TH FIRST S FOR LIBE CORPORAL OSBORNE dcVARILA Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/firstshotforlibeOOdevarich •n Corporal Osborne de Varila Battery C, Sixth Field Artillery THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY THE STORY OF AN AMERICAN WHO WENT OVER WITH THE FIRST EXPEDITIONARY FORCE AND SERVED HIS COUNTRY AT THE FRONT By CORPORAL OSBORNE DE VARILA Battery C, Sixth U. S. Field Artillery , Who fired the first shot of the American Army ILLUSTRATED all ■> • J » » » »i 1 *» THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO A Copyright, 1918, bt THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO, • ••-/•• • ; •• •• t -v. tf. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. I Join the Colors 9 II. Off for France 20 III. With Pershing in France S2 IV. A Royal Welcome 40 V. Over the Hurdles 50 VI. Off to the Front 60 VII. The First Shot for Liberty 69 Vin. The Infantry in Action 80 IX. Feeling Out the Hun 93 X. Clashes with the Enemy 101 XI. Camp Life 112 XII. Back to the Front 121 Xin. SCOTTY, THE IRREPRESSIBLE 130 XIV. German Atrocities 140 XV. Strafing the Enemy 153 XVI. The Gas Attack 164 XVII. Yankee Heroes 173 XVIII. The American Raid 183 XIX. French War Crosses 190 XX. Back to the U. S. A 204 Trench Talk 217 («) 3935cS5 ILLUSTRATIONS Corporal Osborne de VARHiA Frontispiece PAGE We Gambled for Positions at the Side Doors. 48 The Empty Cartridge from which the First Shot was Fired 78 Sergeant Hugh Marsh Illustrates Life in THE Trenches 94 McNiCHOL Wrote Back: "Lizzie, I'll Get a Hun for You or Bust" 126 Diagram Showing the Arrangement op the Modern Trench System 184 I Soon Returned with the Grenades 194 (7) The First Shot for Liberty CHAPTER I I Join the Colors SOME of my buddies have the super- stitious belief that destiny picked me to fire the first gun for the United States in the war against the Hun. Personally, I take very little stock in destiny, fate or any of those things of the occult, around which sentimental, half-baked novelists like to weave impossible yarns. According to my understanding of the case, I was selected to send Uncle Sam's first shell- message to the Kaiser because I put in many weeks of hard training, and got to know every twist and wrinkle in the disposition and temperament of my French "75." But, just to give the romantists a little consolation, I will concede that I come of a race of red-headed, freckled-faced fighters, and am proud of it. My father, Walter de Varila, was a United (9) 10 ' Ttlfi' f lliSt SHOT FOR LIBERTY States cavalry scout in the early seventies, and helped to round up the Apaches in Arizona. Dad was a red-head, and had freckles as big as copper cents. He was a fighter, and a good one too, as United States Army records will show. Hemmed in by savages, while on one of his scouting expeditions, he cut his way out in a running fight, using two Colt's revolvers to excellent advantage. The Indians dubbed him, "Red the Brave." My grandfather on the paternal side fought for the Confederacy under General "Stone- wall" Jackson; he had hair like burnished copper. My mother's father served the Union under Grant. There was a red-haired de Varila with "Mad Anthony" Wayne when he stormed Stony Point, and a pair of sorrel-topped, lusty de Varilas, delivered hammer-blows for democracy of the pioneer brand, in the French Revolution. Every one of these fighting de Varilas had freckles as well as red hair — God bless them all. I JOIN THE COLORS 11 My mother was of Irish descent, and my father French. Now, you need wonder no longer why I love to fight when the fighting is good. When you get a French and Irish combination, and breed it for several generations on the stimulating soil of the good old United States, you are bound to produce something that absolutely refuses to "let George do it," when there is a scrap on deck. I was fifteen years old when the Kaiser and his gang of international burglars set out to crack the safes of the nations of the world, and revive the chain-gang methods of the unholy old Roman Empire. I wanted to get into it then, honest I did, although I had just blossomed out in my first suit of long trousers, and was proudly wearing my first dollar watch. My hair always has a habit of bristling like a cat's tail when I scent a scrap, and when the Kaiser started to reach through Belgium to get at the throat of France, I could feel that red alfalfa of mine crinkle all over. n THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY The hair of some folks bristles when they get scared. It is just the opposite with me. When mine starts to lift up, I'm just» fighting mad. My mother has told me that it was always that way with the de Varilas. My buddies in the battery over in France used to get a lot of fun watching my hair when I got real warmed up with my French "75" gun, and was pumping shells into the Boche first line trenches. They found the eflfect particularly startling one day, when, in the height of a battle, I put on my gas mask. After that, they called me "The Little Red Devil." But that is pushing ahead of the yarn. As I started to say, I felt the old de Varila fighting itch when the German Emperor began to blast his way through Belgium, burning cities, blowing up villages, and kill- ing women and children. Maybe it was the blood of some of those French ancestors