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

A series of experiments by the radio detail of the 329th while in Camp Custer, resulted in the construction of an entirely new and original apparatus which might aptly be styled, "a one-man portable radio set."

The radio sets of the allied armies retained a number of cumbersome features, chief of which were the bamboo poles, upon which the aerial is strung, and the necessary ropes and stakes which give the areal stability. The one-man radio set eliminated the poles altogether. An aerial made of brass strips was placed on the top of a derby hat and by means of straps a specially constructed storage battery and a small sending outfit was suspended from the operator’s shoulders and hung at his back. Another set of straps held a receiving apparatus, together with a sending key, directly in front of the operator. Laying a ground wire was a simple matter.

Thus the essentials of a radio station, the aerial, ground wire, receiving and sending features were combined, and the entire outfit weighed but fourteen pounds.

The arrangement as described was completed under the direction of Sergeant Charbineau and in a practical demonstration before Capt. Taylor and Lieut. Sargent, proved highly successful for short range work.

Detroit Electricians and Pont-a-Mousson Power

When the regiment moved into Pont-a-Mousson, no lighting facilities were to be found. Candles were not available and although lamps were plentiful, oil could not be purchased for love or money. It looked like we were up against it.

Upon investigation of the town, however, a small electric power plant was found located on a canal running into the Moselle river. Its power supply had evidently been augmented by some other source, but all connections were broken.

This discovery made, our electricians got busy and put the little plant into working order. Lines were run to the billets and offices, bulbs were secured from Nancy, and we had light.

"The Post-War Pont-a-Mousson Electric Company" was composed principally of two ex-Detroit electricians, Sgt. Frank M. Hydon and Corp. William D. McKellar. Their special duty status endowed them with a privilege, that of giving us light, and they took advantage of it. Without their works night life in Pont-a-Mousson would have been exceedingly dull.

      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

 
       "Take goin’ down there. That was regular enough. We fell in—same old squads left—and marched down the street, clean duds in hand or under the raincoat, depending upon how much rain you was absorbin’. Funny lookin’ places we stopped at, though. I began to wonder then.

        "It was just any French house on the street. There was one of them high gates though and we went through that—after hearin’ that we’d go upstairs and undress. What-da-yah-mean, upstairs? Oh yeh, the rickety ones, leadin’ up into an attic where some of the gang is billeted. After we undress here where do we go? (I wasn’t the only Unwashed that was wonderin’ that.)

     " ‘Line up,’ says the Top, ‘towels in hand—an’ soap. We’re going down again.’ Where, man? WHERE? We’re NAKED—we’re as we is! All right, I’ll shet up. Twenty-four at a time? I’M here. Br-r-r-r! Let’s GO!

       "Well, down we goes finally, shiverin’ and steppin’ high. Out into the back court-yard—or whatever you calls one of them Frog back yards. The rain fell plumb on us then. It was winter in the middle of February. My cold was downright happy. But some sort of infernal machine was makin’ an awful racket. (I later noticed it was a rovin’ tankcar, heatin’ the water with gas and pumpin’ it with the engine power. There’s some as argues that the water had joined the Anti-Cootie League, formed after the finee of Booze.)

        "Anyhow, the next thing after that dash was, ‘Leave your towels here!’ Which we did in a matchbox of a room with no nails on the walls and water on the floor. Then into the shower room proper, as the Chaplain would say. Twenty-four of us fit into it like suckers in a sardine can. But we got in—and was looking up at the framework of pipes above when some guy yells, ‘Look out! Here she comes!’  (No ‘On the way’ or nothin’.) And come she did, cold as Havre, Montana, and fast as Niagara. But we stuck, rememberin’ about the five-minutes-only order—which I forgot to mention—and hopin’ it would get hot. It did. Toot sweet----Damnhot.

        "Whereupon there was a medley of arms, feet an’ yells, such as mingles only in the life of a soldier. Every man-Yank of them was workin’ like mad to see how much he couldn’t miss.

      "An’ jes as I got the soap lathered good in my hair, off she goes.  Great guns, man on the fawcet, this is awful.  Succor!  Kamerad!  There’s dirt on me yet—beaucoup layers of it—an’ Lifebuoy in me eyes!  She’s comin’ on again?  Um-well, that’s better.  We’re to soap up now, savin’ water, eh?  That leaves me a lather ahead—me bein’ already soaped.

        "Suffering bobcats, my eye! The other one now! I’m growin’ wilder every bubble * * * Ah, THERE she comes again! Good old water! What? She ain’t dying down? She’s fineesh? Sanctum mazookum—and some bird just asked me if I liked the army—

        "Who’s got me towel? I’ll DO it–the Chaplain will have another ceremony—that’s it in the mud on the floor? !!!??( )!!%Damn!   Run for it an’ get out of the cold an’ rain?   Man, what care I if it pluieves all over me."