Doughboy Diaries

 

 

FAT MAN

            In the book Ranging in France with Flash and Sound we read:

            Nearly every organization has its "fat man." In our section it was Private Flora, of Harrisburg,Pa. Flora served as photographer at central. The dark room had to be enlarged when he went on the job. Flora was gaining weight day by day, and needed exercise badly. His opportunity came when Corporal Thompson formed a survey party to run a check of the microphone positions.

            Private Flora joined the party as a rodman, and he made an excellent target for either a transit or a German machine gun. For this reason he was given the job as rear rodman. This plan worked nicely until the party came to Microphone No. 7, when Flora was told to assume the duties of front rodman. It was with much suspicion the misgiving that Flora made his way out into forbidden territory where he had been directed to hold up his rod on an elevated point in the field.

            Scrambling through the trenches and barbwire entanglements, and over shell holes, he made slow progress. He stumbled and fell; he glanced downward and discovered he had tripped over a dead German. Then he was startled by a shout. Looking around he beheld a negro's head protruding over the edge of the trench. (The sector was held by negro troops of the 92^nd Division.)

            "Fo' the land's sake; what yo'all doin' out yondah?" inquired the negro, at the same time looking over the barrel of his machine gun. Flora decided to retreat.

            "Come heah!" yelled the colored doughboy.

            Flora obeyed.

            "What yo' all tryin' to do?" questioned the negro.

            Flora explained.

            "Lawd be praised; I'se glad I don't belong with the engineers," replied the machine gunner, "but first let me shake you' hand good-bye."

THE ATTACK

            At the command "Halt" two of the enemy jumped into the trench, while three others hurdled it to get in the rear of the Americans. Assisted by others not in the trench, who grenade the post, the two closed in on Dahl and Whalen. But our boys held their ground, and as the first German approached, Dahl made a lunge at him with his bayonet; but the treacherous mud was his undoing and he slipped and fell on his hands and knees. In a flash the German was on him and laid him flat with a blow on the head from his pistol.

            Another member of the post, Private Roy H, Eaton, who was in the shelter trying to get a little sleep before his turn to go on watch, then rushed out, and seeing the German atop his comrade, grappled with him bare-handed. This time it was the German who was on the bottom, and Dahl remained on his feet. Whalen, in the excitement of the moment, after firing a clip at the Boches on the parapet, caught his rifle in the bank and lost it. Then the pin of the grenade he picked up stuck, so he made a dive for the P.C. just as the "potato masher" exploded and caught Dahl in the back. Even this did not dismay him, and he started after the second Boche. Grenades now seemed to be flying from all directions, and the two had no idea as to how many of the enemy they had to combat. All this was happening in a few seconds, and they had to act by instinct, for there was no time to formulate any plan. Their instinct led them to fight regardless of the odds. In another moment one of the flying grenades hit Eaton full in the body, snuffing out his life as quickly as one extinguishes a candle. At the expense of his own, he had saved Dahl's life.

            Dahl, now alone, picked up an automatic rifle, but as he fell flat to avoid a grenade, his adversary escaped. He then discovered that the previous burst had sprung his weapon, so he threw it aside and rushed after the Germans, grenading them as they retreated.

            Private Frank A. Brandt, on a neighboring post, hearing the fight started toward Post 4 as the Germans fled up the trench. He heard their quickened steps, and crouching behind a corner, lay in wait. His first shot struck the leading German below the lower right rib, whirling him completely around, at the sight of which the others jumped out of their trench and made for their lines. Brandt and Corporal Norman K. Bruner, who had come on the scene, jumped on the wounded Boche, but Brandt was forced to loose him with a cry as a grenade fragment tore his hand. The Boche, a giant in size, of powerful build, and apparently of indestructible composition, struggled up with Brandt clinging to him, so the latter was forced to clout him over the head with his rifle butt; but even that did not seem to faze him, so the American finished him off with another shot.

            In the meantime Privates Postel and Payne were firing with auto-rifle and grenades on the Germans scattering out through our wire. Several were seen to fall, but they were picked up and carried back. The entire engagement had lasted three minutes at the most, and was over before the rest of the post knew what was happening. It was evidently the intention of the Germans to swoop down upon an unsuspecting group, overpower them by sheer force of numbers, capture one or two, and then retire immediately. Instead of taking prisoners, they left one in our hands. It was the possibility of such encounters as this, even throughout long intervals of quiet and inactivity, that kept the men on duty in the firing trench constantly keyed up to the high pitch.

            The Germans were obviously piqued at the trend of affairs and resolved to even up matters. About half past eight, as darkness was gathering the sector in its shadow, a party of sixty or seventy Boches was reported approaching one of the outpost positions. Hastily collecting a few reserves, Lieutenant Priddy rushed to the threatened post, and got there just in time, for the enemy patrol was about to march in, attempting to put over the shop-worn ruse—the old, old Kamerad game that had been so overworked that to attempt to repeat it was an insult to the intelligence of any soldier.

            They were bold enough about it. The whole party advanced, hands overhead, calling "Kamerad" as they came. Lieutenant Priddy let them come as far as he thought safe, and then halted them. From their midst emerged a spokesman, who announced in good English that they wished to give themselves up to the Americans. The lieutenant admitted that the idea was a good one, and directed them to enter our lines at a designated spot one at a time.

            That upset their plan entirely. The leaders held a moment's consultation, and then bunching up, some of them still calling "Kamerad", they made ready to rush the line. Priddy hesitated just a second to make sure of their intention, and then gave the order to fire. The blast of rifle, auto-rifle, and grenade fire from the outpost caught the enemy full in the center. A number were seen to fall, and the piteous cries of the wounded indicated that the casualties were heavy. That decided them and the whole crowd broke in confusion and started for their lines, every man for himself, in spite of the attempts of an officer to check them.

