LETTERS FROM THE FRONT
MORT HOMME,
August 25th, 1917.
DEAR ED:—
You no doubt think ill of me not to have answered your letter, but I
know you will overlook my seeming neglect after you have read this.
Have you ever experienced a feeling of complete disaster when suddenly
everything changed and you saw a decent place to get some sleep, and a
good hot meal in the bargain? Well, that is what just happened to us
after we left “Hell” behind, but, even now, when anyone drops anything,
or yells, I find myself taking to cover. No, I haven’t shell shock. I
simply cannot fully collect myself.
No doubt by this time you are acquainted with the details of the recent
attack at the Bois d’Avicourt, where the French just naturally kicked
the stuffings out of the Boches and walked away with such positions as
Hill “304,” Avicourt, and Mort Homme (Dead Man). But, even if you are,
I know you will enjoy some of my experiences during that fight—so here
goes.
After leaving Paris we took the train to Chalons and there we got our
cars. The whole section is made up of little Fiats, and so you see we
got a good start. We were on our way across country passing through Bar
le Duc and on up to a little town called Erize La Petite, about fifteen
miles from Verdun. The town was misnamed by someone, for I think they
meant to call it “La Petite Dump.” However unfortunate that may be, we
remained there for two weeks, sleeping in an old barn, until one night
it rained so hard that we swam to our cars and finished our rest,
soaking wet. We were all as disgusted as could be when orders came that
we had been assigned to the 25th Division and were to move up to join
it the following day for the attack, which was to take place three days
later. The following day found us crawling up to the town of Brocourt,
where the hospital is located. The Boches shelled this village with
high explosives that night. A doctor informed me that they did this
systematically every night at the same hour.
Morning came and we were ordered up farther front. From the way the
shells were coming down on us I thought we were joining the German Army
instead of the French. We halted in the village of Reciecourt. I want
to state right here that I was perfectly satisfied with the place we
had left, and La Petite Dump seemed to me like “Paradise Lost,” for, on
our way up to Reciecourt, we stopped four times to wait for the Huns to
quit shelling the road ahead of us. Upon our arrival we began hunting
for a house to use as a base, but the best we could do was to find
one with two shell holes through the roof. We took it just the same.
[Illustration: Sixty Feet From a German Front-Line Trench]
That afternoon Singer, who is our chief, and Paul Hughes, our
sous-chief, took two ambulances and drove with one man from each car up
to the different posts we were to serve during the attack. Joe Widner,
you remember him, is my teammate on our car, and I flipped a coin to
see which of us would take the ride. I won the toss.
Ten of us got into one ambulance and ten into another. I went with
Singer, and as I got in I remember Singer threw the latch down on the
back of the car and we could not get out, for it could be opened only
from the outside.
Now this was my first experience under heavy shell fire, and I did not
relish the thought of being sewed up in this ambulance, unable to get
out if I wanted to, for I always have been a pretty good sprinter and I
felt if it got too hot I might be able to beat a couple of shells down
the road; but, with the door locked, what a chance! As we went forward,
we passed several large French batteries beside the road, all of them
hammering away at Fritz. The farther forward we went the more numerous
the guns, all more or less concealed. The front of the car was open
and right ahead of us there came a terrific crash. I heard Singer say,
“That one sure came close.”
“That what?” I yelled back.
“That shell,” he replied.
Then I realized what a cute little place we were locked in, and,
believe me, I got sick all over. I felt that my feet were shrinking
and my shoes were falling off. My thoughts took on some speed. How
gladly I would have changed this dirty shell-riddled ambulance for a
Broadway subway. I kept my eyes glued on the floor of the car, with no
idea of where we were or where we were going until we jolted around a
sharp turn in the road and ran into a fallen tree. Naturally, the car
stopped, and Singer opened up the exit and said, “This is the first
post.”
My release from that car gave me a new lease on life, and I began to
take notice of the environment, after making sure that I was still
intact. There were five or six dugouts here; in front of one were
two men seated at a table. In front of them was a little plot of
ground containing some newly made graves. Over to the right was a
gang of men digging a long ditch about eight feet wide and eight feet
deep. I thought it was a trench. Mills Averill, however, suggested
it was to bury garbage. So we asked, in our sign language mixed with
Franco-American French. One of the men looked up from his writing long
enough to say, “_Pour l’attack_” (For the attack). Good God,
Eddie, it was a grave big enough for a regiment, and just to think
that it was for men who at that very moment were alive and in perfect
health! I cannot tell you my feelings at this gruesome sight.
At this moment a wagon drove up. The diggers laid down their tools
and went over to it. I am sure it was a dead man they lifted out, for
I saw his feet on the stretcher, but the rest of the poor devil was in
a burlap bag. I did not try to see the rest of the human debris that
came out of this death cart. The men at the tables wrote some records,
and the ditch received the mass. This was anything but a pleasant
experience for green men, and only our first post at that.