stirring in me and urging me to do something for France, but more I JOIN THE COLORS 13 likely it was that unbeatable combination — American, Irish and French. I stood it as long as I could, and then I told my mother I was going to Canada to enlist. I let her know I thought it was a disgrace for a fighting de Varila to be wasting his time going to school while a bunch of boodling Huns were running loose over Belgium and France, and doing murder wholesale. I could see that she liked to hear me talk that way, for there were tears in her eyes, and she gave me one of those warm, motherly smiles that make an American boy in his first long trousers feel that he has suddenly grown three inches taller and is a man. But of course I did not realize then that no sensible mother is going to enthuse very much about sending a fifteen-year-old son into the gore of battle. But she understood her boy all right, and didn't argue with me. She snaked a freshly baked mince pie out of the oven, and told me to scoot to the back steps and gorge myself. 14 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY It was a mighty good pie of the mother-used- to-make kind, and in the eating I almost for- got about the Kaiser and the Belgians. A few months after mother had camouflaged the de Varila fighting itch with mince pie, I was packed oflF to a prep, school at Los Angeles. I found the school a regular incubator for the war spirit. There were a couple of English lads there who received frequent letters from relatives in the thick of the fighting in France. The Britishers used to sneer at us American lads because Uncle Sam wouldn't get into the fight for civilization. I was obliged to lick one of them to make him stop saying rotten things about Uncle SanMny. I have often wondered if the Eng- lisher I pummeled knows that the Reddy de Varila who blacked his eyes on that memorable day is the same de Varila who fired the first shot for Uncle Sam against the Boche. If he does, maybe he has forgiven me for the licking I gave him. I am certain that by this I JOIN THE COLORS 15 time he has taken back all the unkind things he said about Uncle Sam. I warmed up good and plenty when our Uncle Sammy told the German Ambassador to pack up his duds and clear out for Germany. I couldn't concentrate on my studies after that. The print on my lesson books became blurred, and all I could see were marching troops and maneuvering battleships. But the bottom dropped clean out of my education when Congress bucked up to the occasion and declared the United States at war with the German Empire. Wow! Every fighting de Varila in the whole list of de Varilas seemed to rise up before me in spirit and announce: "Now is the time to get in, my boy.'* That settled me ; I determined to get into the scrap while the getting was good. I was eight- een then, and big for my age. All I needed was my mother's signature to precipitate me into the biggest war in history. I packed my suitcase, went home and told my mother I \Jv^as going to enlist in the United States Army. 16 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY She was game and didn't even blink a tear. And why shouldn't she be game? She was Irish, her father had fought under Grant, and besides, she had married a de Varila. "You are a de Varila," she said, "and I'd be ashamed of you if you didn't want to go. Your father and both your grandfathers went in when they were eighteen." Her voice shook a little bit, and the next morning I noticed her eyes were a trifle red. I enlisted in Battery C, Sixth Field Artillery, U. S. A., April 25, 1917, nineteen days after the United States jumped into the war. I was as proud as a six-year-old boy just learning to whistle when the army doctors looked me over and decreed I was as sound as copper from head to toe. I was hustled off to the recruiting barracks at Angel Island in 'Frisco Bay, and was inoculated and vaccinated. I was pretty miserable for about a week from the different brands of anti-disease virus which they pumped under my hide, and on the whole I felt like an animated fever blister. But just I JOIN THE COLORS 17 as soon as the effects of the virus wore away I developed the appetite of an army mule, and took on weight like a woman who is kidding herself with one of those anti-fat treatments. We were given full equipment, including uniform, underwear, leggings, shoes, mess kit and blankets, and shipped to Douglas, Arizona. For eight days we raw recruits were kept shut up in a quarantine camp, and after that followed weeks of arduous training on the Mexican border. It was a tough grill, but it made every man-jack of us hard as rocks. Our training embraced bareback riding, instruction in the use of equipment, and the grooming of horses. We were given an idea of the various parts of the field pieces, and engaged in battery drill and target practice with three-inch guns. We put in a lot of work on those guns, little thinking that we would handle an entirely different kind of field piece when we arrived in France. I became the driver of the lead team of the first section field piece, and before many 18 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY weeks had passed I could maneuver that piece like a veteran. By listening to the fiery rhetoric of some of the old-time drivers in the battery, I learned there are certain cuss