            About a hundred and fifty yards away, the officer managed to halt the retreating mob. Berating them in no uncertain terms, he lined his men up again in squad formation, and could be heard counting in German, "Ein, Zwei, Drei, Vier", in preparation for a second attempt.

            Meanwhile, Lieutenant Priddy had strengthened his line and had secured a machine gun from the garrison of the 151^st Machine Gun Battalion. The gunner found a good position atop one of the dugouts, and when the Germans again came within range they met with a reception even warmer than the first. The fight lasted for nearly a half hour, and it had got quite dark before the Germans finally gave up the attempt to break through. Aided by the thickening dusk, a few daring Boches got close enough to hurl grenades into our trench. With deliberate coolness, combined with quickness of wit, Corporal Vester A. Benson saved several of his men by kicking a sizzling grenade around the corner of the traverse, and in so doing was himself wounded in the leg and foot. One group of the enemy tried to flank the post from the left, but were discovered in time and driven off after one of their number was sacrificed to the marksmanship of Private Silas M. Teig. It was then that they admitted to themselves the futility of further efforts to get in by withdrawing for good, taking with them their dead and wounded, but leaving most of their weapons behind. The men had been kept on edge practically all day; but there was no relaxing yet, for the warning had gone out that another attack by the enemy could be expected before daybreak.

KITCHEN INSPECTION

            Often the cooks were hidden in the deep, dark holes, the only things in sight being the smoking soup guns.

            Just previous to the coming of Captain Hardwick and the inspector, the farm had been subjected to a long and particularly heavy bombardment. Cooks and kitchen police had taken refuge in the dugouts. The inspector arrived at Kitchen No. 1 and much to his disgust the steaming soup gun had no attendants.

            Knowing the difficulties that often beset this culinary department, Captain Hardwick pounded on the sheet iron piece that served to protect workers from weather and possible flying shell splinters. Shortly afterward they emerged from a nearby hole, crawling from the darkness of the deep shelter and blinking blindly until they grew accustomed to the light. The inspector saw them make their exit from the hole. Glancing around he inquired for the cook. The good natured heater of army canned goods stepped forward and saluted.

            "You're not the cook?" the visitor inquired.

            "I am, sir," the cook replied.

            "Let me see your hands," he of the yellow gloves requested. From their hiding place behind his back the cook produced a dirty pair.

            "Are those your hands?" asked the owner of the cane.

            "They are, Sir," said the soup dispenser and promptly slid them out of sight behind his back.

            "Let me see your nails," demanded the inspector, and once again the bashful hands came into view.

            "How often do you shave?" asked Shiny Shoes.

            "Every day, Sir," came the ready answer.

            "Your beard grows very fast," the inspector remarked and turned to have a look at the kitchen.

            Pots and pans were laid out, and after these the utensils used about the kitchen. When they had all been exposed to view, he of the spotless clothes delivered the following oration:

            "My good man, I understand the difficulties of your position perfectly, but think you show a lack of interest in your surrounding. I suggest that you obtain at once a pail of whitewash and brighten up your kitchen, that your garbage pit be placed at quite some distance from its present location and that you employ your kitchen force to clear away the rubbish about you."

            Just then overhead came the Wheeeeeeeee of Fritz's iron rations and the inspection came to a sudden close. The immaculate gentleman began a hurried leave and, as he turned, the cook and the kitchen help dove headlong into the dugout. As the inspector and Captain Hardwick reached the top of the next hill and looked back, smoke of bursting bombs and dust of falling walls showed the farm was getting the full force of the activity.

            The following day as Captain Hardwick passed Antioche Farm on his daily rounds he stopped. The kitchen the inspector had requested whitewashed had disappeared. In its place only some giant shell holes remained. A much battered soup gun stood behind a bit of broken wall, but a grinning cook greeted an equally grinning medical officer by rubbing a well scrubbed hand across a hairless chin to show that he had carried out instructions, the scene being done in pantomime without the interchange of a word.

            The men who cooked the food and their helpers who carried it to the fighting line stood the shell fire with the rest. They toted endless marmite cans of steaming food to hungry men day after day, lived in filth and mud and ooze and served their companies without complaint. Yes, when it came time for glory, few remembered the cooks.

 

 

David Homsher
American Battlefields of World War I: Chateau-Thierry--Then and Now
ISBN: 97809702444307 $19.95.
Winner of three National Book Awards. Available at bookstores everywhere.
and on website: www.battlegroundpro.com
WWI blog sites: www.davehomsher-wwi.blogspot.com/ AND www.doughboydiaries.blogspot.com/

DOUGHBOY DIARIES

 

 

 

THE PIGEONS

        "There was comedy along with tragedy. General Dickman, who commanded the Third American Army, tells about a British Chief of Staff who very politely send a basket of highly trained carrier pigeons to the staff of a newly landed American division, only to be rewarded a few days later with a courteous note saying they enjoyed the pigeons very much! No doubt they had an excellent cook. "

THE PIG

            "The first battalion had a pig. When the battalion was in reserve at Aulnois, we put our pig in a blue barracks bag and carried him in a supply wagon. When the wagon arrived, we could hear the pig squeal, but all that we could see was its little snout pushing against the cloth. When we let him out, one of the boys painted "102d Infantry" on him, and the last we saw of him he was painted green all over. The boys tormented that poor pig to death, poking it in the ribs to hear it grunt and squeal. I suppose that eventually the poor pig was converted into pork."

THE RUNNER and the COLONEL's CAR

            One of our runners had a most trying experience in the Toul sector. He was returning from the first line, tired, hot and exhausted. So he stopped the colonel's car.

"Don't you know better than to stop an officer's car?" the colonel demanded.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, why did you do it then?"

"I didn't notice that there was an officer in it, sir."

You should have noticed."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, get in," the colonel said.

