HERE are letters from the boys at the front telling the folks at home
of their experiences, humorous, pathetic, and tragic. They present
pictures of war life with an intimate touch that brings out all the
striking detail. James E. Parshall, of Detroit, is serving with the
American ambulance unit in the French army. The Detroit _Saturday
Night_, which prints his letter, believes that the “drive” referred
to by him was either on the Aisne front or in the Verdun sector. The
letter says in part:
DEAR PEOPLE: Sherman was right! I have been debating with myself about
what to say in this letter. I think I’ll tell you all about it and add
that if by the time this reaches you you have heard nothing to the
contrary, I am all O. K. You see, we are in a big offensive which will
be over in about ten days. As a rule it’s not nearly as bad as this.
The day before yesterday we arrived at our base, about seven miles from
the lines. It is a little town which has been pretty well shot up, and
is shelled now about once a week. In the afternoon one driver from each
car was taken up and shown the roads and posts. The coin flopped for me.
The roads to the front run mostly through deep woods. These woods are
full of very heavy batteries which are continually shelling the enemy,
and, in turn, we are continuously being sought out by the _Boche_
gunners. As a result, it’s some hot place to drive through. Also, as a
result of the continuous shelling, the roads are very bad.
[Here there is a break in the letter, which begins again after four
days.]
I was so nervous when I started this letter that I had to quit, and
this is the first time since then that I have felt like writing. A
great deal has happened, but in order not to mix everything up I’ll
start in where I left off.
Our first post from the base is in a little village which is entirely
demolished. It is in a little valley, and the two big marine guns that
are stationed there draw a very disquieting _Boche_ fire about five
times a day regularly. The next post is at a graveyard in the woods.
There are no batteries in the immediate vicinity, and so it is quiet,
but not very cheerful. (That’s where I am now, “on reserve.”)
The third post out is where we got our initiation. It was a hot one!
Right next to the _abri_ is a battery of three very large mortars.
Besides these there are several batteries of smaller guns. When we came
up they were all going at full tilt. In addition, the _Boches_ had just
got the range and the shells were exploding all around us. As we jumped
out of the car and ran for the _abri_ two horses tied to a tree about
fifty feet from us were hit and killed. We waited in the _abri_ till
the bombardment calmed a bit. When we came out two more horses were
dead and a third kicking his last.
From here we walked about a half mile to the most advanced post on
that road. I’ll never forget that walk! The noise was terrific and the
shells passing overhead made a continuous scream. Quite frequently we
would hear the distinctive screech of an incoming shell. Then everyone
would fall flat on his stomach in the road.
Believe me, we were a scared bunch of boys! I was absolutely terrified,
and I don’t think I was the only one. Well, we eventually got back to
the car and to the base.
At twelve o’clock that night the _Boches_ started shelling the town.
You can’t imagine the feeling it gives one in the pit of one’s stomach
to hear the gun go off in the distance, then the horrible screech of
the onrushing shell, and finally the deafening explosion that shakes
the plaster down on your cot. Our chiefs were at the outposts, and none
of us knew enough to get out and go to the _abri_, so we just lay there
shivering and sweating a cold sweat through the whole bombardment.
Gosh, but I was a scared boy!
Of a gas attack he writes: “We had to wear those suffocating gas masks
for five hours,” and then:
About three o’clock in the morning the car ahead of us at the post
started out in their masks and in the pitch of blackness with a load.
In about a half hour one of the boys on the car staggered back into
the _abri_, half gassed, and said that they were in the ditch down in
a little valley full of gas. So we had to go down and get their load.
Believe me, it was some ticklish and nerve-racking job to transfer
three groaning _couches_ from a car in the ditch at a perilous angle
to ours, in a cloud of gas, and with the shells bursting uncomfortably
near quite frequently.
We finally got them in and got started. We got about a half mile
farther on to the top of the hill going down into what is known as
“Death Valley.” In the valley was a sight that was most discouraging.
Seven or eight horses were lying in the road, gassed, some of them
still kicking. A big _camion_ was half in the ditch and half on the
road. An ammunition caisson that had tried to get past the blockade by
going down through the ditch was stuck there.
Remember that all this was just at the break of dawn, in a cloud
of gas, with the French batteries making a continuous roar and an
occasional _Boche_ shell making every one flop on his stomach.
How we ever got through there I really couldn’t tell you. My partner
told the Frenchmen who were vainly trying to straighten out the mess
that we had a couple of dying men in the car, so they yanked a few
horses to one side, drove the _camion_ a little farther into the ditch,
and, by driving over a horse’s head and another one’s legs, I got
through.
On the whole, I’ve been quite lucky. Some of the other boys have had
some really awful experiences.
About the day after tomorrow we go _en repos_, and it’s sure going to
seem good to eat and sleep, without getting up and sprinting for an
_abri_ or throwing one’s self, and incidentally a plate of good food,
on the ground.
We saw a very interesting thing the other day. We were sitting out in
front of our cantonment at the base. About a quarter of a mile from us
was one of the big observation balloons or “sausages.” Suddenly, from
behind a cloud, just above the balloon a _Boche_ aeroplane darted out.