words which have a special and most effective meaning to artillery horses, and I sometimes used them with wonderful results. But say, I hate to think about the early stages of that bareback training. It was fierce, worse than anything I encountered later on the battle front. Our battery was afflicted with positively the most evil-minded, devilish-dispositioned horses on earth. Hon- est, I believe that German propagandists had been working among every one of the nags, for how they did hate us! No one can tell me that the horse doesn't possess the power of thinking like a human being. The way my nag used to scheme to break my neck rivaled the machinations of the villain in a melodrama. Every time the nag tossed me into the desert sand among the cactus, he would grin and toss up his heels in the most fiendish manner. I JOIN THE COLORS 19 During the first few days of the bareback riding, I hadn't the sHghtest desire to sit down, and couldn't have if I had wanted to. There was a httle comfort in knowing I had company in my misery, for all of the raw recruits ate their chow standing up as I did. But as time wore on I became toughened to the work, and developed a contempt for a nag that lacked ginger. All this time, as you can imagine, we were getting keyed up for war. We longed for action and waited impatiently for the day when we would receive orders to move eastward. The latter part of July, 1917, one of my buddies rushed into my tent one night, and said excitedly: "Reddy, we're off for France tomorrow." I thought he was kidding me, but no, the news was buzzing all over the camp, and the next morning we "entrained for parts unknown." We all knew what that meant — we were going to France, going overseas to put the Yankee punch into the fight against the Hun. CHAPTER II Off for France WE were boiling over with the fight spirit as we slid over the rails toward the east coast. The weeks of training in the dry, bracing air of Arizona had steel-plated our constitu- tions and lifted our morale to the twentieth story. Every fiber of our bodies ached for a try at the Hun; we felt then that our regiment, unaided, was capable of turning the tide against the Boche. We gave our pals husky blows across the back and told what we were going to do when we bored our way into Berlin. "When I get to Berlin town," said a giant artilleryman from Montana, "I'm going to drop everything else and put in my time hunt- ing for the Kaiser. Remember now, he's my meat; I'm going to settle with that bloody old boy, and I don't want any interference." («0) OFF FOR FRANCE 21 "YouVe got no monopoly on this Kaiser- killin' job," retorted a gunner from Kansas. "You've got to walk fast if you beat this buddy out looking for his royal highness, the chief butcherer of Berlin." This sort of talk may sound foolish, but it showed the excellence of our spirits. We were ready for anything — ^the rougher the better. I believe we were about as reckless an outfit of artillery roustabouts as ever moved toward a battle front. The trip overland was one continuous ovation from Douglas to the Atlantic port where we embarked. At every stop, even at the tank stations, enthusiastic Yankees pulled the hero stunt on us, flowing into our trains and overwhelming us with fruit, candy and pa- stry. Everybody wished us God-speed in our mission against the Hun. All this, of course, lifted our war spirit several more notches. At three o'clock one morning we piled off our trains in an Atlantic port, and marched on to a transport. The ship pulled down the channel and anchored. 22 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY We remained there for two days, and they were blamed tiresome days. We couldn't see any sense in this delay at getting a whack at the Hun. I growled with the best of them, for the Boche hate had taken a heavy grip on me. In me was a deep-seated feeling that I would not be content until I had planted both feet on French soil. I suppose some of my buddies would say that it was destiny pulling me on to fire the first gun for liberty. I'll confess that I did have a feeling I was needed on the other side to help start the ball a-rolling for Uncle Sam. Every mother's son of our lusty crew of Boche haters gave an ear-ringing yell of joy when, at sunset on the second day, the trans- port weighed anchor and steamed slowly out of the harbor. Off to the fight-country; it seemed almost too bully good to be true. I felt like kicking myself to see if it wasn't all a dream from which I would soon awaken and find myself in that rather dull prep, school in Los Angeles. Most of us were a trifle glum as we saw the OFF FOR FRANCE 23 coast-Hne of Yankeedom fade away in the violet mists of evening, but not long did we hearties mope. Out of the east stiff, salty breezes brought to us a smell of adventure that jacked up our spirits like draughts of sparkling wine. Here at last, I thought, I am afloat in the sea of mystery and danger — the sea which for three years had been the theater of events which had vibrated the world. Hundreds of miles to the eastward, I knew that destroyers prowled about on the alert for the treacherous submarine, while cruiser and battleship fleets patrolled wide, watery areas, effectually bottling up the battle squadrons of the Kaiser. I was supremely content as I hung over the rail and watched the foam