The runner was so absorbed in the conversation he forgot that he held a lighted cigar, the first that he had smoked in weeks and it sold for ten cents at the "Y".

"Who gave you permission to smoke in this car?" the colonel demanded.

The runner immediately threw the awful cigar away without making any comments. The colonel's driver sat as stiff and upright as a Broadway coachman, and the runner was so nervous and uncomfortable that he squirmed considerably and was ordered to "straighten up."

"Got any more cigars on your person?" asked the colonel.

"No, sir, for if I had I would have offered you one, Colonel."

            The runner was let off at Beaumont. He stood at attention, saluted and said, "Sir, I thank you for the ride, and apologize for the mistake, and assure you that it will not re-occur."

The Colonel smiled, as much as to say, "I guess that guy has learned his lesson." Said Colonel was not Colonel Parker, for John Henry Parker would have offered the runner a cigar."

THE GREAT CRUSADE

"It was the great crusade. It is not my purpose to glorify war. It is simply my purpose to glorify the sacrifices and achievements of my comrades, and the eternal cause for which they worked and fought so hard. It was vainly feared that the war would brutalize our boys. Since they were fighting the most brutal foe in the annals of history, they did not simply hate brutality—they despised it.

Their feeling against brutality was only as great as their mercy and compassion for the women and the little children that had endured insufferable and unprovoked wrong. Here again I have access to indisputable facts that prove my statement absolutely. From September 27^th to November 29^th, members of our Expeditionary Force adopted 1,156 war-stricken youngsters. They adopted 294 war orphans in one week. This campaign to support the war waifs was started during the summer of 1918 and 1,670 were taken by the last of November. Hundreds of others were adopted by the 16^th of December. A full account of what the overseas men, through "The Stars and Stripes," accomplished, may be obtained by anyone who cares to look up the back numbers of this excellent publication.

A finer, cleaner, braver, more generous and patriotic and religious body of men than my comrades, history will never know. They would share with one another their smokes, hard tack, bully beef and the contents of their packages from home with a liberality that was simply grand. They would die for one another."

 THE MULE or GET GOIN' SOLDIER

          In the memoir of Pvt. Malcolm D. Aitken, USMC we read:

            "It was on one of those hikes into the front lines of the Soissons Sector. It was pitch dark, lines of men and all kinds of equipment filling the road to capacity. You couldn't see your nose, is the way I described it.

            We had halted for one of those short rests and were sort of lying down using our packs for support; splendid when you could get them adjusted; and were trying for a wink of sleep. I suddenly came to and realized that the man next to me on the right was not there. I was third from the head of the company column and was used to being left by the man ahead; he had done the same stunt several times, accidently of course; so I elbowed the man next to me and said, "Get Goin". He didn't move. I repeated the affair twice more and when no response was forthcoming, I investigated aided by a match, and I had been elbowing the rump of a perfectly dead mule. I then noted that no other men were around me. I glanced at my watch and saw that an hour had passed since the rest was called. Believe me I hurried as fast as possible and caught the outfit about 100 yards ahead. The traffic block cleared as I resumed my spot in the ranks. Ralph, the fellow on my right, wanted to know if I had seen Paris and I told him I had been in the burial grounds but was retuning to see the rest."

THE EGG AFFAIR

            "After the Armistice the lessening of military chores also meant more time for the pranks and shenanigans in which soldiers excel. Perhaps the best known incident of mischief-making during the occupation of Germany, as far as the 42^nd Division was concerned, was the so-called "egg affair." Eggs were a rare treat for the troops on duty in the Rhineland, and when an entire carload of eggs arrived at the rail station in Sinzig, intended for distribution to all units of the Rainbow Division, the Alabamians of the 167^th Infantry, declared Reilly, "took immediate possession of the whole carload and lived happily on eggs for some time thereafter."  Colonel Screws, the regiment's commander, explained that his men seized the eggs because another regiment had earlier stolen a carload of tobacco which the citizens of Alabama had sent for the 167^th. "Of course, we Alabamians being the 'he-men' we are," Screws remarked, "we would sooner 'chaw' on tobacco than eggs, but we had the eggs and we didn't have the tobacco." MacArthur chose to ignore the incident, possibly for the reason Screws offered: "I sent a few around to the other Colonels and Generals to keep them from starting something."

HUMOR at the FRONT

            In the book Ranging in France with Flash and Sound we read:

            " It was while at the Norroy base that the irresistible Kennedy was working on the communications lines one afternoon when his ever-watchful eye caught sight of some splendid blackberries. After filling his steel helmet, he picked a few more and sat down to eat them. Soon her heard footsteps, and a shadow from some hovering object fell across the path by which he was sitting. Glancing up Kennedy was surprised to see a brigadier-general confronting him.

            As the general waited for Kennedy to spring to attention his face was drawn into a frown.

            "Well, don't you know a general when you see one," he growled.

            "Yes, sir; but I never expected to see one up here, sir."

            The general hesitated. The frown on his face was changing into a grin.

            "Where is your post?" asked the offiver.

            "I haven't any, sir."

            "To what organization do you belong?"

            "Twenty-ninth Engineers, Sir."

            "What kind of work do you do?"

            "I can't tell you, sir."

            The general was baffled. His eyes roamed about while his mind groped for something effective. He spied the berries.

            "What are you going to do with those?" he asked.

            "Take them home to the cook to make a pie, sir."

            Well; be careful not to eat too much of that pie, or you may make yourself sick.

            "Yes,  sir."

            Kennedy salutes. The general returned the salute and walked on."

