Stories of the 329th

Preface

2008-02-13T19:05:49Z

      A book—at least a regular book—is not complete without a preface, so they tell us. So “Prepare for Action!” here and now. For this must be a regular book, US, O D, Regular. We say must, because there is scarcely a man in the entire regiment who did not have a hand in the making of it, one way or another—and anything the 329th gets behind as a unit MUST proceed. (Witness the Boche retreat along about the Toul Sector in the year of Our Lord 1918, from November 1st on to the “finee.”)

        After that amazing Melting Pot which was our National Army—and late the U. S. Army, by order of Washington—had made soldiers out of lawyers, tailors, bookkeepers and blacksmiths; painters, writers, mechanics and icemen; loafers, married men, movie actors and millionaires; and had welded us into a unit of growing military strength and usefulness, a sentiment began to grow amongst us, “What an experience if we could only record it!” Numerous frantic (and short-lived) diaries were the result. Books even sprouted. But nothing historical happened in that line (within our knowledge) until Chaplain Sorensen fathered Corporal Hanna’s idea that we work up a definite record of our experiences in the form of a regimental history.    History isn’t the word for the book that this finally came to be, or at least that we earnestly strove to make. It contains—as best we could relate under the circumstances—a full record of our associations, travels and achievements together; our joys and troubles (most of which never happened), and our friendships, proved in the hours when men show up as men or not at all.

        Thanks to men like our Commanding Officer, Major Lothrop, Captain Wiley, of Headquarters Company, Captain Brady, our Adjutant, and Chaplain Sorensen, the whole proposition got able and official backing from the start and we were able to carry through.

      Parts of the volume were written on trains and in transports; in lordly mansions and lowly dugouts. Parts of it were never written at all, but like Topsy “just growed.” We met difficulties, frequent changes in scenery and wild sea weather, but laid down “The Barrage,” as they say in Artillery lingo.

        And when you look it over in after years, remember we all did it and might have done better, no doubt, but that we did our darndest under the circumstances.

        Also, in behalf of the editorial staff, consider this parting volley—when you find a perfect editor he will have a glass plate over his face and he will not be standing up.

           “ON THE WAY—329TH BARRAGE!”

Fred E. Mannerow       Lawrence Hopper,           Wm. R. Melton,
       Art Editor   L. J. Menzies,               E. L. Inlow,
                   Business Managers       Elmer Hanna,
                                       Editorial Staff

Camp Custer

2008-02-13T19:05:31Z

        They were speeding along to the first review at Custer—the jitney driver and the press correspondent. The Ford was making time and the correspondent was making mental calculations of his current assignment. “This is important,” the editor had said. “This is epochal stuff.” But the reporter could see nothing in it but a stiff military occasion—just one of the tiresome marchings—that were to inevitably become a part and parcel of our daily life. He did not expect to be thrilled by the trim rows of marching khaki (he’d seen too many in the movies); he didn’t anticipate an inward throb when the music blared by or the colors passed. He hadn’t an inkling of inspiration for “epochal stuff.”

        But suddenly the chauffeur gave him one. Turning a corner into the camp road, the driver bore down upon an old man—some old step-and-fetch-it who evidently didn’t realize that concrete roads are for automobiles—honked his horn violently, ground his brakes, stopped and swore. “Damn these buzzards,” he grumbled, swinging his car with a jerk, “they slow up the generation.”

        The correspondent smiled as though welcoming an idea. “Wait a second,” he mused, “let’s pick him up.” Then to the still oblivious pedestrian, “Want a ride, old timer?”

        “Thought you were in a hurry,” snapped the jitney man.

        “I am. That’s why I bought out this jitney. But a ride’s a ride, y’know—even to old-fashioned feet.: They had come along side the trodding figure. “Ride?” he repeated.

        The old man blinked at him incredulously, looking the car over carefully and chirped in a high squeaky voice, “Right smart I do. Which way be yuh headin’?”

        “To camp. Climb in. We’re late now.” The old man settled himself carefully. The car lurched forward. “Can’t be yer headin’ for this here review?” he ventured, half in doubt and half in interrogation.

        “Right.” The reporter slumped down. Just another garrulous old man, he thought. A bore no doubt. No inspiration in him. He wasn’t even wearing the faded blue of ‘61. The old passenger was silent, too, while the car skimmed over the ribbon road. But he looked out when they curved around and bumped over the railroad track. “Hum,” he mumbled, “hum. And that’s whar Jed Perkins used to cross on Sundays.”

