Sidney D. Light's WWI Diary, Postcards & Letters, 329th Battery Book Accounts

      Nothing in the entire war was more dramatically significant of "America’s Answer" to the autocratic powers of Central Europe than the spectacle of our convoy as it sailed down the harbor of New York, out into the sea.  Single file they came, out past the girl every man left behind, under the warm sun of that July day.  We took our last, long look at the good old Statue of Liberty, as we thought, "Who knows when we’ll see Her again."

        To the onlooker this must have been a strange scene—this silent procession of transports with their grotesque colorings in camouflage, bent on the most serious business ever undertaken on the seas by such ships, moving calmly out onto the troubled waters of the Atlantic.  The men on deck were quiet except for an occasional hand-wave to a passing freight-ferry or any one of the multitude of small fry that infest the harbor.

        It was midafternoon when the convoy assumed a formation protected by a British cruiser and an American destroyer which took the lead, small sub-chasers describing a circle around the entire convoy and two seaplanes circling overhead. Taking in the whole scene we felt a thrill of pride which for the moment lifted us above the seriousness of the business in which we were soon to be engaged.

        Our initiation as ocean travelers came rudely and abruptly.  Scarcely had the afternoon wore away, when a storm began to rise and the ship to roll.  That was a sad night for most of us and one that brought wonderful and terrible sights with the coming of day; but we pass it by, seasickness being something it isn’t even pleasant to laugh about afterwards.  By noon it was fairly calm again, and it wasn’t long before the boys were back in little harmony groups again singing as though they hadn’t lately prayed for sudden death.

        They sang out into the clear air of the sea and their harmony penetrated to the very stokeholes.  It could be heard no matter where you went.  It was the best expression these blithe fellows could give of their determination to "Carry On."  They sang the lullabies of Old Kentucky, the old time love songs and the popular soldier songs of the day—while they watched the sunset out on the deep.  Beautiful thing, that sunset!  A sort of purple hush on the restless main; a subtle confounding of those countless mysteries which are the sea.

        A stir that might have lasted an hour, seeking places to hang hammocks, and we were dreaming of those we had left at home.  Many slept on the deck, reveling in the tang of sea air, and a few stragglers leaned on the rail and looked out into space for hours.  Sleep did not appeal to them.  The water looked cold and even defiant as each wave hurled itself against the ship, but the steady pulsations of the engine below gave an assurance of progress.  The warmth of the smoke stack was quite friendly to the guard as the wind blew colder.  Down below a thousand hammocks swung in cadence with the roll of the ship.  By the third day we were all pretty well seasoned to ocean travel.

        Nearly every one of the eleven days was calm and the weather continued fine.  It grew monotonous at length, for nothing exciting occurred except the appearance of a whale and a sunset exhibition by a school of porpoises.  There was quite a flutter when Jonah’s friend appeared.  He rose to the top as cautiously as any sub, but when he blew a spout of water into the air we hailed him gleefully as a deep sea performer we’d always wanted to see.  Swimming in pairs and squads, the porpoises would put on their spectacular leaps for us, and it got to be great sport for all to yell "Ah-h-h-h" in chorus as they’d rise up gracefully and plunge.

        Once in a while our vessels would signal each other with their whistles (ours was the first convoy, incidentally, to use whistle signals), or salute a returning ship.  When we first heard this we rushed on deck.  Surely there must be a submarine in sight at last. But no sub came.  There was a feeling of disappointment which is hard to understand.  We should , of course, have been glad that we were still safe; but perhaps this is just one of those little psychological observations which show best the spirit of these men.  There is a saying that the Yanks use a lot and there is nothing that they say among themselves that better shows the kind of men they are.  It is "Let’s Go!"  If the vessel slowed down or got behind for any reason, either to take another position in the convoy or to make some strategic move which would mislead pursuers, we would all be on edge and want to get off and walk.  It was an expression of the Yankee spirit of "get there."  The same spirit carried these men across the Pond, across England, through France and across No Man’s Land.  Every creak of a rope, every click of a rail, the rumble of caissons over the road, everything that spoke of motion was music to their ears.

        One bright morning the mountains along the Irish coast came into view—our first glimpse of the Old World.  Looking out on our fleet, we thought of the days we had spent with our course set—however zig-zag in its windings—toward these hills.  At last we had them in view, and subconsciously we gave credit to those men who mapped that great highway of civilization, who sailed for days, weeks or months straight towards a goal beyond all vision, who in the darkest night could tell just where they were.  To those who have never been on the ocean before there is a spell in its rolling waves.  There appears in our imagination the great navies which have disputed the control of these waters that never rest—the pirate fleets of such as Captain Drake—and the little trio that came across to discover our fair land for freedom’s sake—not forgetting the Vikings with their sturdy oarsmen whose fame is written in the folk lore of their hardy country.

        But these hills upon the horizon are still a long way off and the topic of the moment is, "How long will it take us to reach land?"  All day we sailed and gradually they grew larger and a long range came into view as we set out northward to make our way into the Irish Sea. Another day and we awoke with a heavy fog around us.  The outlines of the other boats were scarcely discernible for hours.  When the curtain lifted the scene had changed.  The sun did not shine till well in the afternoon, but we had friends.  Scattered in every direction and tearing up the waters with a wake that streamed far back on their circling path came the British destroyers that were to "tuck us in."  We rose to our feet and cheered a mighty cheer.  The appearance of these racy boats was as inspiring a sight as we had witnessed so far.  Their long, rakish hulls, low in the water, and their sprightly maneuvering showed that they had been designed for their one purpose in life–action.  Their snow-plow bows cut the water like razors. Four big stacks gave the impression of power.  As one approached us a signalman whipped out the word "L-I-V-E-R-P-O-O-L."

        Again the fog fell.  The night dragged interminably, as we rolled in the mist at half speed.  All night the whistles blew and the sirens howled to prevent collision.  Sleep was well nigh impossible.  The clamor brought to us for the first time some realization of the lurking dangers of the sea.  Very early we came to a standstill.  The water was still.  The rolling motion, which had become almost second nature to us by now, ceased.  We must have made the harbor.  Morning—and still the fog, but finally the sun broke through and we found ourselves riding close up to the floating docks of the largest seaport in the world—Liverpool.

PVT. LEWIS G. WILLS, Battery A