David Homsher
American Battlefields of World War I: Chateau-Thierry--Then and Now
ISBN: 97809702444307 $19.95.
Winner of three National Book Awards. Available at bookstores everywhere.
and on website: www.battlegroundpro.com
WWI blog sites: www.davehomsher-wwi.blogspot.com/ AND www.doughboydiaries.blogspot.com/

DOUGHBOY DIARIES

 

        In the book World War I in Retrospect  we read:            "But all in all I was certainly less miserable there at Brest prior to embarkation than my comrades, for while the company was off unloading lumber in the rain and cold I sat in our sheet-iron billet by the camp stove and, pad on knee, devoted myself to the work of chronicler.            Even without the bargain I had made with the captain I would have been unavailable for heavy work because of an amusing, although extremely painful, episode. One cold and rainy morning in January the company was marched off to the delousing plant, where men and clothes were to receive the kerosene treatment. As right guide of the company, I was first to enjoy the delectable shower, after which, while waiting for my clothes, I stood naked with my back to the red-hot barracks stove. Others soon appeared and there was the usual banter and chatter. Presently one of the men asked me for a light for his cigarette. In the process of obliging I leaned forward just far enough to touch my rear on the stove. To this very day I remember the sticking sensation and my mad leap to safety. Next morning, when I reported for sick call, the doctor exclaimed: "Why, Sarge, you have a burn as large as a pie plate." For a time I was quite immobilized, never stirring from my pillow, but spiritually free and deeper than ever immersed in my narrative. Only one mistake I made in this connection. I wrote my mother that I had had a rather painful mishap and should probably not have been surprised when, on my return home, she greeted me with the question: "Now where were you wounded." "Wounded? Me? Nowhere." Well, you certainly wrote me of a mishap and of course I knew what you meant." Demonstration was hardly feasible, so I had to rely on argument to put her mind at rest.

            Life underground is the order of things within the scope of the enemy's guns. By the light of candles and lamps, soldiers live down here and eat and sleep. And yet men laugh and joke over the most serious things. A new habit of mind seems to have been created so suit this new outlook, one in which the exposure and danger and shell fire and the blood of comrades are usual factors, instead of the strange and shocking horrors they would be in normal life conditions."

 

DOUGHBOY SHEPHERDS

            "In many ways, the French civilian customs provided entertainment for the American soldiers of 1918. The Headquarters Company at Moyemont were daily aroused by the shrill blasts of the community stock-herder's trumpet. At the first peep of dawn, when all the good doughboys were pounding the blanket hard, he would sound off, shambling down the village street in motley garb—perhaps the regalia of his high office—dragging his wooden shoes with difficulty over the cobblestones. The first blast of his tin horn usually produced the desired result. Out of barns and yards tumbles sundry sheep, goats, cows and pigs to fall in behind him. Returning from the fields at dusk, the animals would instinctively fall out and retire to their respective habitations. Two members of the Regimental Band yearned for trouble. The machinations of their fertile brains sent the loudest and strongest First Cornet down the street one morning long before Reveille, blowing the Call to Arms. The Pied Piper of Hamlin boasted no such array. With stately tread, he conducted his unique platoon of animals around the town. Wither he went they dutifully followed. He stopped playing, but they still hung on. The joke was revealing complications. Showing signs of deep concern, the cornetist attempted the soothing strains of "Go to Sleep, My Baby," without result. Far be it for such loyal adherents to desert their leader in the midst of drill. But hark! What is that old familiar sound? The shrill call of the herder's old horn resounding through the village! With tails erect, or flying, or kinked or not showing at all, as the case may be, the animals dashed off in all directions. Pandemonium reigned, during which time the First Cornet made good his escape."

SID's PACK

            They maintained the brutal march until human endurance could no longer maintain them, then they fell by the wayside, sick, exhausted and oftentimes unconscious. 'Long about midday, General Wittenmeyer came upon a pathetic figure by the roadside, propped against his pack which he hadn't the energy to take off. "Dogs," he soliloquized, gazing ruefully at his feet, "you've gone back on me. For many a year you've been my main support and you've done your duty noble. I've been careful of you right along; but I guess I was too easy with you. And now, because you've had to take some hard knocks, you're laying down on me, ain't you? But I guess you done the best you could an' I can't blame you for putting me out of the running.

            Any feeble attempt at mirth and hilarity had long since failed. Conversation was at a standstill, but what the boys thought about the army at that time was unfit for publication. Yet the hike was productive of many surprises, among them General Wittemeyer's decision, after hearing the doughboy's lament, to order a lengthy rest at noon and—Sidney Wennick's quality of endurance.

            Sid had been cooking for the Signal Platoon all the time we were out with the British climbing the hills of Northern France. We had carried the pack a bit, nearly every day in the week. Sid hadn't. So, when we started on this jaunt the hardened veterans thought that Sid would be one of the first to drop out. Along about the fifth hour of marching, when fully ready to call it quits there was Sid Wennick marching blithely along, seemingly with no cares or worries. He was in at the finish, and probably the freshest man of the lot. That night, his Bunkie happened to be looking when Sid unrolled his pack. It comprised one blanket and a lot of straw; all the rest of his equipment was on the ration cart." 

GAS!

            A British general, in whose area and under whose jurisdiction we happened to be training, said to the American officer who accompanied him on tour of inspection one morning: "And are your men well trained in the matter of gas-defense?"

            "Oh yes indeed, "replied General Johnson.

            "Gas!" screamed the general at a passing American doughboy, for the purpose of making a practical test. Nothing but blank amazement masked the Latin-American countenance on the roadside.

            "Gas!" howled the general, thinking that the boy hadn't heard him. No response; not a quiver of intelligence.

            "Don't you know enough to put on your mask when you hear that warning?" cried the excited general.

            "Me no speak-a-da Eenglis," answered the American."

 STOLEN CHICKENS

 

            "Five chickens have disappeared from a shed near your Signal Platoon," the captain said. "This is nothing less than plain stealing and cannot be glossed over. Investigate."

