be like heaven from what Joe says. Someone to bring you grub and have clean water to drink. Boy, that must be heaven, or as close to it as a soldier will ever get.
I had always thought that war was a man's game and that he was the only thing tough enough to stand up under it. Well Joe sure changed my mind about that. I know from my own experience that bombing can put more fear in you than any other form of warfare. You are helpless when in a bombing raid, and when I think of those women working right through those raids on hospitals, and never batting an eyelash, my hat is off to them.
LITTLE GRAY SISTER
How ready your smile for war's wounded things,
How brave your heart though it never sings;
How staunch your fight some life to save,
How truly you are one of war's brave,
As you sit and watch the still nights through;
And pray for some soldier you never knew.
Here in hospitals in war-shattered France,
You too are a soldier taking war's chance;
When a battle is over your fight's just begun,
You are braver than many who carried a gun.
You were mother and sweetheart,
sister and wife,
As you fight the battle of saving a life.
It was you standing by some worn surgeon's side,
Fighting to dam up life's ebbing tide;
You have no medals nor the world's
loud acclaim,
But to the soldier you nursed you will never need fame.
"Little Gray Sister" who fought clay and night,
You were "Goddess of Mercy" and a bit of all right."
A BUDDY GOES WEST'
This business of war is a strange thing. You see men drop alongside of you, coughing and threshing in the throes of death, the blood stream of their wounds gushing to the ground. Yet it does not affect you. Have we not gone for days now with death walking constantly beside us, our steadfast companion?
The whining shells overhead take on a deeper meaning. We can recognize the size of each shell by its sound. The slow turning swishing ones are gas shells. Their slow flight spells greater danger than the roaring big ones higher up. The sharp, whining minnewerfer or whizbang we hear only occasionally, then only when we are fighting at close quarters.
Strangest of all this business of killing are the presentiments or hunches that come to every man. They are uncannily accurate. Among us we say, "unless a shell has my name on it, I'll come out okay." How many of my former comrades have come to me, each with the same look on his face, to bid a last goodbye.
By some intuition deeper than science has yet probed, each man comes to know when he is to "Go West." We soon learned that we could not push these thoughts out of our mind by idle jesting. Each recurrent happening only welded deeper an undeniable truth-that there was some power greater than ours that told us when our time had come.
Less than a third of our original company was left. Casualties had been heavy. The dense underbrush and forest of the Argonne was taking heavy toll of our forces. For four years the Germans had occupied this territory. Every known device of the science of war had been concealed there waiting invading troops. More than sixty thousand Frenchmen had given their lives in an effort to capture it. They did not make a dent on this natural stronghold occupied by the enemy.
Yet there we were, green, raw troops, many of us not out of our 'teens, steadily forging ahead each day, pushing the enemy back at a frightful price of life. We moved with the slow, heavy tread of machines. Stalking through the woods, like walking automatons, we seemed to be without blood, or flesh, or heart, or soul.
On the eve of our last drive my best buddy came to me to say goodbye. We had grown up together back home. So far we bad come through this carnage unscathed. But I knew by the look on his face now that here was another hunch - that his number was up. He had been one of eight selected to go on a dangerous raiding party. He passed me a few trinkets to take back to his folks, and his words still ring in my mind.
TONIGHT I DIE
Out in the night where the cruel wire strands
Of entanglements are laid,
Tonight I shall take the hand of Death And walk with him unafraid.
The sun went down with a ruddy glare As red as the red of gore,
And I gazed at its rays with greedy eyes For me it will rise no more.
I raised my eyes to count each star And bid it a last farewell.
And the brightest one made a long gold line Across the sky as it fell.
I cannot know where we shall meet,
I and the Man called Death,
But I know I will greet him unaware And speak with my final breath.
Long have I seen his shadowed shape, Stalking across the land.
Many the friend that has stumbled out And taken him by the hand.
So the stars wheel by in my last dark sky And this is the end of strife
A watch that glows on my muddy wrist And measures away my life.
THE BOX BARRAGE
DURING the course of our fighting in the Argonne Forest we engaged in a terrific battle that nearly wiped out our company. For days we had been fighting through the heart of the central ravine of the forest steep, heavily wooded banks rose from either side of a creek bed at the bottom of the gulch. We kept pretty close to the path that had been laid out there.
Part of the time we followed the course of the stream. Then the road would rise halfway up the hill. It was at these high points that we were most cautious. For it was in such places that we afforded the best targets for enemy machine guns and snipers, lying concealed everywhere in the dense underbrush of the forest.
To avoid one such exposure, we were given orders to cut a path through the underbrush. This we did with our bayonets. Much to our surprise, we went through without being fired on. We came to a bend in the ravine. Then we could see directly ahead why we had come through without being molested.
In a little clearing in front of us was what remained of a large building. The Germans had been using it as a headquarters. One of our heavy artillery shells had made a direct hit on the roof, crushing it to the ground. The splintered wood and logs were scattered all around. The foundation, which was made of small stones, was crushed and mashed out of shape. The building, sagging there, looked like some great wounded thing waiting for first aid.
Strewn over the ground in front of the building were the bodies of many of the enemy, fully a dozen or more. God alone knew how many were buried inside the building. Many of the bodies did not have a scratch on them. Apparently they had been killed from the shock of the explosion.
Hardly had we reached this opening than we were strafed with machine gun and sniper fire. There was no place for us to go except straight up the hillside. The underbrush offered cover. Quickly we climbed to a ridge and safety near the crest of the hill. We rested there while the top-sergeant counted noses. A regimental runner came to our sergeant, giving him an order.
The order read that we were to advance to the top of the hill. There we would find an apple orchard. We were to wait there for the support of our one pound (Stokes) mortars. Then we were to advance through the orchard until we came to the top of two dugouts. This was to be our objective.
I was close by the sergeant when the order was received.
"Apple orchard," he laughed, "Well, maybe this is a new way of getting our rations."
None of us could imagine an orchard in this forest. All we had seen for days was war-blasted, blackened trees, wounded things of war. Yet when we reached the top of the hill, there was the orchard. Stretching
out for at least a mile ahead, and fully two blocks wide. We learned later that it had been planted there many years before by priests.
Our Stokes mortars came up and were placed in position. A few trial shots were fired towards the tops of two dugouts, which we could see ahead of us. The trees were scattered, and there was much open land between. We were dubious about exposing ourselves in this open country. We had been fighting in the forest long that instinctively we looked to it for protection.
Nothing happened when the trial shots were fired. We waited a few minutes. Then the sergeant gave the order to charge the hill. Spreading out in open formation as skirmishers, we took what scant protection the apple trees offered. Much to our surprise we advanced to our objective without opposition from the enemy. In view of our constant battling for the last week, this puzzled us.
We set up two light machine guns on the tops of two dugouts. To reach them we had to cut our way through about a hundred feet of old barbwire entanglements. This stopped short of the objective by about fifty feet. Between the wire and dugouts was an abandoned trench, built in the zig-zag style common to the earlier front line trenches.
Hardly were the machine guns placed when all hell broke loose. The tense silence of the last half hour turned to an inferno of war made hell; barking guns, whining shells, and the sharp zing of rifle bullets. A German airplane appeared and circled above us. The pilot made no attempt to strafe us with gunfire. In. stead he signaled our position to the German artillery. Knowing what would follow, our men took cover, seeking safety in the old trench behind us.
This was our greatest mistake. Apparently it was just as the Germans had planned it. No sooner were the men lined up in the trench than we found ourselves the center of a box barrage. To form this barrage, the enemy laid their shells down just behind the barbed wire and trench, then hemming it in on both sides, this left our from open for machine gun and rifle fire strafing.
The machine guns on top of the dugouts were manned by five men each. It was a pitiably weak comeback in exchange for the pounding we were taking from the enemy. At any moment we expected to see the Germans come popping out of the two dugouts forming our position. But this did not happen. Instead the German artillery began laying down one pound shells on top of the poor devils huddled in the trench. For them there was no escape. Those of us handling the machine guns were better off in our exposed position, even though it was worth your life to raise up and fire the guns.
There was no avenue of escape except through the barbed wire. Finally our sergeant ordered us to retreat. Then the enemy increased the intensity of their machine gun fire. Enmeshed in that treacherous wire, more than one poor devil passed on to the Great Beyond.
We were ordered to cover the retreat with the machine guns. This we did. In the meantime our one pounders came to the rescue. Reinforced with an additional battery of Stokes mortars, they took a position behind us, pounding the enemy back. Thoroughly disorganized, we fell back to a hill in the rear. After a checkup we learned that nearly ninety men of our company had been killed or wounded in the fight.
That night three of us were placed on outpost duty in the ravine below the hill that had cost us so dearly that day. We had no sooner taken our position when a sniper killed one of my two comrades. I hardly knew the men with me, for the day had been a horrible dream. It was hard to believe it had actually happened. Yet I knew it to be so. As we started to dig a shallow grave to bold the body of our dead comrade, I learned that the other soldier with me was Dago Tony. He was an undersized Italian boy, possibly twenty-eight years of age, an old timer in the company and a veteran of several battles.
Lying there the first night, we broke into confidences, as men under fire will do. We waited throughout the next day. No relief reached us. We felt we were through, and that our numbers were up; that it was only a matter of hours until we would be captured or shot out. Then the Italian boy told me his story.
TREASURES
Treasures in bits of papers,
Treasures in mines of gold,
Treasures in age-dimmed relies,
And in paintings worn and old.
Each to his way of thinking,
Has a treasure in his grasp,
I got mine from a roughneck,
It lay in a simple hand-clasp.
Up in the lines in the heat of a fight,
With the devil as our host,
He had shown us all his tricks and stunts,
In a lonely listening post.
No water, no food, no shelter,
There we had lain for days;
Wounded and slowly dying,
With our eyes beginning to glaze.
The orders had been to hold that post,
Against all odds that might come,
And we were sticking it out alone,
just me and my Dago chum.
I suppose there are those who'd call him a "wop,"
This soldier who lay there with me,
Yet he was fighting hard as I,
Who was cradled in liberty.
It was, "Whata-da-hell? let 'em a-come,
We fight 'em a-hard, you and I!
Whatsa da deeff'? It's-a all for da cause,
And somatime we moosta die.
Myself, I got da sweet-a leetla wife,
That's-a wait at home for me,
Deesa war she's-a one dam tougha game,
But we got to hava liberty."
Then Tony told me his story,
As we lay in post number four,
Why he was so willing to fight and die,
For a land he would always adore.
"When I was joosta leetla boy,
Back cena Sunny Italy,
I heara my father speak of a-thing,
That he calla da Liberty.
He tell of a country datsa paveda with gold,
Where every a-man is da same,
Where me and ever-a-boddy that try,
Has gotta da chance for da fame.
Where no king anda queen can tella you,
Joosta what you got to do,
I'ma get think' to myself,
How grand if datsa true.
So by and by, I grow up,
Beeg, stronga boy, 'bout seexteen,
And come along in a steeraga boat,
To the land of my wonderful dream.
There I find its joosta so true,
Whata papa say she's a-right,
I'ma live ina great free country,
My owna boss, every day and night.
Why evrathing is joosta so free,
You almosta like the bird,
You only worka so much each day,
Not a lika da sheep are you herd.
Den, I meet my sweet-a Marie,
An' we getta marry one day,
Then build a preety leetla home
By time, babee come to stay.
I tella you evrathing is so nice,
I'ma get along joosta fine,
Untila da Kaiz', he getta so fresh,
Joosta 'bout deesa time.
Evrathing he want to take,
Mak-a do joosta what he said,
I tella you, I no lika dat stoff,
I'ma much ratha be dead.
So I graba da gun and come along,
Lik-a all da rest who are here,
'Cause I'ma gonna fight, for a-what is right,
And-a my leetla home so dear.
Please-a wait, you lie quiet,
While I look around a beet,
But-a donta forget, to tell. Marie,
Ina case I'ma mabbe get heet
He took and shook me by the hand,
Then started out alone,
To me it brought an awakening,
To the treasure that I own.
So I'm done with material treasures,
Such as relics, mines, and things,
And treasure instead the memories,
Of love that sacrifice brings.
WE ADVANCE AGAIN
ALL about us is every evidence of a people who had led a peaceful, contented life. Small farms, no longer tilled by the plow. What had once been homes were now shells with walls standing as sentinels guarding the remains.
Town after town we have passed through in this war shattered area. Occasionally we meet French peasants, usually the old ones. They seemed resigned to their fate. In one town they called us "L' Anglaise," mistaking us for English soldiers. When we tell them that we are Americans, they look puzzled and don't seem to understand. As we advance steadily to the far frontier the few peasants we had been seeing are now conspicuous by their absence. We can hear the deep throaty booming of heavy guns, then sharper notes of lighter artillery as we get closer to the front lines.
Near the town of St. Juvin I saw a goat. "Funny," I thought, "straying all by itself. Bleating, wondering where his master is. And we not much better off. Just beaded for the lines with no master to guide us."
Tonight we billeted in a dirty pen of a barn. I am too exhausted to examine the place they told me to bunk down. I can smell the foulness of it, though. Tired as I am, I sleep through it all. It is early morning. We are told to make it on the "double-quick," that hot coffee is waiting.
"Hot coffee!" God, how long since I've tasted anything hot! We rush to the portable kitchens that had overtaken us during the night. The aroma has been taunting me for five minutes as I patiently wait my turn. Eagerly I extend my aluminum cup for some of the precious black golden liquid.
Just as I got the coffee to my lips the bugler sounded a hasty warning. Several enemy planes appeared overhead from out of nowhere. We ran for cover. Nothing happened. The planes stayed but a moment, then faded away. We could see them signaling their artillery. Hastily we started to move forward. I lost half my precious coffee and scorched my throat with the other half.
We had advanced but a short distance to another small village when we met heavy opposition from the enemy entrenched there. Quickly we took cover behind buildings and in an old dilapidated trench.
Watching the enemy ducking in and out of the wrecks of buildings that had once been homes, I could not help thinking what those houses must have meant before fate found us here. The hopes and the dreams that had built them-the sense of security the four walls gave. Yet here we were, a ruthless bunch of madmen, shooting down the remains of what bad once been homes.
VISIONS
In early morn when day is born,
Night shadows start to fade,
I gaze upon a land shell-torn,
The havoc war has made.
And as the mist begins to lift,
Dim lines of a home I see,
Then by the fate's sardonic twist,
A vision comes to me.
Instead of walls that barely stand,
Against the skylines drear,
Quaint cozy rooms I see instead,
And all that life holds dear,
As plainly as 'twere painted there
A family group I see,
Gathered around a fireside,
A child on a father's knee.
He is telling oft told tales of old,
Their childish love to endear,
A wondrous fairyland picture he paints,
With a master's stroke that is clear.
Then comes the end of this simple tale,
Rewarded by cries of delight,
Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes,
As in turn they kiss him goodnight.
Off to bed a-romping they go,
Climbing queer turning stairs,
By a crude old home-made bed
They kneel to say their prayers.
"Bless mama and papa, and give
Peace on Earth, goodwill to men;
Then as the mother tucks them in,
One shyly says, "Amen."
But now the vision fades away,
Once more by the will of fate,
From barren walls comes a war-dog,
Turning loving thoughts to hate.
From my right comes the sound of a "Browning,"
That makes my blood run chill,
My vision is gone, I stand alone ...
My business up here is to kill.
NIGHT FLARES AND RAIDING
FLARES were the bane of every night raider's life in order to get information of enemy activities it was necessary to raid their lines occasionally, capture prisoners, and get information from them. It was common practice, both with the enemy and with our troops.
Raiding parties were never held on moonlight nights. In fact, I remember but few such nights in France. We usually waited for the wettest and blackest night we could find. Then a party of three of four, sometimes six, were detailed to make the raid.
It was dangerous because we were going deep into enemy territory to capture and bring back some of their men alive. Between our lines and the enemy was a strip of land called No-Man's-Land. This had to be crossed before we could reach the enemy lines. Usually that land was well protected from invasion by barbwire entanglements and small trip wires. If we were on old territory fought over before, we would quite often find weatherworn and dilapidated trenches along with the wire.
The only way the enemy could protect himself on dark nights was to keep No-Man's-Land lit up as much as possible. This he did by shooting flares into the skies at intervals. Raids were usually held in the dead of the night. On either the enemy's side or our own, the front lines were guarded by a scattering of a few men. These men were guards. Usually they were expert marksmen or machine-gunners, which made the invasion of raiding parties all the more dangerous.
When a raiding party saw a flare go skyward, they would "freeze," or stiffen and hold their position rigidly, just like a trained hunting dog pointing a bird. Immobility was our best protection. Rigid as a statue, we had a chance of being mistaken for some of the shell shattered trees and stumps scattered over No-Man's-Land. If you made many moves you were sure to draw the attention of some enemy marksman.
The flares were just about like our home fireworks. Instead of a variety of colors they usually cast off a sickly blue-white and sometimes yellow light. They would hang poised in the air for a few seconds, then gradually fade out. The minute a flare was shot into the air you would hear the "tat-tat-tat" of machine guns. Then came the zing of sharpshooters' lead, searching human targets in No-Man's-Land.
The use of flares was a most effective protection, practiced by both sides. The sound of the machine guns is just like the cornpressed-air riveter you hear on a steel construction job.
No one thing outside of air raids could keep your heart jumping and your mind on edge, like duty on a raiding party in the deep black gloom of night.
THE FLARE
Your heart is all a-jumping and your nerves are all a-chill,
When you start to go a-raiding on a night that's dark and still;
You dare not speak in whispers, and you dare not make a sound,
When you go a-sneaking, creeping, o'er that cold war-blasted ground.
When Jerry shoots his star-shells in that war-weird night,
You are a mark for snipers shooting, your heart is filled with fright;
You lay stock-still and breathless and you pray you'll not be shot,
When his blue-white flare lights up the sky you wait for - God knows what.
Throughout a night that-is sometimes dim and sometimes lit by flare,
Through an endless age in No-Man's-Land you crawl and pray and swear;
If you live to see the dawn again you will know you learned "Out There,"
The thing that put real fear in you was Jerry's blue-white flare.
IT'S A LOUSY ARMY AT THE BEST
EVERYBODY in this man's army is getting fed up with army life. The chow is nothing to brag about. Before we hit the lines we thought it was tough, but now that we're in the lines we know that it was AAA food we had been served. Now that we are existing on dried bully beef and hard tack that pulls all the fillings from your teeth, we can appreciate what we used to grumble about. But at that it is better than an empty belly so most of us have learned to quit grumbling about the food. A certain pal of mine, Dick Coe, was always complaining about the food but today he floored me when he started his complaint against the army. Here was what was on his mind. I am the champion fall guy for these groaners.
"Without a question, Mae, this is the lousiest army I was ever in. And the worst part of it is these damn greybacks. The way they breed and multiply on a soldier beats all hell.
"Only yesterday I 'read my shirt.' Took it off and peeled to the skin. Then sat in a raw, damp wind just for the privilege of getting rid of these pests. Cleaned off every last one of them, and went through my shirt and tunic. Must have been a million eggs in the seams. Even went over my cap and leggings. It took three whole hours, Mac. When I finished I would have sworn I was the cleanest man in the A.E.F.
"Here it is less than twelve hours after, and I am alive with the crawly pests again. Wonder what it
would seem like to have a nice clean bath? To have clean underwear to crawl into? And socks that weren't rotting on your feet. And shoes that you could get into without a crowbar, and that you could lift with one hand.
,,I had all those things once. When? A thousand years ago, I guess. Remember, Mac, when we joined up? Maybe that was the time. Remember all those medals we were going to win? Then come home and show off? Knock our girls for a loop? Remember that, Mac?"
"We never thought about greybacks then, did we? Cooties, some calls them. Either way they are a pain in the neck to me. I'd like to split everyone of their cute little throats with the hot point of a razor blade. Which reminds me, I even dug them out of my hair yesterday, and one or two loose ones out of this nice red beard I am wearing.
"Wouldn't my girl think I was a cute little hero if she could see me now? Dammit, Mac, I can't stand it any longer. I am going to sit down in this damn French mud and 'read my shirt again. War or no war. I am going to get rid of these damn cooties."
COOTIES
When you are standing at attention,
And cooties bite and scratch below,
And your lousy captain bawls you out,
Ain't it bell?-Well I'll say so.
Have you ever had that itchy troop
Doing squads both East and West,
Across your tired shoulders
And underneath your vest?
Or in your helmet-sweated hair,
Or on your pain-racked shins,
The way those devils pinch and bite,
Is a climax to war's sins.
In the "lines" big generals bad them,
Every captain raised his share,
But there was plenty hell a-popping,
When a "buck" had one to spare.
You can have my flock of grey ones,
For I sure have had my fill,
And if Napoleon started this,
He's the bird I'd like to kill.
A SNIPER'S DUTY
I HAVE tried to avoid doing sniper's duty, first at camp, then in the lines. The sergeant told the captain I was a good shot. That's what comes from being raised on a ranch, spending half your time with a rifle in your hand. I didn't mind hunting then, but this is different. Or is it? After all, a life is a life - even to a dumb animal. I vow to God on high, if I am spared to come through this alive I will never fire another rifle.
I don't like this business of being hidden, lying in wait for the sight of the enemy. With these high powered rifles and telescopic sights, what chance would they have? A man is not like an animal, that can sense
danger by the powers it possesses. He cannot smell danger with the shifting of the wind. He can only guess at it, and usually he guesses wrong.
The enemy we are fighting seems to be the same as we, except that they speak another language. I notice that when we capture them there seems to be no hatred on their part - or on ours. We exchange one thought more than any other, "What are we fighting one another for, you and IF' Left alone, the average man would never think of war.
Guided by the power-crazed mind of autocrats of royal blood, or the commoner who sits in high position, we are drawn into war like puppets on a string. Puppets cannot speak their minds, not wooden puppets at least. They are managed by the hand of man pulling strings. Human puppets can speak their mind, but seldom do. Like puppets, they too are pulled on strings. Only the strings are made of words by the scant few ... words that become "hinges of death" when the puppets march to war.
These thoughts keep running through my mind as I lay here high up on the hillside, on this hidden outpost. With a high power rifle in my hand. Waiting. Waiting . . . for an enemy to come up that path which lies far below me in the valley.
My eyes are dizzy from steadily watching one spot. The dense underbrush seems to rustle in the breeze. Is it a false alarm? Or is it an enemy coming through the lines. Finally I am sure. I see a greyclad figure below me. He moves cautiously, looking about him carefully before taking a step. I draw my rifle to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sights he is as plain as though he were a few feet in front of me. I could easily kill him from here yet I hesitate to do so. But knowing war for what it is now, that it is either his life or mine, there is nothing left for me to do but pull the trigger. As I felt the heavy recoil of the rifle against my shoulder I knew that another bullet was speeding toward its mark.
I WONDER
1. wonder if my enemy, who is hunting me right now,
Was once a boy the same as I, and took a childish vow,
Never to kill a little bird, or ever rob a nest,
Always to say his prayers at night, before he went to rest.
I wonder if that hand of his that holds a sniper's gun,
Once stroked his mother's hair with love, or her face in boyish fun;
I wonder if his mother is a mother just like mine,
Who says a prayer to God each night, to keep him safe and fine.
I wonder if he thinks of me, as I am thinking too,
I wonder if be doesn't yearn, for his mother sweet and true;
I wonder if he really hates the man he hunts at war,
Or if like me he wonders just what he's fighting for.
I wonder if he sees me now, as I creep up on him,
I wonder if I'm covered by this broken half-leafed limb,
I wonder if he'll aim and fire, when I say "raise up your hands,"
I wonder if our God on high sees us and understands.
I wonder whether he or I will pay the price supreme,
When we come upon each other in this part of war's mad dream;
I wonder if our mothers, will kneel tonight and pray,
To keep their loved sons free from harm, to come back home some day. '
A GODDESS OF MERCY
JOE got back from the hospital today. Said he had never seen anything like it. Twice while he was there they were bombed. Came close, but not close enough to do any harm. Said the nurses there were God's angels on earth. They worked right through bombings and never batted an eyelash. There weren't many of them, but what there were went a long way. It was almost worth getting wounded just to get where you could see an American woman again, and to know that there was something in this war that was decent and clean.
The boy who was on the cot next to Joe's didn't have a chance. The nurse used to come to him every time he started calling for his mother. He was just a kid. It was only a question of time, a few days at the best. A high explosive shell fragment hit him right above the hip. Joe said the nurse was everything to him. When he was delirious she would pretend that she was his mother. The kid would say over and over again, "I knew you would come, mother . . . I knew You would come." And the nurse would take his hand and talk to him. She kept her head turned and was facing Joe. He saw tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept biting her lip to hold them back. Even the hard-boiled guys who lay there forgot about themselves and started pulling for the kid. But they knew it was no use-his number was up.
Joe said the way those nurses stood up under all that strain, he would never know. They would work side by side with the surgeons and then do nursing duty on top of it, until they were dead on their feet, but they still kept on going. They were the real soldiers of war to hear Joe tell it. They were in tougher spots than we were most of the time because of the constant bombing. He said that twice while be was there they were bombed at night by bombing planes, and that all you could do was lay there and pray while you waited for each bomb to bit. That enemy planes were no respecters of hospitals, any more than they were of front line objectives was proven to him, when he lay in that hospital bed flat on his back, unable to move a finger to help himself.
At that though, he said, it was worth the risk to be there, just to lie in a bed again on clean white sheets. It must be like heaven from what Joe says. Someone to bring you grub and have clean water to drink. Boy, that must be heaven, or as close to it as a soldier will ever get.
I had always thought that war was a man's game and that he was the only thing tough enough to stand up under it. Well Joe sure changed my mind about that. I know from my own experience that bombing can put more fear in you than any other form of warfare. You are helpless when in a bombing raid, and when I think of those women working right through those raids on hospitals, and never batting an eyelash, my hat is off to them.
LITTLE GRAY SISTER
How ready your smile for war's wounded things,
How brave your heart though it never sings;
How staunch your fight some life to save,
How truly you are one of war's brave,
As you sit and watch the still nights through;
And pray for some soldier you never knew.
Here in hospitals in war-shattered France,
You too are a soldier taking war's chance;
When a battle is over your fight's just begun,
You are braver than many who carried a gun.
You were mother and sweetheart,
sister and wife,
As you fight the battle of saving a life.
It was you standing by some worn surgeon's side,
Fighting to dam up life's ebbing tide;
You have no medals nor the world's
loud acclaim,
But to the soldier you nursed you will never need fame.
"Little Gray Sister" who fought clay and night,
You were "Goddess of Mercy" and a bit of all right."
A BUDDY GOES WEST'
This business of war is a strange thing. You see men drop alongside of you, coughing and threshing in the throes of death, the blood stream of their wounds gushing to the ground. Yet it does not affect you. Have we not gone for days now with death walking constantly beside us, our steadfast companion?
The whining shells overhead take on a deeper meaning. We can recognize the size of each shell by its sound. The slow turning swishing ones are gas shells. Their slow flight spells greater danger than the roaring big ones higher up. The sharp, whining minnewerfer or whizbang we hear only occasionally, then only when we are fighting at close quarters.
Strangest of all this business of killing are the presentiments or hunches that come to every man. They are uncannily accurate. Among us we say, "unless a shell has my name on it, I'll come out okay." How many of my former comrades have come to me, each with the same look on his face, to bid a last goodbye.
By some intuition deeper than science has yet probed, each man comes to know when he is to "Go West." We soon learned that we could not push these thoughts out of our mind by idle jesting. Each recurrent happening only welded deeper an undeniable truth-that there was some power greater than ours that told us when our time had come.
Less than a third of our original company was left. Casualties had been heavy. The dense underbrush and forest of the Argonne was taking heavy toll of our forces. For four years the Germans had occupied this territory. Every known device of the science of war had been concealed there waiting invading troops. More than sixty thousand Frenchmen had given their lives in an effort to capture it. They did not make a dent on this natural stronghold occupied by the enemy.
Yet there we were, green, raw troops, many of us not out of our 'teens, steadily forging ahead each day, pushing the enemy back at a frightful price of life. We moved with the slow, heavy tread of machines. Stalking through the woods, like walking automatons, we seemed to be without blood, or flesh, or heart, or soul.
On the eve of our last drive my best buddy came to me to say goodbye. We had grown up together back home. So far we bad come through this carnage unscathed. But I knew by the look on his face now that here was another hunch - that his number was up. He had been one of eight selected to go on a dangerous raiding party. He passed me a few trinkets to take back to his folks, and his words still ring in my mind.
TONIGHT I DIE
Out in the night where the cruel wire strands
Of entanglements are laid,
Tonight I shall take the hand of Death And walk with him unafraid.
The sun went down with a ruddy glare As red as the red of gore,
And I gazed at its rays with greedy eyes For me it will rise no more.
I raised my eyes to count each star And bid it a last farewell.
And the brightest one made a long gold line Across the sky as it fell.
I cannot know where we shall meet,
I and the Man called Death,
But I know I will greet him unaware And speak with my final breath.
Long have I seen his shadowed shape, Stalking across the land.
Many the friend that has stumbled out And taken him by the hand.
So the stars wheel by in my last dark sky And this is the end of strife
A watch that glows on my muddy wrist And measures away my life.
THE BOX BARRAGE
DURING the course of our fighting in the Argonne Forest we engaged in a terrific battle that nearly wiped out our company. For days we had been fighting through the heart of the central ravine of the forest steep, heavily wooded banks rose from either side of a creek bed at the bottom of the gulch. We kept pretty close to the path that had been laid out there.