        “How’s that” queried the writer, still half lost in his thoughts.

        “Oh, I’se sayin’—times have changed around here somewhat.”

        “Oh, yes—yes indeed.”

        “This road, frinstance. Funny little strip o’ skatin’ rink. Gets there, though—gets there.” And he leaned forward to look out better. “Well, I’m hornswaggled–the old swamp is licked!”

        The reporter began to arouse himself. “How’s that? Where?”

        “Well, sir, when I used to live here I used to git stuck in that swamp jes as regular as spring. Now Uncle Sammy’s licked her.” Grandpa seemed to enjoy the reflection.

        The reporter sat up. “You mean you used to live in this country when—when it was cornfields and swamps.” His imagination could trespass no further.

        “Right you are, sonny. I lived here when thar wasn’t nothin’—but land—and work.” A reminiscent light came into his eyes. “Why sonny, I helped—“ But he checked himself as the car straightened out and bore into the long climb up the grade.   The old man gazed silently at the sight winding up before him—like a movie film form a train—and gasped.

        “Lawzee, conny, lawzee! It’s a city! The reporter had never thought of it before in that light, neither in the hurried days of breaking ground nor in the irksome days of getting construction under way. But an inspiration began to come to him at last. “And you—you know this country in the old days, before Mars struck it with his lamp of Alladin, eh?”

        “Never met Mars personally and never heard of Alladin. But I was born and raised around here, sonny. Helped clear the soil ***why just over yonder whar that big cow-shed.***”

        “Warehouse,” corrects the writer.

        “—warehouse stands***Gosh all hickory, how my back used ter ache***”

        They had topped the hill and swung into the military city proper. Trucks rumbled, jitneys scurried, sidecars barked and skidded, soldiers and workmen thronged here and there. The old man was silent now, overwhelmed with the magic of war. Modern war—or was it the tragedy of time?

        The reporter attempted to find out. He went on to explain how the camp was to be build in a night, as it were, to house an entire army of Civil War size, and was to cost twelve millions of dollars. But these comments were lost on the venerable passenger. He was buried in his own reflections. Only once did he rouse himself to remark, “She’s gone! Not a stick, nor a stone in the old back yard.”

        “What’s gone?” The reporter was insistent. Old Timer shook off his reverie and replied., “Jest noticin’ whar the old place used to be.”

        “You can TELL? You can locate it in all this flubdub of barracks and shacks and lumber and construction?”

        “Yeh—sure. See that little gully whar the creek used ter overflow down in Spring? Well, right this side of it. Thar’s some sort of o’ warehouse—“

        ”Barracks—“

        ”—barracks thar now. My old dad—“ But reflection was too much for him. The tears welled up. He perked up and changed the subject. “Kin you take me to this here parade, sonny? An old geezer like me’d git lost in this—“ He waved his arm in a gesture that was both a compliment to modern industry and a tribute to bygone scenes.

        “Sure thing,” gulped the reporter, a new light in his eyes, “that’s just where I’m headed for. I’m a—I’m, that is I WAS out looking for an inspiration. You gave it to me.”

        “Don’t understand ye, sonny. Yer talk’s new. But if yer lookin’ for inspiration, as ye call it, what’s a matter with this here place—bigger an’ faster than anything they ever build in fairy tales—?”

        “Nothing, but—“ The reporter glanced at his watch—“We’ve got to hurry. Step on her, Jaques! Look out for that truckload!”

        So they rolled up to the reviewing grounds, alighted and prepared to separate.   But a thought came to the writer. He could horn into a good place—but how about this old timer. “Come along with me if you like, uncle—if you’re interested particularly. We’ll hunt a good hole.”

        “I be, bud, I be—interest. My grandson’s in that army.” And he motioned towards the troops, fresh clad in their neat O. D. , already beginning to pass. The reporter whistled to himself. Carefully he guided the old man to an acceptable vantage point. Watching his charge from time to time, he could only read disappointment or blank amazement on the weather-beaten face. “They don’t stand out so well these days,” was the old man’s sole comment.

