in July, our heartfelt appreciation is due. Veterans who marched behind
Major J. Brooks Nichols between solid crowds of cheering home-folks on
July 4th at Belle Isle could not help feeling that the city of Detroit
was proud of the record of the men who had weathered that awful
campaign. It was a greeting that we had not dreamed of those days away
up there in the northland when we were watching the snow and ice melt
and waiting news of the approach of troopships.
At Economia we assembled for the purpose of preparing for our voyage
home. To the silt-sawdust island doughboys came from the various
fronts. By rail from Obozerskaya and Bolsheozerki, by barge from
Beresnik and Kholmogori and Onega, came the veterans of this late side
show of the great world war. With them they had their mascots and their
War Brides, their trophies and curios, their hopeful good humor and
healthy play spirit.
Who will not recall with pleasure the white canvass camp we made on the
“policed-up” sawdust field. Did soldiers ever police quite so willingly
as they did there on the improvised baseball diamond, where “M” Company
won the championship and the duffle-bagful of roubles when the first
detachment of the 339th was delousing and turning over Russian
equipment, and “F” Company won the port belt and roubles in the series
played while the remainder of the Polar Bears were getting ready to
sail.
Who will forget the day that the Cruiser “Des Moines” steamed in from
the Arctic? Every doughboy on the island rushed to the Dvina’s edge.
They stood in great silent throat-aching groups, looking with blurred
eyes at the colors that grandly flew to the breeze. And then as the
jackies gave them a cheer those olive drab boys answered till their
throats were hoarse. That night they sat long in their tents—it was not
dusk even at midnight, and talked of home. A day or so later they spied
from the fire-house tower vessels that seemed to be jammed in a polar
ice floe which a north wind crowded into the throat of the White Sea.
Then to our joy a day or two later came the three transports, the long
deferred hope of a homeward voyage.
Everyone was merry those days. Even the daily practice march with
full-pack ordered by Colonel Stewart, five miles round and round on the
rough board walks of the sawdust port, was taken with good humor.
Preparations for departure included arrangements for carrying away our
brides and mascots.
Here and there in the Economia embarkation camp those days and
nightless nights in early June many a secret conclave of doughboys was
held to devise ways and means of getting their Russian mascots aboard
ship. Of these boys and youths they had become fond. They wanted to see
them in “civvies” in America and the mascots were anxiously waiting the
outcome at the gangplank.
At Chamova one winter night a little twelve-year old Russian boy
wandered into the “B” Company cook’s quarters where he was fed and
given a blanket to sleep on. Welz, the cook, mothered him and taught
him to open bully cans and speak Amerikanski. This incident had its
counterpart everywhere. At Obozerskaya “M” Company picked up a boy
whose father and mother had been carried off by the Bolsheviks. He and
his pony and water-barrel cart became part of the company. At Pinega
the “G” Company boys adopted a former Russian Army youth who for weeks
was the only man who could handle their single Colt machine gun. In
trying to get him on board the “Von Stenben” in Brest—it had been
simple in Economia—they got their commanding officer into trouble. Lt.
Birkett was arrested, compelled to remain at Brest but later released
and permitted to bring the youth to America with him where he lives in
Wisconsin. And out on a ranch in Wyoming a Russian boy who unofficially
enlisted with the American doughboys to fight for his Archangel state
is now learning to ride the American range with Lt. Smith. Major
Donoghue’s “little sergeant” is in America too and goes to school and
his Massachusetts school teacher calls him Michael Donoghue. And others
came too.
In marked contrast to these passengers who came with the veterans from
North Russia via Brest, which they remember for its Bokoo Eats and its
lightning equipment-exchange mill, is the story of one of the fifty
general prisoners whom they guarded on the “Von Steuben.” One of them
was a bad man, since become notorious. He was missing as the ship
dropped anchor that night in the dark harbor. It was feared by the
“second looie” and worried old sergeant that the man was trying to make
an escape. When they found him feigning slumber under a life boat on a
forbidden deck they chose opposite sides of the life boat and kicked
him fervently, first from one side then the other till he was
submissive. The name of the man at that time meant little to them—it
was Lt. Smith. But a few days afterward they could have kicked
themselves for letting Smith off so easy, for the press was full of the
stories of the brutalities of “Hardboiled” Smith. Lt. Wright and
Sergeant Gray are not yearning to do many events of the Russian
campaign over but they would like to have that little event of the
homeward bound voyage to do over so they could give complete justice to
“Hardboiled” Smith.