Part of the time we followed the course of the stream. Then the road would rise halfway up the hill. It was at these high points that we were most cautious. For it was in such places that we afforded the best targets for enemy machine guns and snipers, lying concealed everywhere in the dense underbrush of the forest.
To avoid one such exposure, we were given orders to cut a path through the underbrush. This we did with our bayonets. Much to our surprise, we went through without being fired on. We came to a bend in the ravine. Then we could see directly ahead why we had come through without being molested.
In a little clearing in front of us was what remained of a large building. The Germans had been using it as a headquarters. One of our heavy artillery shells had made a direct hit on the roof, crushing it to the ground. The splintered wood and logs were scattered all around. The foundation, which was made of small stones, was crushed and mashed out of shape. The building, sagging there, looked like some great wounded thing waiting for first aid.
Strewn over the ground in front of the building were the bodies of many of the enemy, fully a dozen or more. God alone knew how many were buried inside the building. Many of the bodies did not have a scratch on them. Apparently they had been killed from the shock of the explosion.
Hardly had we reached this opening than we were strafed with machine gun and sniper fire. There was no place for us to go except straight up the hillside. The underbrush offered cover. Quickly we climbed to a ridge and safety near the crest of the hill. We rested there while the top-sergeant counted noses. A regimental runner came to our sergeant, giving him an order.
The order read that we were to advance to the top of the hill. There we would find an apple orchard. We were to wait there for the support of our one pound (Stokes) mortars. Then we were to advance through the orchard until we came to the top of two dugouts. This was to be our objective.
I was close by the sergeant when the order was received.
"Apple orchard," he laughed, "Well, maybe this is a new way of getting our rations."
None of us could imagine an orchard in this forest. All we had seen for days was war-blasted, blackened trees, wounded things of war. Yet when we reached the top of the hill, there was the orchard. Stretching
out for at least a mile ahead, and fully two blocks wide. We learned later that it had been planted there many years before by priests.
Our Stokes mortars came up and were placed in position. A few trial shots were fired towards the tops of two dugouts, which we could see ahead of us. The trees were scattered, and there was much open land between. We were dubious about exposing ourselves in this open country. We had been fighting in the forest long that instinctively we looked to it for protection.
Nothing happened when the trial shots were fired. We waited a few minutes. Then the sergeant gave the order to charge the hill. Spreading out in open formation as skirmishers, we took what scant protection the apple trees offered. Much to our surprise we advanced to our objective without opposition from the enemy. In view of our constant battling for the last week, this puzzled us.
We set up two light machine guns on the tops of two dugouts. To reach them we had to cut our way through about a hundred feet of old barbwire entanglements. This stopped short of the objective by about fifty feet. Between the wire and dugouts was an abandoned trench, built in the zig-zag style common to the earlier front line trenches.
Hardly were the machine guns placed when all hell broke loose. The tense silence of the last half hour turned to an inferno of war made hell; barking guns, whining shells, and the sharp zing of rifle bullets. A German airplane appeared and circled above us. The pilot made no attempt to strafe us with gunfire. In. stead he signaled our position to the German artillery. Knowing what would follow, our men took cover, seeking safety in the old trench behind us.
This was our greatest mistake. Apparently it was just as the Germans had planned it. No sooner were the men lined up in the trench than we found ourselves the center of a box barrage. To form this barrage, the enemy laid their shells down just behind the barbed wire and trench, then hemming it in on both sides, this left our from open for machine gun and rifle fire strafing.
The machine guns on top of the dugouts were manned by five men each. It was a pitiably weak comeback in exchange for the pounding we were taking from the enemy. At any moment we expected to see the Germans come popping out of the two dugouts forming our position. But this did not happen. Instead the German artillery began laying down one pound shells on top of the poor devils huddled in the trench. For them there was no escape. Those of us handling the machine guns were better off in our exposed position, even though it was worth your life to raise up and fire the guns.
There was no avenue of escape except through the barbed wire. Finally our sergeant ordered us to retreat. Then the enemy increased the intensity of their machine gun fire. Enmeshed in that treacherous wire, more than one poor devil passed on to the Great Beyond.
We were ordered to cover the retreat with the machine guns. This we did. In the meantime our one pounders came to the rescue. Reinforced with an additional battery of Stokes mortars, they took a position behind us, pounding the enemy back. Thoroughly disorganized, we fell back to a hill in the rear. After a checkup we learned that nearly ninety men of our company had been killed or wounded in the fight.
That night three of us were placed on outpost duty in the ravine below the hill that had cost us so dearly that day. We had no sooner taken our position when a sniper killed one of my two comrades. I hardly knew the men with me, for the day had been a horrible dream. It was hard to believe it had actually happened. Yet I knew it to be so. As we started to dig a shallow grave to bold the body of our dead comrade, I learned that the other soldier with me was Dago Tony. He was an undersized Italian boy, possibly twenty-eight years of age, an old timer in the company and a veteran of several battles.
Lying there the first night, we broke into confidences, as men under fire will do. We waited throughout the next day. No relief reached us. We felt we were through, and that our numbers were up; that it was only a matter of hours until we would be captured or shot out. Then the Italian boy told me his story.
TREASURES
Treasures in bits of papers,
Treasures in mines of gold,
Treasures in age-dimmed relies,
And in paintings worn and old.
Each to his way of thinking,
Has a treasure in his grasp,
I got mine from a roughneck,
It lay in a simple hand-clasp.
Up in the lines in the heat of a fight,
With the devil as our host,
He had shown us all his tricks and stunts,
In a lonely listening post.
No water, no food, no shelter,
There we had lain for days;
Wounded and slowly dying,
With our eyes beginning to glaze.
The orders had been to hold that post,
Against all odds that might come,
And we were sticking it out alone,
just me and my Dago chum.
I suppose there are those who'd call him a "wop,"
This soldier who lay there with me,
Yet he was fighting hard as I,
Who was cradled in liberty.
It was, "Whata-da-hell? let 'em a-come,
We fight 'em a-hard, you and I!
Whatsa da deeff'? It's-a all for da cause,
And somatime we moosta die.
Myself, I got da sweet-a leetla wife,
That's-a wait at home for me,
Deesa war she's-a one dam tougha game,
But we got to hava liberty."
Then Tony told me his story,
As we lay in post number four,
Why he was so willing to fight and die,
For a land he would always adore.
"When I was joosta leetla boy,
Back cena Sunny Italy,
I heara my father speak of a-thing,
That he calla da Liberty.
He tell of a country datsa paveda with gold,
Where every a-man is da same,
Where me and ever-a-boddy that try,
Has gotta da chance for da fame.
Where no king anda queen can tella you,
Joosta what you got to do,
I'ma get think' to myself,
How grand if datsa true.
So by and by, I grow up,
Beeg, stronga boy, 'bout seexteen,
And come along in a steeraga boat,
To the land of my wonderful dream.
There I find its joosta so true,
Whata papa say she's a-right,
I'ma live ina great free country,
My owna boss, every day and night.
Why evrathing is joosta so free,
You almosta like the bird,
You only worka so much each day,
Not a lika da sheep are you herd.
Den, I meet my sweet-a Marie,
An' we getta marry one day,
Then build a preety leetla home
By time, babee come to stay.
I tella you evrathing is so nice,
I'ma get along joosta fine,
Untila da Kaiz', he getta so fresh,
Joosta 'bout deesa time.
Evrathing he want to take,
Mak-a do joosta what he said,
I tella you, I no lika dat stoff,
I'ma much ratha be dead.
So I graba da gun and come along,
Lik-a all da rest who are here,
'Cause I'ma gonna fight, for a-what is right,
And-a my leetla home so dear.
Please-a wait, you lie quiet,
While I look around a beet,
But-a donta forget, to tell. Marie,
Ina case I'ma mabbe get heet
He took and shook me by the hand,
Then started out alone,
To me it brought an awakening,
To the treasure that I own.
So I'm done with material treasures,
Such as relics, mines, and things,
And treasure instead the memories,
Of love that sacrifice brings.
WE ADVANCE AGAIN
ALL about us is every evidence of a people who had led a peaceful, contented life. Small farms, no longer tilled by the plow. What had once been homes were now shells with walls standing as sentinels guarding the remains.
Town after town we have passed through in this war shattered area. Occasionally we meet French peasants, usually the old ones. They seemed resigned to their fate. In one town they called us "L' Anglaise," mistaking us for English soldiers. When we tell them that we are Americans, they look puzzled and don't seem to understand. As we advance steadily to the far frontier the few peasants we had been seeing are now conspicuous by their absence. We can hear the deep throaty booming of heavy guns, then sharper notes of lighter artillery as we get closer to the front lines.
Near the town of St. Juvin I saw a goat. "Funny," I thought, "straying all by itself. Bleating, wondering where his master is. And we not much better off. Just beaded for the lines with no master to guide us."
Tonight we billeted in a dirty pen of a barn. I am too exhausted to examine the place they told me to bunk down. I can smell the foulness of it, though. Tired as I am, I sleep through it all. It is early morning. We are told to make it on the "double-quick," that hot coffee is waiting.
"Hot coffee!" God, how long since I've tasted anything hot! We rush to the portable kitchens that had overtaken us during the night. The aroma has been taunting me for five minutes as I patiently wait my turn. Eagerly I extend my aluminum cup for some of the precious black golden liquid.
Just as I got the coffee to my lips the bugler sounded a hasty warning. Several enemy planes appeared overhead from out of nowhere. We ran for cover. Nothing happened. The planes stayed but a moment, then faded away. We could see them signaling their artillery. Hastily we started to move forward. I lost half my precious coffee and scorched my throat with the other half.
We had advanced but a short distance to another small village when we met heavy opposition from the enemy entrenched there. Quickly we took cover behind buildings and in an old dilapidated trench.
Watching the enemy ducking in and out of the wrecks of buildings that had once been homes, I could not help thinking what those houses must have meant before fate found us here. The hopes and the dreams that had built them-the sense of security the four walls gave. Yet here we were, a ruthless bunch of madmen, shooting down the remains of what bad once been homes.
VISIONS
In early morn when day is born,
Night shadows start to fade,
I gaze upon a land shell-torn,
The havoc war has made.
And as the mist begins to lift,
Dim lines of a home I see,
Then by the fate's sardonic twist,
A vision comes to me.
Instead of walls that barely stand,
Against the skylines drear,
Quaint cozy rooms I see instead,
And all that life holds dear,
As plainly as 'twere painted there
A family group I see,
Gathered around a fireside,
A child on a father's knee.
He is telling oft told tales of old,
Their childish love to endear,
A wondrous fairyland picture he paints,
With a master's stroke that is clear.
Then comes the end of this simple tale,
Rewarded by cries of delight,
Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes,
As in turn they kiss him goodnight.
Off to bed a-romping they go,
Climbing queer turning stairs,
By a crude old home-made bed
They kneel to say their prayers.
"Bless mama and papa, and give
Peace on Earth, goodwill to men;
Then as the mother tucks them in,
One shyly says, "Amen."
But now the vision fades away,
Once more by the will of fate,
From barren walls comes a war-dog,
Turning loving thoughts to hate.
From my right comes the sound of a "Browning,"
That makes my blood run chill,
My vision is gone, I stand alone ...
My business up here is to kill.
NIGHT FLARES AND RAIDING
FLARES were the bane of every night raider's life in order to get information of enemy activities it was necessary to raid their lines occasionally, capture prisoners, and get information from them. It was common practice, both with the enemy and with our troops.
Raiding parties were never held on moonlight nights. In fact, I remember but few such nights in France. We usually waited for the wettest and blackest night we could find. Then a party of three of four, sometimes six, were detailed to make the raid.
It was dangerous because we were going deep into enemy territory to capture and bring back some of their men alive. Between our lines and the enemy was a strip of land called No-Man's-Land. This had to be crossed before we could reach the enemy lines. Usually that land was well protected from invasion by barbwire entanglements and small trip wires. If we were on old territory fought over before, we would quite often find weatherworn and dilapidated trenches along with the wire.
The only way the enemy could protect himself on dark nights was to keep No-Man's-Land lit up as much as possible. This he did by shooting flares into the skies at intervals. Raids were usually held in the dead of the night. On either the enemy's side or our own, the front lines were guarded by a scattering of a few men. These men were guards. Usually they were expert marksmen or machine-gunners, which made the invasion of raiding parties all the more dangerous.
When a raiding party saw a flare go skyward, they would "freeze," or stiffen and hold their position rigidly, just like a trained hunting dog pointing a bird. Immobility was our best protection. Rigid as a statue, we had a chance of being mistaken for some of the shell shattered trees and stumps scattered over No-Man's-Land. If you made many moves you were sure to draw the attention of some enemy marksman.
The flares were just about like our home fireworks. Instead of a variety of colors they usually cast off a sickly blue-white and sometimes yellow light. They would hang poised in the air for a few seconds, then gradually fade out. The minute a flare was shot into the air you would hear the "tat-tat-tat" of machine guns. Then came the zing of sharpshooters' lead, searching human targets in No-Man's-Land.
The use of flares was a most effective protection, practiced by both sides. The sound of the machine guns is just like the cornpressed-air riveter you hear on a steel construction job.
No one thing outside of air raids could keep your heart jumping and your mind on edge, like duty on a raiding party in the deep black gloom of night.
THE FLARE
Your heart is all a-jumping and your nerves are all a-chill,
When you start to go a-raiding on a night that's dark and still;
You dare not speak in whispers, and you dare not make a sound,
When you go a-sneaking, creeping, o'er that cold war-blasted ground.
When Jerry shoots his star-shells in that war-weird night,
You are a mark for snipers shooting, your heart is filled with fright;
You lay stock-still and breathless and you pray you'll not be shot,
When his blue-white flare lights up the sky you wait for - God knows what.
Throughout a night that-is sometimes dim and sometimes lit by flare,
Through an endless age in No-Man's-Land you crawl and pray and swear;
If you live to see the dawn again you will know you learned "Out There,"
The thing that put real fear in you was Jerry's blue-white flare.
IT'S A LOUSY ARMY AT THE BEST
EVERYBODY in this man's army is getting fed up with army life. The chow is nothing to brag about. Before we hit the lines we thought it was tough, but now that we're in the lines we know that it was AAA food we had been served. Now that we are existing on dried bully beef and hard tack that pulls all the fillings from your teeth, we can appreciate what we used to grumble about. But at that it is better than an empty belly so most of us have learned to quit grumbling about the food. A certain pal of mine, Dick Coe, was always complaining about the food but today he floored me when he started his complaint against the army. Here was what was on his mind. I am the champion fall guy for these groaners.
"Without a question, Mae, this is the lousiest army I was ever in. And the worst part of it is these damn greybacks. The way they breed and multiply on a soldier beats all hell.
"Only yesterday I 'read my shirt.' Took it off and peeled to the skin. Then sat in a raw, damp wind just for the privilege of getting rid of these pests. Cleaned off every last one of them, and went through my shirt and tunic. Must have been a million eggs in the seams. Even went over my cap and leggings. It took three whole hours, Mac. When I finished I would have sworn I was the cleanest man in the A.E.F.
"Here it is less than twelve hours after, and I am alive with the crawly pests again. Wonder what it
would seem like to have a nice clean bath? To have clean underwear to crawl into? And socks that weren't rotting on your feet. And shoes that you could get into without a crowbar, and that you could lift with one hand.
,,I had all those things once. When? A thousand years ago, I guess. Remember, Mac, when we joined up? Maybe that was the time. Remember all those medals we were going to win? Then come home and show off? Knock our girls for a loop? Remember that, Mac?"
"We never thought about greybacks then, did we? Cooties, some calls them. Either way they are a pain in the neck to me. I'd like to split everyone of their cute little throats with the hot point of a razor blade. Which reminds me, I even dug them out of my hair yesterday, and one or two loose ones out of this nice red beard I am wearing.
"Wouldn't my girl think I was a cute little hero if she could see me now? Dammit, Mac, I can't stand it any longer. I am going to sit down in this damn French mud and 'read my shirt again. War or no war. I am going to get rid of these damn cooties."
COOTIES
When you are standing at attention,
And cooties bite and scratch below,
And your lousy captain bawls you out,
Ain't it bell?-Well I'll say so.
Have you ever had that itchy troop
Doing squads both East and West,
Across your tired shoulders
And underneath your vest?
Or in your helmet-sweated hair,
Or on your pain-racked shins,
The way those devils pinch and bite,
Is a climax to war's sins.
In the "lines" big generals bad them,
Every captain raised his share,
But there was plenty hell a-popping,
When a "buck" had one to spare.
You can have my flock of grey ones,
For I sure have had my fill,
And if Napoleon started this,
He's the bird I'd like to kill.
A SNIPER'S DUTY
I HAVE tried to avoid doing sniper's duty, first at camp, then in the lines. The sergeant told the captain I was a good shot. That's what comes from being raised on a ranch, spending half your time with a rifle in your hand. I didn't mind hunting then, but this is different. Or is it? After all, a life is a life - even to a dumb animal. I vow to God on high, if I am spared to come through this alive I will never fire another rifle.
I don't like this business of being hidden, lying in wait for the sight of the enemy. With these high powered rifles and telescopic sights, what chance would they have? A man is not like an animal, that can sense
danger by the powers it possesses. He cannot smell danger with the shifting of the wind. He can only guess at it, and usually he guesses wrong.
The enemy we are fighting seems to be the same as we, except that they speak another language. I notice that when we capture them there seems to be no hatred on their part - or on ours. We exchange one thought more than any other, "What are we fighting one another for, you and IF' Left alone, the average man would never think of war.
Guided by the power-crazed mind of autocrats of royal blood, or the commoner who sits in high position, we are drawn into war like puppets on a string. Puppets cannot speak their minds, not wooden puppets at least. They are managed by the hand of man pulling strings. Human puppets can speak their mind, but seldom do. Like puppets, they too are pulled on strings. Only the strings are made of words by the scant few ... words that become "hinges of death" when the puppets march to war.
These thoughts keep running through my mind as I lay here high up on the hillside, on this hidden outpost. With a high power rifle in my hand. Waiting. Waiting . . . for an enemy to come up that path which lies far below me in the valley.
My eyes are dizzy from steadily watching one spot. The dense underbrush seems to rustle in the breeze. Is it a false alarm? Or is it an enemy coming through the lines. Finally I am sure. I see a greyclad figure below me. He moves cautiously, looking about him carefully before taking a step. I draw my rifle to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sights he is as plain as though he were a few feet in front of me. I could easily kill him from here yet I hesitate to do so. But knowing war for what it is now, that it is either his life or mine, there is nothing left for me to do but pull the trigger. As I felt the heavy recoil of the rifle against my shoulder I knew that another bullet was speeding toward its mark.
I WONDER
1. wonder if my enemy, who is hunting me right now,
Was once a boy the same as I, and took a childish vow,
Never to kill a little bird, or ever rob a nest,
Always to say his prayers at night, before he went to rest.
I wonder if that hand of his that holds a sniper's gun,
Once stroked his mother's hair with love, or her face in boyish fun;
I wonder if his mother is a mother just like mine,
Who says a prayer to God each night, to keep him safe and fine.
I wonder if he thinks of me, as I am thinking too,
I wonder if be doesn't yearn, for his mother sweet and true;
I wonder if he really hates the man he hunts at war,
Or if like me he wonders just what he's fighting for.
I wonder if he sees me now, as I creep up on him,
I wonder if I'm covered by this broken half-leafed limb,
I wonder if he'll aim and fire, when I say "raise up your hands,"
I wonder if our God on high sees us and understands.
I wonder whether he or I will pay the price supreme,
When we come upon each other in this part of war's mad dream;
I wonder if our mothers, will kneel tonight and pray,
To keep their loved sons free from harm, to come back home some day. '
A GODDESS OF MERCY
JOE got back from the hospital today. Said he had never seen anything like it. Twice while he was there they were bombed. Came close, but not close enough to do any harm. Said the nurses there were God's angels on earth. They worked right through bombings and never batted an eyelash. There weren't many of them, but what there were went a long way. It was almost worth getting wounded just to get where you could see an American woman again, and to know that there was something in this war that was decent and clean.
The boy who was on the cot next to Joe's didn't have a chance. The nurse used to come to him every time he started calling for his mother. He was just a kid. It was only a question of time, a few days at the best. A high explosive shell fragment hit him right above the hip. Joe said the nurse was everything to him. When he was delirious she would pretend that she was his mother. The kid would say over and over again, "I knew you would come, mother . . . I knew You would come." And the nurse would take his hand and talk to him. She kept her head turned and was facing Joe. He saw tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept biting her lip to hold them back. Even the hard-boiled guys who lay there forgot about themselves and started pulling for the kid. But they knew it was no use-his number was up.
Joe said the way those nurses stood up under all that strain, he would never know. They would work side by side with the surgeons and then do nursing duty on top of it, until they were dead on their feet, but they still kept on going. They were the real soldiers of war to hear Joe tell it. They were in tougher spots than we were most of the time because of the constant bombing. He said that twice while be was there they were bombed at night by bombing planes, and that all you could do was lay there and pray while you waited for each bomb to bit. That enemy planes were no respecters of hospitals, any more than they were of front line objectives was proven to him, when he lay in that hospital bed flat on his back, unable to move a finger to help himself.
At that though, he said, it was worth the risk to be there, just to lie in a bed again on clean white sheets. It must be like heaven from what Joe says. Someone to bring you grub and have clean water to drink. Boy, that must be heaven, or as close to it as a soldier will ever get.
I had always thought that war was a man's game and that he was the only thing tough enough to stand up under it. Well Joe sure changed my mind about that. I know from my own experience that bombing can put more fear in you than any other form of warfare. You are helpless when in a bombing raid, and when I think of those women working right through those raids on hospitals, and never batting an eyelash, my hat is off to them.
LITTLE GRAY SISTER
How ready your smile for war's wounded things,
How brave your heart though it never sings;
How staunch your fight some life to save,
How truly you are one of war's brave,
As you sit and watch the still nights through;
And pray for some soldier you never knew.
Here in hospitals in war-shattered France,
You too are a soldier taking war's chance;
When a battle is over your fight's just begun,
You are braver than many who carried a gun.
You were mother and sweetheart,
sister and wife,
As you fight the battle of saving a life.
It was you standing by some worn surgeon's side,
Fighting to dam up life's ebbing tide;
You have no medals nor the world's
loud acclaim,
But to the soldier you nursed you will never need fame.
"Little Gray Sister" who fought clay and night,
You were "Goddess of Mercy" and a bit of all right."
A BUDDY GOES WEST'
This business of war is a strange thing. You see men drop alongside of you, coughing and threshing in the throes of death, the blood stream of their wounds gushing to the ground. Yet it does not affect you. Have we not gone for days now with death walking constantly beside us, our steadfast companion?
The whining shells overhead take on a deeper meaning. We can recognize the size of each shell by its sound. The slow turning swishing ones are gas shells. Their slow flight spells greater danger than the roaring big ones higher up. The sharp, whining minnewerfer or whizbang we hear only occasionally, then only when we are fighting at close quarters.
Strangest of all this business of killing are the presentiments or hunches that come to every man. They are uncannily accurate. Among us we say, "unless a shell has my name on it, I'll come out okay." How many of my former comrades have come to me, each with the same look on his face, to bid a last goodbye.
By some intuition deeper than science has yet probed, each man comes to know when he is to "Go West." We soon learned that we could not push these thoughts out of our mind by idle jesting. Each recurrent happening only welded deeper an undeniable truth-that there was some power greater than ours that told us when our time had come.
Less than a third of our original company was left. Casualties had been heavy. The dense underbrush and forest of the Argonne was taking heavy toll of our forces. For four years the Germans had occupied this territory. Every known device of the science of war had been concealed there waiting invading troops. More than sixty thousand Frenchmen had given their lives in an effort to capture it. They did not make a dent on this natural stronghold occupied by the enemy.
Yet there we were, green, raw troops, many of us not out of our 'teens, steadily forging ahead each day, pushing the enemy back at a frightful price of life. We moved with the slow, heavy tread of machines. Stalking through the woods, like walking automatons, we seemed to be without blood, or flesh, or heart, or soul.
On the eve of our last drive my best buddy came to me to say goodbye. We had grown up together back home. So far we bad come through this carnage unscathed. But I knew by the look on his face now that here was another hunch - that his number was up. He had been one of eight selected to go on a dangerous raiding party. He passed me a few trinkets to take back to his folks, and his words still ring in my mind.
TONIGHT I DIE
Out in the night where the cruel wire strands
Of entanglements are laid,
Tonight I shall take the hand of Death And walk with him unafraid.
The sun went down with a ruddy glare As red as the red of gore,
And I gazed at its rays with greedy eyes For me it will rise no more.
I raised my eyes to count each star And bid it a last farewell.
And the brightest one made a long gold line Across the sky as it fell.
I cannot know where we shall meet,
I and the Man called Death,
But I know I will greet him unaware And speak with my final breath.
Long have I seen his shadowed shape, Stalking across the land.
Many the friend that has stumbled out And taken him by the hand.
So the stars wheel by in my last dark sky And this is the end of strife
A watch that glows on my muddy wrist And measures away my life.
THE BOX BARRAGE
DURING the course of our fighting in the Argonne Forest we engaged in a terrific battle that nearly wiped out our company. For days we had been fighting through the heart of the central ravine of the forest steep, heavily wooded banks rose from either side of a creek bed at the bottom of the gulch. We kept pretty close to the path that had been laid out there.
Part of the time we followed the course of the stream. Then the road would rise halfway up the hill. It was at these high points that we were most cautious. For it was in such places that we afforded the best targets for enemy machine guns and snipers, lying concealed everywhere in the dense underbrush of the forest.
To avoid one such exposure, we were given orders to cut a path through the underbrush. This we did with our bayonets. Much to our surprise, we went through without being fired on. We came to a bend in the ravine. Then we could see directly ahead why we had come through without being molested.
In a little clearing in front of us was what remained of a large building. The Germans had been using it as a headquarters. One of our heavy artillery shells had made a direct hit on the roof, crushing it to the ground. The splintered wood and logs were scattered all around. The foundation, which was made of small stones, was crushed and mashed out of shape. The building, sagging there, looked like some great wounded thing waiting for first aid.
Strewn over the ground in front of the building were the bodies of many of the enemy, fully a dozen or more. God alone knew how many were buried inside the building. Many of the bodies did not have a scratch on them. Apparently they had been killed from the shock of the explosion.
Hardly had we reached this opening than we were strafed with machine gun and sniper fire. There was no place for us to go except straight up the hillside. The underbrush offered cover. Quickly we climbed to a ridge and safety near the crest of the hill. We rested there while the top-sergeant counted noses. A regimental runner came to our sergeant, giving him an order.
The order read that we were to advance to the top of the hill. There we would find an apple orchard. We were to wait there for the support of our one pound (Stokes) mortars. Then we were to advance through the orchard until we came to the top of two dugouts. This was to be our objective.
I was close by the sergeant when the order was received.
"Apple orchard," he laughed, "Well, maybe this is a new way of getting our rations."
None of us could imagine an orchard in this forest. All we had seen for days was war-blasted, blackened trees, wounded things of war. Yet when we reached the top of the hill, there was the orchard. Stretching
out for at least a mile ahead, and fully two blocks wide. We learned later that it had been planted there many years before by priests.
Our Stokes mortars came up and were placed in position. A few trial shots were fired towards the tops of two dugouts, which we could see ahead of us. The trees were scattered, and there was much open land between. We were dubious about exposing ourselves in this open country. We had been fighting in the forest long that instinctively we looked to it for protection.
Nothing happened when the trial shots were fired. We waited a few minutes. Then the sergeant gave the order to charge the hill. Spreading out in open formation as skirmishers, we took what scant protection the apple trees offered. Much to our surprise we advanced to our objective without opposition from the enemy. In view of our constant battling for the last week, this puzzled us.
We set up two light machine guns on the tops of two dugouts. To reach them we had to cut our way through about a hundred feet of old barbwire entanglements. This stopped short of the objective by about fifty feet. Between the wire and dugouts was an abandoned trench, built in the zig-zag style common to the earlier front line trenches.
Hardly were the machine guns placed when all hell broke loose. The tense silence of the last half hour turned to an inferno of war made hell; barking guns, whining shells, and the sharp zing of rifle bullets. A German airplane appeared and circled above us. The pilot made no attempt to strafe us with gunfire. In. stead he signaled our position to the German artillery. Knowing what would follow, our men took cover, seeking safety in the old trench behind us.
This was our greatest mistake. Apparently it was just as the Germans had planned it. No sooner were the men lined up in the trench than we found ourselves the center of a box barrage. To form this barrage, the enemy laid their shells down just behind the barbed wire and trench, then hemming it in on both sides, this left our from open for machine gun and rifle fire strafing.
The machine guns on top of the dugouts were manned by five men each. It was a pitiably weak comeback in exchange for the pounding we were taking from the enemy. At any moment we expected to see the Germans come popping out of the two dugouts forming our position. But this did not happen. Instead the German artillery began laying down one pound shells on top of the poor devils huddled in the trench. For them there was no escape. Those of us handling the machine guns were better off in our exposed position, even though it was worth your life to raise up and fire the guns.
There was no avenue of escape except through the barbed wire. Finally our sergeant ordered us to retreat. Then the enemy increased the intensity of their machine gun fire. Enmeshed in that treacherous wire, more than one poor devil passed on to the Great Beyond.
