Gassed
One of the happiest days that I experienced during the period that I
was at war was on Friday, September 20, 1918. On this day, after
having made several visits to our new posts in the front line, I came
back to our billet, where, to my delight and surprise, I found eight
letters from home awaiting me. No one knows the joy that a letter from
home gives to a soldier on the firing line. It is like taking him out
of hell and placing him back on earth again. For several days we had
been in the very thickest of the fight, facing death at every minute,
seeing our companions fall around us, doing everything we possibly
could to help our side win, and willing to go back and do it all over
again without complaint--and then to get these welcome letters from
dear ones 9,000 miles away right in the midst of it all. Is it any
wonder that on such occasions we frequently gave way to our emotions?
The letters that I received were enjoyed not only by me, but by my
companion, McKinley Johnston, as well, as he knew all of my people and
was as familiar as I was with the things that they wrote about. It is
a peculiar circumstance, but it is a fact, nevertheless, that all of
the boys, even those who did not know my folks and who came from other
States than California, were interested in these letters. They were
news from home and that is what all the boys were craving. They wanted
to read anything that came from America. So, after reading the
letters, I passed them all around and every boy in the camp read them.
After getting the letters back, I read them over several times.
Several of them contained photographs of familiar scenes and faces,
and it seemed good to look upon them again, for no one knew but that
it might be the last time we would see them. I thought it would be a
nice thing to sit right down and write, after reading these letters,
but when I attempted it, I was so overcome with emotion caused by
thoughts of those who were near and dear to me, that I was unable to
give expression to my thoughts.
The position of the American troops at this time was not favorable.
The enemy held the commanding ground, and was concealed in woods,
while our troops were out in the open. The Boche could see what we
were doing while we were unable to detect his moves. This
disadvantage, you might well know, would not long be tolerated by
Americans. We wanted the commanding ground and we wanted to put Fritz
in the open. So on Monday, September 23rd, we gave Fritz a three-hour
barrage and it was a hot one. By the time the barrage started, all our
light artillery had been brought up and put in place, and we were able
to rain shells from the famous 75's upon the enemy in torrents. This
barrage was for the purpose of breaking up the morale of the Germans.
We were counter-barraged by the Huns, and for a time they made it hot
for us. But our superiority began to show after about an hour's
firing. The men in the Flash Division worked hard to give our gunners
the correct location of the German batteries. We worked hard and fast
and the accuracy of our effort was shown by the silencing of the
German guns. One by one they ceased firing, as the American artillery,
with the data we supplied them, dropped shells on the Hun batteries.
It was just about 5:45 in the morning when our artillery ceased firing
and our boys advanced again. This time our objectives were only about
two kilometers in back of the German front trenches. We met with
stubborn resistance at first, but with the usual American
determination and pluck, we soon forced the Boche back.
It was here that I first saw the German minnewafers and trench mortars
at work. The shells thrown from the minnewafers are as much feared as
any German weapon of war. They are thrown from a large gun with a
smooth bore and short barrel. The projectile is shaped like a rolling
pin, though it is much larger. In each end, or handle of the shell, is
a cap, which explodes as the handle strikes the ground. As the
projectile somersaults as it travels, one handle or the other is sure
to hit the earth, so there are no "duds" that I saw among these
shells. They explode with a terrific racket and tear up the earth for
a great distance around the spot where they land. They are not thrown
very high in the air, and are intended for use in close fighting, that
is to say, two or three hundred yards. As the shells whirl through the
air, you can plainly hear them whistling, and if you look sharply you
can occasionally see them coming. These minnewafers and mortars are of
various ranges--from three and four inches up to twelve and fourteen
inches. Aside from these trench guns, the Germans in this fight also
resisted heavily with machine gun nests and one pounders.
In going over the top this time, we did not have the protection that
we did when the St. Mihiel drive started. In other words, we did not
have any tanks or any aerial protection, but had to advance with only
such help as the artillery could give us.
The Germans were well protected and it took clever work to outwit
them. Their machine gun nests were always cleverly concealed. Many of
them were concealed in trees, and it was a common sight to see our
infantrymen advance unseen by the machine gunners, and then with their
rifles, shoot them out of the trees. I had seen machine gun nests in
trees before, but never so many as this time. Not only were they
numerous, but they were so well provided with ammunition that they
could fire thousands of rounds of shells, if necessary. I have seen
long belts of cartridges hanging to limbs of trees, all ready for use
on the part of the gunners. I have also seen many of these belts
attached together so as to provide an almost endless chain of
cartridges for the gun. Under one tree where there had been a nest, I
saw empty cartridge shells eight inches deep, which was some shooting
for a short fight such as this was. That machine gun had certainly
done all that could be expected of it.