In contrast with the stories of brutal prison camps of the World War we
like to think of our buddies making their best of hardships and trials
in North Russia. We have asked two well-known members of the expedition
to contribute reminiscences printed below.
“As ithers see us” is here shown by extract from a letter by a Red
Cross man who saw doughboys as even our Colonel commanding did not see.
This Red Cross officer, Major Williams, of Baltimore, saw doughboys on
every front and sector of the far-extended battle and blockhouse line.
He may speak with ample knowledge of conditions. In part he writes:
“Americans, as a rule, are more popular in Russia than any other
nationality. The American soldier in North Russia by his sympathetic
treatment of the villagers, his ability to mix and mingle in a homey
fashion with the Russian peasants in their family life and daily toil,
and particularly the American soldier’s love of the little Russian
children, and the astonishing affection displayed by Russian children
toward the Americans furnishes one of the most illuminating examples of
what was and may be accomplished through measures of peaceful
intercourse. The American soldier demonstrated in North Russia that he
is a born mixer.
“I could write a book, giving concrete examples coming under my
observation, from voluminous notes in my possession. As I dictate this,
there is a vision of an American soldier who stopped by my sled, at
some remote village in a trackless forest, and urged me to visit with
him a starving family. This soldier, from his own rations, was helping
to feed thirteen Russians, and his joy was as great as theirs when the
Red Cross came to their relief.”
The next contribution is from the pen of a man who, born in Kiev,
Russia, had in youth seen the Czar’s old army, who had served years in
the U. S. army after coming to America, who was one of the finest
soldiers and best known men in the North Russian expedition.
“It is almost an axiom with the regular army of our own country and
those of foreign nations, that soldier and discipline are synonymous.
Meaning thereby the blind discipline of the Prussian type.
“That such an axiom is entirely wrong has been shown us by the National
Army. No one will affirm that the new-born army was a model to pass
inspection even before our own High Moguls of the regular army. And
yet, what splendid success has that sneered at, ‘undisciplined,’ army
achieved.
“And where is the cause of its success? The ‘Uneducatedness’ in the
sense of the regular army. The American citizen in a soldier uniform
acted like a free human being, possessing initiative, self-reliance,
and confidence, which qualities are entirely subdued by the so called
education of a soldier. It is not the proper salute or clicking of the
heels that makes the good soldier, but the spirit of the man and his
character. And these latter qualities has possessed our national army.
Fresh from civilian life with all the liberty-loving tendencies, our
boys have thrown themselves into the fight on their own accord, once
they realized the necessity of it. The whip of discipline could never
accomplish so much as the conscience of necessity. And that is what the
national army possessed. And that is the cause of its success. And
therefore I love it.
“So long as the United States remains a free country, there is no
danger for the American people. That spirit which has manifested itself
in the National Army is capable to accomplish everything. It is the
free institutions of the country that brought us victory, not the so
called ‘education’ gotten in the barracks.
“I admired the national army man in fight, because I loved him as a
citizen. And unless he changes as a citizen, he will not change as a
fighter. To me the citizen and soldier are synonymous. A good citizen
makes a good soldier, and vice versa. Let the American citizen remain
as free-loving and self-reliant as he is now, and he will make one of
the best soldiers in the world. Let him lose that freedom loving
spirit, and he will have to be Prussianized.
“I have my greatest respect for the national army man, because I have
seen him at his best. In the moments of gravest danger he has exhibited
that courage which is only inborn in a free man. And when I saw that
courage, I said, He does not need any ‘education.’ Let him remain a
free man, and God help those who will try to take away his freedom.”
SGT. J. KANT, Co. “M” 339th Inf.
From distant Morjagorskaya, hundreds of versts, walked a bright-eyed
Slavic village school teacher to say goodbye to her doughboy friend who
was soon to sail for home. But to her great joy and reward, Nina Rozova
found that her lover, George Geren, of Detroit, had found a way to make
her his wife at once. One certain sympathetic American Consul, Mr.
Shelby Strother, had told George he would help him get his bride to
America if he wanted to marry the pretty teacher.
Blessings on that warm-hearted Consul. He helped eight of the boys to
bring away their brides. In this volume is a picture of a
doughboy-_barishna_ wedding party, Joe Chinzi and Elena Farizy. On a
boat from Brest to Hoboken, among one hundred sixty-seven war brides
from France, Belgium, England and Russia, Elena was voted third highest
in the judges’ beauty list. And John Karouch saw his Russian bride,
Alexandra Kadrina, take the first beauty prize. The writer well
remembers the beautiful young Russian woman of Archangel who wore
mourning for an American corporal and went to see her former lover’s
comrades go away on the tug for the last time. They had been to the
cemetery and they looked respectfully and affectionately at her for
they knew it was her hand that had made the corporal’s grave there in
the American cemetery in Archangel the one most marked by evidences of
loving care.