We were ordered to cover the retreat with the machine guns. This we did. In the meantime our one pounders came to the rescue. Reinforced with an additional battery of Stokes mortars, they took a position behind us, pounding the enemy back. Thoroughly disorganized, we fell back to a hill in the rear. After a checkup we learned that nearly ninety men of our company had been killed or wounded in the fight.
That night three of us were placed on outpost duty in the ravine below the hill that had cost us so dearly that day. We had no sooner taken our position when a sniper killed one of my two comrades. I hardly knew the men with me, for the day had been a horrible dream. It was hard to believe it had actually happened. Yet I knew it to be so. As we started to dig a shallow grave to bold the body of our dead comrade, I learned that the other soldier with me was Dago Tony. He was an undersized Italian boy, possibly twenty-eight years of age, an old timer in the company and a veteran of several battles.
Lying there the first night, we broke into confidences, as men under fire will do. We waited throughout the next day. No relief reached us. We felt we were through, and that our numbers were up; that it was only a matter of hours until we would be captured or shot out. Then the Italian boy told me his story.
TREASURES
Treasures in bits of papers,
Treasures in mines of gold,
Treasures in age-dimmed relies,
And in paintings worn and old.
Each to his way of thinking,
Has a treasure in his grasp,
I got mine from a roughneck,
It lay in a simple hand-clasp.
Up in the lines in the heat of a fight,
With the devil as our host,
He had shown us all his tricks and stunts,
In a lonely listening post.
No water, no food, no shelter,
There we had lain for days;
Wounded and slowly dying,
With our eyes beginning to glaze.
The orders had been to hold that post,
Against all odds that might come,
And we were sticking it out alone,
just me and my Dago chum.
I suppose there are those who'd call him a "wop,"
This soldier who lay there with me,
Yet he was fighting hard as I,
Who was cradled in liberty.
It was, "Whata-da-hell? let 'em a-come,
We fight 'em a-hard, you and I!
Whatsa da deeff'? It's-a all for da cause,
And somatime we moosta die.
Myself, I got da sweet-a leetla wife,
That's-a wait at home for me,
Deesa war she's-a one dam tougha game,
But we got to hava liberty."
Then Tony told me his story,
As we lay in post number four,
Why he was so willing to fight and die,
For a land he would always adore.
"When I was joosta leetla boy,
Back cena Sunny Italy,
I heara my father speak of a-thing,
That he calla da Liberty.
He tell of a country datsa paveda with gold,
Where every a-man is da same,
Where me and ever-a-boddy that try,
Has gotta da chance for da fame.
Where no king anda queen can tella you,
Joosta what you got to do,
I'ma get think' to myself,
How grand if datsa true.
So by and by, I grow up,
Beeg, stronga boy, 'bout seexteen,
And come along in a steeraga boat,
To the land of my wonderful dream.
There I find its joosta so true,
Whata papa say she's a-right,
I'ma live ina great free country,
My owna boss, every day and night.
Why evrathing is joosta so free,
You almosta like the bird,
You only worka so much each day,
Not a lika da sheep are you herd.
Den, I meet my sweet-a Marie,
An' we getta marry one day,
Then build a preety leetla home
By time, babee come to stay.
I tella you evrathing is so nice,
I'ma get along joosta fine,
Untila da Kaiz', he getta so fresh,
Joosta 'bout deesa time.
Evrathing he want to take,
Mak-a do joosta what he said,
I tella you, I no lika dat stoff,
I'ma much ratha be dead.
So I graba da gun and come along,
Lik-a all da rest who are here,
'Cause I'ma gonna fight, for a-what is right,
And-a my leetla home so dear.
Please-a wait, you lie quiet,
While I look around a beet,
But-a donta forget, to tell. Marie,
Ina case I'ma mabbe get heet
He took and shook me by the hand,
Then started out alone,
To me it brought an awakening,
To the treasure that I own.
So I'm done with material treasures,
Such as relics, mines, and things,
And treasure instead the memories,
Of love that sacrifice brings.
WE ADVANCE AGAIN
ALL about us is every evidence of a people who had led a peaceful, contented life. Small farms, no longer tilled by the plow. What had once been homes were now shells with walls standing as sentinels guarding the remains.
Town after town we have passed through in this war shattered area. Occasionally we meet French peasants, usually the old ones. They seemed resigned to their fate. In one town they called us "L' Anglaise," mistaking us for English soldiers. When we tell them that we are Americans, they look puzzled and don't seem to understand. As we advance steadily to the far frontier the few peasants we had been seeing are now conspicuous by their absence. We can hear the deep throaty booming of heavy guns, then sharper notes of lighter artillery as we get closer to the front lines.
Near the town of St. Juvin I saw a goat. "Funny," I thought, "straying all by itself. Bleating, wondering where his master is. And we not much better off. Just beaded for the lines with no master to guide us."
Tonight we billeted in a dirty pen of a barn. I am too exhausted to examine the place they told me to bunk down. I can smell the foulness of it, though. Tired as I am, I sleep through it all. It is early morning. We are told to make it on the "double-quick," that hot coffee is waiting.
"Hot coffee!" God, how long since I've tasted anything hot! We rush to the portable kitchens that had overtaken us during the night. The aroma has been taunting me for five minutes as I patiently wait my turn. Eagerly I extend my aluminum cup for some of the precious black golden liquid.
Just as I got the coffee to my lips the bugler sounded a hasty warning. Several enemy planes appeared overhead from out of nowhere. We ran for cover. Nothing happened. The planes stayed but a moment, then faded away. We could see them signaling their artillery. Hastily we started to move forward. I lost half my precious coffee and scorched my throat with the other half.
We had advanced but a short distance to another small village when we met heavy opposition from the enemy entrenched there. Quickly we took cover behind buildings and in an old dilapidated trench.
Watching the enemy ducking in and out of the wrecks of buildings that had once been homes, I could not help thinking what those houses must have meant before fate found us here. The hopes and the dreams that had built them-the sense of security the four walls gave. Yet here we were, a ruthless bunch of madmen, shooting down the remains of what bad once been homes.
VISIONS
In early morn when day is born,
Night shadows start to fade,
I gaze upon a land shell-torn,
The havoc war has made.
And as the mist begins to lift,
Dim lines of a home I see,
Then by the fate's sardonic twist,
A vision comes to me.
Instead of walls that barely stand,
Against the skylines drear,
Quaint cozy rooms I see instead,
And all that life holds dear,
As plainly as 'twere painted there
A family group I see,
Gathered around a fireside,
A child on a father's knee.
He is telling oft told tales of old,
Their childish love to endear,
A wondrous fairyland picture he paints,
With a master's stroke that is clear.
Then comes the end of this simple tale,
Rewarded by cries of delight,
Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes,
As in turn they kiss him goodnight.
Off to bed a-romping they go,
Climbing queer turning stairs,
By a crude old home-made bed
They kneel to say their prayers.
"Bless mama and papa, and give
Peace on Earth, goodwill to men;
Then as the mother tucks them in,
One shyly says, "Amen."
But now the vision fades away,
Once more by the will of fate,
From barren walls comes a war-dog,
Turning loving thoughts to hate.
From my right comes the sound of a "Browning,"
That makes my blood run chill,
My vision is gone, I stand alone ...
My business up here is to kill.
NIGHT FLARES AND RAIDING
FLARES were the bane of every night raider's life in order to get information of enemy activities it was necessary to raid their lines occasionally, capture prisoners, and get information from them. It was common practice, both with the enemy and with our troops.
Raiding parties were never held on moonlight nights. In fact, I remember but few such nights in France. We usually waited for the wettest and blackest night we could find. Then a party of three of four, sometimes six, were detailed to make the raid.
It was dangerous because we were going deep into enemy territory to capture and bring back some of their men alive. Between our lines and the enemy was a strip of land called No-Man's-Land. This had to be crossed before we could reach the enemy lines. Usually that land was well protected from invasion by barbwire entanglements and small trip wires. If we were on old territory fought over before, we would quite often find weatherworn and dilapidated trenches along with the wire.
The only way the enemy could protect himself on dark nights was to keep No-Man's-Land lit up as much as possible. This he did by shooting flares into the skies at intervals. Raids were usually held in the dead of the night. On either the enemy's side or our own, the front lines were guarded by a scattering of a few men. These men were guards. Usually they were expert marksmen or machine-gunners, which made the invasion of raiding parties all the more dangerous.
When a raiding party saw a flare go skyward, they would "freeze," or stiffen and hold their position rigidly, just like a trained hunting dog pointing a bird. Immobility was our best protection. Rigid as a statue, we had a chance of being mistaken for some of the shell shattered trees and stumps scattered over No-Man's-Land. If you made many moves you were sure to draw the attention of some enemy marksman.
The flares were just about like our home fireworks. Instead of a variety of colors they usually cast off a sickly blue-white and sometimes yellow light. They would hang poised in the air for a few seconds, then gradually fade out. The minute a flare was shot into the air you would hear the "tat-tat-tat" of machine guns. Then came the zing of sharpshooters' lead, searching human targets in No-Man's-Land.
The use of flares was a most effective protection, practiced by both sides. The sound of the machine guns is just like the cornpressed-air riveter you hear on a steel construction job.
No one thing outside of air raids could keep your heart jumping and your mind on edge, like duty on a raiding party in the deep black gloom of night.
THE FLARE
Your heart is all a-jumping and your nerves are all a-chill,
When you start to go a-raiding on a night that's dark and still;
You dare not speak in whispers, and you dare not make a sound,
When you go a-sneaking, creeping, o'er that cold war-blasted ground.
When Jerry shoots his star-shells in that war-weird night,
You are a mark for snipers shooting, your heart is filled with fright;
You lay stock-still and breathless and you pray you'll not be shot,
When his blue-white flare lights up the sky you wait for - God knows what.
Throughout a night that-is sometimes dim and sometimes lit by flare,
Through an endless age in No-Man's-Land you crawl and pray and swear;
If you live to see the dawn again you will know you learned "Out There,"
The thing that put real fear in you was Jerry's blue-white flare.
IT'S A LOUSY ARMY AT THE BEST
EVERYBODY in this man's army is getting fed up with army life. The chow is nothing to brag about. Before we hit the lines we thought it was tough, but now that we're in the lines we know that it was AAA food we had been served. Now that we are existing on dried bully beef and hard tack that pulls all the fillings from your teeth, we can appreciate what we used to grumble about. But at that it is better than an empty belly so most of us have learned to quit grumbling about the food. A certain pal of mine, Dick Coe, was always complaining about the food but today he floored me when he started his complaint against the army. Here was what was on his mind. I am the champion fall guy for these groaners.
"Without a question, Mae, this is the lousiest army I was ever in. And the worst part of it is these damn greybacks. The way they breed and multiply on a soldier beats all hell.
"Only yesterday I 'read my shirt.' Took it off and peeled to the skin. Then sat in a raw, damp wind just for the privilege of getting rid of these pests. Cleaned off every last one of them, and went through my shirt and tunic. Must have been a million eggs in the seams. Even went over my cap and leggings. It took three whole hours, Mac. When I finished I would have sworn I was the cleanest man in the A.E.F.
"Here it is less than twelve hours after, and I am alive with the crawly pests again. Wonder what it
would seem like to have a nice clean bath? To have clean underwear to crawl into? And socks that weren't rotting on your feet. And shoes that you could get into without a crowbar, and that you could lift with one hand.
,,I had all those things once. When? A thousand years ago, I guess. Remember, Mac, when we joined up? Maybe that was the time. Remember all those medals we were going to win? Then come home and show off? Knock our girls for a loop? Remember that, Mac?"
"We never thought about greybacks then, did we? Cooties, some calls them. Either way they are a pain in the neck to me. I'd like to split everyone of their cute little throats with the hot point of a razor blade. Which reminds me, I even dug them out of my hair yesterday, and one or two loose ones out of this nice red beard I am wearing.
"Wouldn't my girl think I was a cute little hero if she could see me now? Dammit, Mac, I can't stand it any longer. I am going to sit down in this damn French mud and 'read my shirt again. War or no war. I am going to get rid of these damn cooties."
COOTIES
When you are standing at attention,
And cooties bite and scratch below,
And your lousy captain bawls you out,
Ain't it bell?-Well I'll say so.
Have you ever had that itchy troop
Doing squads both East and West,
Across your tired shoulders
And underneath your vest?
Or in your helmet-sweated hair,
Or on your pain-racked shins,
The way those devils pinch and bite,
Is a climax to war's sins.
In the "lines" big generals bad them,
Every captain raised his share,
But there was plenty hell a-popping,
When a "buck" had one to spare.
You can have my flock of grey ones,
For I sure have had my fill,
And if Napoleon started this,
He's the bird I'd like to kill.
A SNIPER'S DUTY
I HAVE tried to avoid doing sniper's duty, first at camp, then in the lines. The sergeant told the captain I was a good shot. That's what comes from being raised on a ranch, spending half your time with a rifle in your hand. I didn't mind hunting then, but this is different. Or is it? After all, a life is a life - even to a dumb animal. I vow to God on high, if I am spared to come through this alive I will never fire another rifle.
I don't like this business of being hidden, lying in wait for the sight of the enemy. With these high powered rifles and telescopic sights, what chance would they have? A man is not like an animal, that can sense
danger by the powers it possesses. He cannot smell danger with the shifting of the wind. He can only guess at it, and usually he guesses wrong.
The enemy we are fighting seems to be the same as we, except that they speak another language. I notice that when we capture them there seems to be no hatred on their part - or on ours. We exchange one thought more than any other, "What are we fighting one another for, you and IF' Left alone, the average man would never think of war.
Guided by the power-crazed mind of autocrats of royal blood, or the commoner who sits in high position, we are drawn into war like puppets on a string. Puppets cannot speak their minds, not wooden puppets at least. They are managed by the hand of man pulling strings. Human puppets can speak their mind, but seldom do. Like puppets, they too are pulled on strings. Only the strings are made of words by the scant few ... words that become "hinges of death" when the puppets march to war.
These thoughts keep running through my mind as I lay here high up on the hillside, on this hidden outpost. With a high power rifle in my hand. Waiting. Waiting . . . for an enemy to come up that path which lies far below me in the valley.
My eyes are dizzy from steadily watching one spot. The dense underbrush seems to rustle in the breeze. Is it a false alarm? Or is it an enemy coming through the lines. Finally I am sure. I see a greyclad figure below me. He moves cautiously, looking about him carefully before taking a step. I draw my rifle to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sights he is as plain as though he were a few feet in front of me. I could easily kill him from here yet I hesitate to do so. But knowing war for what it is now, that it is either his life or mine, there is nothing left for me to do but pull the trigger. As I felt the heavy recoil of the rifle against my shoulder I knew that another bullet was speeding toward its mark.
I WONDER
1. wonder if my enemy, who is hunting me right now,
Was once a boy the same as I, and took a childish vow,
Never to kill a little bird, or ever rob a nest,
Always to say his prayers at night, before he went to rest.
I wonder if that hand of his that holds a sniper's gun,
Once stroked his mother's hair with love, or her face in boyish fun;
I wonder if his mother is a mother just like mine,
Who says a prayer to God each night, to keep him safe and fine.
I wonder if he thinks of me, as I am thinking too,
I wonder if be doesn't yearn, for his mother sweet and true;
I wonder if he really hates the man he hunts at war,
Or if like me he wonders just what he's fighting for.
I wonder if he sees me now, as I creep up on him,
I wonder if I'm covered by this broken half-leafed limb,
I wonder if he'll aim and fire, when I say "raise up your hands,"
I wonder if our God on high sees us and understands.
I wonder whether he or I will pay the price supreme,
When we come upon each other in this part of war's mad dream;
I wonder if our mothers, will kneel tonight and pray,
To keep their loved sons free from harm, to come back home some day. '
A GODDESS OF MERCY
JOE got back from the hospital today. Said he had never seen anything like it. Twice while he was there they were bombed. Came close, but not close enough to do any harm. Said the nurses there were God's angels on earth. They worked right through bombings and never batted an eyelash. There weren't many of them, but what there were went a long way. It was almost worth getting wounded just to get where you could see an American woman again, and to know that there was something in this war that was decent and clean.
The boy who was on the cot next to Joe's didn't have a chance. The nurse used to come to him every time he started calling for his mother. He was just a kid. It was only a question of time, a few days at the best. A high explosive shell fragment hit him right above the hip. Joe said the nurse was everything to him. When he was delirious she would pretend that she was his mother. The kid would say over and over again, "I knew you would come, mother . . . I knew You would come." And the nurse would take his hand and talk to him. She kept her head turned and was facing Joe. He saw tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept biting her lip to hold them back. Even the hard-boiled guys who lay there forgot about themselves and started pulling for the kid. But they knew it was no use-his number was up.
Joe said the way those nurses stood up under all that strain, he would never know. They would work side by side with the surgeons and then do nursing duty on top of it, until they were dead on their feet, but they still kept on going. They were the real soldiers of war to hear Joe tell it. They were in tougher spots than we were most of the time because of the constant bombing. He said that twice while be was there they were bombed at night by bombing planes, and that all you could do was lay there and pray while you waited for each bomb to bit. That enemy planes were no respecters of hospitals, any more than they were of front line objectives was proven to him, when he lay in that hospital bed flat on his back, unable to move a finger to help himself.
At that though, he said, it was worth the risk to be there, just to lie in a bed again on clean white sheets. It must be like heaven from what Joe says. Someone to bring you grub and have clean water to drink. Boy, that must be heaven, or as close to it as a soldier will ever get.
I had always thought that war was a man's game and that he was the only thing tough enough to stand up under it. Well Joe sure changed my mind about that. I know from my own experience that bombing can put more fear in you than any other form of warfare. You are helpless when in a bombing raid, and when I think of those women working right through those raids on hospitals, and never batting an eyelash, my hat is off to them.
LITTLE GRAY SISTER
How ready your smile for war's wounded things,
How brave your heart though it never sings;
How staunch your fight some life to save,
How truly you are one of war's brave,
As you sit and watch the still nights through;
And pray for some soldier you never knew.
Here in hospitals in war-shattered France,
You too are a soldier taking war's chance;
When a battle is over your fight's just begun,
You are braver than many who carried a gun.
You were mother and sweetheart,
sister and wife,
As you fight the battle of saving a life.
It was you standing by some worn surgeon's side,
Fighting to dam up life's ebbing tide;
You have no medals nor the world's
loud acclaim,
But to the soldier you nursed you will never need fame.
"Little Gray Sister" who fought clay and night,
You were "Goddess of Mercy" and a bit of all right."
A BUDDY GOES WEST'
This business of war is a strange thing. You see men drop alongside of you, coughing and threshing in the throes of death, the blood stream of their wounds gushing to the ground. Yet it does not affect you. Have we not gone for days now with death walking constantly beside us, our steadfast companion?
The whining shells overhead take on a deeper meaning. We can recognize the size of each shell by its sound. The slow turning swishing ones are gas shells. Their slow flight spells greater danger than the roaring big ones higher up. The sharp, whining minnewerfer or whizbang we hear only occasionally, then only when we are fighting at close quarters.
Strangest of all this business of killing are the presentiments or hunches that come to every man. They are uncannily accurate. Among us we say, "unless a shell has my name on it, I'll come out okay." How many of my former comrades have come to me, each with the same look on his face, to bid a last goodbye.
By some intuition deeper than science has yet probed, each man comes to know when he is to "Go West." We soon learned that we could not push these thoughts out of our mind by idle jesting. Each recurrent happening only welded deeper an undeniable truth-that there was some power greater than ours that told us when our time had come.
Less than a third of our original company was left. Casualties had been heavy. The dense underbrush and forest of the Argonne was taking heavy toll of our forces. For four years the Germans had occupied this territory. Every known device of the science of war had been concealed there waiting invading troops. More than sixty thousand Frenchmen had given their lives in an effort to capture it. They did not make a dent on this natural stronghold occupied by the enemy.
Yet there we were, green, raw troops, many of us not out of our 'teens, steadily forging ahead each day, pushing the enemy back at a frightful price of life. We moved with the slow, heavy tread of machines. Stalking through the woods, like walking automatons, we seemed to be without blood, or flesh, or heart, or soul.
On the eve of our last drive my best buddy came to me to say goodbye. We had grown up together back home. So far we bad come through this carnage unscathed. But I knew by the look on his face now that here was another hunch - that his number was up. He had been one of eight selected to go on a dangerous raiding party. He passed me a few trinkets to take back to his folks, and his words still ring in my mind.
TONIGHT I DIE
Out in the night where the cruel wire strands
Of entanglements are laid,
Tonight I shall take the hand of Death And walk with him unafraid.
The sun went down with a ruddy glare As red as the red of gore,
And I gazed at its rays with greedy eyes For me it will rise no more.
I raised my eyes to count each star And bid it a last farewell.
And the brightest one made a long gold line Across the sky as it fell.
I cannot know where we shall meet,
I and the Man called Death,
But I know I will greet him unaware And speak with my final breath.
Long have I seen his shadowed shape, Stalking across the land.
Many the friend that has stumbled out And taken him by the hand.
So the stars wheel by in my last dark sky And this is the end of strife
A watch that glows on my muddy wrist And measures away my life.
THE BOX BARRAGE
DURING the course of our fighting in the Argonne Forest we engaged in a terrific battle that nearly wiped out our company. For days we had been fighting through the heart of the central ravine of the forest steep, heavily wooded banks rose from either side of a creek bed at the bottom of the gulch. We kept pretty close to the path that had been laid out there.
Part of the time we followed the course of the stream. Then the road would rise halfway up the hill. It was at these high points that we were most cautious. For it was in such places that we afforded the best targets for enemy machine guns and snipers, lying concealed everywhere in the dense underbrush of the forest.
To avoid one such exposure, we were given orders to cut a path through the underbrush. This we did with our bayonets. Much to our surprise, we went through without being fired on. We came to a bend in the ravine. Then we could see directly ahead why we had come through without being molested.
In a little clearing in front of us was what remained of a large building. The Germans had been using it as a headquarters. One of our heavy artillery shells had made a direct hit on the roof, crushing it to the ground. The splintered wood and logs were scattered all around. The foundation, which was made of small stones, was crushed and mashed out of shape. The building, sagging there, looked like some great wounded thing waiting for first aid.
Strewn over the ground in front of the building were the bodies of many of the enemy, fully a dozen or more. God alone knew how many were buried inside the building. Many of the bodies did not have a scratch on them. Apparently they had been killed from the shock of the explosion.
Hardly had we reached this opening than we were strafed with machine gun and sniper fire. There was no place for us to go except straight up the hillside. The underbrush offered cover. Quickly we climbed to a ridge and safety near the crest of the hill. We rested there while the top-sergeant counted noses. A regimental runner came to our sergeant, giving him an order.
The order read that we were to advance to the top of the hill. There we would find an apple orchard. We were to wait there for the support of our one pound (Stokes) mortars. Then we were to advance through the orchard until we came to the top of two dugouts. This was to be our objective.
I was close by the sergeant when the order was received.
"Apple orchard," he laughed, "Well, maybe this is a new way of getting our rations."
None of us could imagine an orchard in this forest. All we had seen for days was war-blasted, blackened trees, wounded things of war. Yet when we reached the top of the hill, there was the orchard. Stretching
out for at least a mile ahead, and fully two blocks wide. We learned later that it had been planted there many years before by priests.
Our Stokes mortars came up and were placed in position. A few trial shots were fired towards the tops of two dugouts, which we could see ahead of us. The trees were scattered, and there was much open land between. We were dubious about exposing ourselves in this open country. We had been fighting in the forest long that instinctively we looked to it for protection.
Nothing happened when the trial shots were fired. We waited a few minutes. Then the sergeant gave the order to charge the hill. Spreading out in open formation as skirmishers, we took what scant protection the apple trees offered. Much to our surprise we advanced to our objective without opposition from the enemy. In view of our constant battling for the last week, this puzzled us.
We set up two light machine guns on the tops of two dugouts. To reach them we had to cut our way through about a hundred feet of old barbwire entanglements. This stopped short of the objective by about fifty feet. Between the wire and dugouts was an abandoned trench, built in the zig-zag style common to the earlier front line trenches.
Hardly were the machine guns placed when all hell broke loose. The tense silence of the last half hour turned to an inferno of war made hell; barking guns, whining shells, and the sharp zing of rifle bullets. A German airplane appeared and circled above us. The pilot made no attempt to strafe us with gunfire. In. stead he signaled our position to the German artillery. Knowing what would follow, our men took cover, seeking safety in the old trench behind us.
This was our greatest mistake. Apparently it was just as the Germans had planned it. No sooner were the men lined up in the trench than we found ourselves the center of a box barrage. To form this barrage, the enemy laid their shells down just behind the barbed wire and trench, then hemming it in on both sides, this left our from open for machine gun and rifle fire strafing.
The machine guns on top of the dugouts were manned by five men each. It was a pitiably weak comeback in exchange for the pounding we were taking from the enemy. At any moment we expected to see the Germans come popping out of the two dugouts forming our position. But this did not happen. Instead the German artillery began laying down one pound shells on top of the poor devils huddled in the trench. For them there was no escape. Those of us handling the machine guns were better off in our exposed position, even though it was worth your life to raise up and fire the guns.
There was no avenue of escape except through the barbed wire. Finally our sergeant ordered us to retreat. Then the enemy increased the intensity of their machine gun fire. Enmeshed in that treacherous wire, more than one poor devil passed on to the Great Beyond.
We were ordered to cover the retreat with the machine guns. This we did. In the meantime our one pounders came to the rescue. Reinforced with an additional battery of Stokes mortars, they took a position behind us, pounding the enemy back. Thoroughly disorganized, we fell back to a hill in the rear. After a checkup we learned that nearly ninety men of our company had been killed or wounded in the fight.
That night three of us were placed on outpost duty in the ravine below the hill that had cost us so dearly that day. We had no sooner taken our position when a sniper killed one of my two comrades. I hardly knew the men with me, for the day had been a horrible dream. It was hard to believe it had actually happened. Yet I knew it to be so. As we started to dig a shallow grave to bold the body of our dead comrade, I learned that the other soldier with me was Dago Tony. He was an undersized Italian boy, possibly twenty-eight years of age, an old timer in the company and a veteran of several battles.
Lying there the first night, we broke into confidences, as men under fire will do. We waited throughout the next day. No relief reached us. We felt we were through, and that our numbers were up; that it was only a matter of hours until we would be captured or shot out. Then the Italian boy told me his story.
TREASURES
Treasures in bits of papers,
Treasures in mines of gold,
Treasures in age-dimmed relies,
And in paintings worn and old.
Each to his way of thinking,
Has a treasure in his grasp,
I got mine from a roughneck,
It lay in a simple hand-clasp.
Up in the lines in the heat of a fight,
With the devil as our host,
He had shown us all his tricks and stunts,
In a lonely listening post.
No water, no food, no shelter,
There we had lain for days;
Wounded and slowly dying,
With our eyes beginning to glaze.
The orders had been to hold that post,
Against all odds that might come,
And we were sticking it out alone,
just me and my Dago chum.
I suppose there are those who'd call him a "wop,"
This soldier who lay there with me,
Yet he was fighting hard as I,
Who was cradled in liberty.
It was, "Whata-da-hell? let 'em a-come,
We fight 'em a-hard, you and I!
Whatsa da deeff'? It's-a all for da cause,
And somatime we moosta die.
Myself, I got da sweet-a leetla wife,
That's-a wait at home for me,
Deesa war she's-a one dam tougha game,
But we got to hava liberty."
Then Tony told me his story,
As we lay in post number four,
Why he was so willing to fight and die,
For a land he would always adore.
"When I was joosta leetla boy,
Back cena Sunny Italy,
I heara my father speak of a-thing,
That he calla da Liberty.
He tell of a country datsa paveda with gold,
Where every a-man is da same,
Where me and ever-a-boddy that try,
Has gotta da chance for da fame.
Where no king anda queen can tella you,
Joosta what you got to do,
I'ma get think' to myself,
How grand if datsa true.
So by and by, I grow up,
Beeg, stronga boy, 'bout seexteen,
And come along in a steeraga boat,
To the land of my wonderful dream.
There I find its joosta so true,
Whata papa say she's a-right,
I'ma live ina great free country,
My owna boss, every day and night.
Why evrathing is joosta so free,
You almosta like the bird,
You only worka so much each day,
Not a lika da sheep are you herd.
Den, I meet my sweet-a Marie,
An' we getta marry one day,
Then build a preety leetla home
By time, babee come to stay.
I tella you evrathing is so nice,
I'ma get along joosta fine,
Untila da Kaiz', he getta so fresh,
Joosta 'bout deesa time.
Evrathing he want to take,
Mak-a do joosta what he said,
I tella you, I no lika dat stoff,
I'ma much ratha be dead.
So I graba da gun and come along,
Lik-a all da rest who are here,
'Cause I'ma gonna fight, for a-what is right,
And-a my leetla home so dear.
Please-a wait, you lie quiet,
While I look around a beet,
But-a donta forget, to tell. Marie,
Ina case I'ma mabbe get heet
He took and shook me by the hand,
Then started out alone,
To me it brought an awakening,
To the treasure that I own.
So I'm done with material treasures,
Such as relics, mines, and things,
And treasure instead the memories,
Of love that sacrifice brings.