            The captain goes over to one of the French neighbors and says in fluent French, "Avvy voo lost cinq chickens? The neighbor says "No." The captain reports the findings to the Town Commandant, who 'lows as how that ain't the right neighbor and proceeds to investigate, for himself. Here is the shed; foot-prints, gore, feathers. Unmistakable signs of a terrible carnage. Five hens are still cowering, wild-eyed in a corner, suffering from nervous prostration. If Monsieur Legrand formerly had ten and a rooster it is certain that the others must be A.W.O.L. Oh, no! He couldn't have sold them.

            The Supply Company advertises a big chicken dinner for the coming Sunday; but such evidence is purely circumstantial. H Company is billeted in the next street over; looks bad for H. E Company had a couple of recalcitrant's picked up in the street that fatal night; but that is nothing out of the way. The finger of suspicion undoubtedly points to Headquarters Company, though the First Sergeant swears the blood on the Orderly Room door-sill resulted from the company mechanic having cut a finger. Therefore, all four companies are finally ordered to chip in, purchasing out of their company funds an ephemeral portion of vanished chicken for every man in town."

 

David Homsher
American Battlefields of World War I: Chateau-Thierry--Then and Now
ISBN: 97809702444307 $19.95.
Winner of three National Book Awards. Available at bookstores everywhere.
and on website: www.battlegroundpro.com
WWI blog sites: www.davehomsher-wwi.blogspot.com/ AND www.doughboydiaries.blogspot.com/

DOUGHBOY DIARIES

 

 

    John F. Gilder writes of the psychology of the American soldier in his book Americans Defending Democracy, Our Soldier's Own Stories:            "The conduct of our men was characterized at all times by a remarkable spirit—a spirit difficult to define, but which reached in battle a veritable state of exaltation. It was a spirit which breathed confidence, determination and willingness to make any sacrifices to win.            This spirit was so marked as to be frequently commented upon in the British area. I am sure that no man who has not experienced the ordeal of battle can appreciate the feelings of the officer who sees his men coming out of battle after, perhaps, three or four days and nights of continuous fighting, plastered with mud, scratched and cut by wire and shell splinters, lame and stiff from the water of shell holes in which they have spent the nights, half dazed from shell-shock and loss of sleep, half sick, and frequently burned from poisonous gas and depressed by the loss of comrades whom they have seen killed or wounded about them.            Certainly one must admire the discipline of men who under such conditions keep in column and observe the many rules of the road as they patiently make their way to the rest camp over roads pounded with never-ceasing shellfire, but the officer's admiration turns to devoted affection when under such circumstances he receives from his men the responsive glance and the labored straightening of the exhausted body, which indicates that it is the physical machinery alone that is "all in"—that the spirit remains unimpaired. This has been the experience of our officers with their men.            Cases by the score have occurred where officers and men struck down in battle, in response to their spirit had struggled to their feet and gone on with their companies in the attack only to be hit again. Cases exist in every regiment where men have done this as many as three times before being killed or rendered helpless. This spirit cannot be produced by discipline alone.            The character of our cause had some relation to it. A spirit so intense cannot be developed in a period measured by months. In our case it was the growth of years of zealous effort to compel the recognition of the efficiency of their regiment—effort which involved not only sacrifice, but lack of appreciation and even hostility from some sources. Our men and the new men who gained their spirit were prepared to make any sacrifice to justify their confidence in themselves and their unit, and to this end they seemed to be willing to give their

lives freely."

