Over Here
The absence of basins and such-like didn't worry us; we just couldn't locate any aqua pura or otherwise. (It was a wine town.) There wasn't even a hydrant within half a mile from where our kitchen was.
The first morning we went washless to "chow." The next some of the boys borrowed a bucket of water from somewhere and as many as could dove in. The third morning one of the early birds ducked his head in the door and yelled, "Come on, you guys, and wash! Beaucoup water, basins n'everything." We wondered who our benefactor could be and learned it was the little old lady next door.
We had noticed her a time or two before. She always had a "bon jour" for the boys. Her hair was gray and time had left deep etchings on her face. Declining years (and doubtless heavy labor) had bent her shoulders and her step was faltering but she was of the stock that dies with boots on. The look in her eyes---over the stumpy spectacles---told you that.
She couldn't talk our language but she knew how good a morning wash felt to us and she was busy lugging more water for the row of china basins---her basins---and the line of husky soldiers----Uncle Sam's soldiers. "Round the house she hobbled and shortly reappeared with the old (retired) sprinkler-bucket brimful. Several hastened to help her. But no, she could carry the bucket alone. Let the boys go on with their splashing. She understood. Didn't she have two sons in the army?
Thereafter, every morning, no matter how early we got up or how dismal the weather, our washing water and the basins were always there. Our old "grandmere," as she called herself, never forgot us. And what would she appreciate in return for all this thoughtfulness? Why, just a bite now and then of our army white bread. And it was nothing but "punk" to us and a darned poor variety of that.
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The Eleventh Hour Regiment
The quaint, little old chimes on Pont-a-Mousson hall were tinkling eleven. Our business manager was calling our attention to the fact that only eleven sticks of wood were left for the leaky French stove. For the eleventh time that morning we were interrupted in our work by the bearer of eleventh hour "copy" for the Book. It was First Sergeant Price of Battery B, who, by the way, was promoted to his exalted post on the 11th of October.
"Boys," quoth he, "I’ve hit upon a story!"
"Out with it!" in chorus.
"Well, I’m darned," said Price, "if our lucky number isn’t eleven!"
We grinned superstitiously. "But seriously," he continued, "listen to this." And he went on to recount a chain of events which convinced us–superstition or no–that this must be the Eleventh Hour Regiment.
We were in training just two days short of eleven months in the States. We entrained for Camp Mills, July 16th, 1918, at 11 a.m. On July 30th, at 11 a.m. we left Mills for Hoboken. At 11 a.m. the next morning we took our last (for a while) look at the Statue of Liberty. It took us just eleven days to cross the Atlantic and at 11 a.m. on the morning of August 11th we marched off the boat at Liverpool. Some even claim that there were eleven transports in the convoy.
At any rate we landed in France at 11 a.m., August 14th; stayed at Messac just eleven days, left our next camp– Coetquidan–at 11 a.m. again, and arrived at the front in the eleventh hour of the fray– on the crest of the wave that crushed the Hun– and were there at the finish that came on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
Any doubts as to our lucky number?
And lest we forget–received our service stripes on the 11th day of February, and on the same day at the old, infallible 11 a.m. left the Pont-a-Mousson siding for home. Just twenty two months after our country entered the war.
Oh, yes, and the old Leviathan snuggled in alongside of the dock at Hoboken at just 11 o’clock the morning of April 2nd, 1919.
The Army Horse and Mule
"Stand to heel! Commence grooming!"
There is no better way to start this article because of all the introductions that come a-thronging in the life of an artillery rookie, that is the most enlightening. What he thought before was a horse–or a mule—becomes a nightmare of currycombs, disinfected brushes, and feet that always need cleaning. If he be from Detroit he murmurs—after he has forced some steed to agree with the Sarge that it can be done—"They’ll never believe me"; or never ceases to wonder "Why is a horse, anyway?"
Well, here’s the answer, Buddy from Auto Town. Because the army can’t get along without the horse. He is as necessary as rations (really enables us to have them more times than not), and he goes, very often, where gasoline can’t flow. And, much as the drudgery of taking care of him palls on us, as much as we dislike his eccentricities, his mechanical appetite, his misguided attempts at playfulness, we’ve got to hand it to him in the long run. The "art" in artillery—our artillery—would be useless without him; verily, he is "man’s best friend" (grooming or no grooming), back of the lines or in them.