WE ADVANCE AGAIN
ALL about us is every evidence of a people who had led a peaceful, contented life. Small farms, no longer tilled by the plow. What had once been homes were now shells with walls standing as sentinels guarding the remains.
Town after town we have passed through in this war shattered area. Occasionally we meet French peasants, usually the old ones. They seemed resigned to their fate. In one town they called us "L' Anglaise," mistaking us for English soldiers. When we tell them that we are Americans, they look puzzled and don't seem to understand. As we advance steadily to the far frontier the few peasants we had been seeing are now conspicuous by their absence. We can hear the deep throaty booming of heavy guns, then sharper notes of lighter artillery as we get closer to the front lines.
Near the town of St. Juvin I saw a goat. "Funny," I thought, "straying all by itself. Bleating, wondering where his master is. And we not much better off. Just beaded for the lines with no master to guide us."
Tonight we billeted in a dirty pen of a barn. I am too exhausted to examine the place they told me to bunk down. I can smell the foulness of it, though. Tired as I am, I sleep through it all. It is early morning. We are told to make it on the "double-quick," that hot coffee is waiting.
"Hot coffee!" God, how long since I've tasted anything hot! We rush to the portable kitchens that had overtaken us during the night. The aroma has been taunting me for five minutes as I patiently wait my turn. Eagerly I extend my aluminum cup for some of the precious black golden liquid.
Just as I got the coffee to my lips the bugler sounded a hasty warning. Several enemy planes appeared overhead from out of nowhere. We ran for cover. Nothing happened. The planes stayed but a moment, then faded away. We could see them signaling their artillery. Hastily we started to move forward. I lost half my precious coffee and scorched my throat with the other half.
We had advanced but a short distance to another small village when we met heavy opposition from the enemy entrenched there. Quickly we took cover behind buildings and in an old dilapidated trench.
Watching the enemy ducking in and out of the wrecks of buildings that had once been homes, I could not help thinking what those houses must have meant before fate found us here. The hopes and the dreams that had built them-the sense of security the four walls gave. Yet here we were, a ruthless bunch of madmen, shooting down the remains of what bad once been homes.
VISIONS
In early morn when day is born,
Night shadows start to fade,
I gaze upon a land shell-torn,
The havoc war has made.
And as the mist begins to lift,
Dim lines of a home I see,
Then by the fate's sardonic twist,
A vision comes to me.
Instead of walls that barely stand,
Against the skylines drear,
Quaint cozy rooms I see instead,
And all that life holds dear,
As plainly as 'twere painted there
A family group I see,
Gathered around a fireside,
A child on a father's knee.
He is telling oft told tales of old,
Their childish love to endear,
A wondrous fairyland picture he paints,
With a master's stroke that is clear.
Then comes the end of this simple tale,
Rewarded by cries of delight,
Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes,
As in turn they kiss him goodnight.
Off to bed a-romping they go,
Climbing queer turning stairs,
By a crude old home-made bed
They kneel to say their prayers.
"Bless mama and papa, and give
Peace on Earth, goodwill to men;
Then as the mother tucks them in,
One shyly says, "Amen."
But now the vision fades away,
Once more by the will of fate,
From barren walls comes a war-dog,
Turning loving thoughts to hate.
From my right comes the sound of a "Browning,"
That makes my blood run chill,
My vision is gone, I stand alone ...
My business up here is to kill.
NIGHT FLARES AND RAIDING
FLARES were the bane of every night raider's life in order to get information of enemy activities it was necessary to raid their lines occasionally, capture prisoners, and get information from them. It was common practice, both with the enemy and with our troops.
Raiding parties were never held on moonlight nights. In fact, I remember but few such nights in France. We usually waited for the wettest and blackest night we could find. Then a party of three of four, sometimes six, were detailed to make the raid.
It was dangerous because we were going deep into enemy territory to capture and bring back some of their men alive. Between our lines and the enemy was a strip of land called No-Man's-Land. This had to be crossed before we could reach the enemy lines. Usually that land was well protected from invasion by barbwire entanglements and small trip wires. If we were on old territory fought over before, we would quite often find weatherworn and dilapidated trenches along with the wire.
The only way the enemy could protect himself on dark nights was to keep No-Man's-Land lit up as much as possible. This he did by shooting flares into the skies at intervals. Raids were usually held in the dead of the night. On either the enemy's side or our own, the front lines were guarded by a scattering of a few men. These men were guards. Usually they were expert marksmen or machine-gunners, which made the invasion of raiding parties all the more dangerous.
When a raiding party saw a flare go skyward, they would "freeze," or stiffen and hold their position rigidly, just like a trained hunting dog pointing a bird. Immobility was our best protection. Rigid as a statue, we had a chance of being mistaken for some of the shell shattered trees and stumps scattered over No-Man's-Land. If you made many moves you were sure to draw the attention of some enemy marksman.
The flares were just about like our home fireworks. Instead of a variety of colors they usually cast off a sickly blue-white and sometimes yellow light. They would hang poised in the air for a few seconds, then gradually fade out. The minute a flare was shot into the air you would hear the "tat-tat-tat" of machine guns. Then came the zing of sharpshooters' lead, searching human targets in No-Man's-Land.
The use of flares was a most effective protection, practiced by both sides. The sound of the machine guns is just like the cornpressed-air riveter you hear on a steel construction job.
No one thing outside of air raids could keep your heart jumping and your mind on edge, like duty on a raiding party in the deep black gloom of night.
THE FLARE
Your heart is all a-jumping and your nerves are all a-chill,
When you start to go a-raiding on a night that's dark and still;
You dare not speak in whispers, and you dare not make a sound,
When you go a-sneaking, creeping, o'er that cold war-blasted ground.
When Jerry shoots his star-shells in that war-weird night,
You are a mark for snipers shooting, your heart is filled with fright;
You lay stock-still and breathless and you pray you'll not be shot,
When his blue-white flare lights up the sky you wait for - God knows what.
Throughout a night that-is sometimes dim and sometimes lit by flare,
Through an endless age in No-Man's-Land you crawl and pray and swear;
If you live to see the dawn again you will know you learned "Out There,"
The thing that put real fear in you was Jerry's blue-white flare.
IT'S A LOUSY ARMY AT THE BEST
EVERYBODY in this man's army is getting fed up with army life. The chow is nothing to brag about. Before we hit the lines we thought it was tough, but now that we're in the lines we know that it was AAA food we had been served. Now that we are existing on dried bully beef and hard tack that pulls all the fillings from your teeth, we can appreciate what we used to grumble about. But at that it is better than an empty belly so most of us have learned to quit grumbling about the food. A certain pal of mine, Dick Coe, was always complaining about the food but today he floored me when he started his complaint against the army. Here was what was on his mind. I am the champion fall guy for these groaners.
"Without a question, Mae, this is the lousiest army I was ever in. And the worst part of it is these damn greybacks. The way they breed and multiply on a soldier beats all hell.
"Only yesterday I 'read my shirt.' Took it off and peeled to the skin. Then sat in a raw, damp wind just for the privilege of getting rid of these pests. Cleaned off every last one of them, and went through my shirt and tunic. Must have been a million eggs in the seams. Even went over my cap and leggings. It took three whole hours, Mac. When I finished I would have sworn I was the cleanest man in the A.E.F.
"Here it is less than twelve hours after, and I am alive with the crawly pests again. Wonder what it
would seem like to have a nice clean bath? To have clean underwear to crawl into? And socks that weren't rotting on your feet. And shoes that you could get into without a crowbar, and that you could lift with one hand.
,,I had all those things once. When? A thousand years ago, I guess. Remember, Mac, when we joined up? Maybe that was the time. Remember all those medals we were going to win? Then come home and show off? Knock our girls for a loop? Remember that, Mac?"
"We never thought about greybacks then, did we? Cooties, some calls them. Either way they are a pain in the neck to me. I'd like to split everyone of their cute little throats with the hot point of a razor blade. Which reminds me, I even dug them out of my hair yesterday, and one or two loose ones out of this nice red beard I am wearing.
"Wouldn't my girl think I was a cute little hero if she could see me now? Dammit, Mac, I can't stand it any longer. I am going to sit down in this damn French mud and 'read my shirt again. War or no war. I am going to get rid of these damn cooties."
COOTIES
When you are standing at attention,
And cooties bite and scratch below,
And your lousy captain bawls you out,
Ain't it bell?-Well I'll say so.
Have you ever had that itchy troop
Doing squads both East and West,
Across your tired shoulders
And underneath your vest?
Or in your helmet-sweated hair,
Or on your pain-racked shins,
The way those devils pinch and bite,
Is a climax to war's sins.
In the "lines" big generals bad them,
Every captain raised his share,
But there was plenty hell a-popping,
When a "buck" had one to spare.
You can have my flock of grey ones,
For I sure have had my fill,
And if Napoleon started this,
He's the bird I'd like to kill.
A SNIPER'S DUTY
I HAVE tried to avoid doing sniper's duty, first at camp, then in the lines. The sergeant told the captain I was a good shot. That's what comes from being raised on a ranch, spending half your time with a rifle in your hand. I didn't mind hunting then, but this is different. Or is it? After all, a life is a life - even to a dumb animal. I vow to God on high, if I am spared to come through this alive I will never fire another rifle.
I don't like this business of being hidden, lying in wait for the sight of the enemy. With these high powered rifles and telescopic sights, what chance would they have? A man is not like an animal, that can sense
danger by the powers it possesses. He cannot smell danger with the shifting of the wind. He can only guess at it, and usually he guesses wrong.
The enemy we are fighting seems to be the same as we, except that they speak another language. I notice that when we capture them there seems to be no hatred on their part - or on ours. We exchange one thought more than any other, "What are we fighting one another for, you and IF' Left alone, the average man would never think of war.
Guided by the power-crazed mind of autocrats of royal blood, or the commoner who sits in high position, we are drawn into war like puppets on a string. Puppets cannot speak their minds, not wooden puppets at least. They are managed by the hand of man pulling strings. Human puppets can speak their mind, but seldom do. Like puppets, they too are pulled on strings. Only the strings are made of words by the scant few ... words that become "hinges of death" when the puppets march to war.
These thoughts keep running through my mind as I lay here high up on the hillside, on this hidden outpost. With a high power rifle in my hand. Waiting. Waiting . . . for an enemy to come up that path which lies far below me in the valley.
My eyes are dizzy from steadily watching one spot. The dense underbrush seems to rustle in the breeze. Is it a false alarm? Or is it an enemy coming through the lines. Finally I am sure. I see a greyclad figure below me. He moves cautiously, looking about him carefully before taking a step. I draw my rifle to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sights he is as plain as though he were a few feet in front of me. I could easily kill him from here yet I hesitate to do so. But knowing war for what it is now, that it is either his life or mine, there is nothing left for me to do but pull the trigger. As I felt the heavy recoil of the rifle against my shoulder I knew that another bullet was speeding toward its mark.
I WONDER
1. wonder if my enemy, who is hunting me right now,
Was once a boy the same as I, and took a childish vow,
Never to kill a little bird, or ever rob a nest,
Always to say his prayers at night, before he went to rest.
I wonder if that hand of his that holds a sniper's gun,
Once stroked his mother's hair with love, or her face in boyish fun;
I wonder if his mother is a mother just like mine,
Who says a prayer to God each night, to keep him safe and fine.
I wonder if he thinks of me, as I am thinking too,
I wonder if be doesn't yearn, for his mother sweet and true;
I wonder if he really hates the man he hunts at war,
Or if like me he wonders just what he's fighting for.
I wonder if he sees me now, as I creep up on him,
I wonder if I'm covered by this broken half-leafed limb,
I wonder if he'll aim and fire, when I say "raise up your hands,"
I wonder if our God on high sees us and understands.
I wonder whether he or I will pay the price supreme,
When we come upon each other in this part of war's mad dream;
I wonder if our mothers, will kneel tonight and pray,
To keep their loved sons free from harm, to come back home some day. '
A GODDESS OF MERCY
JOE got back from the hospital today. Said he had never seen anything like it. Twice while he was there they were bombed. Came close, but not close enough to do any harm. Said the nurses there were God's angels on earth. They worked right through bombings and never batted an eyelash. There weren't many of them, but what there were went a long way. It was almost worth getting wounded just to get where you could see an American woman again, and to know that there was something in this war that was decent and clean.
The boy who was on the cot next to Joe's didn't have a chance. The nurse used to come to him every time he started calling for his mother. He was just a kid. It was only a question of time, a few days at the best. A high explosive shell fragment hit him right above the hip. Joe said the nurse was everything to him. When he was delirious she would pretend that she was his mother. The kid would say over and over again, "I knew you would come, mother . . . I knew You would come." And the nurse would take his hand and talk to him. She kept her head turned and was facing Joe. He saw tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept biting her lip to hold them back. Even the hard-boiled guys who lay there forgot about themselves and started pulling for the kid. But they knew it was no use-his number was up.
Joe said the way those nurses stood up under all that strain, he would never know. They would work side by side with the surgeons and then do nursing duty on top of it, until they were dead on their feet, but they still kept on going. They were the real soldiers of war to hear Joe tell it. They were in tougher spots than we were most of the time because of the constant bombing. He said that twice while be was there they were bombed at night by bombing planes, and that all you could do was lay there and pray while you waited for each bomb to bit. That enemy planes were no respecters of hospitals, any more than they were of front line objectives was proven to him, when he lay in that hospital bed flat on his back, unable to move a finger to help himself.
At that though, he said, it was worth the risk to be there, just to lie in a bed again on clean white sheets. It must be like heaven from what Joe says. Someone to bring you grub and have clean water to drink. Boy, that must be heaven, or as close to it as a soldier will ever get.
I had always thought that war was a man's game and that he was the only thing tough enough to stand up under it. Well Joe sure changed my mind about that. I know from my own experience that bombing can put more fear in you than any other form of warfare. You are helpless when in a bombing raid, and when I think of those women working right through those raids on hospitals, and never batting an eyelash, my hat is off to them.
LITTLE GRAY SISTER
How ready your smile for war's wounded things,
How brave your heart though it never sings;
How staunch your fight some life to save,
How truly you are one of war's brave,
As you sit and watch the still nights through;
And pray for some soldier you never knew.
Here in hospitals in war-shattered France,
You too are a soldier taking war's chance;
When a battle is over your fight's just begun,
You are braver than many who carried a gun.
You were mother and sweetheart,
sister and wife,
As you fight the battle of saving a life.
It was you standing by some worn surgeon's side,
Fighting to dam up life's ebbing tide;
You have no medals nor the world's
loud acclaim,
But to the soldier you nursed you will never need fame.
"Little Gray Sister" who fought clay and night,
You were "Goddess of Mercy" and a bit of all right."
A BUDDY GOES WEST'
This business of war is a strange thing. You see men drop alongside of you, coughing and threshing in the throes of death, the blood stream of their wounds gushing to the ground. Yet it does not affect you. Have we not gone for days now with death walking constantly beside us, our steadfast companion?
The whining shells overhead take on a deeper meaning. We can recognize the size of each shell by its sound. The slow turning swishing ones are gas shells. Their slow flight spells greater danger than the roaring big ones higher up. The sharp, whining minnewerfer or whizbang we hear only occasionally, then only when we are fighting at close quarters.
Strangest of all this business of killing are the presentiments or hunches that come to every man. They are uncannily accurate. Among us we say, "unless a shell has my name on it, I'll come out okay." How many of my former comrades have come to me, each with the same look on his face, to bid a last goodbye.
By some intuition deeper than science has yet probed, each man comes to know when he is to "Go West." We soon learned that we could not push these thoughts out of our mind by idle jesting. Each recurrent happening only welded deeper an undeniable truth-that there was some power greater than ours that told us when our time had come.
Less than a third of our original company was left. Casualties had been heavy. The dense underbrush and forest of the Argonne was taking heavy toll of our forces. For four years the Germans had occupied this territory. Every known device of the science of war had been concealed there waiting invading troops. More than sixty thousand Frenchmen had given their lives in an effort to capture it. They did not make a dent on this natural stronghold occupied by the enemy.
Yet there we were, green, raw troops, many of us not out of our 'teens, steadily forging ahead each day, pushing the enemy back at a frightful price of life. We moved with the slow, heavy tread of machines. Stalking through the woods, like walking automatons, we seemed to be without blood, or flesh, or heart, or soul.
On the eve of our last drive my best buddy came to me to say goodbye. We had grown up together back home. So far we bad come through this carnage unscathed. But I knew by the look on his face now that here was another hunch - that his number was up. He had been one of eight selected to go on a dangerous raiding party. He passed me a few trinkets to take back to his folks, and his words still ring in my mind.
TONIGHT I DIE
Out in the night where the cruel wire strands
Of entanglements are laid,
Tonight I shall take the hand of Death And walk with him unafraid.
The sun went down with a ruddy glare As red as the red of gore,
And I gazed at its rays with greedy eyes For me it will rise no more.
I raised my eyes to count each star And bid it a last farewell.
And the brightest one made a long gold line Across the sky as it fell.
I cannot know where we shall meet,
I and the Man called Death,
But I know I will greet him unaware And speak with my final breath.
Long have I seen his shadowed shape, Stalking across the land.
Many the friend that has stumbled out And taken him by the hand.
So the stars wheel by in my last dark sky And this is the end of strife
A watch that glows on my muddy wrist And measures away my life.
THE BOX BARRAGE
DURING the course of our fighting in the Argonne Forest we engaged in a terrific battle that nearly wiped out our company. For days we had been fighting through the heart of the central ravine of the forest steep, heavily wooded banks rose from either side of a creek bed at the bottom of the gulch. We kept pretty close to the path that had been laid out there.
Part of the time we followed the course of the stream. Then the road would rise halfway up the hill. It was at these high points that we were most cautious. For it was in such places that we afforded the best targets for enemy machine guns and snipers, lying concealed everywhere in the dense underbrush of the forest.
To avoid one such exposure, we were given orders to cut a path through the underbrush. This we did with our bayonets. Much to our surprise, we went through without being fired on. We came to a bend in the ravine. Then we could see directly ahead why we had come through without being molested.
In a little clearing in front of us was what remained of a large building. The Germans had been using it as a headquarters. One of our heavy artillery shells had made a direct hit on the roof, crushing it to the ground. The splintered wood and logs were scattered all around. The foundation, which was made of small stones, was crushed and mashed out of shape. The building, sagging there, looked like some great wounded thing waiting for first aid.
Strewn over the ground in front of the building were the bodies of many of the enemy, fully a dozen or more. God alone knew how many were buried inside the building. Many of the bodies did not have a scratch on them. Apparently they had been killed from the shock of the explosion.
Hardly had we reached this opening than we were strafed with machine gun and sniper fire. There was no place for us to go except straight up the hillside. The underbrush offered cover. Quickly we climbed to a ridge and safety near the crest of the hill. We rested there while the top-sergeant counted noses. A regimental runner came to our sergeant, giving him an order.
The order read that we were to advance to the top of the hill. There we would find an apple orchard. We were to wait there for the support of our one pound (Stokes) mortars. Then we were to advance through the orchard until we came to the top of two dugouts. This was to be our objective.
I was close by the sergeant when the order was received.
"Apple orchard," he laughed, "Well, maybe this is a new way of getting our rations."
None of us could imagine an orchard in this forest. All we had seen for days was war-blasted, blackened trees, wounded things of war. Yet when we reached the top of the hill, there was the orchard. Stretching
out for at least a mile ahead, and fully two blocks wide. We learned later that it had been planted there many years before by priests.
Our Stokes mortars came up and were placed in position. A few trial shots were fired towards the tops of two dugouts, which we could see ahead of us. The trees were scattered, and there was much open land between. We were dubious about exposing ourselves in this open country. We had been fighting in the forest long that instinctively we looked to it for protection.
Nothing happened when the trial shots were fired. We waited a few minutes. Then the sergeant gave the order to charge the hill. Spreading out in open formation as skirmishers, we took what scant protection the apple trees offered. Much to our surprise we advanced to our objective without opposition from the enemy. In view of our constant battling for the last week, this puzzled us.
We set up two light machine guns on the tops of two dugouts. To reach them we had to cut our way through about a hundred feet of old barbwire entanglements. This stopped short of the objective by about fifty feet. Between the wire and dugouts was an abandoned trench, built in the zig-zag style common to the earlier front line trenches.
Hardly were the machine guns placed when all hell broke loose. The tense silence of the last half hour turned to an inferno of war made hell; barking guns, whining shells, and the sharp zing of rifle bullets. A German airplane appeared and circled above us. The pilot made no attempt to strafe us with gunfire. In. stead he signaled our position to the German artillery. Knowing what would follow, our men took cover, seeking safety in the old trench behind us.
This was our greatest mistake. Apparently it was just as the Germans had planned it. No sooner were the men lined up in the trench than we found ourselves the center of a box barrage. To form this barrage, the enemy laid their shells down just behind the barbed wire and trench, then hemming it in on both sides, this left our from open for machine gun and rifle fire strafing.
The machine guns on top of the dugouts were manned by five men each. It was a pitiably weak comeback in exchange for the pounding we were taking from the enemy. At any moment we expected to see the Germans come popping out of the two dugouts forming our position. But this did not happen. Instead the German artillery began laying down one pound shells on top of the poor devils huddled in the trench. For them there was no escape. Those of us handling the machine guns were better off in our exposed position, even though it was worth your life to raise up and fire the guns.
There was no avenue of escape except through the barbed wire. Finally our sergeant ordered us to retreat. Then the enemy increased the intensity of their machine gun fire. Enmeshed in that treacherous wire, more than one poor devil passed on to the Great Beyond.
We were ordered to cover the retreat with the machine guns. This we did. In the meantime our one pounders came to the rescue. Reinforced with an additional battery of Stokes mortars, they took a position behind us, pounding the enemy back. Thoroughly disorganized, we fell back to a hill in the rear. After a checkup we learned that nearly ninety men of our company had been killed or wounded in the fight.
That night three of us were placed on outpost duty in the ravine below the hill that had cost us so dearly that day. We had no sooner taken our position when a sniper killed one of my two comrades. I hardly knew the men with me, for the day had been a horrible dream. It was hard to believe it had actually happened. Yet I knew it to be so. As we started to dig a shallow grave to bold the body of our dead comrade, I learned that the other soldier with me was Dago Tony. He was an undersized Italian boy, possibly twenty-eight years of age, an old timer in the company and a veteran of several battles.
Lying there the first night, we broke into confidences, as men under fire will do. We waited throughout the next day. No relief reached us. We felt we were through, and that our numbers were up; that it was only a matter of hours until we would be captured or shot out. Then the Italian boy told me his story.
TREASURES
Treasures in bits of papers,
Treasures in mines of gold,
Treasures in age-dimmed relies,
And in paintings worn and old.
Each to his way of thinking,
Has a treasure in his grasp,
I got mine from a roughneck,
It lay in a simple hand-clasp.
Up in the lines in the heat of a fight,
With the devil as our host,
He had shown us all his tricks and stunts,
In a lonely listening post.
No water, no food, no shelter,
There we had lain for days;
Wounded and slowly dying,
With our eyes beginning to glaze.
The orders had been to hold that post,
Against all odds that might come,
And we were sticking it out alone,
just me and my Dago chum.
I suppose there are those who'd call him a "wop,"
This soldier who lay there with me,
Yet he was fighting hard as I,
Who was cradled in liberty.
It was, "Whata-da-hell? let 'em a-come,
We fight 'em a-hard, you and I!
Whatsa da deeff'? It's-a all for da cause,
And somatime we moosta die.
Myself, I got da sweet-a leetla wife,
That's-a wait at home for me,
Deesa war she's-a one dam tougha game,
But we got to hava liberty."
Then Tony told me his story,
As we lay in post number four,
Why he was so willing to fight and die,
For a land he would always adore.
"When I was joosta leetla boy,
Back cena Sunny Italy,
I heara my father speak of a-thing,
That he calla da Liberty.
He tell of a country datsa paveda with gold,
Where every a-man is da same,
Where me and ever-a-boddy that try,
Has gotta da chance for da fame.
Where no king anda queen can tella you,
Joosta what you got to do,
I'ma get think' to myself,
How grand if datsa true.
So by and by, I grow up,
Beeg, stronga boy, 'bout seexteen,
And come along in a steeraga boat,
To the land of my wonderful dream.
There I find its joosta so true,
Whata papa say she's a-right,
I'ma live ina great free country,
My owna boss, every day and night.
Why evrathing is joosta so free,
You almosta like the bird,
You only worka so much each day,
Not a lika da sheep are you herd.
Den, I meet my sweet-a Marie,
An' we getta marry one day,
Then build a preety leetla home
By time, babee come to stay.
I tella you evrathing is so nice,
I'ma get along joosta fine,
Untila da Kaiz', he getta so fresh,
Joosta 'bout deesa time.
Evrathing he want to take,
Mak-a do joosta what he said,
I tella you, I no lika dat stoff,
I'ma much ratha be dead.
So I graba da gun and come along,
Lik-a all da rest who are here,
'Cause I'ma gonna fight, for a-what is right,
And-a my leetla home so dear.
Please-a wait, you lie quiet,
While I look around a beet,
But-a donta forget, to tell. Marie,
Ina case I'ma mabbe get heet
He took and shook me by the hand,
Then started out alone,
To me it brought an awakening,
To the treasure that I own.
So I'm done with material treasures,
Such as relics, mines, and things,
And treasure instead the memories,
Of love that sacrifice brings.
WE ADVANCE AGAIN
ALL about us is every evidence of a people who had led a peaceful, contented life. Small farms, no longer tilled by the plow. What had once been homes were now shells with walls standing as sentinels guarding the remains.
Town after town we have passed through in this war shattered area. Occasionally we meet French peasants, usually the old ones. They seemed resigned to their fate. In one town they called us "L' Anglaise," mistaking us for English soldiers. When we tell them that we are Americans, they look puzzled and don't seem to understand. As we advance steadily to the far frontier the few peasants we had been seeing are now conspicuous by their absence. We can hear the deep throaty booming of heavy guns, then sharper notes of lighter artillery as we get closer to the front lines.
Near the town of St. Juvin I saw a goat. "Funny," I thought, "straying all by itself. Bleating, wondering where his master is. And we not much better off. Just beaded for the lines with no master to guide us."
Tonight we billeted in a dirty pen of a barn. I am too exhausted to examine the place they told me to bunk down. I can smell the foulness of it, though. Tired as I am, I sleep through it all. It is early morning. We are told to make it on the "double-quick," that hot coffee is waiting.
"Hot coffee!" God, how long since I've tasted anything hot! We rush to the portable kitchens that had overtaken us during the night. The aroma has been taunting me for five minutes as I patiently wait my turn. Eagerly I extend my aluminum cup for some of the precious black golden liquid.
Just as I got the coffee to my lips the bugler sounded a hasty warning. Several enemy planes appeared overhead from out of nowhere. We ran for cover. Nothing happened. The planes stayed but a moment, then faded away. We could see them signaling their artillery. Hastily we started to move forward. I lost half my precious coffee and scorched my throat with the other half.
We had advanced but a short distance to another small village when we met heavy opposition from the enemy entrenched there. Quickly we took cover behind buildings and in an old dilapidated trench.
Watching the enemy ducking in and out of the wrecks of buildings that had once been homes, I could not help thinking what those houses must have meant before fate found us here. The hopes and the dreams that had built them-the sense of security the four walls gave. Yet here we were, a ruthless bunch of madmen, shooting down the remains of what bad once been homes.
VISIONS
In early morn when day is born,
Night shadows start to fade,
I gaze upon a land shell-torn,
The havoc war has made.
And as the mist begins to lift,
Dim lines of a home I see,
Then by the fate's sardonic twist,
A vision comes to me.
Instead of walls that barely stand,
Against the skylines drear,
Quaint cozy rooms I see instead,
And all that life holds dear,
As plainly as 'twere painted there
A family group I see,
Gathered around a fireside,
A child on a father's knee.
He is telling oft told tales of old,
Their childish love to endear,
A wondrous fairyland picture he paints,
With a master's stroke that is clear.
Then comes the end of this simple tale,
Rewarded by cries of delight,
Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes,
As in turn they kiss him goodnight.
Off to bed a-romping they go,
Climbing queer turning stairs,
By a crude old home-made bed
They kneel to say their prayers.
"Bless mama and papa, and give
Peace on Earth, goodwill to men;
Then as the mother tucks them in,
One shyly says, "Amen."
But now the vision fades away,
Once more by the will of fate,
From barren walls comes a war-dog,
Turning loving thoughts to hate.
From my right comes the sound of a "Browning,"
That makes my blood run chill,
My vision is gone, I stand alone ...
My business up here is to kill.
NIGHT FLARES AND RAIDING
FLARES were the bane of every night raider's life in order to get information of enemy activities it was necessary to raid their lines occasionally, capture prisoners, and get information from them. It was common practice, both with the enemy and with our troops.
Raiding parties were never held on moonlight nights. In fact, I remember but few such nights in France. We usually waited for the wettest and blackest night we could find. Then a party of three of four, sometimes six, were detailed to make the raid.
It was dangerous because we were going deep into enemy territory to capture and bring back some of their men alive. Between our lines and the enemy was a strip of land called No-Man's-Land. This had to be crossed before we could reach the enemy lines. Usually that land was well protected from invasion by barbwire entanglements and small trip wires. If we were on old territory fought over before, we would quite often find weatherworn and dilapidated trenches along with the wire.