EXCERPTS FROM SOLDIERS' DIARIES" Rats? What did you ever read of the rats in the trenches? Next to gas, they still slide on their fat bellies through my dreams. Poe could have got new inspiration from their dirty hordes. Rats, rats, rats, tens of thousands of rats—I see them still, slinking from new meals on corpses, crunching between battle lines, their hellish feasts. Full fed, slipping and sliding down into the wet trenches they swarm at night—and more than one poor wretch has been attacked and his face partly eaten off by them while he slept.            Stench? Did you ever breathe air foul with the gasses arising from a thousand rotting corpses. Dirt? Have you ever fought half madly through days and nights and weeks unwashed, with the feverish rests between long hours of agony, while the guns boom their awful symphony of death, and the bullets zip-zip-zip ceaselessly along the trench edge—that's your skyline—and your deathline, too, if you stretch and stand upright.            It was such a horrible grind that one of the boys in the company, who had been studying to be a minister before he left home, learned to swear worse than any man in the whole outfit.            A bayonet charge is a street fight magnified and made ten thousand times more fierce. It becomes on close range almost impossible to use your bayonets. So we fought with fists and feet, and used our guns, when possible, as clubs. We lay in our captured trench for about four hours. The boys, excited, because they still lived, sang and jested and told of queer experiences and narrow escapes they had had.            We were soon in the wood, where it was so dark that we could hardly distinguish friend from foe. I ran in and out among the trees and asked everyone I met who he was. I came upon one big fellow. My mouth opened to ask him who he was, when his fist shot out and took me between the eyes. I went down for the count, but I knew now who he was—he was a German. I got up as quickly as I could, you may be sure, and swung my rifle to hit him in the head, but the stock struck a tree and splintered. I thought I had broken all my fingers.            Gas? What do you know of it, you people who never heard earth and heaven rock with the frantic turmoil of the ceaseless bombardment? A crawling yellow cloud that pours in upon you, that gets you by the throat and shakes you as a huge mastiff might shake a kitten, and leaves you burning in every nerve and vein of your body with pain unthinkable; your eyes starting from their sockets; your face turned yellow green.            Death is everywhere, but we do not believe in it any more. And when on certain mornings, to the sound of cannon, that mix their rumblings with mystic voices of bells, in the devastated church which cries to the heavens through every breach opened in its walls, the chaplain blesses the regiment that he will presently accompany to the firing line.             The soldier in the front line trenches does not hear the enemy's artillery which is firing at him, or if he does hear it it is only as a confused, distant roar or rumble. The American artillery is some miles behind him. All he hears of his own guns is a moderate boom and roar. There is a sound of the clear whistle over his head as the shells pass on their way to "Fritz," which give him a feeling of assurance that he is being well supported and protected. So many of the German shells pass over his head or fall short, or land some distance up or down the line from him, that the constancy of their arrival in close or dangerous proximity is not nearly so great as might be supposed from the enormous number incessantly hurled in his direction.            In places the two lines were not one hundred yards apart, and no movement was possible during daylight. In some of the trenches which were under enfilade fire, our men had to sit all day long under the traverses, as are called those mounds of earth which stretch like partitions at intervals across a trench so as to give protection from lateral fire. Even when there was cover, such as that afforded by depressions or sunken roads, on the hillside below and behind our firing line, any attempt to cross the intervening space was met by fierce bursts of machine-gun and shell fire. The men on the firing line were on duty for twenty-four hours at a time, and brought rations and water with them when they came on duty, for none could be sent up to them during the day. Even the wounded could not be moved until dark.            There are many funny incidents in war, and one I particularly remember was that there were three or four of us in a group when a piece of shell dropped almost in our midst. There was not any great force in it, because before falling it had struck a tree; but as it dropped we started turning up the collars of our coats and rolling ourselves into balls—just as if things like that would make any difference to a bursting shell. However, it is amusing to see how men act like children at such times.             METHODS OF GERMAN SNIPERS               At Alsace, where I was in charge of a sector, with twenty men, it was my duty to study the terrain within my vision, and I had it down so plainly that each morning I could look out and see bushes that had not been there the night before, therefore proving to me that they were put there during the night by enemy patrols either for airplane signals or sniper's posts.            On August 1, 1918, about 9:30 a.m., a sniper in my platoon detected a black object some distance out on No Man's Land. Calling my attention to the mark, he said he saw it move. I was very cautious, because if we were to start firing, it might prove to be only a burnt stump, which it closely resembled, and therefore betray our location to enemy observers.             I studied the object until late that afternoon, when I finally decided to let the boy try his luck. He did, and it was a fine shot, as we saw the object fall. That night our patrol went out and investigated the spot and found the body of a young German skillfully camouflaged the color of the adjoining tree, with a bullet through his forehead. So the boy on the job was responsible for there being one less Hun sniper.             Another night I was sitting at the entrance to what was once an old German dugout when I heard a very mysterious noise out on the barbed wire.            I sent up an illumination rocket to try and see if I could find who the intruder might be. But I could not make out anything because of the density of the shrubbery and old wire. I waited for a while and again I heard noises, but of a different nature this time.             It was a German patrol. One German was crying for help in English, trying to get our boys to answer and go to the supposed American boy's assistance. They would ambush our boys, thus causing many casualties.             Some of these tricks could be detected, such as the cry of cats, birds and dogs, or anything that would cause our boys to waste ammunition or sacrifice their lives by answering.             The ruse of making our boys waste hand grenades and bullets worked successfully one night. On the following night the discovery was made that up in a tree, not far from our trench, sat a camouflaged German, cutting short strands of wire with clippers, thus making us believe there were German patrols breaking through., For a while before the discovery, our boys poured machine-gun and rifle fire into the wire entanglements, only to find that their shooting was in vain. After he was detected, the little Boche in the tree had no more use for his wire cutters or wire.

            Lack of space prevents reference to other methods of warfare that the American boys had to contend with, but it did not take them long to show the Hun that no matter how smart a man might be, there is always one born smarter.

            In William L. Langer's book Gas and Flame in World War I we read:            "We are proud of our Uncle Sam because he didn't show us up before Europe. And American soldiers have taught Europe a few things. I wonder if they'll profit from our system of sanitation? I wonder if they'll learn how to shave a man properly? An American is the only barber who shaves down on the upper lip. Every time I got shaved in France or Germany I thought the end of my nose was going off. Manners we ain't supposed to have, but we showed cultured Europe a few of the fundamentals of a gentleman. Did you ever notice Private Buck, how quickly Private Buck gave his seat to the European ladies? And did you notice how the European men stared at him? And the women graciously thanked him. Here in the home of Kultur the Herrn shove the women around by the scruff of the neck. This little act of chivalry—Americans giving their seats to Frauen and Fräulein—is the talk of all the Rhineland. "Americans are rough and loud and all that, especially in their cups," said a Frenchman to me; "at first we thought them as wild as Mangin's Algerians, but they're gentlemen under the skin." Europe will remember us for things other than the beaucoup francs and viel gelt. And for these, Europe is ever ready with the itching palm.

            It's America first when we get back home. We know what we are now. We were deferential before. We used to feel in the presence of old polished Europe like a country bumpkin suddenly lifted by his bootstraps and thrust on Fifth Avenue in New York City. "When a man comes to himself, " says Woodrow Wilson. The returning soldiers have come to themselves all right. Like the ancient Greek we are ready to call all barbarians born outside the big old land—we've had the Pentecost of Americanism, the fiery apostles are returning. Get ready the incense, ye politicians and editors. You can't fool us anymore."

 

 

 

David Homsher
American Battlefields of World War I: Chateau-Thierry--Then and Now
ISBN: 97809702444307 $19.95.
Winner of three National Book Awards. Available at bookstores everywhere.
and on website: www.battlegroundpro.com
WWI blog sites: www.davehomsher-wwi.blogspot.com/ AND www.doughboydiaries.blogspot.com/

DOUGHBOY DIARIES

 

             In Ernest Piexotto's book The American Front, we read:            "The 155's hidden under the trees, were firing in salvoes of four, while up in the Grande Tranché the crack, crack, crack of the "75's" was uninterrupted, barking and yelping like hounds on the chase. Our big barrage was going over.            But very little was coming back. So, as the road was absolutely deserted, we kept straight on until we struck traffic: ambulances and ammunition-trains going up. We hid our car again and soon had reached the P.C., passed it, and were out in the trenches. Here we were told that the infantry had already gone over the top and were now in the German first-line trenches.             Out in the blasted wastes of No Man's Land, however, where hill succeeded hill, once covered with dense forests, not but shell-torn barrens spotted with a few blackened stumps, nothing was visible but the shell bursts that kicked up clouds of dirt or broke in dense balls of smoke. The "doughboys," as had always been the case up to this time, were practically invisible, hidden in shell-holes, in trenches, or under any cover that they could find.