On the long, long trail a-winding he may slip and slide on the icy road until his muscles ache and his head drops, but he carries on. Dare we begrudge him the twenty minutes’ grooming that sets his skin to tingling again? His home in the army is any old place there is room for a picket line. Do we regret the stable police labor that gave him comparative comfort at the garrison? Nay, though we clip through the long hours of the night to make his world unsafe for "horse cooties".
"The mule is magnificent in war, and our battles have been won as much by mules as by men. The mule will eat anything, endure anything, and when understood and humored by its driver, will do anything. It works until it falls dead by the roadside. In the spring hundreds die in harness. In fact, few die except in harness. They die facing the foe, dragging rations along shell-swept roads to the men in the trenches.
"The mule knows neither love nor offspring. Apart from a few gambols in the field, or while tethered to picket-lines, it knows nothing but work. It is the supreme type of drudge. It is one of the greatest factors in the war, and yet receives scarcely any recognition and more whipping than praise."
So wrote Chaplain Thomas Tiplady in his book "The Soul of the Soldier." He could find soul enough among OUR men, were he to look for it, to give the horse and the mule their due.
Songs and Poems of the Soldier
Artillery Caisson Song
I
Over hill, over dale,
As we hit the dusty trail–
And the caissons go rolling along—
In and out, hear them shout,
Countermarch! And Right about!
And those caissons go rolling along.
II
Oh, it’s Hi! Hi! Hee! For the Field Artilleree!
Shout out your numbers loud and strong!
Where’re you go–you will always know
That the caissons are rolling along.
(Shouted) KEEP THEM ROLLING!
That the caissons are rolling along.
Battery, HALT!
III
Through the storm, through the night,
Action left and action right–
And the caissons go rolling along.
Limber front, limber rear,
Prepare to mount, you cannoneer!
And those caissons go rolling along.
Army Stew
(Tune: "Long Boy")
It is just a bowl of army stew–
When the cook has nothing else to do
He takes a hunk of army beef,
Some rubber heels and cabbage leaf:
Now, it is rich and it is hot–
And it always goes to the same old spot–
But when they get it every day,
You hear those Buddies sayy:
Chorus:
Good-bye ma, good-bye pa,
Good-bye mule, with your old hee-haw!
I may not know how this stew is made,
But you bet, by Gosh! I ain’t afraid.
And, Oh, my sweetheart, if I die
They cannot say that I didn’t try!
For I can swallow what I can’t chew–
And that’s about all one fellow can do.
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Back of the Boys
Back of the whining Shrapnel,
Back of the roaring guns,
Back of the combat wagons—
Dragging their vital tons—
Back of the ghostly transports,
Feeling their way o’er the Pond—
The Folks at Home and their Thrift Stamps,
Their hopes and their Liberty Bond.
Back of the gun "Typewriter,"
Pouring its rain of death,
Back of the plunging flyer----
Making you catch your breath—
Back of the aides of Mercy,
Back of the BLESSES saved—
The Folks at Home that Hooverized,
And gave, and gave, and gave.
Back of the homesick "Buddies",
Back of the Fightin’ Man,
The folks Back There who loved him,
And helped him stay a man.
Back of his lonesome hours—
Back of his dreams in the gloam—
The courage they managed to send him,
The letters they wrote him from Home.
SGT. WM. R. MELTON, Battery B
An Army Legend
When good civilians die they go
To Heaven, as a rule.
An old First Sergeant doesn’t die,
But turns into a mule.
He plods along quite faithfully,
Has ne’er a word to say,
And never growls about his "chow,"
Nor kicks about his pay.
Now, should you go a-soldering,
The army is a school,
And lesson one is simply this:
Respect the army mule.
They once were soldiers, like yourself,
These drudges for the wheels;
And lesson two–I’ll whisper it:
Don’t fool around their heels.
Those Life Preservers
They were comforts,
They were beds;
They were pillows
For our heads—
And they fit just like a dromedary’s hump.
