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

        Under cover of a light mist the advance detail of the first battalion specialists made their way up to the front on the morning of the first day of the last month of the war.

        The command post was to be established in the remains of a summer house of a German officer, that dignitary having gone east for the winter.  The cottage, for such it was, still showed signed of recent occupation, though the furnishings were strewn about and demolished in an ugly fashion.  Owing to the protection the terrain afforded the position of our guns, the little gardens and graveled promenades about the place were just as they were before the St. Mihiel drive, which rousted their builders out.

        The first day there was a busy one.  A gas guard, armed with a Claxon, was posted.  The telephone detail opened up a station and lines to the battery positions.  The radio section got into action and soon were listening to messages from aeroplanes, both our own and the enemy’s.  The observers established lookout posts.  By noon a typical command post was ready to direct the battle.

        The clouds broke and the sun came out, taking the chill out of the air.  The elements continued to welcome us.  Their demonstration continued until about 4:30 p.m. when the enemy took a hand, augmenting our welcome. T o be sure he was tardy with his recognition, for we had been ready to receive him for at least four hours.  This fact seemed to be realized by him though and an honest effort to make up for lost time followed.

       Darkness had fallen and the clouds which had parted only a few hours before came together again. Light rain began to fall, an ideal condition under which to present the kind of calling card he sent.  The first we knew of it was by the Claxon in the hands of the gas guard.  Gas masks were adjusted.  We gathered into small groups in the dugouts and listened to the shells whistle overhead and burst a little way down the valley.  This introduction lasted only half an hour, then we were given some twenty minutes in which to get a breath of fresh air.  Advantage was taken of this, and it was well that it was, for there was more to follow.  Off and on, until twelve o’clock midnight, we were forced into our gas masks.  Sleep was impossible. Nobody really wanted to sleep, anyway, but it was disgusting to be reminded so often that we had better not, even if we did want to.  However, we had no casualties from sleeplessness or gas either and the sun rose the next morning on a detachment ready for a big day in spite their fatigue.

        We remained in this forward position six days.  Lots of things happened, but all in all we were very fortunate.  We lost no men and very little equipment but for three days after the post was established we were unable to get our ration allowance.  Something big was coming off soon, we were told.  Frequent mention of Metz and a big drive were on the lips of all, but just what was intended will never be known unless someone "Higher Up" discloses the intended course of action.  We knew the engineers were working hard to have the roads in good condition by the 10th, and that reinforcements for the doughboys were coming up in a steady stream.  News also reached us that a lot of English flyers with their planes were on their way to the Metz sector.  New batteries moved into position and great loads of ammunition were brought up. The outlook was promising of big doings.

        In order to be closer to the batteries it was decided to move the Battalion Headquarters into the ruined village of Thiaucourt.  It was this village that marked the scene of some of the bloodiest fighting of the war.

        The process of "closing station" was started before daylight and in three hours the scene of action was changed.  A repetition of the first day’s difficulties took place but with scarcely less speed than before the command post was put into working order.  As is generally the case a calm preceded the storm that would have been.  The remaining five days of activity at the front were marked with a more or less steady shelling on our part, and an occasional shell from the enemy.  Only once did we have what could be called a narrow escape.  That was on the last night of the war at about five o’clock.  The gas alarm sounded and we were forced into our marks for half an hour.  It was believed by many that this attack was delivered from aeroplanes—a practice not usually employed.

        Following the attach by gas came in quick succession a number of G. I. cans.  It was this form of attack that really threw the scare into us.  Buildings began to shatter and we promptly took to our dugouts. Dugouts referred to in this case were nothing more than a few old cellars converted into gas-proof compartments or ABRI.  In reality they offered no appreciable protection from shell, in fact they might have been worse than nothing at all if the house built over them had been struck.  The weight of the building alone would have caved the cellar in.

        Again luck was with us and we lost no men.  The next morning the order came to cease firing at eleven o’clock.  It might be imagined that a let-up of activity would follow, but such was not the case.  Guns roared until ten fifty-nine.