                                                     

            But soon the wounded began to filter in through the trenches—poor fellows, some walking quite erect with head or hand bound up; others stooping doubled up with pain or fear, their khaki coats spotted with great brownish stains, their faces and hands bloody. Then came the litter-bearers, staggering through the slippery mud up the hill, steadying themselves by a hand pressed against the trench walls as they bore their heavy burdens—still forms stretched flat, immobile, covered with an O.D. blanket from which protruded a pair of spiked shoes with the toes turned up. When we returned to the regimental P.C. these pathetic figures increased in number, for near it a first-aid dressing station had just been established. The stretchers lay upon the ground with the doctors stooping over them. The ambulances came up one by one, were filled as fast as the wounds were dressed, and dispatched to the rear.             To our left was a division of French Colonials, Senegalese as black as ink. Their wounded were also coming in, and one of the most striking pictures  I saw that day was one of these negro giants borne like a bronze knight on the shoulders of four prisoners—a group reminiscent of the statues on some mediaeval tomb.            By now the prisoners were arriving in squads; then they were brought in by droves. In the first lot I counted no less than a hundred and forty; in the second over a hundred, and still they steadily poured in. Most of them were serious-looking men of middle age, who certainly seemed glad to be through with it, flinging down their helmets with gestures that plainly said: "Thank God, that's over." A few were slightly wounded but the great proportion wore new uniforms, clean, unspotted with mud, showing clearly that they  had given up without a struggle; in fact, had dressed to go into captivity. Their sergeants lined them up in double ranks, under the watchful eye of their own lieutenants, while our men looked on with frank curiosity. Then they were questioned by our own Intelligence officers and marched off to the rear, shambling off with stooped shoulders under the guard of a few alert and rosy-cheeked young New Englanders.

            All day long they continued to pour in, and that evening, at Rarécourt, the accommodations provided were so inadequate to the numbers that had come in, that I saw hundreds of them huddled together, crowded into temporary pens, fenced round with barbed wire, passing the night in the drizzling rain—living evidence of our victory."

            In The Story of the 168^th Infantry we read:            "Suddenly, with the instantaneity of a lightning flash, the whole north seems to rise up in flames and hurl itself forward—like an agile, hungry tiger leaping down upon its prey. With a thunderous, dismaying roar it fall upon the Chamois, raining steel and destruction. There is no need to waken anyone; air and earth tremble with the concussion of bursting shells, and the men at the front, in the support, back in town, all find themselves on their feet without being conscious of the force that placed them there.            In the trenches every post, save those of the lookouts is instantly abandoned. Terrified bodies come rushing, slipping, stumbling, splashing to the dugouts, dodging bits of flying debris, ducking showers of dirt, their path lighted by flashing explosions. Already the wires connecting the front with the reserve are out, and all communication is suspended. From each G. C. rockets shoot heavenward, to be answered almost immediately by the alert artillery—half French, half American. Guards at dugout entrances breathlessly watch and wait, eyes and ears strained for the slightest variation in the deafening turmoil that may signify a shift in the barrage and give warning of the approach of the enemy.            Soon the bombardment resolves itself into one steady roar in which it is impossible to distinguish the individual detonations. The heavy concentration of enemy shells is turning the whole Chamois system into a hecatomb of horror and confusion. Trenches that were, cease to be and leave in their place gaping craters which in turn are torn afresh. Carmine flashes from the northern sky translate themselves into carmine splashes and pools on the furrowed soil. A heavy cloud of smoke and dust, like a gigantic pass to enshroud those torn bodies whose spirits have fled, obscures the waning moon.            Awed and shaken, the men crouch in the dark, oppressive dugouts, waiting for the signal that will send them forth to determine their fate. And while no man of them would avoid the responsibility about to be placed upon him, sudden memories crowd to the fore to make life seem more dear. An attempted jest, a bit of forced laughter, falls unheard from the lips of a comrade, for the pounding of the guns is equaled only by the wild pounding of their own hearts and the heavy breathing of their trembling bodies. A sickening sensation thus to be caged helpless like a hunted animal which awaits only the finishing stroke. At any moment one of the larger shells may bury them all—they  have the alternative of forsaking the inadequate shelter and being blown to pieces in the open trench—or the outnumbering force of picked Stosstruppen may fall upon them before they have an opportunity to defend themselves. The suspense is enough to drive one mad.             For a half hour there is no diminution of the fire. On the front line the enemy continues to rain a devastating storm from his field pieces, while the heavier guns, the 210's are directed on the support, and churn up the trenches about the headquarters of Companies B and D. The communicating boyaux have long since been obliterated, and with all wires severed the front is completely isolated.

            Shortly after five, as the first cold streaks of dawn are rifting the morning sky, the observers at the dugout mouths perceive a slight shifting of the barrage and immediately pass down the information. "Every man to his post," shout the commanders."