The only way the enemy could protect himself on dark nights was to keep No-Man's-Land lit up as much as possible. This he did by shooting flares into the skies at intervals. Raids were usually held in the dead of the night. On either the enemy's side or our own, the front lines were guarded by a scattering of a few men. These men were guards. Usually they were expert marksmen or machine-gunners, which made the invasion of raiding parties all the more dangerous.
When a raiding party saw a flare go skyward, they would "freeze," or stiffen and hold their position rigidly, just like a trained hunting dog pointing a bird. Immobility was our best protection. Rigid as a statue, we had a chance of being mistaken for some of the shell shattered trees and stumps scattered over No-Man's-Land. If you made many moves you were sure to draw the attention of some enemy marksman.
The flares were just about like our home fireworks. Instead of a variety of colors they usually cast off a sickly blue-white and sometimes yellow light. They would hang poised in the air for a few seconds, then gradually fade out. The minute a flare was shot into the air you would hear the "tat-tat-tat" of machine guns. Then came the zing of sharpshooters' lead, searching human targets in No-Man's-Land.
The use of flares was a most effective protection, practiced by both sides. The sound of the machine guns is just like the cornpressed-air riveter you hear on a steel construction job.
No one thing outside of air raids could keep your heart jumping and your mind on edge, like duty on a raiding party in the deep black gloom of night.
THE FLARE
Your heart is all a-jumping and your nerves are all a-chill,
When you start to go a-raiding on a night that's dark and still;
You dare not speak in whispers, and you dare not make a sound,
When you go a-sneaking, creeping, o'er that cold war-blasted ground.
When Jerry shoots his star-shells in that war-weird night,
You are a mark for snipers shooting, your heart is filled with fright;
You lay stock-still and breathless and you pray you'll not be shot,
When his blue-white flare lights up the sky you wait for - God knows what.
Throughout a night that-is sometimes dim and sometimes lit by flare,
Through an endless age in No-Man's-Land you crawl and pray and swear;
If you live to see the dawn again you will know you learned "Out There,"
The thing that put real fear in you was Jerry's blue-white flare.
IT'S A LOUSY ARMY AT THE BEST
EVERYBODY in this man's army is getting fed up with army life. The chow is nothing to brag about. Before we hit the lines we thought it was tough, but now that we're in the lines we know that it was AAA food we had been served. Now that we are existing on dried bully beef and hard tack that pulls all the fillings from your teeth, we can appreciate what we used to grumble about. But at that it is better than an empty belly so most of us have learned to quit grumbling about the food. A certain pal of mine, Dick Coe, was always complaining about the food but today he floored me when he started his complaint against the army. Here was what was on his mind. I am the champion fall guy for these groaners.
"Without a question, Mae, this is the lousiest army I was ever in. And the worst part of it is these damn greybacks. The way they breed and multiply on a soldier beats all hell.
"Only yesterday I 'read my shirt.' Took it off and peeled to the skin. Then sat in a raw, damp wind just for the privilege of getting rid of these pests. Cleaned off every last one of them, and went through my shirt and tunic. Must have been a million eggs in the seams. Even went over my cap and leggings. It took three whole hours, Mac. When I finished I would have sworn I was the cleanest man in the A.E.F.
"Here it is less than twelve hours after, and I am alive with the crawly pests again. Wonder what it
would seem like to have a nice clean bath? To have clean underwear to crawl into? And socks that weren't rotting on your feet. And shoes that you could get into without a crowbar, and that you could lift with one hand.
,,I had all those things once. When? A thousand years ago, I guess. Remember, Mac, when we joined up? Maybe that was the time. Remember all those medals we were going to win? Then come home and show off? Knock our girls for a loop? Remember that, Mac?"
"We never thought about greybacks then, did we? Cooties, some calls them. Either way they are a pain in the neck to me. I'd like to split everyone of their cute little throats with the hot point of a razor blade. Which reminds me, I even dug them out of my hair yesterday, and one or two loose ones out of this nice red beard I am wearing.
"Wouldn't my girl think I was a cute little hero if she could see me now? Dammit, Mac, I can't stand it any longer. I am going to sit down in this damn French mud and 'read my shirt again. War or no war. I am going to get rid of these damn cooties."
COOTIES
When you are standing at attention,
And cooties bite and scratch below,
And your lousy captain bawls you out,
Ain't it bell?-Well I'll say so.
Have you ever had that itchy troop
Doing squads both East and West,
Across your tired shoulders
And underneath your vest?
Or in your helmet-sweated hair,
Or on your pain-racked shins,
The way those devils pinch and bite,
Is a climax to war's sins.
In the "lines" big generals bad them,
Every captain raised his share,
But there was plenty hell a-popping,
When a "buck" had one to spare.
You can have my flock of grey ones,
For I sure have had my fill,
And if Napoleon started this,
He's the bird I'd like to kill.
A SNIPER'S DUTY
I HAVE tried to avoid doing sniper's duty, first at camp, then in the lines. The sergeant told the captain I was a good shot. That's what comes from being raised on a ranch, spending half your time with a rifle in your hand. I didn't mind hunting then, but this is different. Or is it? After all, a life is a life - even to a dumb animal. I vow to God on high, if I am spared to come through this alive I will never fire another rifle.
I don't like this business of being hidden, lying in wait for the sight of the enemy. With these high powered rifles and telescopic sights, what chance would they have? A man is not like an animal, that can sense
danger by the powers it possesses. He cannot smell danger with the shifting of the wind. He can only guess at it, and usually he guesses wrong.
The enemy we are fighting seems to be the same as we, except that they speak another language. I notice that when we capture them there seems to be no hatred on their part - or on ours. We exchange one thought more than any other, "What are we fighting one another for, you and IF' Left alone, the average man would never think of war.
Guided by the power-crazed mind of autocrats of royal blood, or the commoner who sits in high position, we are drawn into war like puppets on a string. Puppets cannot speak their minds, not wooden puppets at least. They are managed by the hand of man pulling strings. Human puppets can speak their mind, but seldom do. Like puppets, they too are pulled on strings. Only the strings are made of words by the scant few ... words that become "hinges of death" when the puppets march to war.
These thoughts keep running through my mind as I lay here high up on the hillside, on this hidden outpost. With a high power rifle in my hand. Waiting. Waiting . . . for an enemy to come up that path which lies far below me in the valley.
My eyes are dizzy from steadily watching one spot. The dense underbrush seems to rustle in the breeze. Is it a false alarm? Or is it an enemy coming through the lines. Finally I am sure. I see a greyclad figure below me. He moves cautiously, looking about him carefully before taking a step. I draw my rifle to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sights he is as plain as though he were a few feet in front of me. I could easily kill him from here yet I hesitate to do so. But knowing war for what it is now, that it is either his life or mine, there is nothing left for me to do but pull the trigger. As I felt the heavy recoil of the rifle against my shoulder I knew that another bullet was speeding toward its mark.
I WONDER
1. wonder if my enemy, who is hunting me right now,
Was once a boy the same as I, and took a childish vow,
Never to kill a little bird, or ever rob a nest,
Always to say his prayers at night, before he went to rest.
I wonder if that hand of his that holds a sniper's gun,
Once stroked his mother's hair with love, or her face in boyish fun;
I wonder if his mother is a mother just like mine,
Who says a prayer to God each night, to keep him safe and fine.
I wonder if he thinks of me, as I am thinking too,
I wonder if be doesn't yearn, for his mother sweet and true;
I wonder if he really hates the man he hunts at war,
Or if like me he wonders just what he's fighting for.
I wonder if he sees me now, as I creep up on him,
I wonder if I'm covered by this broken half-leafed limb,
I wonder if he'll aim and fire, when I say "raise up your hands,"
I wonder if our God on high sees us and understands.
I wonder whether he or I will pay the price supreme,
When we come upon each other in this part of war's mad dream;
I wonder if our mothers, will kneel tonight and pray,
To keep their loved sons free from harm, to come back home some day. '
A GODDESS OF MERCY
JOE got back from the hospital today. Said he had never seen anything like it. Twice while he was there they were bombed. Came close, but not close enough to do any harm. Said the nurses there were God's angels on earth. They worked right through bombings and never batted an eyelash. There weren't many of them, but what there were went a long way. It was almost worth getting wounded just to get where you could see an American woman again, and to know that there was something in this war that was decent and clean.
The boy who was on the cot next to Joe's didn't have a chance. The nurse used to come to him every time he started calling for his mother. He was just a kid. It was only a question of time, a few days at the best. A high explosive shell fragment hit him right above the hip. Joe said the nurse was everything to him. When he was delirious she would pretend that she was his mother. The kid would say over and over again, "I knew you would come, mother . . . I knew You would come." And the nurse would take his hand and talk to him. She kept her head turned and was facing Joe. He saw tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept biting her lip to hold them back. Even the hard-boiled guys who lay there forgot about themselves and started pulling for the kid. But they knew it was no use-his number was up.
Joe said the way those nurses stood up under all that strain, he would never know. They would work side by side with the surgeons and then do nursing duty on top of it, until they were dead on their feet, but they still kept on going. They were the real soldiers of war to hear Joe tell it. They were in tougher spots than we were most of the time because of the constant bombing. He said that twice while be was there they were bombed at night by bombing planes, and that all you could do was lay there and pray while you waited for each bomb to bit. That enemy planes were no respecters of hospitals, any more than they were of front line objectives was proven to him, when he lay in that hospital bed flat on his back, unable to move a finger to help himself.
At that though, he said, it was worth the risk to be there, just to lie in a bed again on clean white sheets. It must be like heaven from what Joe says. Someone to bring you grub and have clean water to drink. Boy, that must be heaven, or as close to it as a soldier will ever get.
I had always thought that war was a man's game and that he was the only thing tough enough to stand up under it. Well Joe sure changed my mind about that. I know from my own experience that bombing can put more fear in you than any other form of warfare. You are helpless when in a bombing raid, and when I think of those women working right through those raids on hospitals, and never batting an eyelash, my hat is off to them.
LITTLE GRAY SISTER
How ready your smile for war's wounded things,
How brave your heart though it never sings;
How staunch your fight some life to save,
How truly you are one of war's brave,
As you sit and watch the still nights through;
And pray for some soldier you never knew.
Here in hospitals in war-shattered France,
You too are a soldier taking war's chance;
When a battle is over your fight's just begun,
You are braver than many who carried a gun.
You were mother and sweetheart,
sister and wife,
As you fight the battle of saving a life.
It was you standing by some worn surgeon's side,
Fighting to dam up life's ebbing tide;
You have no medals nor the world's
loud acclaim,
But to the soldier you nursed you will never need fame.
"Little Gray Sister" who fought clay and night,
You were "Goddess of Mercy" and a bit of all right."
A BUDDY GOES WEST'
This business of war is a strange thing. You see men drop alongside of you, coughing and threshing in the throes of death, the blood stream of their wounds gushing to the ground. Yet it does not affect you. Have we not gone for days now with death walking constantly beside us, our steadfast companion?
The whining shells overhead take on a deeper meaning. We can recognize the size of each shell by its sound. The slow turning swishing ones are gas shells. Their slow flight spells greater danger than the roaring big ones higher up. The sharp, whining minnewerfer or whizbang we hear only occasionally, then only when we are fighting at close quarters.
Strangest of all this business of killing are the presentiments or hunches that come to every man. They are uncannily accurate. Among us we say, "unless a shell has my name on it, I'll come out okay." How many of my former comrades have come to me, each with the same look on his face, to bid a last goodbye.
By some intuition deeper than science has yet probed, each man comes to know when he is to "Go West." We soon learned that we could not push these thoughts out of our mind by idle jesting. Each recurrent happening only welded deeper an undeniable truth-that there was some power greater than ours that told us when our time had come.
Less than a third of our original company was left. Casualties had been heavy. The dense underbrush and forest of the Argonne was taking heavy toll of our forces. For four years the Germans had occupied this territory. Every known device of the science of war had been concealed there waiting invading troops. More than sixty thousand Frenchmen had given their lives in an effort to capture it. They did not make a dent on this natural stronghold occupied by the enemy.
Yet there we were, green, raw troops, many of us not out of our 'teens, steadily forging ahead each day, pushing the enemy back at a frightful price of life. We moved with the slow, heavy tread of machines. Stalking through the woods, like walking automatons, we seemed to be without blood, or flesh, or heart, or soul.
On the eve of our last drive my best buddy came to me to say goodbye. We had grown up together back home. So far we bad come through this carnage unscathed. But I knew by the look on his face now that here was another hunch - that his number was up. He had been one of eight selected to go on a dangerous raiding party. He passed me a few trinkets to take back to his folks, and his words still ring in my mind.
TONIGHT I DIE
Out in the night where the cruel wire strands
Of entanglements are laid,
Tonight I shall take the hand of Death And walk with him unafraid.
The sun went down with a ruddy glare As red as the red of gore,
And I gazed at its rays with greedy eyes For me it will rise no more.
I raised my eyes to count each star And bid it a last farewell.
And the brightest one made a long gold line Across the sky as it fell.
I cannot know where we shall meet,
I and the Man called Death,
But I know I will greet him unaware And speak with my final breath.
Long have I seen his shadowed shape, Stalking across the land.
Many the friend that has stumbled out And taken him by the hand.
So the stars wheel by in my last dark sky And this is the end of strife
A watch that glows on my muddy wrist And measures away my life.
THE BOX BARRAGE
DURING the course of our fighting in the Argonne Forest we engaged in a terrific battle that nearly wiped out our company. For days we had been fighting through the heart of the central ravine of the forest steep, heavily wooded banks rose from either side of a creek bed at the bottom of the gulch. We kept pretty close to the path that had been laid out there.
Part of the time we followed the course of the stream. Then the road would rise halfway up the hill. It was at these high points that we were most cautious. For it was in such places that we afforded the best targets for enemy machine guns and snipers, lying concealed everywhere in the dense underbrush of the forest.
To avoid one such exposure, we were given orders to cut a path through the underbrush. This we did with our bayonets. Much to our surprise, we went through without being fired on. We came to a bend in the ravine. Then we could see directly ahead why we had come through without being molested.
In a little clearing in front of us was what remained of a large building. The Germans had been using it as a headquarters. One of our heavy artillery shells had made a direct hit on the roof, crushing it to the ground. The splintered wood and logs were scattered all around. The foundation, which was made of small stones, was crushed and mashed out of shape. The building, sagging there, looked like some great wounded thing waiting for first aid.
Strewn over the ground in front of the building were the bodies of many of the enemy, fully a dozen or more. God alone knew how many were buried inside the building. Many of the bodies did not have a scratch on them. Apparently they had been killed from the shock of the explosion.
Hardly had we reached this opening than we were strafed with machine gun and sniper fire. There was no place for us to go except straight up the hillside. The underbrush offered cover. Quickly we climbed to a ridge and safety near the crest of the hill. We rested there while the top-sergeant counted noses. A regimental runner came to our sergeant, giving him an order.
The order read that we were to advance to the top of the hill. There we would find an apple orchard. We were to wait there for the support of our one pound (Stokes) mortars. Then we were to advance through the orchard until we came to the top of two dugouts. This was to be our objective.
I was close by the sergeant when the order was received.
"Apple orchard," he laughed, "Well, maybe this is a new way of getting our rations."
None of us could imagine an orchard in this forest. All we had seen for days was war-blasted, blackened trees, wounded things of war. Yet when we reached the top of the hill, there was the orchard. Stretching
out for at least a mile ahead, and fully two blocks wide. We learned later that it had been planted there many years before by priests.
Our Stokes mortars came up and were placed in position. A few trial shots were fired towards the tops of two dugouts, which we could see ahead of us. The trees were scattered, and there was much open land between. We were dubious about exposing ourselves in this open country. We had been fighting in the forest long that instinctively we looked to it for protection.
Nothing happened when the trial shots were fired. We waited a few minutes. Then the sergeant gave the order to charge the hill. Spreading out in open formation as skirmishers, we took what scant protection the apple trees offered. Much to our surprise we advanced to our objective without opposition from the enemy. In view of our constant battling for the last week, this puzzled us.
We set up two light machine guns on the tops of two dugouts. To reach them we had to cut our way through about a hundred feet of old barbwire entanglements. This stopped short of the objective by about fifty feet. Between the wire and dugouts was an abandoned trench, built in the zig-zag style common to the earlier front line trenches.
Hardly were the machine guns placed when all hell broke loose. The tense silence of the last half hour turned to an inferno of war made hell; barking guns, whining shells, and the sharp zing of rifle bullets. A German airplane appeared and circled above us. The pilot made no attempt to strafe us with gunfire. In. stead he signaled our position to the German artillery. Knowing what would follow, our men took cover, seeking safety in the old trench behind us.
This was our greatest mistake. Apparently it was just as the Germans had planned it. No sooner were the men lined up in the trench than we found ourselves the center of a box barrage. To form this barrage, the enemy laid their shells down just behind the barbed wire and trench, then hemming it in on both sides, this left our from open for machine gun and rifle fire strafing.
The machine guns on top of the dugouts were manned by five men each. It was a pitiably weak comeback in exchange for the pounding we were taking from the enemy. At any moment we expected to see the Germans come popping out of the two dugouts forming our position. But this did not happen. Instead the German artillery began laying down one pound shells on top of the poor devils huddled in the trench. For them there was no escape. Those of us handling the machine guns were better off in our exposed position, even though it was worth your life to raise up and fire the guns.
There was no avenue of escape except through the barbed wire. Finally our sergeant ordered us to retreat. Then the enemy increased the intensity of their machine gun fire. Enmeshed in that treacherous wire, more than one poor devil passed on to the Great Beyond.
We were ordered to cover the retreat with the machine guns. This we did. In the meantime our one pounders came to the rescue. Reinforced with an additional battery of Stokes mortars, they took a position behind us, pounding the enemy back. Thoroughly disorganized, we fell back to a hill in the rear. After a checkup we learned that nearly ninety men of our company had been killed or wounded in the fight.
That night three of us were placed on outpost duty in the ravine below the hill that had cost us so dearly that day. We had no sooner taken our position when a sniper killed one of my two comrades. I hardly knew the men with me, for the day had been a horrible dream. It was hard to believe it had actually happened. Yet I knew it to be so. As we started to dig a shallow grave to bold the body of our dead comrade, I learned that the other soldier with me was Dago Tony. He was an undersized Italian boy, possibly twenty-eight years of age, an old timer in the company and a veteran of several battles.
Lying there the first night, we broke into confidences, as men under fire will do. We waited throughout the next day. No relief reached us. We felt we were through, and that our numbers were up; that it was only a matter of hours until we would be captured or shot out. Then the Italian boy told me his story.
TREASURES
Treasures in bits of papers,
Treasures in mines of gold,
Treasures in age-dimmed relies,
And in paintings worn and old.
Each to his way of thinking,
Has a treasure in his grasp,
I got mine from a roughneck,
It lay in a simple hand-clasp.
Up in the lines in the heat of a fight,
With the devil as our host,
He had shown us all his tricks and stunts,
In a lonely listening post.
No water, no food, no shelter,
There we had lain for days;
Wounded and slowly dying,
With our eyes beginning to glaze.
The orders had been to hold that post,
Against all odds that might come,
And we were sticking it out alone,
just me and my Dago chum.
I suppose there are those who'd call him a "wop,"
This soldier who lay there with me,
Yet he was fighting hard as I,
Who was cradled in liberty.
It was, "Whata-da-hell? let 'em a-come,
We fight 'em a-hard, you and I!
Whatsa da deeff'? It's-a all for da cause,
And somatime we moosta die.
Myself, I got da sweet-a leetla wife,
That's-a wait at home for me,
Deesa war she's-a one dam tougha game,
But we got to hava liberty."
Then Tony told me his story,
As we lay in post number four,
Why he was so willing to fight and die,
For a land he would always adore.
"When I was joosta leetla boy,
Back cena Sunny Italy,
I heara my father speak of a-thing,
That he calla da Liberty.
He tell of a country datsa paveda with gold,
Where every a-man is da same,
Where me and ever-a-boddy that try,
Has gotta da chance for da fame.
Where no king anda queen can tella you,
Joosta what you got to do,
I'ma get think' to myself,
How grand if datsa true.
So by and by, I grow up,
Beeg, stronga boy, 'bout seexteen,
And come along in a steeraga boat,
To the land of my wonderful dream.
There I find its joosta so true,
Whata papa say she's a-right,
I'ma live ina great free country,
My owna boss, every day and night.
Why evrathing is joosta so free,
You almosta like the bird,
You only worka so much each day,
Not a lika da sheep are you herd.
Den, I meet my sweet-a Marie,
An' we getta marry one day,
Then build a preety leetla home
By time, babee come to stay.
I tella you evrathing is so nice,
I'ma get along joosta fine,
Untila da Kaiz', he getta so fresh,
Joosta 'bout deesa time.
Evrathing he want to take,
Mak-a do joosta what he said,
I tella you, I no lika dat stoff,
I'ma much ratha be dead.
So I graba da gun and come along,
Lik-a all da rest who are here,
'Cause I'ma gonna fight, for a-what is right,
And-a my leetla home so dear.
Please-a wait, you lie quiet,
While I look around a beet,
But-a donta forget, to tell. Marie,
Ina case I'ma mabbe get heet
He took and shook me by the hand,
Then started out alone,
To me it brought an awakening,
To the treasure that I own.
So I'm done with material treasures,
Such as relics, mines, and things,
And treasure instead the memories,
Of love that sacrifice brings.
ACROSS THE RED HORIZON
SLOWLY the damp, grey fog drifted down the valleys in the war-desolated forest of the Argonne, hanging like a misty bridal veil, on the face of the barren hillside. The shell-blasted trees, stripped of branches and leaves, stood there in their shattered majesty as spectral guards at the portals of the Immortals.
For months the dull red ball of fire now sinking beyond the hazy horizon had run red with blood of humanity's youth. It had once been the sun, had shown in all its glory and splendor on men whose lives had been unspotted with the grim business of killing. Men who had laughed, had been gay. Men who had once dared to plan this thing we know as life. Steadily they had grown into relentless, murderous, moving robots of destruction, whose daily task was to lay at the feet of the God of Mars their contribution of the lifeless spoils of war.
Here the stark drama of life and death was as inevitable as the beginning and ending of day. Kingdoms had fallen. Democracies had turned from peaceful pursuits to war-maddened autocracies, feeding their men into the maw of death with the callousness of the butchering room in a packing house.
Under the guise of patriotism, playing bands, blaring press, spouting orators and the beat of the drums, half-grown boys had been hysterically urged to "Join the colors," "Do their bit," to "Fight the war to end wars," and "Make the world safe for democracy."
They followed the ballyhoo of war as readily as though they were led by the legendary Pied Piper of Hamlin. By early October 1918, an endless stream of American doughboys had moved into the forest of the Argonne, deep in the heart of war-stricken France.
The dapper city-bred clerk, the crook, the hard-boiled soldier of the regular army, together with the bland, half-sophisticated college graduate lieutenants, adventure seeking high school boys, and National Guardsmen, all looked as one as they met in that forest of the Argonne for the last big push before the armistice took place. They were a composite picture of the soldier at work, dull-faced, with set jaws and grim lips; eyes staring like half-burned coals from their emaciated, beard-matted, war-weary faces. Only the eyes spoke. What volumes a glance exchanged between them could tell. Sights indelibly stamped in their minds that would live with them throughout the balance of their lives.
Slowly and tensely these men pushed into the heart of the forest; khaki clad bodies became a part of the earth as the last wreaths of the grey mist settled over the Argonne and night fell.
In this group were two men who had been inseparable from their first days together in the training camps back home. They had ridden the crest of many battles together, and there was a love between them as that of blood brothers. Chosen for outpost duty that night, they had made- a small foxhole deep in the side of the steeply wooded ravine, which was the objective gained by their company on that day of fighting. Huddled there together for the warmth their bodies would give to one another, they alternated their watch while one dozed fitfully through a few of the night's rain-filled hours.
An enemy star-shell flamed in the sky with a glow of pale, sickly yellow. This was followed by another that hung as though festooned to the end of an invisible pole. The flares faded and died, but not before one of the doughboys on guard had caught the movement of figures creeping stealthily down the hillside toward them. Arousing his companion, he said "Harris . . . Harris . . . wake up, here they come!" Then he let loose with a volley of shots into the darkness where he had last seen the blurred figures moving toward him.
Harris came to with a start; reaching for his gun he started as though to leave the foxhole, when his companion pulled him sharply down. Harris slouched down beside him; he was white as a ghost, and trembling as though with the ague. "Shell-shock," thought Bill Hanlon, his comrade. Shaking him slowly but roughly, he started talking to him:
"Harris . . . what in God's name is the matter, man?"
Harris mumbled something unintelligible. Hanlon knew he would have to talk, and talk fast.
"Here, Harris, take a sip of this water."
Then he handed Harris his canteen. Harris pushed it back with unseeing eyes, rising again as though to leave the fox-hole, and Hanlon heard the sharp "Zing" of a sniper's bullet. It was too close for comfort, so grabbing Harris by the shoulder, he again pulled him back to safety.
"Here, Harris, buck up, buck up, man . . . you're too long in the outfit to let down like this."
Harris again started mumbling.
"Here, drink this water . . . Hell, man, you'll be breaking the moral of the new recruits if this gets out."
Hanlon continued to shake him, and forced some water between his half-opened lips.
Harris shook his head from side to side, and for a moment his eyes again took on a light of understanding. Then the look of sanity left and he started shouting.
"Stop . . . for God's sake stop! Bill . . . Bill
I can't stand it any longer . . . I'm afraid, I tell you ... Jerry's got my number ... I feel it."
His voice rose and cracked in a high-pitched scream: "Don't leave me, Bill ... for God's sake don't leave me .
Once again Hanlon quieted him, but Harris hung steadily onto him until Hanlon could feel his nails cutting deep into his arms. The wild look returned to Harris's eyes as he started bawling again.
"Yes ... I'm afraid . afraid do you hear me, Bill?"
"I've been afraid ever since the day I first joined this damn army ... now it's driving me nuts ... driving me nuts ... do you hear, Bill?"
Hanlon clung tightly to Harris, trying to calm him, but Harris continued shouting.
"I'm losing my mind . . . Bill . . . all I can hear is the voices of the wounded and dead . . . and they keep saying to me . 'You're next, Harris ... You're next.' "
Then he fell on Hanlon's shoulders and his racking sobs told too well the story of broken nerves.
"Come, Harris . . . buck up, man . . . here, take some water."
Again Hanlon tried to force water to his lips, but Harris pushed him back. He dropped the canteen, and Hanlon clutched for it to save its precious contents. As he did so Harris drew back as though to strike him; then Hanlon lashed out with his open hand, slapping Harris full in the face. With the blow reason returned to Harris, his eyes cleared, and he looked at Hanlon again in his old familiar bantering way. "Thank God," thought Hanlon. "He's all right again."
Harris reached over and half threw his arm around Hanlon's shoulders and said, "I'm sorry as hell . . . Bill ... what kind of a louse do you think I am to drink up all your water on you."
"I am glad you're okay again, Harris . . . that was a close one."
"Why Bill . . . you damn grinning Irishman, you ... if you were working with a full stomach I'd punch hell out of you here and now for talking about close ones."
Bill breathed a sigh of relief; he was sure now that Harris would be all right. Silently he gripped Harris's hand, for it is hell to see an old campaigner whom you love as a brother crack up.
Harris returned the handgrip, telling his gratefulness by the pressure of his hand. At Hanlon's orders he shoveled out a larger space in the foxhole so he could extend his body in it to obtain the rest he so badly needed.
It was quiet again, but the sound of Harris's shouting was bound to bring the enemy in again. Bill lay in the upper half of the foxhole with eyes straining through the wet darkness of the forest, as though by his eyes alone he would pull the enemy within range of his high powered rifle. It started a steady downpour of rain. Bill breathed a prayer of thanks, as it meant less chance, of enemy night raiding.
He crouched there soaked to the skin, the long minutes clicked off tediously. He would not call Harris for fear that he might crack up again. He felt that if they could live the night through, Harris would either be all right in the morning, or he could get him started to a field hospital.
The night was endless, and despite his dozing Hanlon thought he heard the low, guttural talking of his enemy coming from above where he lay. Just then a small Very flare-light ascended, and as he raised his head above the edge of the foxhole he was greeted with a burst of sniper gun-fire. Quickly he jerked his bead down, then all things quieted down again. Feeling that it would be but a matter of minutes until his position was attacked, he tried to arouse Harris.
He slouched down in the shell hole, and began whispering in a low tone to Harris. But receiving no answer he started to shake him slowly. When he did not respond he reached over to Harris's head, putting his hand over his mouth to make sure of his silence. It came away warm and sticky . . . the face was cold.
"Harris . . . Harris . . . My God, Harris you, too . . ."
Harris's body turned as though to answer Bill's call ... then it slumped further in the foxhole.
By the dim light of the flare Hanlon could see the stark, staring eyes of his comrade looking heavenward through the beating rain.
Harris was dead. A shot through the head in that last burst of firing had come out through his mouth.
Hanlon felt his hand ... then started slowly rubbing it in the mud ... as though to erase forever the stain of the life blood of his best buddy.
His own nerves cracked under the strain. He started mumbling and sobbing . . . "Harris gone . . . Harris gone ... only Jack and Chet and me left of our gang ... My God! ... when will it end?"
GLORY OF WAR
You can see men die on the battlefields,
go through hell time again and still grin,
But there's something that gets you beneath the belt
when you see green troops "come in."