churn over the bow. About a mile ahead, a United States cruiser of the latest model rode the seas majestically, while on our flanks Yankee destroyers saucily plowed the waves. "Uncle Sam is on the job," I said enthusi- astically to my buddy. Sergeant Pasquale 24 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY Atillo, a young, Intelligent New York Italian, one of the best artillerymen in the battery. "You can bet your bottom dollar Uncle Sam is on the job, Reddy, " he replied. "Mr. Submarine has about as much chance of poking in on our game as a Jersey mosquito has of drilling through one of the steel plates of this transport." I was mighty lucky to have the sergeant for my buddy, for, aside from being one of the best chaps that ever rode an artillery caisson, he was a competent man, and it was largely through his instruction that I was promoted to cor- poral after the regiment landed in France. This war has opened my eyes to the fact that the sons of our immigrants have the makings of absolutely top-notch Americans. This is being demonstrated every day on the western battle front in Europe, where they are fighting and dying in the cause of Liberty. And before this war is over we are going to take off our hats many times to the lads who, in ante-bellum days, we rather contemptuously classed as foreigners. OFF FOR FRANCE 25 Believe me, they are proving themselves Yanks of the first water, every one of them. Some of them are wobbly in their Enghsh, but they are backing up the spirit of Wash- ington and Lafayette, just as if their ancestors had played heavy parts in the American Revolution. When we have the Kaiser interned in Sing Sing prison, and the nations of the world have returned to peaceful pur- suits, we are going to show our appreciation for what these lads have done for their adopted country, or I'm a poor prophet. There was only one fly in our ointment on the trip over, and that was the chow, which, for the first few days was about the worst ever ladled out a ship's kettle. It smelled to the heavens, did that chow, and before we were two days out, a third of the outfit were groaning in their bunks with dysentery and other ailments of the digestive organs. We bellowed long and loud to the head chef, a big, fat darkey, who didn't know as much about cookery as a longshoreman. We might just as well have complained to 26 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY the ship's anchor or the keel of the transport. The chow grew worse and more of the boys went to the mat. I have a stomach as vigorous as a blast furnace, but it balked at the kind of stuflF that was being served up in the mess-room. I saw I would have to do something to keep out of the sick bay, so I decided upon a little strategy. I was on pretty good terms with an under- cook by the name of Sam, and for two bits a day he supplied me with chow from the oflScers' mess. I let my buddy, the sergeant, in on the graft, and a little before mealtime we would steal away to the boiler-room and eat the food which had been cached there by Sam. The best in eatables on the ship was pur- loined for us by the ebony rascal, and my buddy and I waxed fat and comfortable while our comrades howled in increasing volume at the steady decline of the chow. Of course the sergeant and I had to yelp and complain with the rest so as not to excite OFF FOR FRANCE «7 suspicion. If the bunch had discovered our little game they would have mobbed us. We felt like a pair of Judases at first, but under the influence of that good food our consciences became covered with rawhide. I have always noticed that a well-filled stomach is the best conscience soother in the world. Things came to a ripping climax on the third day when the rascally chef served a concoction which he labeled, "Irish stew." The stuflf was an insult to the Irish race. Several of the boys gagged and beat it to the deck rail the minute they got a whiff of the steaming, stinking mess, while downright murder, and nothing else, gleamed in the eyes of other artillery huskies. As for me, wretch that I was, I pounded on the mess table and yelled: "Boys, this thing has gone far enough; I'm willing to die for my country on the field of battle, but I'll be blamed if any lump-headed, fumbling, jackass of a nigger cook is going to shuflBe me off with a kettle full of ptomaine bugs." 28 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LE5ERTY If the lads had known that only ten min- utes before I had polished off a good square meal in the seclusion of the boiler-room, they would have lynched me. But they didn't know it. My words had an immediate effect, for they were ripe for murder, pillage and every- thing else in the category of lawlessness. "Right you are, Reddy," yelled a buddy from Michigan. "I move we hang that rotten cook to the yard-arm. He's out to get a sea funeral for all of us, and he'll accom- plish his purpose if we don't get him first." "There ain't any yard-arm on this ship," observed an old artilleryman, "but, boys, we can lift him to the crow's-nest and drop him off into the brine." "To the crow's-nest with the black beggar," chorused the desperate crew, and the rush was on into the galley. The big chap from Michigan led the band. He was a ferocious looking object as he jabbed viciously at the air with a pair of table forks. OFF FOR FRANCE 29 But