        Then the band swung by—a new band, with new men and new instruments—on its first review. The writer’s hair tingled to the roots at the music’s thrill. Then the colors came and, from a slouchy, almost weary man, his companion was galvanized into a statue of patriotic fervor. His hat came off. The old hand snapped to the quaint old salute, a new light shone in the old grey eyes.

        “The spirit of ‘61" breathed the reporter, as he shamefacedly removed his hat.

        And then—after it was all over—while he rode back in an ultra-modern conveyance into ultra-modern surroundings again, the thought came to him: “I wonder if these lads in khaki, these raw recruits, stepping high and proud in their first review, will get that spirit under their skin, I wonder—.“ Which reflection stayed with him through the weary weeks of routine drill, routine expansion, routine camp life. When, upon witnessing the last review of these “rookies” no longer raw, and upon talking with them on the eve of their departure overseas, he decided, quite without music or inspiration—“THEY DID.”

           *       *       *       *
        It was Saturday afternoon at Camp Custer. Spring had definitely arrived—after a seemingly hopeless tussle with wind, rain, mud and flood—and with it encouraging sunshine, renewed activities—and dust. To the list of arrivals, also, should be added baseball.

        But, before we take up that phase of the spring referred to, we want to dispose of said dust. The wind tried to, but only aggravated matters. It blew in gritty clouds along and whirled them in our faces, into the barracks and onto the cots. (O memory forsake us when we try to picture those days of cot airing in the open—and the dust!) Our “garrison shoes” (issue defunct) turned up their smiling morning countenances and choked. The windows we labored long and regularly to clean presented streaked exteriors to prying eyes. Even our ice cream cones, bought at the window of the dehibernated canteen, collected their share of Custer dust before they disappeared down the insatiable gullet of Custer’s stomach. Dust settled everywhere. And when the wind wasn’t disturbing it, trucks or MATERIEL or passing pleasure cars were. Even the concrete road was strangely able to yield its quote of grime, rolled and eddied under whirling tires. Dust was king.

        But baseball went on. Over on the drill ground back of officers’ quarters a regimental battle was flourishing. Rooters hugged the base lines and cussed the umpire—officer or no. Nearer to the barracks several inter-battery games were waxing hot and enthusiastic. Substitutes chased lost balls through battery streets and battalion lines. Someone made a hit that went through “A” Battery’s corner window. But what boots a window more or less when spring is everywhere and baseball is on? And—war is on?

        Signs of the reason for this whole panorama were nowhere lacking. Dealer wagons, catering to mess needs, rolled in and dumped their loads at small back porches. A switch engine worried up and down the track, leaving cars of forage, MATERIEL and ammunition. (Thank heave, the coal pile was finee!) Over in a battery corral—where the long-tethered horses romped and felt their oats—a stable sergeant and helper or two were snubbing a broncho to a hitching post. Back of them, under the shed, an industrious mechanic tinkered with the veteran—and ramshackle—pieces. (Wonder if we’ll ever forget those roaring, rickety old heavers of three inch shells!) Mule skinners, driving four and six, wheeled on and off the concrete on regimental police work or stable duty. Side-cars chugged by occasionally, and, now and then, a big bus car stopped to unload its freight of visitors and “residentials.”

        A single buck private stood under the awning of the canteen munching a cone as one of these too rare vehicles drove up. He watched idly as the bus stopped and a lone passenger got out. It was an elderly lady. Just a little old gray-haired, motherly-looking soul, he noted casually, probably toting the flock of packages under her arm to some husky six-footer. Mother to Custer to son in baseball language, with no assists, probably, on that run.

        The motherly soul stood still a moment after the jitney moved out—a look of tired bewilderment on her kindly face. She started nervously as a side-car honked fretfully by and turning moved toward the sole observer of her actions. Buck Private finished his cone and made as though to leave. But he paused when he saw the white-haired visitor hesitate as though uncertain of which course to take, removed his hat and inquired: “Looking for someone, madam?”

        “Yes, I am,” said the old lady soberly, “and I have been for a couple of hours. Oh, this big citified place with its buildings all alike! It’s—it’s got me all nervous.” And she smiled a tired little smile but the sort no mother’s son of us can resist. Buck responded to it and started to enlarge on her description of Custer. But she hurried on: “I’ve been traveling for a week, it seems. I thought when I got to camp it would be easy. But the jitney man was busy and I got off too soon. And I didn’t find the artillery—“

        ”You’re looking for the artillery?”