Down to the mess, or
On the deck—
Wind protectors
For your neck—
You could play ‘em for an ever-lastin’ trump.
Wear ‘em, tear ‘em,
Give ‘em hell—
Never leave ‘em
For a spell—
As they looked the goods in case of briny jump.
When the Rookie Comes to Camp
Say, but it’s some grand occasion when the rookie comes to camp,
‘Specially when it is raining or the weather’s cold and damp,
And they march in bunch formations, buttoned coats and collars high,
Out of step, but still they’re soldiers, or they will be bye and bye.
Now and then a friend will greet them, rushing up along the line,
Grabs his paw while the rookie comments, "Gee, old boy, yer lookin’ fine,
Camp life sure must be a tonic; when do I get O.D. Clothes?"
Soldier boy says, "Come and see me, I live back o’ here two rows."
In the morning, bright and early, they line up for the exam,
Some are feeling blue and thinking horrid things of Uncle Sam;
But the most of them are happy that they’re given such a chance,
To enjoy the Army training and a trip across to France.
But their courage almost falters when they note the searching eye
Of the so-called "heartless Surgeon," who with helpers standing nigh,
Makes them hop and jump in circles, makes them stand upon their toes,
Listens thru some ear machinery, then explores their throat and nose.
Near by stands a cruel Medic, armed with needle, big and strong,
And with shuddering gaze they size it to be just three inches long.
In he jobs it to the handle, shoots the serum hard and deep,
Finishes the Vaccination, scowling as they squirm and creep.
Thru this troublesome proceeding, their calm minds commence to roam,
And they’d give their best attire to be back again at home,
But they’re roused from meditation by a voice that’s void of sweet,
"Here! Finger prints so they can catch you if you chance to get cold feet."
Then the mustering agent gets them, signs them up for Uncle Sam,
Has them write their names quite often, leads them meekly like a lamb,
Then with thundering voice he asks them, with his pen poised in the air,
"Who will get your surplus money if you get shot over there?"
Yet despite inoculations, they imbibe the bugles’ call
And decide that Army living is not all bad after all;
Three days later they are Veterans, and they hike and march and drill,
Getting in the best condition, to combat old Kaiser Bill.
When a later bunch of rookies comes in straggling, out of step,
Critic eyes gaze from the windows, long-trained voices bark, "Hep, Hep."
Others rush around the corners, shout as they go marching by,
"Say, yer cap is sure a stunner." "Two bits fer yer yaller tie."
Morning finds the rookies standing ‘round the old Vets of a week,
Open mouthed and all attention, drinking in the words they speak,
"S’lute the Cat’n, mind yer Corporal, never kick about yer chow,
Take yer CC pills and quinine, for yer in the Army now."
SGT. M. F. WETZEL, Med. Det.
Sing Me to Sleep
Sing me to sleep when bullets fall,
Let me forget the war and all.
Damp is my dug-out, cold are my feet,
Nothing but "Bully" and biscuit for eat.
Sing me to sleep when bombs explode
And shrapnel helmets are a la mode.
Over the sandbags, mud you will find---
Shell holes before you and shell holes behind.
Sing me to sleep in some old shed,
Where rats are running around my head.
Streched out on my shelterhalf---waterproof!
Dodging the raindrops through the rood;
Dreaming of home and night in the West,
Somebody's overseas boots on my chest.
Far, far from le Guerre I long to be---
The lights of Detroit I would rather see---
Think of me creeping where cooties creep,
Waiting for someone to sing me to sleep.
BEN SOBEL, Battery D
Return of the Soldier
The last flash * * * and the hideous strife
Dies like the wisp of storm-discovered flames;
And so these battered heroes will come back
The same, yet not the same.
They who have landed ward in No Man's Land
Will never be the old and abject crowd,
They will not grovel and they will not stand
What used to keep them cowed.
They will be dumb no longer, they will speak
In tones they learned beneath a blood-red sun,
A constant menace to the cowardly meek
And to all wars to come.
Strengthened to fight what all the world abhors,
Hypocrisy and squalor and disease,
They will attain, even through wars on wars,
What they lost in peace.
-----Literary Digest
Old Messac
Little old Messac, sure we can't forget
The days we spent with you.