the chef heard the uproar and the rush of feet down the stairs. He must have suspected that a day of reckoning was coming up cannon-ball express, for he scrambled up another companionway and gained the deck. So great was his haste that he took along with him a great wooden ladle from which hung threads of dough. The boys were hot on the trail and they reached the deck just in time to see the white coat-tails of the chef disappearing around a corner of the chart house. The chase was now on in earnest. Up and down companion- ways, through the main saloon, down into the engine-room and back up again to the deck, the chef ran for his life with the pack of enraged artillerymen at his heels. Finally, exhausted, the terrified negro plunged head first into the cabin of the commanding officer, bellowing: "Save me, for de Lord's sake, save me." "What does this mean.^" asked the colonel sternly as he surveyed the panting, per- spiring artillerymen gathered about his door. 30 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "It means just this. Colonel," spoke up a gunner who had just arrived from the mess- room. He stepped forward with a bowl of the stuff that had been served as stew. "Just take a whij0F of this. Colonel," he said. "It's the kind of chow that black rascal has been serving up ever since we left land." The colonel did take a whiff, and he drew back with an expression of disgust. "Well, I should say so," he observed. Then he turned to the chef and said angrily: "That's not fit to feed to pigs; you are sus- pended until I have a chance to investigate." The colonel did investigate, and he found that the men in the culinary quarters never washed the kettles. Bits of food were allowed to lay in the bottom of the pots and decompose. Fresh food was put right in on top of this mess, cooked and served up to the boys. It's a wonder that the ptomaine bugs didn't get us all. The chef was laid off the job for the rest of the voyage, and we had no further trouble OFF FOR FRANCE 31 with the chow. However, the sergeant and I continued to get our private stock from the boiler-room cache. The day after the chef was fired out of the galley in high disgrace, a shrill call rang out from one of the lookouts of the transport! "Periscope on the port bow." CHAPTER III With Pershing in France ADYNAMIC thrill ran through every mother's son of us. Here, at last, we were face to face with that dread mechanical monster of the deep — the German submarine. Stinging with excitement, we crowded to the rail and strained our eyes to port over the dancing sea. All was a-bustle on the transport; oflScers issued sharp, quick orders, while the gunners swung their pieces and felt for the range. Sailors in blue yanked the lids from munition boxes and lifted out shells. The cruiser ahead swung about, pointed her prow due north, and forged along swiftly in response to the quickening of her engines. The guarding destroyers darted about like eager hounds searching for a quarry that had temporarily eluded them. (82) WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 33 "This IS the life," I heard a comrade say through gritted teeth. I stood tense, expecting every second to hear a shell go screeching out into the brine. About a quarter of a mile away I could see something sticking up out of the sea. *'That rubberin' periscope," I thought; "I hope we make a direct hit." Then came the sickening reaction. "False alarm; nothing but one of those d n porpoises, " cried the lookout, lowering his glasses. A groan of disgust ran through the ship. "Wouldn't it make you sick.?" observed a Calif ornian. "Here we were all primed for the best movie of our lives, and the lights go out and the screen goes on the blink. I'd Kke to skin that hell of a porpoise." As for me, I was as mad as a devil, for I felt that our trip across would not be complete without a good warm argument with one of Germany's U-boats. Anyway, that was our introduction to the much-talked-of submarine zone. 34 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY A porpoise at a distance does look very much like a spying periscope, and the pesky mammals fooled our lookouts several times before we reached France. But then, these instances only showed that our men were ever on the alert for the Kaiser's under-the- sea dogs. Our officers took no chances while we were passing through the territory of the U-boat. For three nights the transport traveled with- out lights, and our guardians, the cruiser and the destroyers, redoubled their vigilance. We were routed out of our bunks at three a. M. on each of those three days, and were com- pelled to remain on deck until seven a. m. with our life preservers buckled on and our shoes and trousers unlaced. The favorite time for the average submarine to attack is around dawn. We didn't sight a single U-boat all the way over, but we had a lot of fun at the expense of these sneaking craft. Naturally we were all thinking about subs when we entered the zone, and hardly an hour would pass but that some jokester would yell: WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 35 "Hey, boys, there's a sub.'