             "American Expeditionary Forces, France.                              August 1, 1918.             DEAR MOTHER,--Yesterday I had a wonderful experience; I saw an actual battle from a hill. I lay in a big field of crimson clover, all in blossom, on the top of a sunny hill. It was a beautiful Summer day, hot and brilliant. White butterflies fluttered everywhere; the air was full of the hum of bees; far overhead I could hear two larks singing. Below was a broad valley, a checker-board of yellow and green, ripened wheat fields and green clover; with here and there patches of velvet woods. There were old farmhouses along the road which dipped over the rolling fields and wound away through the tiny forests. On the right was a toy-like village with a big church steeple rising out of the center of it, controlling the whole country.            Then suddenly, our barrage began, like a mighty thundering behind me. The air was filled with the whine and shriek of thousands of shells and the sleepy road in the valley became an inferno. Dust clouds rose hundreds of feet; trees shook, trembled and fell; a shot hit the old tower and it crashed over. Relentlessly, the barrage kept up, beautiful to watch because of its dreadfulness; then it began to roll steadily forward, so that every square yard seemed to be covered. Then like a flash it stopped—the world was deathly still; so still that the hum of the insects became prominent again. Out from the woods below filtered a long thin line of brown American troops, their bayonets flashing in the sun. There came the monotonous rat-tat-tat of the Boche machine guns from the further woods; still they kept on, here and there a man went down, his bayonet making an arc of fire as he fell. Behind them came another wave, and another, and another, till every field was full of advancing men. They entered the woods and the fields were empty again, and—as if someone had pushed an electric button, the deafening barrage began anew, sweeping the woods clean before the hidden infantry.             Suddenly the barrage stopped and from the woods came a long grey column of about 600 BochePrisoners, a snake-like line, that wound away down the dusty road to the rear. The attack was over for the day—the woods that had so menaced our advance with their machine gun nests all clean and free. To-night we shall be on the march once more—still going forward, close on the heels of the Crown Prince's veterans. All my love, TREVENEN."                                                                                                                                                                 August 15, 1918            "I passed through several villages which have come into our hands only within the last week,--every one of them the scene of fierce and bloody fights. You can have no idea of the devastation, the complete desolation, of these pretty French villages which the artillery of each side has reduced to a battered mass of ruins; where the roofs and walls of the houses are still standing they are pitted with shell holes; of the rooms inside, perhaps one corner is left untouched with pictures on the walls, furniture standing, and in some places the tables set with dishes and the remains of a meal still there; the other corner is a heap of rubbish, piles of stone and timber which have fallen from a gaping hole in the roof above. The roads are full of shell holes, gardens destroyed, fruit trees sawed down, and the beautiful shade trees shattered and torn by the hail of shells and bursting shrapnel they have suffered. Everywhere along the roads and in the houses are scattered old rifles and uniforms, equipment of all kinds left behind or abandoned in the struggle, piles of shells and empty shell cases, guns and cannon destroyed or deserted, everywhere waste, ruin and destruction that makes one sick to look upon. How I pity the poor French inhabitants who will return to find their homes shattered masses of stone, in ruins as complete as if a mighty earthquake had leveled each house to the ground.            Yet the French will come back and immediately set about restoring their houses as best they can. In Chateau-Thierry the inhabitants followed the troops so closely that two days after the last German had been driven back from the town the French families began to come back.

            Surely no people with such indomitable courage as that can ever be crushed or conquered."

             "We had revised our idea of an offensive, and decided that, with all its disadvantages it had its good points, an admission never  found in the best-seller versions of warfare. In a quiet sector, life is fairly comfortable, with deep dugouts, trenches, and all that,--but you get stale. There is a  nervous strain and various other unpleasantnesses, yet no results are ever apparent. You simply get stale. It begins to look like an endless job.—But in a drive it's different! You can see the results of your work. When you go into action over dead Boche horses which are still warm, you realize that you are advancing. You are doing what you enlisted to do, and doing it hard. There is a chance for the enthusiasm and dash of other wars—so hopelessly lost in the deadlock of trench warfare. The roads teeming with armed men, columns of artillery stretching for miles, fields alive with troops infected with the spirit of the advance, prisoners streaming back, great panoramas of open country, changing scenes, excitements, quick alarms; all of these jumbled together produce a state of exhilaration."              In James Cooke's book, The Rainbow Division, we read:            "There is a strange transformation that the soldier undergoes. The report of any gun, at first, makes him jumpy, but the report of his own guns—these being nearer usually—make him jumpiest of all. But when he becomes acclimated, becomes accustomed to the work at the front, there is nothing that adds to his peace of mind and contentment like the crack of his own guns near at hand. When your own guns are belching a heavy torrent of  steel over your heads, you, if you are a seasoned campaigner, sleep a sweet sleep that know no dreams.            Lt. Thompson's feeling of isolation increased as he saw GC 9. The untried lieutenant recalled:            The sight that greeted us brought an immediate and positive reaction. "Desolate" was the only name for it. A mass of rusty barbed wire was sitting on crisscrosses of posts that seemed to grow from the ground. Ghost-like trees to the right were splattered with shell scars. Some had fallen into the mass of twisted wire and upturned earth. Others were broken off at various heights, like so many match sticks. The expanse of desolation sloped up a gentle rise. The German trenches were hidden behind the crest some two hundred yards away.            As he toured the line, Thompson was overpowered by a sickening stench. French intelligence was examining the body of a dead German soldier to find documents and to confirm the dead man's unit for order of battle information. The young officer became so violently ill that he staggered back to the dugout, where he was still overwhelmed by the smells of death, unwashed bodies, human excrement, rotting equipment, and spoiling food.             He watches as the ever-present "Slum" was served to the troops, who had no rags to clean their mess tins. An old wad of newspaper or crust of bread was used to wipe the greasy mess-plate that a few minutes before had held stew. All the lessons in military hygiene that Thompson had learned were invalid once in GC 9. A few minutes later, he looked at his wooden bunk, one of many in a tier, and underneath the bottom bunk stood ankle-deep water. On a small table a single flickering candle illuminated the dugout, and all Thompson could feel was a sense of isolation and desolation."