One of the last duties of the veterans of this campaign was the paying
of honors to their dead comrades in the American cemetery which
Ambassador Francis had purchased for our dead. This was without doubt
the most remarkable Memorial Day service in American history. From _The
American Sentinel_ is taken the following account:
“American Memorial Day was celebrated at Archangel yesterday. Headed by
the American Band, a company of American troops, and detachments of the
U. S. Navy, Russian troops, Russian Navy, British troops, British Navy,
French troops, French Navy, Italian and Polish troops, formed in parade
at Sabornaya at ten o’clock in the morning and marched to the cemetery.
“Here a short memorial service was held. Brief addresses were delivered
by General Richardson, General Miller, Charge D’Affaires Poole, and
General Ironside.
“In his introductory address General Richardson said:
“‘Fellow Soldiers of America and Allied Nations: We are assembled here
on the soil of a great Ally and a traditional friend of our country, to
do what honor we may to the memory of America’s dead here buried, who
responded to their country’s call in the time of her need and have laid
down their lives in her defense. Throughout the world wherever may be
found American soldiers or civilians, are gathered others today for the
fulfillment of this sacred and loving duty. I ask you to permit your
thought to dwell at this time with deep reverence upon the fact that no
higher honor can come to a soldier than belongs to those who have made
this supreme sacrifice, and whose bodies lie here before us, but whose
spirits, we trust, are with us.’
“Before introducing General Miller, General Richardson thanked the
Allied representatives for their participation in the celebration of
Memorial Day.
“Mr. Poole said:
“‘This day was first instituted in memory of those who fell in the
American Civil War. It became the custom to place flowers on the graves
of soldiers and strew flowers on the water in memory of the sailor
dead, marking in this way one day in each year when the survivors of
the war might join with a later generation to revere the memory of
those who had made for the common good the supreme sacrifice of life.
For Americans it is an impressive thought that we are renewing this
consecration today in Russia, in the midst of a civic struggle which
recalls the deep trials of our own past and which is, moreover,
inextricably bound up with the World War which has been our common
burden.
“‘This war, which was begun to put down imperial aggression upon the
political liberties, of certain peoples, has evolved into a profound
social upheaval, touching the most remote countries. We cannot yet see
definitely what the results of its later developments will be, but
already there lies before forward looking men the bright prospect of
peace and justice and liberty throughout the world such as we recently
dared hope for only within the narrow confines of particular countries.
To the soldiers of the great war—inspired from the outset by a dim
foresight of this stupendous result—we now pay honor; and in
particular, to the dead whose graves are before us.
“‘These men, like their comrades elsewhere in the most endless line of
battle, have struck their blow against the common enemy. They have had
the added privilege of assisting in the most tragic, and at the same
time the most hopeful, upheaval for which the war has been the
occasion. Autocracy in Russia is gone. A new democracy is in the
struggle of its birth. The graves before us are tangible evidence of
the deep and sympathetic concern of the older democracies. These men
have given their lives to help Russia. They have labored in an
enterprise which is a forecast of a new order in the world’s affairs
and have made of it a prophecy of success. Here within this restricted
northern area there has been an acid test of the practicability of
co-operation among nations for the attainment of common ends. Nowhere
could material and moral conditions have been more difficult than we
have seen them these past months; under no circumstances could
differences in national temperament or the frailties and shortcomings
of individuals be brought into stronger relief. Yet the winter of our
initial difficulties is given way to a summer of maturing success.
Co-operation begun in the most haphazard fashion has developed after a
few months of mutual adjustment into concerted and harmonious action.
It seems to me that herein lies striking proof of the generous spirit
of modern international intercourse and proof of the most practical
kind that, as nations succeed to doing away with war, they will be able
to apply the energies thus released to common action in the beneficent
field of world wide social and political betterment. If this ideal is
to be measurably attained, as I believe it is, these men have indeed
made their sacrifice to a great cause. They have given their lives to
the progress of civilization and their memory shall be cherished as
long as civilization lasts.’
“_The Northern Morning_, a Russian daily of Archangel, reported on the
Memorial Day Exercises as follows:
“‘In memory of the fallen during the Civil War in America, on the
initiative of President Lincoln, the 30th of May was fixed as a day to
remember the fallen heroes. In this year our American friends have to
pass this day far from their country, America, in our cold northland,
between the graves of those who are dear not only to our friends,
Allies, but also to us Russians; the sacred graves beneath which are
concealed those who, far from their own country, gave away their lives
to save us. These are now sacred and dear places, and the day of the
thirtieth of May as a day of memorial to them will always be to us a
day of mourning. This day will not be forgotten in the Russian soul. It
has to be kept in memory as long as the name of Russian manhood exists.