We gained our objectives at 4 o'clock of the afternoon of the day the
drive started. We were then in the best possible position, so far as
ground is concerned, as it was possible for us to occupy. We had taken
the commanding ground from Fritz, and we began digging in so as to be
ready for a counter attack. All during that night we dug our trenches,
making them deep and as safe as possible. Between 3 and 5 o'clock the
next morning, the expected attack came. We experienced a heavy
shelling from the German artillery. Of course, our light artillery
that had been hastily brought up was not slow in returning the fire.
Our barrage was very accurate and eventually the Huns were silenced.
It was at this time that I was called upon to witness the greatest
horror of war--that of seeing some of my dearest friends fall from the
enemy's fire before my very eyes. I was working in a post with three
other men. We had been constantly together since the drive began and
our hardships that we had undergone resulted in a bond of friendship
that held us together like brothers. All three of these men were
killed during this barrage. Two of them were instantly killed and the
third lived but a short time after being hit, dying about 6 o'clock in
the morning.
When you consider that we were working in a post that was not more
than twelve feet in diameter, you may well imagine my feelings as I
saw these boys fall. I fully expected that my turn would come at any
minute, but I kept at work so as to keep my mind off the gruesome
surroundings.
The next twenty-four hours were about the worst that I experienced
throughout the war. My post was right out in front, and I was the only
man left in it. Our communication lines had been badly cut up by
German shells, and I was unable to make a report of the disaster that
our post had suffered to headquarters. I could not leave the post,
because I could not leave the instruments. They were too valuable to
be left there with no one guarding them, and it would not do to leave
any chance of their falling into the hands of the enemy. So I remained
at the post all day. About 7 o'clock in the evening, men from
headquarters fixed the communicating lines and I made my report of the
loss of three men. Help was immediately dispatched to me, but,
because we were heavily shelled again that night by the Huns, it was
impossible for aid to reach me. It was not until 4 o'clock the next
morning that a detachment reached the post and I was relieved.
A detachment was also sent from headquarters for the purpose of
removing the bodies of my three dead companions. They were taken back
of the lines to a beautiful spot in the woods, and there they were
buried. Because of the fondness of the men of our detachment for these
and for the further reason that fighting had slackened up some, we
were able to give these men a little better burial than is accorded
most soldiers who fall on the field of battle. In most cases a grave
is dug, the body wrapped in a blanket and deposited without a casket
and without ceremony. But for these boys, some of the men in our
detachment made boxes to serve as coffins out of material that we had
captured from an engineering dump. One big grave was dug and the
bodies were laid in it side by side. One of the boys said a prayer and
the graves of these brave lads, way out there in the woods in France,
were covered over. This is one of the incidents of the war that will
never leave my mind, as two of the boys were among my dearest friends.
I realize that my escape from death while at that post was by a narrow
margin. It seemed to be the beginning of a number of miraculous
escapes, such as many soldiers experience. Mine came in such rapid
succession that I began to have a feeling that Fritz would get me yet.
About 11 o'clock at night on the 30th of September I was aroused from
my bed in a dugout to repair the communication lines, it being part of
the duty of our detachment to keep the lines in working order when not
observing. It wasn't very pleasant, of course, to get out of bed in
the middle of the night, but this was the luckiest call that I had
ever had. I had not been out more than five minutes when Fritz scored
a direct hit with a big shell upon that billet, destroying everything
it in. If I had not been called out, I would have been killed.
Fortunately for our post, all the other members were on duty at the
time, so we all escaped. But while I escaped with my life, the shell
destroyed all of my personal belongings. This resulted in my
discomfiture for many days, as I will relate. I had previously
captured a pair of German officer's boots, which I would put on when
called out at night, rather than my regulation army shoes and leggins.
On this night I slipped on these boots, and my army shoes were torn to
shreds. Therefore, I was compelled to wear the German boots, and they
were the most uncomfortable things that I had ever had on my feet.
Though they were my size, I could not get used to them, and they
burned and blistered my heels so that I could hardly walk. As we were
way out in front, it was not easy to get new shoes from headquarters.
My foot troubles became so serious that my officer granted me a day
off duty for the purpose of trying to find a pair of shoes that would
fit me. I spent the entire time in a fruitless search. I found several
pairs of shoes that belonged to boys who had been killed, but they
would not fit me, so finally I had to give it up. I wore those Boche
boots sixteen days, and I had to keep going all the time with sore and
blistered feet. I suffered more from those German boots than from
anything else in the war.