Laughing and gay they march into the lines,
thinking that war is a lark,
Then after the fight they're grim-lipped and white,
as if they were stricken stark.
The sparkle of youth has gone from their eyes,
and the smile is gone from their face,
They are marked with that hardness on lip and brow,
that only a war can trace.
If they laugh again, as perhaps they will,
it is only a hollow mask,
Hiding the truth of the "glory of war,"
and their part in its murderous task.
Hardened and calloused-the creatures of war,
their minds with a single thought,
To cling to their preciously short span of life,
in each murderous battle that's fought.
They blast everything that lies in their path,
by means of a bomb or a gun,
Their passports to heaven or maybe to hell,
as they battle a race called "Hun."
Stand for a spell in this man-made hell,
that is known as no-man's-land,
Watch comrade and enemy fall one by one,
and then try to understand,
Why fools like us who have lives to live,
could so like puppets be,
That down through the ages we bleed out our lives,
on the altars of jealousy.
AN OBJECT LESSON
THE SETTING
IT was the last year of the war, on the Argonne Front. Little more than a month of fighting remained, but none of the men of the 77th Division knew that, or would have believed you had you told them. Of late there had been more and more victories, but each had been won by stubborn fighting and at a terrible cost of lives.
Back of the lines, in headquarters, where officers traced the ebb and flow of battle with pins on a huge map, a different story was being unfolded. There it had become evident, in the past few months, that the slow inevitable weakening of the entire German front had been taking place. Daily the line of pins that represented the Allied line had crept a little farther to the eastward. The movement was not steady, the line did not advance with each segment abreast of the others, but the general trend was unmistakable. One row of pins - an inch or two - would creep forward, waver momentarily, and then entrench itself in a new and unfamiliar section of the map. Farther down the map, another row of pins would hitch forward to come abreast with the first set.
On the map it was simple and fascinating. The pins moved forward, wavered, sometimes fell back, but always rallied and recovered their gains. But at the front, miles ahead over war-torn ground, it was no game at all. Here the pins became men, muddy, weary, war-worn men who died that pins might move. For hours guns roared, the barrage would creep forward, and beneath it men would run stumblingly across shell-pocked ground, raked by machine-gun fire, then dig themselves in. Night would come and with it Death's weird fireworks of shrapnel shells and flares; again the stumbling advance, past recently emptied trenches, through entanglements of barbed wire. Days of this living hell and the pins would move an inch -a quarter of an inch, on the map miles behind the lines.
There was one set of pins that did not move forward. Only at one point on the map had the pins remained stationary month after month, year after year, even through the recent drive, when elsewhere along the line, the pins had all crept to the East and to the North, toward the German border. This point was the Argonne Forest, known as the Champaign Front. The forest had been seized by the German forces in the opening months of the war. Later on the French had made a brief, desperate attempt to dislodge them, and had failed, losing many thousand men. No other attempt had been made during four years.
The German forces had been able by use of prisoners to convert the Argonne into a veritable wooded fortress, vast and impregnable natural stronghold. Their system of defense honeycombed the woods in all directions. Secret roads had been built so that German troops could move swiftly and unseen to any part of the forest that was threatened with attack. A clever and intricate system of barbed wire entanglements ran like a maze, a cruel labyrinth, through the entire extent of the forest. Hidden nests of machine guns and light artillery commanded all roads and paths, while a series of secret observation posts kept the German command informed of any movement of the Allied forces, should they attempt to enter this wooded for-tress.
It had been learned that the German troops occupying this section were the Landwehr Reserves - the "Old Fellows," as they were called -and it was thought they had been softened by a long period of easy life. Unaccustomed to the rigors of battle, they were expected to put up only a half-hearted resistance before a determined attack. Unknown to the allied command, the Landwehr Reserves had been reinforced by seasoned troops of the 76th German Division. The combination of battlewise veterans and fresh rested troops garrisoned in the Forest formed a formidable fighting unit that awaited the invasion of their enemies.
THE PROBLEM
THIS was the problem, to move those stubborn pins, that the entire Allied lines might advance to the German borders. The American 77th Division and portions of the Fourth French Army Corps were picked to accomplish this difficult task.
The 77th Division, originally composed of men from New York's East Side, had been reinforced with fresh troops from the 40th Division, made up of Westerners from the mountain and Pacific Coast States. This was a cross-section of America, from the raw-boned cowhand, sunburned farmers, uprooted clerks and bank--tellers, to garment workers of the Bronx and skilled factory mechanics, who could handle a lathe as well as they could a rifle. These were the men who were to try and solve that problem, that pins might again move. There remained only the plan of attack.
THE PLAN OF ATTACK
IT was decided to assault the rectangular Ravine d' Argonne, which was the heart of the Argonne Forest, from the south. The French were to close in from the west and the Americans from the east. The forces were to sweep together, like the closing blades of a huge pair of shears, and to squeeze the enemy out before them as they closed. It was assumed by the Allied high command that the Germans would retreat to the north to avoid capture, when they learned of this attack with its encircling action on both their flanks. If all went well, the blades of those human shears would come together at the northeastern edge of the forest and the Argonne would be cleared.
Between the two forces, and serving as a connecting link, a liaison group, composed of American colored troops, was to keep open the lines of communication in order that each blade of the giant shears could be informed of the other's movements. This was a highly important function, but a task made doubly difficult because of the tangled underbrush and the density of the forest.
THE ATTACK IS LAUNCHED
AT daybreak, September 26th, 1918, simultaneously from the east and west, troops poured into the forest. Behind them, heavy artillery belched and thundered, its continuous roars echoing over the wooded hills and the ravines of the Argonne. Far ahead, the shells were dropping unseen, and with unknown effect, as the rough terrain made it impossible to establish observation stations. Beneath this blind barrage the troops advanced.
For six days the battle raged. From the start it became apparent that superhuman effort would be required to carry out the attack as originally planned. The Allied troops had no more than entered the shadows of the forest when the full fury of the German defense was turned loose on them. From unseen nests machine guns poured torrents of their lead into the oncoming Allied ranks. Every foot of every twisting, turning path that German prisoners had long before cut through the dense forest, became a certain death trap. At times one would see the grey-clad Huns, or stumble over their dead bodies. For the most part it was like fighting an enemy cloaked in the terrifying armor of invisibility.
At the end of two days' fighting, the Americans on the west had fared much better than the French on the east. Purchasing their gains by great losses of men, they had hacked their way deep into the forest, while the French bad encountered terrific resistance and had fallen back. Despite their valiant, persistent efforts, they had made but little headway. Meantime the 92nd Division of colored American troops, which were to have kept open the line of communication between the French and the American Division, had been entirely routed from their position by strong German counterattacks. This left the two invading forces operating as separate units, without knowledge of each others' position. In the dense Argonne forest the military designations of battalion, company, platoon and squad had become meaningless. Men pushed on blindly, knowing only that the enemy was ahead of them, that their job was to advance and drive them from the woods.
On October 2, the seventh day of the advance, there came a breathing spell. Communication was reestablished between the two forces, and a survey made of the results of the drive. The partial collapse of the plan of attack immediately became evident. Only one blade of the shears had moved. While the Americans had moved steadily forward, the French blade of the shears had remained stationary, and the squeezing action had not been affected, with the result that failure of the whole drive was threatened.
Prompt and drastic action was imperative. An immediate renewal of the attack was ordered. A common objective for the French and American forces was chosen. They were again to advance, making no attempt to maintain lines of communication with each other. It was hoped that as the two forces advanced at an angle, the disjointed blade of the shear would join with the other, and thus the exposed flank of the American forces would be protected. Shortly before noon, on October 2, the second attack was under way.
At this point the attention was then focused for the first time on the so-called Lost Battalion.
A TRAGEDY IN THE MAKING
THE exposed left flank, the point where the blades of the shears would normally come together, was under command of Major Charles W. Whittlesey with Captain George G. McMurtry as second in command. Both were competent, level-headed officers, thoroughly experienced and seasoned and commanding the respect and confidence of their men.
The force consisted of six companies of the 308th Infantry, one company of the 307th Infantry, and two platoons of the 306th Machine Gun Battalion with nine machine guns - a total of approximately seven hundred men.
ACROSS THE RED HORIZON
SLOWLY the damp, grey fog drifted down the valleys in the war-desolated forest of the Argonne, hanging like a misty bridal veil, on the face of the barren hillside. The shell-blasted trees, stripped of branches and leaves, stood there in their shattered majesty as spectral guards at the portals of the Immortals.
For months the dull red ball of fire now sinking beyond the hazy horizon had run red with blood of humanity's youth. It had once been the sun, had shown in all its glory and splendor on men whose lives had been unspotted with the grim business of killing. Men who had laughed, had been gay. Men who had once dared to plan this thing we know as life. Steadily they had grown into relentless, murderous, moving robots of destruction, whose daily task was to lay at the feet of the God of Mars their contribution of the lifeless spoils of war.
Here the stark drama of life and death was as inevitable as the beginning and ending of day. Kingdoms had fallen. Democracies had turned from peaceful pursuits to war-maddened autocracies, feeding their men into the maw of death with the callousness of the butchering room in a packing house.
Under the guise of patriotism, playing bands, blaring press, spouting orators and the beat of the drums, half-grown boys had been hysterically urged to "Join the colors," "Do their bit," to "Fight the war to end wars," and "Make the world safe for democracy."
They followed the ballyhoo of war as readily as though they were led by the legendary Pied Piper of Hamlin. By early October 1918, an endless stream of American doughboys had moved into the forest of the Argonne, deep in the heart of war-stricken France.
The dapper city-bred clerk, the crook, the hard-boiled soldier of the regular army, together with the bland, half-sophisticated college graduate lieutenants, adventure seeking high school boys, and National Guardsmen, all looked as one as they met in that forest of the Argonne for the last big push before the armistice took place. They were a composite picture of the soldier at work, dull-faced, with set jaws and grim lips; eyes staring like half-burned coals from their emaciated, beard-matted, war-weary faces. Only the eyes spoke. What volumes a glance exchanged between them could tell. Sights indelibly stamped in their minds that would live with them throughout the balance of their lives.
Slowly and tensely these men pushed into the heart of the forest; khaki clad bodies became a part of the earth as the last wreaths of the grey mist settled over the Argonne and night fell.
In this group were two men who had been inseparable from their first days together in the training camps back home. They had ridden the crest of many battles together, and there was a love between them as that of blood brothers. Chosen for outpost duty that night, they had made- a small foxhole deep in the side of the steeply wooded ravine, which was the objective gained by their company on that day of fighting. Huddled there together for the warmth their bodies would give to one another, they alternated their watch while one dozed fitfully through a few of the night's rain-filled hours.
An enemy star-shell flamed in the sky with a glow of pale, sickly yellow. This was followed by another that hung as though festooned to the end of an invisible pole. The flares faded and died, but not before one of the doughboys on guard had caught the movement of figures creeping stealthily down the hillside toward them. Arousing his companion, he said "Harris . . . Harris . . . wake up, here they come!" Then he let loose with a volley of shots into the darkness where he had last seen the blurred figures moving toward him.
Harris came to with a start; reaching for his gun he started as though to leave the foxhole, when his companion pulled him sharply down. Harris slouched down beside him; he was white as a ghost, and trembling as though with the ague. "Shell-shock," thought Bill Hanlon, his comrade. Shaking him slowly but roughly, he started talking to him:
"Harris . . . what in God's name is the matter, man?"
Harris mumbled something unintelligible. Hanlon knew he would have to talk, and talk fast.
"Here, Harris, take a sip of this water."
Then he handed Harris his canteen. Harris pushed it back with unseeing eyes, rising again as though to leave the fox-hole, and Hanlon heard the sharp "Zing" of a sniper's bullet. It was too close for comfort, so grabbing Harris by the shoulder, he again pulled him back to safety.
"Here, Harris, buck up, buck up, man . . . you're too long in the outfit to let down like this."
Harris again started mumbling.
"Here, drink this water . . . Hell, man, you'll be breaking the moral of the new recruits if this gets out."
Hanlon continued to shake him, and forced some water between his half-opened lips.
Harris shook his head from side to side, and for a moment his eyes again took on a light of understanding. Then the look of sanity left and he started shouting.
"Stop . . . for God's sake stop! Bill . . . Bill
I can't stand it any longer . . . I'm afraid, I tell you ... Jerry's got my number ... I feel it."
His voice rose and cracked in a high-pitched scream: "Don't leave me, Bill ... for God's sake don't leave me .
Once again Hanlon quieted him, but Harris hung steadily onto him until Hanlon could feel his nails cutting deep into his arms. The wild look returned to Harris's eyes as he started bawling again.
"Yes ... I'm afraid . afraid do you hear me, Bill?"
"I've been afraid ever since the day I first joined this damn army ... now it's driving me nuts ... driving me nuts ... do you hear, Bill?"
Hanlon clung tightly to Harris, trying to calm him, but Harris continued shouting.
"I'm losing my mind . . . Bill . . . all I can hear is the voices of the wounded and dead . . . and they keep saying to me . 'You're next, Harris ... You're next.' "
Then he fell on Hanlon's shoulders and his racking sobs told too well the story of broken nerves.
"Come, Harris . . . buck up, man . . . here, take some water."
Again Hanlon tried to force water to his lips, but Harris pushed him back. He dropped the canteen, and Hanlon clutched for it to save its precious contents. As he did so Harris drew back as though to strike him; then Hanlon lashed out with his open hand, slapping Harris full in the face. With the blow reason returned to Harris, his eyes cleared, and he looked at Hanlon again in his old familiar bantering way. "Thank God," thought Hanlon. "He's all right again."
Harris reached over and half threw his arm around Hanlon's shoulders and said, "I'm sorry as hell . . . Bill ... what kind of a louse do you think I am to drink up all your water on you."
"I am glad you're okay again, Harris . . . that was a close one."
"Why Bill . . . you damn grinning Irishman, you ... if you were working with a full stomach I'd punch hell out of you here and now for talking about close ones."
Bill breathed a sigh of relief; he was sure now that Harris would be all right. Silently he gripped Harris's hand, for it is hell to see an old campaigner whom you love as a brother crack up.
Harris returned the handgrip, telling his gratefulness by the pressure of his hand. At Hanlon's orders he shoveled out a larger space in the foxhole so he could extend his body in it to obtain the rest he so badly needed.
It was quiet again, but the sound of Harris's shouting was bound to bring the enemy in again. Bill lay in the upper half of the foxhole with eyes straining through the wet darkness of the forest, as though by his eyes alone he would pull the enemy within range of his high powered rifle. It started a steady downpour of rain. Bill breathed a prayer of thanks, as it meant less chance, of enemy night raiding.
He crouched there soaked to the skin, the long minutes clicked off tediously. He would not call Harris for fear that he might crack up again. He felt that if they could live the night through, Harris would either be all right in the morning, or he could get him started to a field hospital.
The night was endless, and despite his dozing Hanlon thought he heard the low, guttural talking of his enemy coming from above where he lay. Just then a small Very flare-light ascended, and as he raised his head above the edge of the foxhole he was greeted with a burst of sniper gun-fire. Quickly he jerked his bead down, then all things quieted down again. Feeling that it would be but a matter of minutes until his position was attacked, he tried to arouse Harris.
He slouched down in the shell hole, and began whispering in a low tone to Harris. But receiving no answer he started to shake him slowly. When he did not respond he reached over to Harris's head, putting his hand over his mouth to make sure of his silence. It came away warm and sticky . . . the face was cold.
"Harris . . . Harris . . . My God, Harris you, too . . ."
Harris's body turned as though to answer Bill's call ... then it slumped further in the foxhole.
By the dim light of the flare Hanlon could see the stark, staring eyes of his comrade looking heavenward through the beating rain.
Harris was dead. A shot through the head in that last burst of firing had come out through his mouth.
Hanlon felt his hand ... then started slowly rubbing it in the mud ... as though to erase forever the stain of the life blood of his best buddy.
His own nerves cracked under the strain. He started mumbling and sobbing . . . "Harris gone . . . Harris gone ... only Jack and Chet and me left of our gang ... My God! ... when will it end?"
GLORY OF WAR
You can see men die on the battlefields,
go through hell time again and still grin,
But there's something that gets you beneath the belt
when you see green troops "come in."
Laughing and gay they march into the lines,
thinking that war is a lark,
Then after the fight they're grim-lipped and white,
as if they were stricken stark.
The sparkle of youth has gone from their eyes,
and the smile is gone from their face,
They are marked with that hardness on lip and brow,
that only a war can trace.
If they laugh again, as perhaps they will,
it is only a hollow mask,
Hiding the truth of the "glory of war,"
and their part in its murderous task.
Hardened and calloused-the creatures of war,
their minds with a single thought,
To cling to their preciously short span of life,
in each murderous battle that's fought.
They blast everything that lies in their path,
by means of a bomb or a gun,
Their passports to heaven or maybe to hell,
as they battle a race called "Hun."
Stand for a spell in this man-made hell,
that is known as no-man's-land,
Watch comrade and enemy fall one by one,
and then try to understand,
Why fools like us who have lives to live,
could so like puppets be,
That down through the ages we bleed out our lives,
on the altars of jealousy.
AN OBJECT LESSON
THE SETTING
IT was the last year of the war, on the Argonne Front. Little more than a month of fighting remained, but none of the men of the 77th Division knew that, or would have believed you had you told them. Of late there had been more and more victories, but each had been won by stubborn fighting and at a terrible cost of lives.
Back of the lines, in headquarters, where officers traced the ebb and flow of battle with pins on a huge map, a different story was being unfolded. There it had become evident, in the past few months, that the slow inevitable weakening of the entire German front had been taking place. Daily the line of pins that represented the Allied line had crept a little farther to the eastward. The movement was not steady, the line did not advance with each segment abreast of the others, but the general trend was unmistakable. One row of pins - an inch or two - would creep forward, waver momentarily, and then entrench itself in a new and unfamiliar section of the map. Farther down the map, another row of pins would hitch forward to come abreast with the first set.
On the map it was simple and fascinating. The pins moved forward, wavered, sometimes fell back, but always rallied and recovered their gains. But at the front, miles ahead over war-torn ground, it was no game at all. Here the pins became men, muddy, weary, war-worn men who died that pins might move. For hours guns roared, the barrage would creep forward, and beneath it men would run stumblingly across shell-pocked ground, raked by machine-gun fire, then dig themselves in. Night would come and with it Death's weird fireworks of shrapnel shells and flares; again the stumbling advance, past recently emptied trenches, through entanglements of barbed wire. Days of this living hell and the pins would move an inch -a quarter of an inch, on the map miles behind the lines.
There was one set of pins that did not move forward. Only at one point on the map had the pins remained stationary month after month, year after year, even through the recent drive, when elsewhere along the line, the pins had all crept to the East and to the North, toward the German border. This point was the Argonne Forest, known as the Champaign Front. The forest had been seized by the German forces in the opening months of the war. Later on the French had made a brief, desperate attempt to dislodge them, and had failed, losing many thousand men. No other attempt had been made during four years.
The German forces had been able by use of prisoners to convert the Argonne into a veritable wooded fortress, vast and impregnable natural stronghold. Their system of defense honeycombed the woods in all directions. Secret roads had been built so that German troops could move swiftly and unseen to any part of the forest that was threatened with attack. A clever and intricate system of barbed wire entanglements ran like a maze, a cruel labyrinth, through the entire extent of the forest. Hidden nests of machine guns and light artillery commanded all roads and paths, while a series of secret observation posts kept the German command informed of any movement of the Allied forces, should they attempt to enter this wooded for-tress.
It had been learned that the German troops occupying this section were the Landwehr Reserves - the "Old Fellows," as they were called -and it was thought they had been softened by a long period of easy life. Unaccustomed to the rigors of battle, they were expected to put up only a half-hearted resistance before a determined attack. Unknown to the allied command, the Landwehr Reserves had been reinforced by seasoned troops of the 76th German Division. The combination of battlewise veterans and fresh rested troops garrisoned in the Forest formed a formidable fighting unit that awaited the invasion of their enemies.
THE PROBLEM
THIS was the problem, to move those stubborn pins, that the entire Allied lines might advance to the German borders. The American 77th Division and portions of the Fourth French Army Corps were picked to accomplish this difficult task.
The 77th Division, originally composed of men from New York's East Side, had been reinforced with fresh troops from the 40th Division, made up of Westerners from the mountain and Pacific Coast States. This was a cross-section of America, from the raw-boned cowhand, sunburned farmers, uprooted clerks and bank--tellers, to garment workers of the Bronx and skilled factory mechanics, who could handle a lathe as well as they could a rifle. These were the men who were to try and solve that problem, that pins might again move. There remained only the plan of attack.
THE PLAN OF ATTACK
IT was decided to assault the rectangular Ravine d' Argonne, which was the heart of the Argonne Forest, from the south. The French were to close in from the west and the Americans from the east. The forces were to sweep together, like the closing blades of a huge pair of shears, and to squeeze the enemy out before them as they closed. It was assumed by the Allied high command that the Germans would retreat to the north to avoid capture, when they learned of this attack with its encircling action on both their flanks. If all went well, the blades of those human shears would come together at the northeastern edge of the forest and the Argonne would be cleared.
Between the two forces, and serving as a connecting link, a liaison group, composed of American colored troops, was to keep open the lines of communication in order that each blade of the giant shears could be informed of the other's movements. This was a highly important function, but a task made doubly difficult because of the tangled underbrush and the density of the forest.
THE ATTACK IS LAUNCHED
AT daybreak, September 26th, 1918, simultaneously from the east and west, troops poured into the forest. Behind them, heavy artillery belched and thundered, its continuous roars echoing over the wooded hills and the ravines of the Argonne. Far ahead, the shells were dropping unseen, and with unknown effect, as the rough terrain made it impossible to establish observation stations. Beneath this blind barrage the troops advanced.
For six days the battle raged. From the start it became apparent that superhuman effort would be required to carry out the attack as originally planned. The Allied troops had no more than entered the shadows of the forest when the full fury of the German defense was turned loose on them. From unseen nests machine guns poured torrents of their lead into the oncoming Allied ranks. Every foot of every twisting, turning path that German prisoners had long before cut through the dense forest, became a certain death trap. At times one would see the grey-clad Huns, or stumble over their dead bodies. For the most part it was like fighting an enemy cloaked in the terrifying armor of invisibility.
At the end of two days' fighting, the Americans on the west had fared much better than the French on the east. Purchasing their gains by great losses of men, they had hacked their way deep into the forest, while the French bad encountered terrific resistance and had fallen back. Despite their valiant, persistent efforts, they had made but little headway. Meantime the 92nd Division of colored American troops, which were to have kept open the line of communication between the French and the American Division, had been entirely routed from their position by strong German counterattacks. This left the two invading forces operating as separate units, without knowledge of each others' position. In the dense Argonne forest the military designations of battalion, company, platoon and squad had become meaningless. Men pushed on blindly, knowing only that the enemy was ahead of them, that their job was to advance and drive them from the woods.
On October 2, the seventh day of the advance, there came a breathing spell. Communication was reestablished between the two forces, and a survey made of the results of the drive. The partial collapse of the plan of attack immediately became evident. Only one blade of the shears had moved. While the Americans had moved steadily forward, the French blade of the shears had remained stationary, and the squeezing action had not been affected, with the result that failure of the whole drive was threatened.
Prompt and drastic action was imperative. An immediate renewal of the attack was ordered. A common objective for the French and American forces was chosen. They were again to advance, making no attempt to maintain lines of communication with each other. It was hoped that as the two forces advanced at an angle, the disjointed blade of the shear would join with the other, and thus the exposed flank of the American forces would be protected. Shortly before noon, on October 2, the second attack was under way.
At this point the attention was then focused for the first time on the so-called Lost Battalion.
A TRAGEDY IN THE MAKING
THE exposed left flank, the point where the blades of the shears would normally come together, was under command of Major Charles W. Whittlesey with Captain George G. McMurtry as second in command. Both were competent, level-headed officers, thoroughly experienced and seasoned and commanding the respect and confidence of their men.
The force consisted of six companies of the 308th Infantry, one company of the 307th Infantry, and two platoons of the 306th Machine Gun Battalion with nine machine guns - a total of approximately seven hundred men.
ACROSS THE RED HORIZON
SLOWLY the damp, grey fog drifted down the valleys in the war-desolated forest of the Argonne, hanging like a misty bridal veil, on the face of the barren hillside. The shell-blasted trees, stripped of branches and leaves, stood there in their shattered majesty as spectral guards at the portals of the Immortals.
For months the dull red ball of fire now sinking beyond the hazy horizon had run red with blood of humanity's youth. It had once been the sun, had shown in all its glory and splendor on men whose lives had been unspotted with the grim business of killing. Men who had laughed, had been gay. Men who had once dared to plan this thing we know as life. Steadily they had grown into relentless, murderous, moving robots of destruction, whose daily task was to lay at the feet of the God of Mars their contribution of the lifeless spoils of war.
Here the stark drama of life and death was as inevitable as the beginning and ending of day. Kingdoms had fallen. Democracies had turned from peaceful pursuits to war-maddened autocracies, feeding their men into the maw of death with the callousness of the butchering room in a packing house.
Under the guise of patriotism, playing bands, blaring press, spouting orators and the beat of the drums, half-grown boys had been hysterically urged to "Join the colors," "Do their bit," to "Fight the war to end wars," and "Make the world safe for democracy."
They followed the ballyhoo of war as readily as though they were led by the legendary Pied Piper of Hamlin. By early October 1918, an endless stream of American doughboys had moved into the forest of the Argonne, deep in the heart of war-stricken France.
The dapper city-bred clerk, the crook, the hard-boiled soldier of the regular army, together with the bland, half-sophisticated college graduate lieutenants, adventure seeking high school boys, and National Guardsmen, all looked as one as they met in that forest of the Argonne for the last big push before the armistice took place. They were a composite picture of the soldier at work, dull-faced, with set jaws and grim lips; eyes staring like half-burned coals from their emaciated, beard-matted, war-weary faces. Only the eyes spoke. What volumes a glance exchanged between them could tell. Sights indelibly stamped in their minds that would live with them throughout the balance of their lives.
Slowly and tensely these men pushed into the heart of the forest; khaki clad bodies became a part of the earth as the last wreaths of the grey mist settled over the Argonne and night fell.
In this group were two men who had been inseparable from their first days together in the training camps back home. They had ridden the crest of many battles together, and there was a love between them as that of blood brothers. Chosen for outpost duty that night, they had made- a small foxhole deep in the side of the steeply wooded ravine, which was the objective gained by their company on that day of fighting. Huddled there together for the warmth their bodies would give to one another, they alternated their watch while one dozed fitfully through a few of the night's rain-filled hours.
An enemy star-shell flamed in the sky with a glow of pale, sickly yellow. This was followed by another that hung as though festooned to the end of an invisible pole. The flares faded and died, but not before one of the doughboys on guard had caught the movement of figures creeping stealthily down the hillside toward them. Arousing his companion, he said "Harris . . . Harris . . . wake up, here they come!" Then he let loose with a volley of shots into the darkness where he had last seen the blurred figures moving toward him.
Harris came to with a start; reaching for his gun he started as though to leave the foxhole, when his companion pulled him sharply down. Harris slouched down beside him; he was white as a ghost, and trembling as though with the ague. "Shell-shock," thought Bill Hanlon, his comrade. Shaking him slowly but roughly, he started talking to him:
"Harris . . . what in God's name is the matter, man?"
Harris mumbled something unintelligible. Hanlon knew he would have to talk, and talk fast.
"Here, Harris, take a sip of this water."
Then he handed Harris his canteen. Harris pushed it back with unseeing eyes, rising again as though to leave the fox-hole, and Hanlon heard the sharp "Zing" of a sniper's bullet. It was too close for comfort, so grabbing Harris by the shoulder, he again pulled him back to safety.
"Here, Harris, buck up, buck up, man . . . you're too long in the outfit to let down like this."
Harris again started mumbling.
"Here, drink this water . . . Hell, man, you'll be breaking the moral of the new recruits if this gets out."
Hanlon continued to shake him, and forced some water between his half-opened lips.
Harris shook his head from side to side, and for a moment his eyes again took on a light of understanding. Then the look of sanity left and he started shouting.
"Stop . . . for God's sake stop! Bill . . . Bill
I can't stand it any longer . . . I'm afraid, I tell you ... Jerry's got my number ... I feel it."
His voice rose and cracked in a high-pitched scream: "Don't leave me, Bill ... for God's sake don't leave me .
Once again Hanlon quieted him, but Harris hung steadily onto him until Hanlon could feel his nails cutting deep into his arms. The wild look returned to Harris's eyes as he started bawling again.
"Yes ... I'm afraid . afraid do you hear me, Bill?"
"I've been afraid ever since the day I first joined this damn army ... now it's driving me nuts ... driving me nuts ... do you hear, Bill?"
Hanlon clung tightly to Harris, trying to calm him, but Harris continued shouting.
"I'm losing my mind . . . Bill . . . all I can hear is the voices of the wounded and dead . . . and they keep saying to me . 'You're next, Harris ... You're next.' "
Then he fell on Hanlon's shoulders and his racking sobs told too well the story of broken nerves.
"Come, Harris . . . buck up, man . . . here, take some water."