“‘After the speeches a military salute was fired. A heart-breaking call
of the trumpet over the graves of the fallen sounded the mourning
notes. Those who attended the meeting will never forget this moment of
the bugle call. The signal as it broke forth filled the air with
sorrowness and grief, as if it called the whole world to bow before
those who, loving their neighbors, without hesitation gave their lives
away for the sacred cause of humanity.’
“Honor be to the fallen: blessings and eternal rest to those protectors
of humanity who gave their lives away for the achievement of justice
and right. Sleep quietly now, sons of liberty and light. You won before
the world never-fading honor and eternal glory.”
And so at last came the day to sail. We were going out. No Americans
were coming to take our place. We were going to leave the “show” in the
hands of the British—who themselves were to give it up before fall. The
derided Bolshevik bands of brigands whom we had set out to chase to
Vologda and Kotlas, had developed into a well-disciplined,
well-equipped fighting organization that responded to the will of Leon
Trotsky. Although we had seen an Archangel State military force also
develop behind our lines and come on to the active fighting sectors, we
knew that Archangel was in desperate danger from the Bolshevik Northern
Army of Red soldiers. They were out there just beyond the fringe of the
forest only waiting, perhaps, for us to start home.
We must admit that when we thought of those wound-chevroned Scots who
had remained on the lines with the new Archangel troops of uncertain
morale and recalled the looks in their eyes, we sensed a trace of
bitter in our cup of joy. Why if the job had been worth doing at all
had it not been worth while for our country to do it wholeheartedly
with adequate force and with determination to see it through to the
desired end. We thought of the many officers and men who had given
their lives in this now abandoned cause. And again arose the old
question persistent, demanding an answer: Why had we come at all? Was
it just one of those blunders military-political that are bound to
happen in every great war? The thought troubled us even as we embarked
for home.
That night scene with the lowering sun near midnight gleaming gold upon
the forest-shaded stretches of the Dvina River and casting its mellow,
melancholy light upon the wrecked church of a village, is an
ineffaceable picture of North Russia. For this is our Russia—a church;
a little cluster of log houses, encompassed by unending forests of
moaning spruce and pine; low brooding, sorrowful skies; and over all
oppressive stillness, sad, profound, mysterious, yet strangely lovable
to our memory.
Near the shell-gashed and mutilated church are two rows of unadorned
wooden crosses, simple memorials of a soldier burial ground. Come
vividly back into the scene the winter funerals in that yard of our
buddies, brave men who, loving life, had been laid away there, having
died soldier-like for a cause they had only dimly understood. And the
crosses now rise up, mute, eloquent testimony to the cost of this
strange, inexplicable war of North Russia.
We cast off from the dirty quay and steamed out to sea. On the deck was
many a reminiscent one who looked back bare-headed on the paling
shores, in his heart a tribute to those who, in the battle field’s
burial spot or in the little Russian churchyards stayed behind while we
departed homeward bound.
This closes our narrative. It is imperfectly told. We could wish we had
time to add another volume of anecdotes and stories of heroic deeds.
For errors and omissions we beg the indulgence of our comrades. We
trust that the main facts have been clearly told. Here by way of
further dedication of this book to our honored dead, whose names appear
at the head of our lengthy casualty list of five hundred sixty-three,
let us add a few simple verses of sentiment, the first two of which
were written by “Dad” Hillman and the others added on by one of the
writers.
THE HONOR ROLL _of the_
AMERICAN EXPEDITION WHO FOUGHT AGAINST THE BOLSHEVIKI IN NORTH RUSSIA
1918–1919
IN RUSSIA’s FIELDS
_(After Flanders Fields)_
In Russia’s fields no poppies grow
There are no crosses row on row
To mark the places where we lie,
No larks so gayly singing fly
As in the fields of Flanders.
We are the dead. Not long ago
We fought beside you in the snow
And gave our lives, and here we lie
Though scarcely knowing reason why
Like those who died in Flanders.
At Ust Padenga where we fell
On Railroad, Kodish, shot and shell
We faced, from just as fierce a foe
As those who sleep where poppies grow,
Our comrades brave in Flanders.
In Toulgas woods we scattered sleep,
Chekuevo and Kitsa’s tangles creep
Across our lonely graves. At night
The doleful screech owl’s dismal flight
Heart-breaking screams in Russia.