        “Yes, Jimmy said it was the artillery. To just ride up the road and get off. But—“

        ”Jimmy, eh?” thought the soldier. “I wonder how many little, old-fashioned American mothers have got lost finding Jimmy—“

        Then—“But here I am, and I don’t know how close I am.” She looked at her packages.

        “Let me take them,” grunted the private gruffly. “This is the artillery and we’ll find Jimmy, all right.” He gathered up the bundles. “What battery was he in?”

        “Battery?”

        “Yes, his outfit. The company, the unit he belongs to.” Buck’s military terms were clumsy.

        “Why, I don’t know. Let me see—“ and wrinkled fingers fumbled in a worn purse. There was an awkward pause. “Well, I do declare! I’ve LOST his exact address. But”—brightly—“I know his regiment!” And she named the unit whose territory they were in.

        “And do you know the outfit he is in?”

        Perplexity made this motherly old soul more lovable than ever. “No, son, I don’t. We can’t find him then? Don’t you reckon there’s some way? You see, our name’s Perkins.” The private thought rapidly. They’d go to regimental headquarters and get the sergeant major to look up Jimmy Perkins. But he did not tell his quaint visitor all that. He guided her up the board walk with an assurance that Jimmy was as good as found. About the place where a guy wire through the sidewalk lends confidence to a telephone pole, he met a friend.

        “Billy, ever heard of a Jimmy Perkins?”

        “Perkins? Jimmy Perkins? Yeh—“ He seemed about to spill something but caught himself as Buck put in with, “Well, this is his mother. We’re looking for him.”

        The friend signed Buck aside. In low tones he hurried to explain that Jimmy Perkins had only that week been transferred to somewhere outside the state, maybe overseas. And this tired little lady had come all the way from Buck didn’t know where to bring him loads of goodies. The pathos of the little tragedy rather got both of them. And together they made rather a blotch of telling this gray-haired mother that her Jimmy had been sent away á la army. The tired eyes widened for an instant and the thin lips quivered, but no “scene” was forthcoming. “Well, well,” she shrilled, all cheerfulness, “so I missed him after all. But—but, what on earth will I do with all this?” She indicated the package-load her chief benefactor toted. Both soldiers were stumped, just a fleeting vision of side-tracked “eats” coming their way crossed through their minds. Developments shamed them. “I know. I’ll leave them with you—you boys,” declared the visitor triumphantly.

        “No,” said Buck. “No—we get plenty of things—canteen n’everything.” Then he got an inspiration. “I’ll tell you. We’ll get Jimmy’s address and mail them to him.”

        ”Could we?” And her eyes sparkled.

        “Watch us!” said Buck. And together they found Jimmy’s old battery clerk, got the forwarding address, visited the pleasant “Y” and had an all-around pleasant time sending Jimmy his packages—all except one which his mother decided to keep.

        Afterwards it came to Buck that maybe there would never be another chance for this disappointed but cheerful little body to see Old Custer. So he showed her the camp, after the manner of countless other showings, took her to mess at the battery—with the K. P.’s after the boys were through—and turned an otherwise idle—and, mayhap, lonesome—afternoon into pleasure for both of them. This was a wonderful place to the mother of Jimmy.

        And when he put her on the bus, about sundown, and couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say—being just an ordinary Yank like you or me—she turned to him and said: “Son, why, I don’t even know your name! Oh, yes, it matters to ME. There’s something I want to say to you. You’re just a—a common soldier, aren’t you?” There was no embarrassment in Buck’s acknowledgment of that fact. “Well, all the better. But I was going to tell you. I used to worry a little about letting my Jim come into this army—with men like—like I don’t know what. But now, son, I want to tell YOU. I”m glad he was able to come. I’m proud he’s in it.” The car was starting.   “Good-bye, my boy, and—oh yes, this is yours.” And she left an embarrassed buck private standing by the road, holding that last package and looking after a Camp Custer jitney with mist in his eyes.