Again Hanlon tried to force water to his lips, but Harris pushed him back. He dropped the canteen, and Hanlon clutched for it to save its precious contents. As he did so Harris drew back as though to strike him; then Hanlon lashed out with his open hand, slapping Harris full in the face. With the blow reason returned to Harris, his eyes cleared, and he looked at Hanlon again in his old familiar bantering way. "Thank God," thought Hanlon. "He's all right again."
Harris reached over and half threw his arm around Hanlon's shoulders and said, "I'm sorry as hell . . . Bill ... what kind of a louse do you think I am to drink up all your water on you."
"I am glad you're okay again, Harris . . . that was a close one."
"Why Bill . . . you damn grinning Irishman, you ... if you were working with a full stomach I'd punch hell out of you here and now for talking about close ones."
Bill breathed a sigh of relief; he was sure now that Harris would be all right. Silently he gripped Harris's hand, for it is hell to see an old campaigner whom you love as a brother crack up.
Harris returned the handgrip, telling his gratefulness by the pressure of his hand. At Hanlon's orders he shoveled out a larger space in the foxhole so he could extend his body in it to obtain the rest he so badly needed.
It was quiet again, but the sound of Harris's shouting was bound to bring the enemy in again. Bill lay in the upper half of the foxhole with eyes straining through the wet darkness of the forest, as though by his eyes alone he would pull the enemy within range of his high powered rifle. It started a steady downpour of rain. Bill breathed a prayer of thanks, as it meant less chance, of enemy night raiding.
He crouched there soaked to the skin, the long minutes clicked off tediously. He would not call Harris for fear that he might crack up again. He felt that if they could live the night through, Harris would either be all right in the morning, or he could get him started to a field hospital.
The night was endless, and despite his dozing Hanlon thought he heard the low, guttural talking of his enemy coming from above where he lay. Just then a small Very flare-light ascended, and as he raised his head above the edge of the foxhole he was greeted with a burst of sniper gun-fire. Quickly he jerked his bead down, then all things quieted down again. Feeling that it would be but a matter of minutes until his position was attacked, he tried to arouse Harris.
He slouched down in the shell hole, and began whispering in a low tone to Harris. But receiving no answer he started to shake him slowly. When he did not respond he reached over to Harris's head, putting his hand over his mouth to make sure of his silence. It came away warm and sticky . . . the face was cold.
"Harris . . . Harris . . . My God, Harris you, too . . ."
Harris's body turned as though to answer Bill's call ... then it slumped further in the foxhole.
By the dim light of the flare Hanlon could see the stark, staring eyes of his comrade looking heavenward through the beating rain.
Harris was dead. A shot through the head in that last burst of firing had come out through his mouth.
Hanlon felt his hand ... then started slowly rubbing it in the mud ... as though to erase forever the stain of the life blood of his best buddy.
His own nerves cracked under the strain. He started mumbling and sobbing . . . "Harris gone . . . Harris gone ... only Jack and Chet and me left of our gang ... My God! ... when will it end?"
GLORY OF WAR
You can see men die on the battlefields,
go through hell time again and still grin,
But there's something that gets you beneath the belt
when you see green troops "come in."
Laughing and gay they march into the lines,
thinking that war is a lark,
Then after the fight they're grim-lipped and white,
as if they were stricken stark.
The sparkle of youth has gone from their eyes,
and the smile is gone from their face,
They are marked with that hardness on lip and brow,
that only a war can trace.
If they laugh again, as perhaps they will,
it is only a hollow mask,
Hiding the truth of the "glory of war,"
and their part in its murderous task.
Hardened and calloused-the creatures of war,
their minds with a single thought,
To cling to their preciously short span of life,
in each murderous battle that's fought.
They blast everything that lies in their path,
by means of a bomb or a gun,
Their passports to heaven or maybe to hell,
as they battle a race called "Hun."
Stand for a spell in this man-made hell,
that is known as no-man's-land,
Watch comrade and enemy fall one by one,
and then try to understand,
Why fools like us who have lives to live,
could so like puppets be,
That down through the ages we bleed out our lives,
on the altars of jealousy.
AN OBJECT LESSON
THE SETTING
IT was the last year of the war, on the Argonne Front. Little more than a month of fighting remained, but none of the men of the 77th Division knew that, or would have believed you had you told them. Of late there had been more and more victories, but each had been won by stubborn fighting and at a terrible cost of lives.
Back of the lines, in headquarters, where officers traced the ebb and flow of battle with pins on a huge map, a different story was being unfolded. There it had become evident, in the past few months, that the slow inevitable weakening of the entire German front had been taking place. Daily the line of pins that represented the Allied line had crept a little farther to the eastward. The movement was not steady, the line did not advance with each segment abreast of the others, but the general trend was unmistakable. One row of pins - an inch or two - would creep forward, waver momentarily, and then entrench itself in a new and unfamiliar section of the map. Farther down the map, another row of pins would hitch forward to come abreast with the first set.
On the map it was simple and fascinating. The pins moved forward, wavered, sometimes fell back, but always rallied and recovered their gains. But at the front, miles ahead over war-torn ground, it was no game at all. Here the pins became men, muddy, weary, war-worn men who died that pins might move. For hours guns roared, the barrage would creep forward, and beneath it men would run stumblingly across shell-pocked ground, raked by machine-gun fire, then dig themselves in. Night would come and with it Death's weird fireworks of shrapnel shells and flares; again the stumbling advance, past recently emptied trenches, through entanglements of barbed wire. Days of this living hell and the pins would move an inch -a quarter of an inch, on the map miles behind the lines.
There was one set of pins that did not move forward. Only at one point on the map had the pins remained stationary month after month, year after year, even through the recent drive, when elsewhere along the line, the pins had all crept to the East and to the North, toward the German border. This point was the Argonne Forest, known as the Champaign Front. The forest had been seized by the German forces in the opening months of the war. Later on the French had made a brief, desperate attempt to dislodge them, and had failed, losing many thousand men. No other attempt had been made during four years.
The German forces had been able by use of prisoners to convert the Argonne into a veritable wooded fortress, vast and impregnable natural stronghold. Their system of defense honeycombed the woods in all directions. Secret roads had been built so that German troops could move swiftly and unseen to any part of the forest that was threatened with attack. A clever and intricate system of barbed wire entanglements ran like a maze, a cruel labyrinth, through the entire extent of the forest. Hidden nests of machine guns and light artillery commanded all roads and paths, while a series of secret observation posts kept the German command informed of any movement of the Allied forces, should they attempt to enter this wooded for-tress.
It had been learned that the German troops occupying this section were the Landwehr Reserves - the "Old Fellows," as they were called -and it was thought they had been softened by a long period of easy life. Unaccustomed to the rigors of battle, they were expected to put up only a half-hearted resistance before a determined attack. Unknown to the allied command, the Landwehr Reserves had been reinforced by seasoned troops of the 76th German Division. The combination of battlewise veterans and fresh rested troops garrisoned in the Forest formed a formidable fighting unit that awaited the invasion of their enemies.
THE PROBLEM
THIS was the problem, to move those stubborn pins, that the entire Allied lines might advance to the German borders. The American 77th Division and portions of the Fourth French Army Corps were picked to accomplish this difficult task.
The 77th Division, originally composed of men from New York's East Side, had been reinforced with fresh troops from the 40th Division, made up of Westerners from the mountain and Pacific Coast States. This was a cross-section of America, from the raw-boned cowhand, sunburned farmers, uprooted clerks and bank--tellers, to garment workers of the Bronx and skilled factory mechanics, who could handle a lathe as well as they could a rifle. These were the men who were to try and solve that problem, that pins might again move. There remained only the plan of attack.
THE PLAN OF ATTACK
IT was decided to assault the rectangular Ravine d' Argonne, which was the heart of the Argonne Forest, from the south. The French were to close in from the west and the Americans from the east. The forces were to sweep together, like the closing blades of a huge pair of shears, and to squeeze the enemy out before them as they closed. It was assumed by the Allied high command that the Germans would retreat to the north to avoid capture, when they learned of this attack with its encircling action on both their flanks. If all went well, the blades of those human shears would come together at the northeastern edge of the forest and the Argonne would be cleared.
Between the two forces, and serving as a connecting link, a liaison group, composed of American colored troops, was to keep open the lines of communication in order that each blade of the giant shears could be informed of the other's movements. This was a highly important function, but a task made doubly difficult because of the tangled underbrush and the density of the forest.
THE ATTACK IS LAUNCHED
AT daybreak, September 26th, 1918, simultaneously from the east and west, troops poured into the forest. Behind them, heavy artillery belched and thundered, its continuous roars echoing over the wooded hills and the ravines of the Argonne. Far ahead, the shells were dropping unseen, and with unknown effect, as the rough terrain made it impossible to establish observation stations. Beneath this blind barrage the troops advanced.
For six days the battle raged. From the start it became apparent that superhuman effort would be required to carry out the attack as originally planned. The Allied troops had no more than entered the shadows of the forest when the full fury of the German defense was turned loose on them. From unseen nests machine guns poured torrents of their lead into the oncoming Allied ranks. Every foot of every twisting, turning path that German prisoners had long before cut through the dense forest, became a certain death trap. At times one would see the grey-clad Huns, or stumble over their dead bodies. For the most part it was like fighting an enemy cloaked in the terrifying armor of invisibility.
At the end of two days' fighting, the Americans on the west had fared much better than the French on the east. Purchasing their gains by great losses of men, they had hacked their way deep into the forest, while the French bad encountered terrific resistance and had fallen back. Despite their valiant, persistent efforts, they had made but little headway. Meantime the 92nd Division of colored American troops, which were to have kept open the line of communication between the French and the American Division, had been entirely routed from their position by strong German counterattacks. This left the two invading forces operating as separate units, without knowledge of each others' position. In the dense Argonne forest the military designations of battalion, company, platoon and squad had become meaningless. Men pushed on blindly, knowing only that the enemy was ahead of them, that their job was to advance and drive them from the woods.
On October 2, the seventh day of the advance, there came a breathing spell. Communication was reestablished between the two forces, and a survey made of the results of the drive. The partial collapse of the plan of attack immediately became evident. Only one blade of the shears had moved. While the Americans had moved steadily forward, the French blade of the shears had remained stationary, and the squeezing action had not been affected, with the result that failure of the whole drive was threatened.
Prompt and drastic action was imperative. An immediate renewal of the attack was ordered. A common objective for the French and American forces was chosen. They were again to advance, making no attempt to maintain lines of communication with each other. It was hoped that as the two forces advanced at an angle, the disjointed blade of the shear would join with the other, and thus the exposed flank of the American forces would be protected. Shortly before noon, on October 2, the second attack was under way.
At this point the attention was then focused for the first time on the so-called Lost Battalion.
A TRAGEDY IN THE MAKING
THE exposed left flank, the point where the blades of the shears would normally come together, was under command of Major Charles W. Whittlesey with Captain George G. McMurtry as second in command. Both were competent, level-headed officers, thoroughly experienced and seasoned and commanding the respect and confidence of their men.
The force consisted of six companies of the 308th Infantry, one company of the 307th Infantry, and two platoons of the 306th Machine Gun Battalion with nine machine guns - a total of approximately seven hundred men.
ACROSS THE RED HORIZON
SLOWLY the damp, grey fog drifted down the valleys in the war-desolated forest of the Argonne, hanging like a misty bridal veil, on the face of the barren hillside. The shell-blasted trees, stripped of branches and leaves, stood there in their shattered majesty as spectral guards at the portals of the Immortals.
For months the dull red ball of fire now sinking beyond the hazy horizon had run red with blood of humanity's youth. It had once been the sun, had shown in all its glory and splendor on men whose lives had been unspotted with the grim business of killing. Men who had laughed, had been gay. Men who had once dared to plan this thing we know as life. Steadily they had grown into relentless, murderous, moving robots of destruction, whose daily task was to lay at the feet of the God of Mars their contribution of the lifeless spoils of war.
Here the stark drama of life and death was as inevitable as the beginning and ending of day. Kingdoms had fallen. Democracies had turned from peaceful pursuits to war-maddened autocracies, feeding their men into the maw of death with the callousness of the butchering room in a packing house.
Under the guise of patriotism, playing bands, blaring press, spouting orators and the beat of the drums, half-grown boys had been hysterically urged to "Join the colors," "Do their bit," to "Fight the war to end wars," and "Make the world safe for democracy."
They followed the ballyhoo of war as readily as though they were led by the legendary Pied Piper of Hamlin. By early October 1918, an endless stream of American doughboys had moved into the forest of the Argonne, deep in the heart of war-stricken France.
The dapper city-bred clerk, the crook, the hard-boiled soldier of the regular army, together with the bland, half-sophisticated college graduate lieutenants, adventure seeking high school boys, and National Guardsmen, all looked as one as they met in that forest of the Argonne for the last big push before the armistice took place. They were a composite picture of the soldier at work, dull-faced, with set jaws and grim lips; eyes staring like half-burned coals from their emaciated, beard-matted, war-weary faces. Only the eyes spoke. What volumes a glance exchanged between them could tell. Sights indelibly stamped in their minds that would live with them throughout the balance of their lives.
Slowly and tensely these men pushed into the heart of the forest; khaki clad bodies became a part of the earth as the last wreaths of the grey mist settled over the Argonne and night fell.
In this group were two men who had been inseparable from their first days together in the training camps back home. They had ridden the crest of many battles together, and there was a love between them as that of blood brothers. Chosen for outpost duty that night, they had made- a small foxhole deep in the side of the steeply wooded ravine, which was the objective gained by their company on that day of fighting. Huddled there together for the warmth their bodies would give to one another, they alternated their watch while one dozed fitfully through a few of the night's rain-filled hours.
An enemy star-shell flamed in the sky with a glow of pale, sickly yellow. This was followed by another that hung as though festooned to the end of an invisible pole. The flares faded and died, but not before one of the doughboys on guard had caught the movement of figures creeping stealthily down the hillside toward them. Arousing his companion, he said "Harris . . . Harris . . . wake up, here they come!" Then he let loose with a volley of shots into the darkness where he had last seen the blurred figures moving toward him.
Harris came to with a start; reaching for his gun he started as though to leave the foxhole, when his companion pulled him sharply down. Harris slouched down beside him; he was white as a ghost, and trembling as though with the ague. "Shell-shock," thought Bill Hanlon, his comrade. Shaking him slowly but roughly, he started talking to him:
"Harris . . . what in God's name is the matter, man?"
Harris mumbled something unintelligible. Hanlon knew he would have to talk, and talk fast.
"Here, Harris, take a sip of this water."
Then he handed Harris his canteen. Harris pushed it back with unseeing eyes, rising again as though to leave the fox-hole, and Hanlon heard the sharp "Zing" of a sniper's bullet. It was too close for comfort, so grabbing Harris by the shoulder, he again pulled him back to safety.
"Here, Harris, buck up, buck up, man . . . you're too long in the outfit to let down like this."
Harris again started mumbling.
"Here, drink this water . . . Hell, man, you'll be breaking the moral of the new recruits if this gets out."
Hanlon continued to shake him, and forced some water between his half-opened lips.
Harris shook his head from side to side, and for a moment his eyes again took on a light of understanding. Then the look of sanity left and he started shouting.
"Stop . . . for God's sake stop! Bill . . . Bill
I can't stand it any longer . . . I'm afraid, I tell you ... Jerry's got my number ... I feel it."
His voice rose and cracked in a high-pitched scream: "Don't leave me, Bill ... for God's sake don't leave me .
Once again Hanlon quieted him, but Harris hung steadily onto him until Hanlon could feel his nails cutting deep into his arms. The wild look returned to Harris's eyes as he started bawling again.
"Yes ... I'm afraid . afraid do you hear me, Bill?"
"I've been afraid ever since the day I first joined this damn army ... now it's driving me nuts ... driving me nuts ... do you hear, Bill?"
Hanlon clung tightly to Harris, trying to calm him, but Harris continued shouting.
"I'm losing my mind . . . Bill . . . all I can hear is the voices of the wounded and dead . . . and they keep saying to me . 'You're next, Harris ... You're next.' "
Then he fell on Hanlon's shoulders and his racking sobs told too well the story of broken nerves.
"Come, Harris . . . buck up, man . . . here, take some water."
Again Hanlon tried to force water to his lips, but Harris pushed him back. He dropped the canteen, and Hanlon clutched for it to save its precious contents. As he did so Harris drew back as though to strike him; then Hanlon lashed out with his open hand, slapping Harris full in the face. With the blow reason returned to Harris, his eyes cleared, and he looked at Hanlon again in his old familiar bantering way. "Thank God," thought Hanlon. "He's all right again."
Harris reached over and half threw his arm around Hanlon's shoulders and said, "I'm sorry as hell . . . Bill ... what kind of a louse do you think I am to drink up all your water on you."
"I am glad you're okay again, Harris . . . that was a close one."
"Why Bill . . . you damn grinning Irishman, you ... if you were working with a full stomach I'd punch hell out of you here and now for talking about close ones."
Bill breathed a sigh of relief; he was sure now that Harris would be all right. Silently he gripped Harris's hand, for it is hell to see an old campaigner whom you love as a brother crack up.
Harris returned the handgrip, telling his gratefulness by the pressure of his hand. At Hanlon's orders he shoveled out a larger space in the foxhole so he could extend his body in it to obtain the rest he so badly needed.
It was quiet again, but the sound of Harris's shouting was bound to bring the enemy in again. Bill lay in the upper half of the foxhole with eyes straining through the wet darkness of the forest, as though by his eyes alone he would pull the enemy within range of his high powered rifle. It started a steady downpour of rain. Bill breathed a prayer of thanks, as it meant less chance, of enemy night raiding.
He crouched there soaked to the skin, the long minutes clicked off tediously. He would not call Harris for fear that he might crack up again. He felt that if they could live the night through, Harris would either be all right in the morning, or he could get him started to a field hospital.
The night was endless, and despite his dozing Hanlon thought he heard the low, guttural talking of his enemy coming from above where he lay. Just then a small Very flare-light ascended, and as he raised his head above the edge of the foxhole he was greeted with a burst of sniper gun-fire. Quickly he jerked his bead down, then all things quieted down again. Feeling that it would be but a matter of minutes until his position was attacked, he tried to arouse Harris.
He slouched down in the shell hole, and began whispering in a low tone to Harris. But receiving no answer he started to shake him slowly. When he did not respond he reached over to Harris's head, putting his hand over his mouth to make sure of his silence. It came away warm and sticky . . . the face was cold.
"Harris . . . Harris . . . My God, Harris you, too . . ."
Harris's body turned as though to answer Bill's call ... then it slumped further in the foxhole.
By the dim light of the flare Hanlon could see the stark, staring eyes of his comrade looking heavenward through the beating rain.
Harris was dead. A shot through the head in that last burst of firing had come out through his mouth.
Hanlon felt his hand ... then started slowly rubbing it in the mud ... as though to erase forever the stain of the life blood of his best buddy.
His own nerves cracked under the strain. He started mumbling and sobbing . . . "Harris gone . . . Harris gone ... only Jack and Chet and me left of our gang ... My God! ... when will it end?"
GLORY OF WAR
You can see men die on the battlefields,
go through hell time again and still grin,
But there's something that gets you beneath the belt
when you see green troops "come in."
Laughing and gay they march into the lines,
thinking that war is a lark,
Then after the fight they're grim-lipped and white,
as if they were stricken stark.
The sparkle of youth has gone from their eyes,
and the smile is gone from their face,
They are marked with that hardness on lip and brow,
that only a war can trace.
If they laugh again, as perhaps they will,
it is only a hollow mask,
Hiding the truth of the "glory of war,"
and their part in its murderous task.
Hardened and calloused-the creatures of war,
their minds with a single thought,
To cling to their preciously short span of life,
in each murderous battle that's fought.
They blast everything that lies in their path,
by means of a bomb or a gun,
Their passports to heaven or maybe to hell,
as they battle a race called "Hun."
Stand for a spell in this man-made hell,
that is known as no-man's-land,
Watch comrade and enemy fall one by one,
and then try to understand,
Why fools like us who have lives to live,
could so like puppets be,
That down through the ages we bleed out our lives,
on the altars of jealousy.
AN OBJECT LESSON
THE SETTING
IT was the last year of the war, on the Argonne Front. Little more than a month of fighting remained, but none of the men of the 77th Division knew that, or would have believed you had you told them. Of late there had been more and more victories, but each had been won by stubborn fighting and at a terrible cost of lives.
Back of the lines, in headquarters, where officers traced the ebb and flow of battle with pins on a huge map, a different story was being unfolded. There it had become evident, in the past few months, that the slow inevitable weakening of the entire German front had been taking place. Daily the line of pins that represented the Allied line had crept a little farther to the eastward. The movement was not steady, the line did not advance with each segment abreast of the others, but the general trend was unmistakable. One row of pins - an inch or two - would creep forward, waver momentarily, and then entrench itself in a new and unfamiliar section of the map. Farther down the map, another row of pins would hitch forward to come abreast with the first set.
On the map it was simple and fascinating. The pins moved forward, wavered, sometimes fell back, but always rallied and recovered their gains. But at the front, miles ahead over war-torn ground, it was no game at all. Here the pins became men, muddy, weary, war-worn men who died that pins might move. For hours guns roared, the barrage would creep forward, and beneath it men would run stumblingly across shell-pocked ground, raked by machine-gun fire, then dig themselves in. Night would come and with it Death's weird fireworks of shrapnel shells and flares; again the stumbling advance, past recently emptied trenches, through entanglements of barbed wire. Days of this living hell and the pins would move an inch -a quarter of an inch, on the map miles behind the lines.
There was one set of pins that did not move forward. Only at one point on the map had the pins remained stationary month after month, year after year, even through the recent drive, when elsewhere along the line, the pins had all crept to the East and to the North, toward the German border. This point was the Argonne Forest, known as the Champaign Front. The forest had been seized by the German forces in the opening months of the war. Later on the French had made a brief, desperate attempt to dislodge them, and had failed, losing many thousand men. No other attempt had been made during four years.
The German forces had been able by use of prisoners to convert the Argonne into a veritable wooded fortress, vast and impregnable natural stronghold. Their system of defense honeycombed the woods in all directions. Secret roads had been built so that German troops could move swiftly and unseen to any part of the forest that was threatened with attack. A clever and intricate system of barbed wire entanglements ran like a maze, a cruel labyrinth, through the entire extent of the forest. Hidden nests of machine guns and light artillery commanded all roads and paths, while a series of secret observation posts kept the German command informed of any movement of the Allied forces, should they attempt to enter this wooded for-tress.
It had been learned that the German troops occupying this section were the Landwehr Reserves - the "Old Fellows," as they were called -and it was thought they had been softened by a long period of easy life. Unaccustomed to the rigors of battle, they were expected to put up only a half-hearted resistance before a determined attack. Unknown to the allied command, the Landwehr Reserves had been reinforced by seasoned troops of the 76th German Division. The combination of battlewise veterans and fresh rested troops garrisoned in the Forest formed a formidable fighting unit that awaited the invasion of their enemies.
THE PROBLEM
THIS was the problem, to move those stubborn pins, that the entire Allied lines might advance to the German borders. The American 77th Division and portions of the Fourth French Army Corps were picked to accomplish this difficult task.
The 77th Division, originally composed of men from New York's East Side, had been reinforced with fresh troops from the 40th Division, made up of Westerners from the mountain and Pacific Coast States. This was a cross-section of America, from the raw-boned cowhand, sunburned farmers, uprooted clerks and bank--tellers, to garment workers of the Bronx and skilled factory mechanics, who could handle a lathe as well as they could a rifle. These were the men who were to try and solve that problem, that pins might again move. There remained only the plan of attack.
THE PLAN OF ATTACK
IT was decided to assault the rectangular Ravine d' Argonne, which was the heart of the Argonne Forest, from the south. The French were to close in from the west and the Americans from the east. The forces were to sweep together, like the closing blades of a huge pair of shears, and to squeeze the enemy out before them as they closed. It was assumed by the Allied high command that the Germans would retreat to the north to avoid capture, when they learned of this attack with its encircling action on both their flanks. If all went well, the blades of those human shears would come together at the northeastern edge of the forest and the Argonne would be cleared.
Between the two forces, and serving as a connecting link, a liaison group, composed of American colored troops, was to keep open the lines of communication in order that each blade of the giant shears could be informed of the other's movements. This was a highly important function, but a task made doubly difficult because of the tangled underbrush and the density of the forest.
THE ATTACK IS LAUNCHED
AT daybreak, September 26th, 1918, simultaneously from the east and west, troops poured into the forest. Behind them, heavy artillery belched and thundered, its continuous roars echoing over the wooded hills and the ravines of the Argonne. Far ahead, the shells were dropping unseen, and with unknown effect, as the rough terrain made it impossible to establish observation stations. Beneath this blind barrage the troops advanced.
For six days the battle raged. From the start it became apparent that superhuman effort would be required to carry out the attack as originally planned. The Allied troops had no more than entered the shadows of the forest when the full fury of the German defense was turned loose on them. From unseen nests machine guns poured torrents of their lead into the oncoming Allied ranks. Every foot of every twisting, turning path that German prisoners had long before cut through the dense forest, became a certain death trap. At times one would see the grey-clad Huns, or stumble over their dead bodies. For the most part it was like fighting an enemy cloaked in the terrifying armor of invisibility.
At the end of two days' fighting, the Americans on the west had fared much better than the French on the east. Purchasing their gains by great losses of men, they had hacked their way deep into the forest, while the French bad encountered terrific resistance and had fallen back. Despite their valiant, persistent efforts, they had made but little headway. Meantime the 92nd Division of colored American troops, which were to have kept open the line of communication between the French and the American Division, had been entirely routed from their position by strong German counterattacks. This left the two invading forces operating as separate units, without knowledge of each others' position. In the dense Argonne forest the military designations of battalion, company, platoon and squad had become meaningless. Men pushed on blindly, knowing only that the enemy was ahead of them, that their job was to advance and drive them from the woods.
On October 2, the seventh day of the advance, there came a breathing spell. Communication was reestablished between the two forces, and a survey made of the results of the drive. The partial collapse of the plan of attack immediately became evident. Only one blade of the shears had moved. While the Americans had moved steadily forward, the French blade of the shears had remained stationary, and the squeezing action had not been affected, with the result that failure of the whole drive was threatened.
Prompt and drastic action was imperative. An immediate renewal of the attack was ordered. A common objective for the French and American forces was chosen. They were again to advance, making no attempt to maintain lines of communication with each other. It was hoped that as the two forces advanced at an angle, the disjointed blade of the shear would join with the other, and thus the exposed flank of the American forces would be protected. Shortly before noon, on October 2, the second attack was under way.
At this point the attention was then focused for the first time on the so-called Lost Battalion.
A TRAGEDY IN THE MAKING
THE exposed left flank, the point where the blades of the shears would normally come together, was under command of Major Charles W. Whittlesey with Captain George G. McMurtry as second in command. Both were competent, level-headed officers, thoroughly experienced and seasoned and commanding the respect and confidence of their men.
The force consisted of six companies of the 308th Infantry, one company of the 307th Infantry, and two platoons of the 306th Machine Gun Battalion with nine machine guns - a total of approximately seven hundred men.
FIRST DAY
October 2, 1918
NORTH from the position where Whittlesey's troops were halted at the end of the first drive ran a long ravine, straight into enemy territory. This was the point where Whittlesey must attack. It was planned that he should advance until he came to Charlevaux Mill, and there he was to halt, reorganize, and wait for further orders to advance. These orders would be dependent upon how the rest of the American troops, on his right, and the French, far to his left rear, fared in their advance.
At 11:35 A.M. Whittlesey received from Col. Stacey, his commanding officer, the following order:
"The advance of infantry will commence at 12:30. The infantry action will be pushed forward until it reaches the line of the road and the railroad generally along 276.5. The General says you are to advance behind the barrage regardless of losses. He states that there will be a general advance all along the line."
In that last sentence, unknown to Whittlesey, unknown to the general, Robert Alexander, in command of the 77th Division, who issued the order, lay the seeds of tragedy. Promptly at 12:30 Whittlesey gave the command, and his seven hundred men advanced up the ravine. Simultaneously the heavy guns of the Allies began to cough behind him as they laid down the creeping barrage which he followed. For more than five hours Whittlesey's battalion fought forward through the forest, with men dropping like the leaves of the autumn woods that covered them. At six P.M. the force, now more than a hundred less in number, reached their objective, the Charlevaux Mill. Quickly sensing the danger and sizing up the lay of the land, Whittlesey ordered his troops to occupy the south side of a hill crossing the ravine up which they had just advanced. His mission was accomplished, and now he was faced with the task of holding his position until his forces could be connected
with those of the French on the left, and the balance of the Americans on the right. To aid this, he established a runner system through the ravine back to the American lines. Through these runners the Allied command was informed of Whittlesey's success in reaching his objective, which was Charlevaux Mill.
Back of the lines, as the reports came in from the French, the peril of Whittlesey's position became evident to the Allied command. Attacking simultaneously with Whittlesey, but from the other side of the forest, on the left blade of the shears, the French had again been repulsed. On the right blade of the shears, only Whittlesey's force had reached the objective, the remainder of the division having been repulsed by a heavy German counter-offensive. Not only was the shears still unjointed, but worse still, the American side of the blade bad now been broken.