* Then, we fall guys would crowd to the rail and put our eyes out looking for periscopes. I was taking my turn at poker one day around noon when the submarine chestnut came along and caught me an awful wallop. My hand was a pretty good one — well it was nothing less than a royal flush, something which had never before rubbed acquaintance with me during my brief experience as a poker player. I was about to proceed with this poker knockout, when a voice screeched at my elbow: "Holy smoke, lads, here comes a torpedo; going to hit us * midships.'" Zowie! I was on my feet in an instant, dashing my cards on the table. The other players followed suit. We did our little Marathon to rail, only to find that we had been properly guyed again. When we returned to the table, of course we found the cards all mixed up, and had to make a new deal. I spent an hour looking 36 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY for the jokester, but he was wise enough to stay out of sight until I had cooled down. One of the breeziest, brightest little per- sonalities on the ship was our chaplain, a man by the name of Dixon from Illinois. That fellow was just one human bottle of sunshine, with the cork out so that the glad stuflF could pour out and warm up the whole boat. Well, the chaplain sure did love that song, "Uncle Sammy." Every time he found a bunch of us together he would say with one of his blithe smiles: "A cigarette for every boy who will sing 'Uncle Sammy.'" We would obediently yelp all three verses of the song, and after we had roared forth the last stanza, the little chaplain would deal out the cigarettes. We dubbed him "Uncle Sammy, " though he didn't look any more like Uncle Sam than the man in the moon. He really looked like a pocket edition of Theodore Roosevelt, with his eye-glasses, moustache and gleaming teeth, which he displayed abundantly when he smiled. WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 37 It was the ambition of the chaplain to have us go ashore in France singing the "Marseillaise" in French, and he drilled us with this song every afternoon. There were a few in the outfit who had good voices, but the majority couldn't have qualified for the choir of the corner church in Podunk. And the way we slipped and slid over those French words would have worn the nap oflf any ordinary man's patience. But the chap- lain had patience that made Job's seem thin in comparison. He kept at us hammer and tongs until once in a while we made a direct hit on a French word. The chaplain would reward us with one of his Rooseveltian smiles and hand around the smokes. The ship was a-throb with excitement on August 13th when we sighted a thin blue line on the horizon* — the coast of France. "Hip! hip! hurrah! France," yelled a gunner, and we joined him in a deafening roar of cheering. "Now for the Hun," I said to my buddy, the sergeant. 38 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "We'll soon be in his bailiwick," he replied with a glad grin. Then my buddy said something which I have thought of a good deal since that mem- orable day. "Do you know, Reddy," he said, "I beheve you are going to do well over here." "Not any better than yourself or anybody else," I replied, trying to be modest. "Oh, I don't know," he said with an air of seriousness: "I've a hunch you are going to do something big." " Can that stuff, Buddy, " I observed, trying not to show my pleasure at his words. On the day after I opened the war for Uncle Sam, my friend the sergeant grasped me by the hand and said: "Didn't I tell you, old man, you were going to do something real over here?" But that is getting ahead of my story. The excitement grew as our transport swept nearer the French coast. Soon we could make out dozens of neat little white houses with red tile roofs — all against a WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 39 background of beautiful green. It was a sight good for sore eyes. A warlike touch, was given the scene as we neared the entrance of the harbor. Two big French airplanes advanced to meet us, flying low and scanning the water closely for hostile submarines. It was a dangerous spot, the entrance of that harbor. Only the day before we learned later, a German U-boat had sneaked close in and sunk a supply ship. CHAPTER IV A Royal Welcome IT was evident that our approach had been well heralded, for the docks were dense with people, and on public build- ings, dwellings and warehouses, hundreds of American and French flags were snapping to the breeze. Quaint little French fishing boats swarmed about the transport, and the occupants of these craft were the first to greet us. These fishermen were very picturesque in their rakish, red tam-o-shanters and corduroy trousers rolled up to the knee. They wore a red scarf about the waist, and their feet were bare. The faces of these foreign-looking men were wreathed in smiles; they jabbered and gesticulated after the manner of the French, shrieking questions at us, which we did not in the least understand. One of them became so excited that he (40) A ROYAL WELCOME 41 forgot to steer his boat, and the craft rammed another, and was upset, throwing the fisher- man into the water. We threw a line to the capsized party and pulled him dripping and gasping to the deck of the transport. We gave him a hilarious reception, slapping his damp back and shouting ," Howdy, Frenchy.?" He replied with a torrent of enthusiasm in his own language, and a wide smile unfolded under his queer little eyebrow of a moustache when we filled his hand with American coins. He stayed on the boat until we docked and did not seem to worry in the least about the fate of his smack which he had left upset in the harbor. In the meantime, the French aircraft had wheeled about and were following the trans- port, serving as a sort of rear guard. The United States cruiser rode proudly ahead and the destroyers steamed behind us. It sounded pleasant and warlike to hear the buzzing of the motors aloft. • We yelled greetings to the airmen, and they peered at us through their goggles and waved in reply. 