Regimental Morale

2008-02-13T19:05:05Z

One of the most interesting developments in the course of our long drawn-out preparation period at Custer was the growth of what might be termed regimental morale. We used to wonder, what with unlimited "fatigue", unnecessary squads east and west, inexhaustible coal piles, incessant turn-over of man power, etc., ad infinitum, how we would ever get the spirit and co-operative punch essential to a real fighting unit. We were sure that every other F.A. regiment had it all over us in every way—except work— and we were weary to the point of distraction of dull routines, idle rumor and blank waiting. But, when we finally did go, and saw these same men we helped to discipline and the men who had worked to discipline and drill us under the strain of travel, under fire and through hell—it suddenly dawned on us that we did get something fine and deep back there in Custer, something enduring.

Authorities call it morale. We don’t know what to call it, but we know some of the stuff it’s made of. A bit of kindness and a bit more of tolerance; a bit of thoughtfulness and a deal of pride----pride in our cause, our buddies and our outfit; a respect for "properly constituted authority" , as D. R. calls it; a knowledge that discipline is essential and means servility only to those who are by inclination servile. And, along with all this, something deeper and finer—respect and compassion for the weak and the helpless which, after all, was what we set out to fight for Over There. Wasn’t it?

Camp Mills

2008-02-13T19:04:41Z

Camp Mills–As It Were

      “California Avenue! BACK way to Camp!” Far away in sometime Sunny France we heard it afterward—the only line to any camp that ever tickled us much. “BACK way to Camp!” some Buddy’d yell as we hit the dugout. “BACK way to Camp!” as we trudged up the hill to Havre, or waded the mud to D’Auvours. It was the line that made Camp Mills stay famous.

        “Rockaway Beach!” A joint debate. “Aw, come on! We may never hit this neck of the woods again.”

        “Halt! Who’s there?” Pause. “Soldier. And say, Jack, whereinall is the artillery?” Grins from the guard. “Seven rows of tents back and three over.” A compree look with an as-you-were feeling. Then business of navigating the sea of canvas without stumbling over more than thirteen ropes and getting more than a battery of cusses.

        “No drill here, boys. No place for it.” This from plenty of the countless buddies who gave us the double O as we marched in. But we policed up a place, hugging the fringe of the aviation field.

        Sharp staccato explosions overhead. “Gosh, they’re noisy!” Business of sunburning the roofs of our mouths until our necks hurt. The idea being that if we atmosphered enough we wouldn’t break the camouflage book regulations Over There and turn photographable countenances to enemy airmen.

        “Overseas caps, men. We’ll knock ‘em dead now!” Grins from Old Sol and Jupiter Pluvius. Then business of learning to squint agreeably.

        “Keep wrappin’, Jack, you’ll reach your neck, all right. Gad! Your legs look like O. D. stick candy!”

        “B-r-r-r-! Hold ‘er, Luke! Wow, but that’s frigid! Who ever heard of piping water from Iceland for shower baths. Hawr! Hawr! He fell in the sink hole. Here, Jack, I’ll throw you my Lifebuoy!”

        Mornings. “Say, you! You don’t need to swallow that faucet. There’s others to wash, y’know.”

        Day-times. “Damn these drills in the heat! Damn this tent furling business! Damn these inspections! Damn the dust! Damn this double shuffle clothing issue! Damn—! Oh, sure, I’ll take a pass! Delighted!” Aside to Bunkie, “Got five simoleons, Bill?”

        Li’l Ole N’Yawk! Rubberneck busses! Broadway—lit up, be it dry or wet! Follies! Coney—and more follies! “Mills ain’t so bad as it might be.”

        “Wonder if I can get all that junk in one roll.” And, “Let’s get one more striped ice cream cake, eh? Darn near forgot those sandwiches, too.” The last hurried postcards out the car window via the Kid and Nickel Route. The ferry again. The hot wait in the dock shed. The printed postals with “Arrived safely overseas” on them. One more good word for the Red Cross. The gang plank. “Goodbye Broadway! Hello, France!”

Establishing Posts of Command

2008-02-13T19:04:18Z

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.

| edit website footer

Over Here

2008-02-13T19:04:00Z

At one stop in France part of us were billeted in an ex-(dirt floor) garage out toward the edge of town. Our quarters weren't bad at that, except that we had no place to wash. (Does Brer Yank like his morning ablutions? Ask him!)

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.

The Eleventh Hour Regiment

2008-02-13T19:03:36Z

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

2008-02-13T19:03:11Z

"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

2008-02-13T19:02:28Z

Artillery Caisson Song

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.

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.

``````````````````````````````````````````

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

2007-02-10T19:18:51Z

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.