The _Boche_ and the balloonist both fired their machine guns at each
other simultaneously. The aeroplane wobbled a little and started to
volplane to earth. The balloon burst into flames. The observer dropped
about fifty feet, and then his parachute opened and he sailed slowly
down. When the _Boche_ landed they found him dead with a bullet in his
chest. It was quite an exciting sight.
A battle between two planes is quite common, and one can look up at
almost any time and see the aircraft bombs bursting around some _Boche_
thousands of feet in the air.
At last the “drive” is over, and the letter describes the prisoners, at
whose youth he expresses surprise. But they are happy, though nearly
starved—happy to be prisoners. The writer says:
I have seen hundreds of _Boche_ prisoners, four thousand having been
taken in the attack. We see them march past the _poste-de-secours_
about half an hour after they have been captured. I have talked with
several of them and received lots of interesting information. They are
all very happy, but nearly starved. Two slightly wounded ones were
brought into the post the other day. A dirty little crust of bread was
lying on the ground. They both made a dive for it. They are all awfully
young, mostly between seventeen and twenty-one.
One of them told me, among other things, that by next spring Germany
would be absolutely finished. A soldier’s fare, he said, was one pound
of poor bread and one liter of wine a day, except during a heavy
attack, when they are given some thin soup. The civilians, he said,
were still worse off, especially in the cities.
An Iowa boy, a Y. M. C. A. secretary, who is in the _camion_ service
in the French army, tells how he arrived in Paris, how he happened
to become a soldier of France, and some other interesting details,
including the amount of his salary—$1.20 per month! He found the
ambulance service—which he had intended to join—crowded, and was told
that there would be some delay in getting cars. Even if he did get a
car he was told that the chances were against his seeing any action, as
he might be attached to an inactive division. He was therefore urged to
join the _camion_ service—the ammunition truck organization—in which
he was assured he would be kept busy day and night as long as he could
stand it. There was no camouflage about that. In order to get into this
service, one must join the French army, and after thinking the matter
over for a few days the Iowa lad “joined” the French colors with a
group of American college boys. Here is his letter in part as printed
in _Wallace’s Farmer_, of Des Moines:
So here I am enrolled as a member of the French army, carrying a French
gun, gas mask, and helmet, and eating French army rations. We are
paid for our services the sum of $1.20 a month. We underwent a week
of intensive training, being drilled in the French manual and army
movements, and spending our leisure hours in building roads.
Our sector was active when we arrived at the camp, which is situated a
few miles back of the lines; so we were put to work almost immediately.
We make two kinds of trips, day trips and night trips; and perhaps if I
tell you about my first experience in each it will give you an idea of
the character.
We were called at 3:30 A.M., so as to be ready to leave at four
o’clock. Our convoy went to the nearby loading station and loaded
up with 468 rounds of ammunition for the French “75” guns, which
correspond to our three-inch guns. We carted these up to the dumping
station near the batteries, and then came back. Nothing exciting
happened, and we arrived in camp about 7 P.M. That night I was on guard
duty during the last watch, and the following morning we worked our
cars. The rough roads and the heavy loads are very hard on the cars as
well as on the drivers, so that we must go over the cars every day to
keep them in the pink of condition.
That afternoon we got our orders to leave at 4 P.M. We loaded with
barbed wire, iron posts, and lumber. The man in charge at the yards
warned us that the wind was exactly right for Fritz to send over a bit
of gas. So we hung our gas masks about our necks. It takes only thirty
seconds for the gas to get in its work on you, and you must be prepared
to put on the mask quickly. We started for the front at dark; no lights
were allowed. We traveled along screened roads, by columns of artillery
wagons, and with infantry moving in every direction, and with staff
cars and ambulances dodging in and out for several miles. Finally we
turned off on a narrow road which bore the marks of having received a
shelling, and went through towns which had been leveled absolutely to
the ground by shell fire, and passed an endless chain of dugouts, until
we came to our destination.
Most of our cars were unloaded and drawn up on a long, straight road
just outside of the station, when our batteries opened up on the
Germans. They certainly made some noise. They had not fired many
rounds before Fritz began to retaliate, and then it was our turn to
worry. His first shells went wild over our heads, but he got the range
of the roads on which our trucks were packed, and very soon a shell
struck about half a mile down the road. The next shell came closer. He
was getting our range and coming straight up the road with his shrapnel.
By this time the remaining cars were unloaded and had swung into line
ready to leave. Just as a big shrapnel burst about fifty yards away,
our lieutenant gave orders to start, and to start quickly. Believe
me, brother, we did! The shells were screaming over our heads, and I
was just about scared to death. I should not have worried about the
screaming shells, because they are harmless as a barking dog. It is
when they stop screaming that you want to get worried.
Then he describes briefly the horrors of the war and expresses some
doubt as to man’s status being much above that of the beast. He says:
When you see the fields laid waste, depopulated, battered, and
desolated, and people in the last stages of poverty, you doubt whether
man is nearer to God than is the most cruel of beasts. It is truly
a war for liberty, for liberty in politics, ideals, and standards
of living. I believe that any one here who is at all sensitive or
responsive to his environment feels as I do.