Near railroad bridge at Four-five-eight,
And Chamova’s woods, our bitter fate
We met. We fell before the Reds
Where wolves now howl above our heads
In far off lonely Russia.
In Shegovari’s desperate fight,
Vistavka’s siege and Seltso’s night,
In Bolsheozerki’s hemmed-in wood,
In Karpogor, till death we stood
Like they who died in Flanders.
And some in Archangel are laid
’Neath rows of crosses Russian-made
With marker of the Stars and Stripes
Not minding bugle, drum or pipes
We sleep, the brave, in Russia.
And comrades as you gather far away
In God’s own land on some bright day
And think of us who died and rest
Just tell our folks we did our best
In far off fields of Russia.
[Illustration:]
_Our Roll of Honored Dead_
KILLED IN ACTION
AGNEW, JOHN, Sgt. Co. K Sept. 27, 1918, Belfast, Ireland.
ANDERSON, JAKE C., Pvt. 1st class Co. B Nov. 11,1918, Cave City, Ky.
ANGOVE, JOHN P., Pvt. Co. B Nov. 13, 1918, Painesdale, Mich.
ASSIRE, MYRON J., Co. A, 310th Engrs Oct. 26,1918.
AUSLANDER, FLOYD R., Pvt. Co. H April 2, 1919, Decker, Mich.
AUSTIN, FLOYD E., Pvt. 1st class Co. E Dec. 30, 1918, Scottsburg, Ind.
AVERY, HARLEY, Pvt. Co. H Oct. 1, 1918, Lexington, Mich.
BALLARD, CLIFFORD B., Second Lt. M. G. Co Feb. 7, 1919, Cambridge,
Mass.
BERGER, CARL G., Wag. Sup. Co Jan. 19, 1919, Detroit.
BERGER, CARL H., Second Lt. Co. E Dec. 31, 1918, Mayville, Wis.
BORESON, JOHN, Pvt. Co. H, Oct. 1, 1918, Stephenson, Mich.
BOSEL, JOHN J., Corp. Co. C Nov. 29, 1918, Detroit.
CHAPPEL, CHARLES F., First Lt. Co. K Sept. 27, 1918, Toledo, Ohio.
CHEENEY, Roy D., Corp. Co. C. Nov. 29, 1918, Pueblo, Colo.
CHRISTIAN, ARTHUR, Pvt. Co. L. Oct. 14, 1918, Atlanta, Mich.
CLARK, JOSHUA A., Pvt. Co. C. Feb. 4, 1919, Woodville, Mich.
CLEMENS, RAYMOND C., Pvt. Co. C. Nov. 29, 1918, St. Joseph, Mich.
COLE, ELMER B., Pvt. Co. A Jan. 23, 1919, Hamersluya, Pa.
CONRAD, REX H., Corp. Co. F Mar. 26, 1919, Ponca, Mich.
CROOK, ALVA, Pvt. Co. M April 1, 1919, Lakeview, Mich.
CRONIN, LOUIS, Pvt. Co. K Oct. 13, 1918, Flushing, Mich.
CROWE, BERNARD C., Sgt. Co. K Dec. 30, 1918, Detroit.
CUFF, FRANCIS W., First Lt. Co. C Nov. 29, 1918, Rio, Wis.
DeAMICIS, GUISEPPE, Corp. Co. A Jan. 19, 1919, Detroit.
DIAL, CHARLES O., Mech. Co. M Mar. 31, 1919, Carlisle, Ind.
DYMENT, SCHLIOMA, Pvt. Co. M Sept. 30, 1918, Detroit.
ELLIS, LEO R, Pvt. Co. I. Nov. 4,1918, Chicago, Ill.
FOLEY, MORRIS J., Corp. Co. B Sept. 20, 1918, Detroit.
FULLER, ALFRED W., Pvt. 1st class Co. K Dec. 30, 1918, Trenton, Mich.
GASPER, LEO, Pvt. Co. B Nov. 11, 1918, Chesaning, Mich.
GAUCH, CHARLES D., Pvt. Hq. Co Oct. 1, 1918, Kearney, N. J.
GOTTSCHALK, MILTON E., Corp. Co. A Jan. 22, 1919, Detroit.
GRAHAM, CLAUS, Pvt. Co. H Oct. 1, 1918, Toledo, Ohio.
HESTER, HARLEY H., Corp. M. G. Co Sept. 27, 1918, Cave City, Ky.
KENNEY, MICHAEL J., Sgt. Co. K Dec. 30, 1918, Detroit.