We climbed into the car and visited each of the other posts, and as
we went along the sights that met our eyes were always worse than at
the previous place. As we pulled up in front of what we thought was
our last post Singer said there was one more, but we couldn’t go up in
the car except under cover of darkness. So we started out on our shoe
leather, and it was some walk. The mud was knee deep and clingingly
affectionate.
Nothing ever seemed quite so good as when we turned our faces toward
the rear. That night, in my dreams, there seemed to be all sorts of
little mistakes being made, such as planting me in the hole at Post No.
1, with the dead men. Tough stuff to dream about,—you can imagine how
much rest I had.
The next day Joe and I went on duty. We had to stay through the entire
morning of the attack, for all twenty cars were in use. Our post began
in order from Reciecourt. Going out were P4, P2, PJ left, PJ right,
P3 and R4. There were four cars at P4 and two at PJ right. If a car
came down with wounded from PJ, left post, it would stop at P4, and a
car would be dispatched from here to take its place. P2 and PJ right
were on the same road, so when a car came down from PJ, right, a car
would go up from P2. The car coming in always continued on to the
hospital. P3 and R4 were worked only on calls, and R4 only at night,
for in daylight they would have been blown off the road. It was a sort
of muddled schedule, but the shell fire was so heavy that no telephone
wires could stand for a half hour. So we made the best of a bad
situation.
The French were bringing up guns continuously, all sizes from 37’s
to large-caliber Marine pieces. They would take up firing positions
alongside the roads and fire over our heads. When they let loose the
ambulance would rock with the concussion.
We had two runs in from P4 during the night, and at three-thirty a. m.
the barrage fire began and it was terrible. We could not hear the Boche
shells break. It was all one great uninterrupted roar, made by four
thousand cannons. Can you imagine such a thing in that small sector?
Joe and I went up to PJ right about four a. m. As we turned a corner we
found an artillery caisson that had been hit. The horses lay dead in
the road. What had become of the men I do not know, and we did not try
to find out, for when we saw that we could just barely get by we kept
on going.
As we neared a crossroad we found the shells falling so thick we had to
pull up and wait for an opportunity to dash by. It soon came. We did
not have to listen for the Boche shells for we could see them break
very plainly. Ahead of us was another sharp turn leading down into a
little valley at the other end of which was the post. Suddenly a car
appeared, running towards us like mad. As it approached we recognized
Bud Riley and Eddie Doyle. Bud was driving, his eyes bulging out of his
head as he leaned over the steering wheel watching the road. He never
even glanced at us. His car was full of wounded and Eddie Doyle had to
stand on the running board. As we passed he yelled, “God be good to you
fellows for you are going into Hell!”
Joe was driving, and on receiving this news he let up on the speed a
bit, for, if we were going where Eddie said, Joe thought we had better
take our time about it.
He looked at me and I looked at him. I finally ventured to say,
“Cheerful, isn’t it?” but Joe must have been thinking of Flatbush.
Then we turned the corner and we discovered that Doyle was right. The
whole gully was a mass of dead horses and wrecked wagons and parts
of human bodies. The Germans had put over gas and caught the wagon
train in the valley. The horses were harnessed and could not get away.
Evidently some of the drivers stayed too long. Paul Hughes, Singer,
Armstrong, Halverson, Woodell and Colledge had gone up ahead of us, and
were cutting harness and releasing some horses that were yet alive, and
driving them up to higher ground out of the gas. They saved a great
many by a little head work, and the Government rewarded them all with
the _Croix de Guerre_.
We stopped, as there wasn’t room to get by, but soon Hughes came up
and told us to go on over the heads of horses that could not be saved,
which we did, and were soon at the post. All day we ran to and from the
front, with our car full of wounded and dying. For twenty-four hours
the twenty cars never had a rest. And, remember, we carried only bad
cases. The others walked.
The attack lasted five days, the German prisoners pouring in over
all the roads. Frank Carleton was also hit by shell splinters in the
leg. He also got the War Cross pinned on his chest. The whole attack
was rotten, many suffering from chlorine and tear gas. Singer is in
bad shape from it and I guess we all show the strain. But we are lucky
with it all, for there was not a car in the whole lot that did not have
shell marks on it.
The old Twenty-fifth Division suffered pretty badly, but the struggle
was not without success, for Mort Homme, Avicourt and Hill “304” are in
our hands, and I hope they will stay there. Besides, we have plenty of
German prisoners.
As this is the way I have been spending my time, you know I did not
have much of an opportunity to write letters. I must stop now and get a
little sleep. If they shell us here to-night I hope they choke.
Good luck. Ed Harding, Jim Baker, Baldwin, Creigier, Doyle, Riley, Joe,
Tom and Armey are all O. K. and join me in sending you their best.
Remember me to the bunch with you.
“GUS” EDWARDS,