You're small and quiet and slow, I know,
But your heart was good and true.
Oh, those swims in the little old river,
And the pumps with the water so clear;
The barber, the girl in the little old store,
With the costume on Sunday so queer!
Our quarters were awful and so were our meals,
But still we have found more and more
We thrive on those meals as bad as they are,
While on the hardest bed we still snore.
Clothing and the Soldier
Clothes don’t make the man, but they reveal a lot about him and the American soldiers knew it. Their desire to look like what they were made a certain job we know about in the batteries anything but soft, especially just after the armistice was signed and the fellows thought it was time to dress up again.
Aside from the food the most important issue in the soldier’s life was his clothes. Not all manner of wearing apparel, but his regulation outfit. Fatigue suits and denim hats were easy to get, but puttees and gloves, they were entirely different. When an organization traveled, it traveled all dressed up; that was part of the ordeal, for every man to look his best. But that put more clothes on the bum than any other thing. A few nights in a French box car is enough for any suit, but it did not always stand to reason that such trips marked the end of its service. And that wasn’t the supply sergeant’s fault, either.
When we left Camp Custer we were all equipped with two complete outfits, but at Camp Mills we turned the extra one in and drew another the next day. We did the same thing the next two days, and the next and the next, until we left. And it just so happened, perhaps, that we left on the day we turned in an outfit; so when we landed in France we had but one, and that looked more like we had been in the recent battles in Flanders than that we had made a summertime ocean voyage. From then on we had but one outfit. That was supposed to be complete but times may be recalled when an article or two was missing. As time advanced the causes for disappearance of articles changed. It seemed that the average soldier hiking along a road under full pack had a different idea of necessary equipment than the fellow who made out the original clothing allowance. Anyhow, before the regiment was long in France the fellows learned to travel light, and get along with as little clothing as possible.
The first time a soldier appeared in a military formation the clothes he wore represented an expenditure of approximately $45.00. That did not include equipment other than was necessary for presentation as a soldier. There are many articles which are issued as reserve, and as changes, dependent upon the weather. The original clothing allowance consisted of:
1 Waist Belt
1 Woolen Breeches
1 Hat
2 Drawers
1 Pair Gloves
1 Overcoat
1 Pair Leggins
2 Flannel Shirts
1 Slicker
4 Pairs stockings
2 Undershirts
The overseas allowance differed only in the style of the garments. The old, original half leather riding leggins used by the artillery were replaced by spiral puttees and the campaign hat was discarded for the overseas cap.
For the man who was accustomed to wearing tailor-made garments an issue of army apparel was a heart-breaking shock. It was a matter of taking what could be had rather than getting what was desired and at times, especially while in the advanced zones, anything would do. Men ordinarily wearing size 32 breeches, 10 ½ socks and 7-C shoes, were glad to grab 38 or 40 breeches, size 13 socks and 11 ½ E shoes, being satisfied to get something to replace his falling-off uniform.
This was not true, however, after the fighting was over. The supply sergeants had a little war all their own when the time came to go home.
As a general rule, after a generous issue of new clothing, everything would go along nicely for a while, then things would begin to happen. According to the supply sergeant, it was impossible for only one man to tear up a pair of trousers in a day. Lots of days, however, there would be an epidemic of destructive influences on clothing throughout the companies. "The Wonderful One Hoss Shay" had nothing on army clothes. They would stand to a certain point, and then owner was, by his own volition, confined to quarters until an issue came along; and sometimes for a long time afterward.
In passing from the topic a word should be said in behalf of the supply sergeants. Certainly there was no grumblesome disposition attendant on these fellows when they came into the army, or the captains would not have made them supply sergeants, so the conclusion reached is that, if they seemed an unusual lot, the job itself had something to do with it. A little confidential talk with any of them would convince anyone that more than anything else the sergeant would choose to give every man just what he wanted. But imagine trying to dress up two hundred men of various sizes and builds with about half a dozen standard army sizes and cuts. It can’t be done! But this much anyhow; our regiment never failed to pass an inspection with flying colors, and it must have been some satisfaction to the supply sergeants to know that others thought we looked good, whether we thought we did or not.