42 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY They were flying so low that we could almost talk to them. Dense crowds were lined up on both banks as we passed through the first locks. There were quaintly dressed peasant women who made me think of the pictures of Puritan dames in my history book back in 'Frisco. They wore prim white caps, exceedingly tight bodices, wide skirts and wooden shoes. The little girls were pocket editions of their mothers and big sisters. The men were attired in velveteen coats, corduroy trousers and sabots. The whole scene put me in mind of a grand opera I had once attended in 'Frisco. The populace, so as to speak, went wild as we slipped through the locks, our band playing alternately the "Star Spangled Ban- ner," and the "Marseillaise." Men ripped their gaudy scarfs from their waists and waved them frantically; women and girls fluttered their handkerchiefs, and American and French flags were in evidence everywhere. A ROYAL WELCOME 43 We could easily gather by the actions of these good people that we were the best things they had looked upon for a long time. There was something pathetic and childish about their joy. Many of them sobbed like children, they felt so glad to see us Yanks, and I did not blame them when I thought of what they had been through the past three years. Sons, brothers and fathers from this city had died by the thousand on the front line, along with other loyal Frenchmen. Li the coming of the Americans these poor folks saw hope and a prospect of a turning of the tide against the invading Boche. Our fighting edge was sharpened when we glimpsed the depth of their welcome. We couldn't understand a single syllable of the jargon they tossed to us, but we took it for granted that it was all complimentary and consoled them with good old United States. "Take heart, you folks, for we're going to paste hell out of the Boches," yelled an artilleryman. 44 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY '* Uncle Sam is on the job now," cried another Yank. We docked that night, but were not allowed to go ashore. But the Frenchies seemed determined that we should feel the welcome of France, even though we were penned up aboard ship. They swamped us with baskets of fruit and bouquets of flowers. Soon the old transport looked like a florist shop, and we consumed fruit until we were threatened with colic. The Yankee spirit of exploration and adventure got the best of some of the boys that night, and they slid down ropes to the dock. Some of them were grabbed by the marine sentries and returned to the ship, but most of them penetrated into the city, returning before morning and bringing glowing reports of the hospitality of the French. " Great place, this France, " said one of the night prowlers, a little thickly, upon his re- turn. ** Folks in this burg wouldn't let me pay for a blamed thing; never saw so much wine in my life. It must rain booze in these parts." A ROYAL WELCOME 45 We landed the following day — ^August 14, 1917, and I shall never forget the event. At this same port, the first detachment of Gen- eral Pershing's forces put in nearly two months previous, on June 26, 1917, and they were received like a lot of gods. But the novelty of seeing Americans had not yet worn off, and the inhabitants of the port gave us quite as rousing a reception as they did the first arrivals. It was a clear, beautiful morning as we marched down the gangplanks, singing the "Marseillaise" with an ardor that nearly prostrated "Uncle Sammy," our chaplain, with pride and joy. Well, say, those Frenchies fairly mobbed us. Shouting, "Vive le Amerique," they made for us as if we were something good to eat. The first thing I knew, a middle-aged woman in peasant costume had swung her arms around my neck and was kissing me first on one cheek and then another. Any- body would have thought I was a long-lost son. I tried to pry her loose, but she had a 46 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY grip like iron, and I had to grin and bear it until she let go. But the thing was not over by any means; it now developed into a matter of taking turns. No sooner had the elderly woman let go my neck, when another pair of arms flopped around my collar, and I started to run, but I changed my mind when I got a good look. And you woiJd have changed your mind too if you had been in my place. The pret- tiest girl in France had annexed herself to my neck. My eyes told me that there couldn't be a prettier girl in France than she was. Her hair was as black as a crow's wing; her eyes were big and brown, and her red lips pouted up at me invitingly. I am an American and do things in a hurry. I gave her a smack that must have been heard at the battery in New York. She blushed and then kissed me on both cheeks and let go. And