INTIMATE stories of life in the trenches “somewhere in France” are
told in two letters that describe in man-to-man fashion incidents that
present an unusual picture of the battle front, full of color as well
as of darkening shadows. The letters were written by Mr. Stevenson P.
Lewis, serving with the American Ambulance Corps, to his cousin, Mr. W.
O. Curtiss, of Toledo, Ohio. They are dated May 21 and 26, and extracts
are printed in the Toledo _Blade_. Mr. Lewis has no complaint to make
of the food. He finds the horse meat “a little tough,” but seemingly
palatable. He writes:
We get good food, but miss the extra dishes. We get the famous army
bread, rather sour taste, but am used to it now—no butter, of course;
oatmeal without milk or sugar, horse meat, potatoes, and various
flavors of jam. The horse meat is usually a little tough, but otherwise
pretty good. Have biscuits and chocolate at the canteen. A couple of
pieces of hardtack, with water and chocolate, do for a dinner very well
when away from camp.
We have considerable time just now, with nothing to fill in, and I
can’t quite go it, so I hike out for walks and have picked up quite
a few good pictures and souvenirs. Picked up an eagle with spread
wings—German silver, a decoration worn on a German officer’s helmet,
inscribed “_Mitt Gott für König und Vaterland_.” It is rather a rare
find, as the old spiked helmet is not worn any more.
Sunday we had a visit from Germany in the shape of an airplane which
dropped five bombs in the next village. Two French machines gave chase
and brought him down, but he caused considerable excitement until he
reached the ground. They always come over at a high altitude and do not
seem in any hurry to leave, regardless of the shrapnel shots placed
around the planes. This one, the second we have seen come down, made
two complete turns and then dived straight down.
We have had some trouble with some of the men in charge, due to the
wandering of one of our men into the first line trenches. The man
guilty has acted ever since he arrived as though missing in essential
brain cells, but this time he crowned his former efforts—walked up a
valley with _Boche_ trenches on one side, French on the other, he down
the middle in No Man’s Land. Lucky he came back at all. The French
called him over to their trenches, otherwise I suppose he would be
walking into Berlin by this time.
We are working with an English ambulance section, taking turns making
runs to field stations, where the wounded are sent direct from
trenches. We carry them from these first-aid posts back to another
post, and the English section, with its large cars, carry them ten or
fifteen miles farther back. Then the order is reversed. The English are
a mighty interesting lot, and most of them have been in service since
1914, hence have seen action all along this front. The hardest driving
is at night running up to the posts just back of the lines, for all
the moving is done then. The road is crowded with ammunition trucks,
supplies, guns, and troops, and with no lights it is uncertain what is
coming or going. Several men have ditched their cars and run by the
station, but no serious accidents have occurred. Star shells sent up at
intervals give a blinding light and the whole country-side is as light
as day for a short time, then suddenly dark. It is this quick change
that makes it hard to adjust our vision.
This English section has been through the hottest fighting on this
front, having been posted at Verdun last year and running to the
most advanced posts, but never lost a man and had only a few slight
accidents. A person would think they were playing a safe game, but not
so, after hearing of some bombardments they ran through. One man in the
British ambulance corps has the Victoria Cross, the hardest war medal
of any to get. He drove his car up the lines in plain sight of the
Germans. One of the stretcher bearers having been killed, he rushed out
on to No Man’s Land with another man and rescued several men, put them
into his car, and drove off, all the time being the object of German
fire.
The English are world-beaters in the flying game, as I suppose you have
heard. The minute a _Boche_ plane appears over their lines, a couple
of fast monoplanes are after it and usually bring it down. Heard of
one air battle between five English machines and ten Germans; five of
the German machines were brought down and the remaining five headed
for Berlin with two English planes after them. The English did not
lose a machine. Again there were three German “sausages” (observation
balloons), and three English aviators, each in a machine, were detailed
to bring them down, each aviator to take a balloon. Two of the
Englishmen each got their balloon, but the Germans, seeing what had
happened, lowered the third balloon. However, the Englishman ordered
to get it, being ruffled a bit because he did not get a chance to get
his “bag” as the other two did, dived down over the balloon resting in
German territory, setting it afire and killing a number of Germans.
He was wounded badly, but succeeded in bringing his machine back. He
was awarded the Victoria Cross. Many other war medals are given, but a
man who gets the Victoria Cross really has done a feat of individual
bravery.