On October 4th I had another interesting experience and narrow escape,
which was as close as any that I ever want to experience. I was one of
a detail that was sent after water. We had to go from our dugouts a
distance of about two kilometers. On our way there we were walking in
a gully. Fritz had probably used that gully for the same purpose
himself when he held that ground, and he probably knew that we would
be using it too. At any rate, he had the range to a nicety. On our way
he first dropped a number of gas shells around us. We hastily put on
our masks and escaped injury. But the gas shells were followed by a
few high explosives. A flying fragment severed the air tube of my gas
mask. This meant immediate death, unless there was quick action. I had
the presence of mind to take hold of the tube, so as to prevent any
gas from entering my lungs, and then I ran to high ground. The reason
I sought high ground is because the chlorine gas is heavy and settles
in low places and is not likely to be as thick if high ground can be
reached. I was accompanied by one of the buddies, who saw my plight
and ran to assist me. By a stroke of luck that seems almost
unbelievable, we ran across a salvage dump on the ridge to which we
ran, and there we found a good gas mask, which I hurriedly slipped on,
and used until a new one was issued to me. As if to add insult to
injury, while I was having trouble with the mask, I was struck on the
shoulder by a piece of shrapnel. The fragment, however, had about
spent its force, and while I was knocked down by the force of the blow
and suffered from a bruised shoulder for several days, the skin was
not broken and my injury did not reach the dignity of a wound.
We proceeded on and got our water, and on our way back we were shelled
again when we were in approximately the same place. This time one of
the men received a small scratch from a piece of flying shell. It just
broke the skin between the knee and the thigh, but was so small that
it did not cause any inconvenience. Shortly after this, another bit of
shrapnel hit my helmet and knocked it off my head. I gave the boys
cause for a hearty laugh as I scrambled on all fours after my "tin
derby," and no doubt I cut an amusing figure. Fritz seemed to be
picking on me all day, but I was glad that I got off so lightly after
being exposed to so much danger.
There is no room for sentiment in the army. Birthdays usually don't
mean much. It just happened, however, that I had a day off of post on
October 6th, and, that being my birthday, the occasion was made doubly
pleasant. But the thing that made the day a perfect one for me was the
fact that when I reached headquarters I found fourteen letters from
home. I have already told how happy I felt when I received eight
letters--well, fourteen made me feel just twice that happy. They were
from relatives and friends and no gift could have made my birthday
more pleasant.
October 16th was another red letter day for me. On that date I had a
detail to pack in supplies, and I had the great fortune to find a new
pair of shoes, just my size. What a relief to get rid of those
uncomfortable ill-fitting, detestable German boots. If there was one
thing that made me hate Germans worse than anything else, it was those
horrid German boots. The boys said they were a hoodoo and that if I
continued to wear them Fritz would get me sure. However that may be, I
did not cease to have close calls. The very next day I got a small
sniff of chlorination gas. It happened while I was fixing
communication lines. I did not get enough to hurt me, but it made me
deathly sick. I was unable to do much for a couple of days, and was
taken to headquarters, where I was assigned to the duty of fixing
communication lines, which were constantly in danger of being broken.
On October 24th two of us were sent to repair a break, which we
located at 5 o'clock in the morning. Dawn was just breaking and the
place where we found the break was in the woods. The Germans had
during the night thrown a lot of chlorine gas shells into this woods,
so we donned our masks. The break in the line was a difficult one to
repair. We soon found that we could not do it with our gas masks
on--one or the other must take his mask off. We could not return
without making the repair. To a soldier there is no such word as fail.
It is either do or die. The buddy who was with me was a married man
with a baby at home. I, being unmarried, could certainly not ask him
to take off his mask, while I kept mine on. So I stripped mine off,
made the repair, and while doing so was gassed severely. With the aid
of the buddy, I was able to reach our billet. There I was put on a
stretcher and taken to a field dressing station. As the old saying
goes, it never rains but it pours; gassing was not the only trouble I
was destined to experience on that day. As I was being carried to
headquarters a shell exploded nearby and I was struck in the leg by a
piece of shrapnel. It was a small but painful wound just below the
left knee. I tried to accept it with a smile, and I was really glad
that I was struck instead of one of the other men, as I was already
out of the fight, while if one of them had been wounded, it would have
been two out of commission instead of one.