So night came down over the forest of the Argonne. After four years the enemy pins had been moved, yet they had not moved according to the desperate plans that had been set forth. Instead of the line of Allied pins moving forward together, only one pin had moved, breaking the enemy line alone and unsupported. In the dugout at headquarters, officers shifted the pin on the map, thrusting it deep into the enemy territory. There it stood alone in the center of the patch that marked the Argonne Forest, surrounded by the bristling thicket of enemy pins. Its fate was in the hands of the gods of war.
The gods rattled the dice in their cup, while on the hillside the six hundred men who remained of the original seven hundred dug themselves in and waited for what might happen when the dice were thrown.
SECOND DAY
October 3, 1918
DURING the night of October 2, the first night of the siege, the German troops, working under cover of darkness, completely surrounded Whittlesey's command. Whittlesey had entrenched his men along the slope of a hillside overlooking Charlevaux Mill. This slope was heavily wooded with underbrush and young timber. It was the only position available that offered protection against artillery fire, as it provided a reverse slope to the enemy. The position occupied a front of about three hundred and fifty yards along the slope, with a depth of from seventy-five to one hundred yards.
Directly above Whittlesey's position, continuing on up the slope of the hill, was the position occupied by the enemy, and from which the frontal attacks of the siege were to come. It was separated from Whittlesey by a road, and the enemy position was a continuation of the same hill as that occupied by the beleaguered battalion. The position afforded the enemy an excellent hiding place, and an unusual point of vantage from which to observe the effects of its attacks.
The next morning, October 3, the seriousness of their plight dawned upon the besieged battalion, and they set about strengthening their defense and preparing themselves to resist the attack that was soon to come. The hillside they occupied had a slight dip halfway up its slope, much like a broad, shallow trench. The center of the trench was deepened to provide protection for the wounded. Around its edges the men dug "fox-holes" for themselves, throwing the earth up around the outside of these individual holes, as a protection against fragments of busting shells.
The battalion's nine machine guns were placed so they could cover an attack from any direction. Supporting them were riflemen armed with Chauchat (automatic) rifles, while the major portion of the command had ordinary rifles. The sole encouragement of the troops was the fact that they possessed plenty of ammunition. But to carry this ammunition they had forfeited food and water, as the original plan had been to send up rations from the rear. Now surrounded by the enemy, they would face starvation unless the line in the rear could be opened up.
Directly across the ravine, the enemy had set up their artillery with which to strafe the battalion on the hillside. Whittlesey's runners were purposely left un-molested the night of October 2, until the enemy cordon had been drawn tightly around the little force. Then striking suddenly, the enemy broke the communication lines to the rear, killing or capturing all of the runners.
Just after the sun came up, an enemy plane droned high over the hillside. The men flattened themselves, hugging the ground, expecting to be fired upon by the plane's machine guns. However, after circling mysteriously a few times, the plane disappeared over the tree tops. It had only been a reconnoitering plane, scouting the battalion's position.
In a scant half-hour the roar of the heavy German guns began. Very few shells fell on the battalion's position, owing to the reverse slope, which afforded natural protection from artillery fire. When the battalion advanced the previous afternoon they carried with them a cage containing five pigeons. While the German artillery was pounding the position Major Whittlesey released the first pigeon, carrying the following message to the 77th Division message center:
"We are being shelled by German artillery. Can we have artillery support? Fire is coming from the northwest."
The pigeon fluttered aloft; cowering beneath the blasts of enemy shells, the men of the battalion sped it on its journey with their prayers. Soon the answer came -the welcome roar of American artillery to the south, and the enemy barrage suddenly ceased. The men turned in their fox-holes and grinned at one another.
The silence that had so suddenly dropped over the woods with the cessation of the enemy's barrage did not last for long. The enemy, finding that his artillery could not harm the surrounded force as long as they remained dug in on its reverse slope, then brought up a trench mortar and commenced again to fire on the battalion.
The short, high, barking note of the trench mortar became a forerunner of shells that exploded more frequently among the battalion. Knowing the havoc that would soon be wrought, Whittlesey dispatched a small force to attempt to capture the gun. They were greeted by a terrific blast of machine-gun fire, forcing them to tall back immediately. Heavy firing could be heard to the south, which indicated to the members of the right wing of the Fourth French Army was making every battalion that the remainder of the division, and the effort to advance and relieve them.
Hopes of the battalion were high. Yet more and more German troops could be seen skulking into the forest at the south. Knowing the enemy was weakest in this direction, and to prevent their establishing an impregnable force at this vital spot, Whittlesey dis-patched about one hundred men of Company K, 307th Infantry, under command of Captain Nelson M. Holderman, to force a surprise attack on the enemy. Should this attack be successful, the men were under orders to continue south and attempt to reach the American lines.
Cautiously they left the hillside and entered the forest. But soon again came the deadly rat-tat-tat of machine gunfire, and shortly later the bloody remnant of Company "K" fell back on the hillside to rejoin the battalion. They had succeeded in penetrating the German's second line of defense, only to be repulsed with heavy losses. During the remainder of the siege, no force larger than a small combat group was sent out of the position, as the loss of a single man would weaken its defense. Shortly after the return of Company "K," a message was communicated to all company and detachment commanders of the battalion:
"Our mission is to hold this position at all costs. Have this understood by every man in the command."
It had become evident that nothing could be done except remain on the hillside and defend the position, with hopes that relief would come before the command was wiped out. Definite orders affecting the defense of the position were now given to all units, and a strong patrol set up to observe enemy maneuvers. The patrol soon gave information that large numbers of Germans were gathering in the northwest, and appar-ently concentrating for an immediate attack. Whittlesey carried on, organizing his position, and ordered the release of his second pigeon, bearing the following terse message:
"Our runner-posts are broken; Germans working to our left rear. Have located German trench mortar at 294.05-276.30. Have taken prisoner who states his company brought in last night from rear by motor trucks. German machine guns constantly firing on valley from our rear. "E" Company met heavy resistance. Two squads have just fallen back on position."
At three o'clock that afternoon the Germans, covered and protected by the heavy fire of their machine guns and trench mortars, attacked the battalion. As they came down the hillside, tossing their potato-masher hand grenades ahead of them, Whittlesey and his men lay waiting for them. The Germans, in their eagerness to storm the position, had carelessly exposed them-selves, and a fusillade of rifle and machine gun fire from the beleaguered battalion burst upon the oncoming Germans. They quickly fell back in confusion, the attack lasting but a few minutes.
Despite this failure at the outset, it was evidently the opinion of the German command that they would make short work of the battalion. In no more time than it took to reorganize their forces, they attacked again, this time more fiercely and with a stronger force. Again the American troops held their fire until the enemy was in plain sight, and again the ravine was filled with the terrific burst of their gun fire. Casualties among the enemy were heavy, and again they fell back.
Night came down, and in the darkness could be heard the moaning of their wounded. Under its cover the enemy recovered their maimed and dead. Meanwhile the battalion had turned to care for its own wounded, who were many. No medical officer had accompanied the battalion, but among their forces were three enlisted men from the Medical Corps. Directed by them the soldiers applied their few bandages and first-aid supplies where they were most needed. After those were exhausted they used the khaki wrappings of their leggings, the only substitute they had.
The suffering of the wounded men must have been bitter, as the night was cold and even those who had escaped the gunfire were shivering miserably in their foxholes. No complaints, though, passed the stoic lips of the wounded of the battalion, only an occasional involuntary groan wrung out by unbearable pain.
The night passed quietly, and there was no recurrence of the day's attacks. Under cover of darkness scouts were dispatched to attempt to carry news of the battalion's plight to the rear. Toward dawn a couple of them, wounded, stumbled back to the hillside, to tell of their failure. The balance of them were either captured or killed.
THIRD DAY
October 4, 1918
DAYLIGHT of October 4, and the third day of the siege, found the men tired and hungry, for the few rations they had carried forward had been consumed by the wounded on the morning of October 3. In spite of all, morale was high, for all were certain that the Franco-American lines would advance that day. The dead who had fallen during the battle of the preceding day were buried with great difficulty, for the men were exhausted from fighting, lack of sleep, and hunger.
About 8:30 A.M. a new and serious situation arose, which proved very distressing to Whittlesey's command. The enemy had brought up two more light trench mortars (minnewerfers), and had placed them in position; one slightly to the right front, and one to the left front of the battalion, giving them a total of three of these murderous weapons.
The dread of those powerful high-angle shells was now tripled. As the men lay there helplessly in their fox-holes, they cursed the military genius who invented those stubby, wide mouthed guns that could lob a shell into this position, so well protected by nature from all other forms of artillery fire. About fifteen per cent of the trench mortar shells fell directly into the beleaguered battalion. Due to the inferior ammunition of the enemy, many of the shells were duds, and failed to explode. For this reason alone the battalion was not wiped out.
Yet enough shells exploded to cause heavy casualties, and many were wounded and killed. In the middle of the morning Major Whittlesey released one of the two remaining pigeons, bearing the following message:
"Germans all around us. We have been heavily shelled by mortars this morning. Situation is rapidly cutting in on our strength. Men suffering from hunger and exposure. The wounded are in a very bad condition. Should have more ammunition. Cannot support be sent at once?"
Included in this message was a map coordinate that gave the position of the battalion. By afternoon the men on that shell-strafed hillside had proof that their winged messenger had arrived safely at their Divisions Message center. The American artillery began to roar again in an attempt to break up the enemy forces which surrounded the fast-dwindling band of American doughboys.
For a while the shells fell among the enemy to the south of the battalion, then increasing its intensity the American barrage crept down the slope to the rear of the battalion's position. The barrage continued and crept across the marshy bottom of the ravine, where it hurled mud and brush into the air, then gradually its shells began falling into Whittlesey's command. Instead of breaking up the enemy, it was registering on its own forces.
The hastily dug shelters were caved in upon the wounded. When the men would endeavor to shift their position in order to avoid the shells, snipers and enemy machine gunners would rake the position. The German trench mortars threw in their shells, which added to the fury of the Allies' barrage. Frantic at the tragic miscalculation, Major Whittlesey released the final pigeon, Cher Ami, with this desperate plea:
"We are along the road parallel 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For God's sake, stop it."
Through this veritable inferno of gun fire winged Cher Ami. Fluttering momentarily above the men huddled there, her beating wings like those of hope's last angel, Cher Ami circled in the air, then headed straight for the American lines.
After what seemed like a lifetime of hell, the barrage suddenly ceased. Cher Ami had reached the American headquarters with the vital message. One leg had been touched by a small fragment of flying shell, and it was necessary to amputate it. By blind chance the leg lost was not the one that bore Whittlesey's message.
By now the number of wounded had greatly increased. The men set about binding their wounds with their rough leggings, and easing the pain of their comrades as best they could. As they were thus occupied they were again interrupted by the drone of a plane flying low. This time the plane bore the welcome red, white and blue rings of the American flying corps. The battalion signal men succeeded in attracting its attention by placing white panels in an open space in the trees. They were rewarded by a rocket signal from the plane, indicating that the pilot had seen them.
Soon after it disappeared another American plane came over, flying low, and attempted to drop packages and message containers with long streamers to the men in the battalion. All of them missed their mark, and were lost in the swampy marshland below the hillside, or fell into enemy hands. During the time that the plane was hovering over the besieged battalion, it was fired upon, seemingly, by every enemy machine gun in the vicinity. But it escaped this devastating gun fire, and rising high, disappeared to the south.
At 5:00 P.M. the enemy attacked again. The attack was repulsed, and the men again turned their attention to those newly wounded, while there was still light of day. Water was obtained from a muddy stream running along the ravine below. A canteen of water cost many casualties, for when the enemy found the men were carrying water from the little stream they set up withering machine gun fire across this position. So many men were wounded and killed while trying to obtain water for the wounded, that guards had to be placed at intervals to restrain men from going after water during the day. After the wounded had been made as comfortable as possible, the men tried to get some much needed rest.
As night came down a cold rain set in, adding to their discomfort. Soon after 8:00 P.M. rifle fire and the sound of the Chauchat rifles used by the American forces could be heard over the ridge to the south. The moral of the battalion was still high, for they felt certain their comrades would rescue them, as they now knew that they were fighting by night as well as by day.
The enemy tried many times to capture the command by direct assault. Failing each time, they now changed their method of attack. About 9:00 P.M. flares began to shoot up all around the position, lighting the entire hillside. All along the slopes the hand grenades and potato-mashers of the enemy began to fall. This was a real surprise attack, and they fired upon the battalion at will. Thoroughly aroused, Whitlesey's command quickly went to their firing positions and opened up on the enemy with such a burst of small arms' fire that they soon retreated over the hill in the fast dimming light of the dying flares.
The attack had taken a fresh toll, and all those previously wounded were now in a desperate condition, for their vitality was at a low ebb on account of exposure and lack of food. Many of the wounded who died that day had not yet been buried. Weak as they were, the remaining survivors of the battalion started scooping out shallow graves for their dead, while the rain continued throughout the night. The hopes of rescue were fading. The unburied dead about them, and the pitiful cries of the wounded, further lowered the spirits of that gallant handful of men who would not surrender to an overwhelming force of enemy.
FOURTH DAY
October 5, 1918
ALL during the morning of October 5, the men of the besieged battalion could hear the gunfire of the American infantry to the south and southeast, and took heart, knowing that an attempt was being made to push through and relieve them. In their long service at the front, they had learned to distinguish by ear between the deep bark of the American French Chauchat rifle, and the higher pitched yapping of the German automatic guns. From the sounds that came to them they knew there was a fierce battle going on in their behalf, but shortly before noon the firing quieted-then ceased, and they knew only too well that another attempt had failed. The Germans still held that solid wall of steel between them and those who would rescue them.
While casualties were thinning the ranks of the battalion, the casualties of the battalions of American soldiers trying to relieve them were doubly heavy, as entire battalions had been practically wiped out in an effort to fight their way through. Sniping was kept up by both the enemy and the men of the battalion, but contrasted to previous fighting the afternoon was as quiet as a church at sundown. Several French and American planes appeared in the sky, but did not come as close to the ground as the two previous planes. This caused discouragement among the beleaguered force, for their fast-ebbing strength gave them little hope that they could hold on longer.
At 3:00 P.M. a French plane circled the position, but gave no indication of having seen the doomed souls huddled there. Guarded attempts were made to attract the pilot's attention, but little could be done because of the necessity of remaining hidden from the deadly enemy sniping.
Unknown to them, the plane returned to the French commander and reported that apparently the battalion had either been annihilated or captured. No American troops were seen, the pilot further reported, but the general area was alive with enemy soldiers. Immediately the French commander, over the objections of the 77th Division, ordered a heavy artillery barrage laid down on the area.
Once again Whittlesey's command suffered the unbearable tragedy of being shelled by friendly artillery. Over and over again the shells landed directly upon the slope occupied by the Americans. The troops in desperation would attempt to move out of the zone of the barrage, only to be met by the withering fire of the Germans, who raked the position with their deadly machine-gun fire.
As they were being bombarded from this source, it must have been only the most courageous who had any hope left, for all the men knew that there were no more pigeons to send, and no way left to notify the French of their awful error!
The barrage lasted for an hour and thirty-five minutes, with each minute seeming a day, while between shells the men were busy defending themselves from another attack by the enemy.
Incredible as it may seem, the American troops once more repulsed the Germans' attack. The hell of modern war had nothing more to offer these men as the last shrieking shell of the French artillery fell in their midst.
As the sound of the American-French Chauchat rifles of Whittlesey's command carried back to the Division Commander of the American forces, he knew he was correct in informing the French that the beleaguered battalion was still holding out, and renewed efforts were made to smash through the wall of steel the Germans had so effectively held during the siege. The renewed firing of the divisional forces again lit the candle of hope for Whittlesey's command.
Soon an American plane appeared above the position, taking desperate chances as it swooped downward and upward to get more information as to the plight of the men on the hillside. Later it turned and flew toward the American lines. Returning shortly it began dropping packages believed to be food and ammunition, but once again the packages missed their mark, falling into the enemy lines.
And so night came again, and thirst settled over the hillside like a great cloud of parching dust. It was three days since most of the men had eaten, and many were subsisting on the roots and barks of the trees which sheltered them. It was becoming increasingly difficult to obtain water, for the enemy now kept up a constant fire day and night upon the creek in the valley. Darkness settled over the hillside, and for once all was silent, save for the moans of the wounded and the occasional crack of a rifle.
FIFTH DAY
October 6, 1918
THE morning of October 6th ushered in the fifth day of the siege, and the men of Whittlesey's fast dwindling command prepared once more for what the fates might have in store for them. The four days they had spent on the hillside fighting against overwhelming odds had seemed several eternities rolled in one. Every bump and hollow in the foxholes where their weary y bodies had pressed were as familiar to them now as the bedrooms and parlors of their own homes, so far away across the Atlantic. It seemed as though they had been born on that hillside, grown up there, and that there they would die.
They were without hope, self-pity, or even anger. Only blind, unreasoning determination burned with a low steady flame, holding them rooted to the hillside, as much a part of it as the grass and trees that clung to its war shattered soil.
Just after sun-up the men again heard the far off sound of American rifles. The faint sound of the guns spoke of despair, rather than hope. It was at this time that Major Whittlesey, in talking to his few remaining officers and men, compared the low, steady sounds of the American Chauchat rifles, far back in the American lines, to the bagpipes of the Campbells who had long ago marched to relieve a beleaguered British command isolated in the siege of Luck now. Now again history was writing the story of "Sons at War" on the parallel lines of time.
About 9:30 that morning an American plane appeared, flying low over the battalion, dropping packages of food. None of them landed among the men on the hillside. While engaged in this daring piece of airmanship, the plane was subjected to enemy fire of every character, until it seemed that only a miracle would save it from being shot down. Then the plane, rising to higher and safer altitudes, straightened away and flew back to the American line.
This time, the plane that had taken this hazardous trip was to get full revenge for the discomfort caused by the enemy fire. It had sighted the airplane panels put out by Whittlesey's men, and was able to signal positive position information to the American artillery. Immediately the artillery started its barrage.
The shells registered dead on the concealed battery of enemy trench mortars that had been raising such havoc among the beleaguered troops. The barrage then crept down the slope, crossing the creek at the foot of the hill. It pounded along the hill just below the feet of the men huddled there, then lifting suddenly, landed squarely on the ridge above them. This was the point from where most of the German attacks had come. The barrage registered with deadly accuracy on all enemy positions, while the Americans looked on and marveled at this miracle taking place before their eyes.
So completely did the American artillery break up the enemy organization that the Germans were unable to launch the attack they had been planning. The artillery had more than made up for their disastrous barrage of two days before. Now, having the correct range, and through the assistance of the air-service reconnaissance, they were laying down such a perfect barrage that without doubt they saved Whittlesey's command from annihilation. The air force paid dearly for its bravery, losing two planes, with two officers killed.
After the barrage quieted down, the American planes returned, again trying to drop food and ammunition to Whittlesey's men. The falling packages could plainly be seen by the men so eagerly awaiting them. Another disappointment. Once again they fell into the hands of the enemy.
Some of the German forces surrounding the Americans could speak English, and as they got the packages they would yell down from their hidden places on the heights of the wooded hillside, taunting the half-starved men. This failed to have any effect on the battle-weary doughboys, except to bring out feebly shouted curses.
It was then that the Germans turned loose the full fury of the fiercest attack of the engagement. Lashing out at the imprisoned doughboys who had so gallantly withstood their previous attacks, they strafed the hillside with every known weapon of war. Using heavy artillery, trench mortars, and the staccato-barking machine gun and rifle fire, they filled the air with a blanket of lead. The Americans dug deeper into their foxholes, and under that withering fire their losses were many.
Once again the Americans fought off the attack, but by now, weak and spent from constant fighting and lack of food and sleep, they moved with the mechanical precision of robots. With the coming of the welcome blanket of darkness, for the first time during the siege the enemy quieted down and left the determined group of survivors in peace for the night. The heavy losses suffered by the Germans from the American barrage during the day, and the accuracy of the American riflemen on the hillside during the last attack, had caused them to be thankful for the darkness of night, as well as were the men of the beleaguered battalion.
SIXTH DAY
October 7,1918
OCTOBER 7th broke grey and chill over the Argonne. Could an observer look down on the hillside, he would have seen but few signs of life. Most of the men wounded early in the fight had died of their wounds, or gangrene had set in on the wounded still alive. Sprawled motionless in their foxholes, conserving the little energy they had left, they stared dully at the forest edge, waiting another of the endless attacks. Wounded men took their place on the firing line, as by now there were not enough unwounded men left to man the few guns remaining. The American planes were still trying to drop food and ammunition. No one knew when relief could possibly break through.
Just before noon the enemy again launched an attack, which was repelled. Intermittent machine gun fire continued throughout the afternoon. Suddenly it ceased, about 4:00 P.M., and silence fell over the slope. Then in no-man's-land between the Americans and the Germans an American soldier appeared limping slowly toward the battalion. In his right hand he held a crude cane supporting him while he walked, and in his left he held aloft a broken branch to which was attached a white flag of truce.
The troops were cautioned to hold their fire. As the khaki-clad figure advanced toward Whittlesey, slowly waving the white flag, all who were there wondered "What now?" When he arrived at Whittlesey's foxhole it was found that he was Private Lowell R. Hollingshead, a seventeen year old Ohio boy, who had gone into the enemy lines early that morning, trying to obtain some of the food that had been dropped by the planes.
He had been wounded and captured and taken to the German dugout, while others who were on the mission with him had been killed. In the dugout, after questioning by the German commanding officer, he had been blind-folded, taken back to the German front lines, where the blind-fold was removed, and been ordered to deliver to Major Whittlesey a note containing this dramatic demand to surrender. The message read:
"Sir: The bearer of this present, Private Hollingshead, has been taken prisoner by us. He has refused to give the German Intelligence Officer any answer to his questions, and is quite an honorable fellow, doing honor to his Fatherland in the strictest sense of the word.
He has been charged against his will, believing that he is doing wrong to his country to carry forward this present letter to the officer in charge of the Battalion of the 77th Division, with the purpose to recommend this commander to surrender his force, as it would be quite useless to resist any more, in view of the present condition.
The suffering of your wounded men can be heard over here in the German lines, and we are appealing to your humane sentiments to stop. A white flag shown by one of your men will tell us that you agree with these conditions. Please treat Private Hollingshead as an honor. able man. He is quite a soldier. We envy you.
The German Commanding Officer."
Legend has made famous the reply, "Go to hell," which Major Whittlesey is reported to have hurled at the Germans upon reading the demand for surrender. No answer, written or verbal, was made by him to the German commander's letter. Major Whittlesey ordered the two white airplane panels to be taken in at once. There was nothing white left showing on the hillside.
The Germans waited for the reply. No reply was being prepared, for Major Whittlesey was busy redisposing what few effective men he had left. He was preparing for the attack which was sure to follow. Only a handful of ammunition remained. The men of the battalion began to sharpen their bayonets in the wet dirt. If the enemy attack was successful, this would be their last stand.
Guttural commands of the Germans were soon heard by those in the battalion, and a furious attack was launched by the enemy. The Americans fired carefully, making every shot of the fast diminishing supply of ammunition count. Wounded men no longer able to fire a rifle reloaded the weapons for their comrades on the firing line. Time and again the Germans surged forward almost to the American lines. Each time they were repulsed. At the peak of the fight the enemy surpassed anything he had done before by launching the hell of liquid fire on the battalion.
The enemy had reserved this inhuman weapon until the last, and had used it with the intention of turning the right flank of the battalion and completely disorganizing their morale. The attack almost succeeded. But in a burst of magnificent anger, the American doughboys crawled to a new firing position, and killed the Germans carrying the flame throwers. Though they had again repulsed the enemy, the men of the battalion must have felt that this was the end. Knowing they had not enough ammunition left to repulse another attack, they almost gave up hope of rescue. Sprawled there on that Hillside of Eternity, they awaited what they believed would be the final attack.
Suddenly, loud and close by, they heard the firing of American rifles. Hope flamed anew from the ashes of despair, while the men of the battalion stared numbly toward the south from whence the sounds came.
Soon the Germans were seen running through the forest to the south. Their actions told Whittlesey's command full well that this time relief was breaking through. Cries of the Germans were heard on the hill above, telling of the accuracy of the rifle fire by the oncoming American relief expedition. Hurriedly the Germans withdrew, carrying their dead and wounded with them, while both American and French forces continued their advance toward the battalion. As dusk settled down the men who had suffered so intensely to hold a position they had taken under mandatory orders, that pins might move on man-made war maps, knew the almost despaired-of relief had arrived.
As the Germans withdrew, the American troops came up from the south, driving the enemy before them. Passing in front of the battalion's position, they placed their outposts for the night. The news that relief had arrived spread quickly to all parts of the battalion.
There was no demonstration; no cheering of any kind among the survivors. They were too weak and exhausted to do more than express within themselves their prayer of thanks that they had been permitted to live. Crawling from the foxholes that had been their shelter for six days and nights, they started taking care of the dead and making the wounded as comfortable as possible.
They spent that night on the hillside. On the morning of October 8th, the ambulances arrived to carry back the wounded. Those who were still able to do so walked down what had been the "hillside of death," to the arms of their comrades-comrades who would not be stopped by the German wall of steel, in the almost, but not quite, impregnable Argonne Forest.
Once again back of the lines in headquarters, the rows of tiny colored pins on the huge Allied war map had righted themselves. Tomorrow the pins would move far into the German territory, an inch or a half inch on the map, in the short space of a few hours. Again, far ahead up in the lines, war weary men would die that pins might move.
THE FIGHT OF THE LOST BATTALION
In the Argonne Forest near Florent
and on the way to Grand Pre,
A group of American doughboys met
on a rainy and fateful day;
Met for a single purpose,
less than a handful of men,
Waiting the word to "go into" the lines,
to "come out" God alone knew when.
The air and trees around them,
were filled with war-weird sound,
While a battery of cannon far up ahead,
was rocking the war-sad ground;
There were recruits there who were yet to have
their first baptism of fire,
And veterans who knew war through and
through, its dangers, its woes, and its mire
East met West in those few short hours,
and were drawn together as one,
As brother to brother and man to man,
they met to suppress the Hun.
Each was thinking his secret thoughts,
that come to but very few men,
Within an hour they would "go over the top,"
some never to come back again.
The page they would write in history
would be spotted and smeared with red,
An epic of war and all its cost
in wounded and shattered and dead.
A page that was filled with courage,
seldom seen by anyone,
As across the red horizon,
they marched toward the sun.
To an open space in the road they came,
and an awe inspiring sight,
The skyline ablaze with one great flame,
from cannons that belched in the night;
When they reached the barren trenches,
they breathed a silent prayer,
Then settled down and waited,
through an endless night "Up There."
At eleven o'clock that eventful night,
our barrage opened up with a flare,
The earth fairly trembled and shook in alarm,
death screamed as it leapt through the air.
God, how those waiting minutes dragged,
they seemed forever and aye,
As the men crouched there, on the ground
cold and bare, waiting for dawn and the day.
The sky turned grey as the men all lay,
tense for the final sign
To go over the top and never stop
till they'd broken the Kremhilde line.
What did they find when over the top,
in that waste of No-Man's-Land?
An ocean of wire in the mud and the mire,
placed there by the devil's hand.
Three days they fought in that forest,
amid sights too shocking to tell,
Then they were all caught in a well-laid trap,
that sprung from the jaws of hell.
They were gaunt with fatigue and hunger,
what food they had was gone,
Yet there were the Boche surrounding them,
so they battled on and on.
Tired from fighting and half dead for sleep,
they dug themselves in for the night,
And as they lay there 'neath the shell-split air,
they felt 'twas the end of their fight.
Then at break of dawn the Boche closed in,
and they met him face to face,
There were many who fell in battle that day,
yet night found the troops still in place.
For three long days they fought in that trap,
in mud and muck to their knees,
Sleepless, hungry, half dead for thirst, 'neath
those shell-shattered Argonne trees;
Then Death moved up and was waiting there
to collect his ghastly due,
When the word went racing along the line,
"Relief is breaking through."
They went at the food like a pack of wolves,
that had starved the winter through,
Between the munching of bites you would hear
prayers-and some curses too.
Then on and on they carried the fight,
crushed the best that the enemy had,
They gained their objective, were trapped again,
then they went fighting mad.
On the side of a cliff two hundred feet high,
they dug in like so many moles,
Death was the penalty that was paid,
if they raised their heads from those holes.
Did you ever lay out in the cold all night,
when the frost creeps through the air,
Where death and misery fill the night,
and hope turns to despair?
If you have, then perhaps you can realize
the things that were happening then,
That the pieces that lay on the hillside,
were things that had once been men.
That every man who came out alive,
could say he had lived through hell,
And the eyes that saw what happened there,
left the lips too dumb to tell.
Fighting all day, holding out by pure grit,
and fighting at night by the flare,
The suffering borne can never be told,
of those six days and nights spent there.
Death thinned their ranks, took full fold its toll
of their buddies, your brothers and sons,
But before they went, though their strength
was spent, they took their toll of the Huns
Relief came at last, as it sometimes does,
when you're backed by red-blooded men,
But they were so weak, so many were gone,
nothing mattered much to them then.
They stumbled out, more dead than alive,
to food and shelter and rest,
While others tenderly cared for those
who had passed to eternal rest.
Six hundred strong they entered that fight
and all of them game to the core,
All who were left that could walk from the hill,
were one hundred and ninety-four.
So a price was made and the price was paid,
and laid at the feet of Mars,
But the hallowed souls of soldiers gone
shall shine there forever like stars.