I am frank to say I was sorry to see her go. The next in the line-up was an excitable, Frenchy-looking - chap with a goatee and A ROYAL WELCOME 47 eyeglasses. He had his Hps pursed up like an interrogation point, and he was making for me, full steam up. I blocked his approach with a twist of my elbow, for I suspected his design. "Nothing doing, Frenchy," I said. "Over where we come from men don't kiss each other." He evidently didn't understand and tried to sneak in under my guard, but I shook a fist warningly in his face. "Lay off," I yelled, "or I'll soak you one." He saw I meant business and abandoned his kissing offensive. Of course I knew it was the custom of everybody in France to kiss, but I made up my mind not to get used to men saluting each other on the cheek That night we slept in an open field in our blankets. It was bully to feel solid ground once more and know that we were close to the fighting zone. We remained there a week, stretching our legs and resting from our voyage. Of course 48 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY we were impatient at the delay, for we wanted to beat it to the front immediately and take a hand in the big scrap We were elated at the end of the week when we were loaded into funny little box cars, which were about half the size of the American brand. We were packed so tightly that we barely had standing room, and had to shove and squirm before we could create space big enough to sit down. Nevertheless we were in high spirits and were glad to be on the move. We gambled for the positions at the side doors, and I was lucky enough to win a seat in the open several times. Our chow on the trip consisted of corn beef, tomatoes and hardtack, and at some of the stations on the route we received handouts of steaming hot coflFee. We passed through a pretty rolling country, dotted with towns and villages. We saw very few young men, for most of them were at the front doing their bit against the Hun. The work on the farms was being done mostly A ROYAL WELCOME 49 by old men, women and children. The inhabitants gathered at every station to see us pass through. After traveling for three days we reached the end of the line, where American auto trucks took us to the best artillery barracks in France. That night we hit the hay on real mattresses and real pillows. But, best of all, we were near the front line, and could hear the boom of heavy guns. Every one of us felt a thrill when we realized that only a few miles away, French batteries were potting away at the Germans. We were all eager to start at once for our positions behind the French line, but such a happy fate was not in store for us. We learned, to our grief, the next day that we would have to undergo many weeks of stiff grilling under the most exacting French artillery instructors before we would be allowed to pepper away at the hated Boche. CHAPTER V Over the Hurdles OUR barracks were located in a village near the Swiss border. It was a hilly, wooded country, and the air was as bracing as new wine. There was not the slightest delay in starting our training. The morning after our arrival we drew French horses and French guns and caissons, and hiked to a park where some French artillery instructors were awaiting us. Our first work was to break the horses to harness. It was the hardest job I ever tackled, for the nags didn't understand a word of English. So we had to start right in and teach those animals how to take orders in the language of the United States. Some of the fellows had brought French grammars over with them, and they tried out some of the French words on the horses. But their pronunciation was so punk that the OVER THE HURDLES 51 nags didn't savvy at all. As driver of the lead piece, I had my troubles, as you can well imagine. The horse may be the most intelligent of the beasts, as the naturalist tells us, but he is no linguist, and can't carry more than one language in his noodle at the same time. Before you can graft a new lingo into his brain you have to kill off the old one, and that is the method I followed with my nags. I gave orders that nothing but United States be talked to the horses, and every time I caught a Frenchy "parlevoing" to them I blew up and asked him what in thunder he meant by butting in on my educational system. I guess the first United States words the nags learned were "damn" and "hell," for I confess I used both pretty freely at the start of the instruction. I had to laugh when I looked at the French 75-millimeter guns, they seemed so small and inferior when compared with our American field pieces. "If we have to use those toys," I thought. 52 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "the Huns won't do a thing to us when we get into action." But I underwent a radical change of opinion after several days of target practice with the little fire-eaters. I found that we could do faster and more accurate work with them than with the more warlike looking American pieces. It is certain that the Germans know to their cost what the little "75's" are capa- ble of doing. With my buddy, the sergeant, to help me, I put in some hard work on the guns, prac- ticing with the sights and getting familiar with the parts. It was my ambition to be able to send accurate shell messages into Boche- land. My buddy was enthusiastic, and said he had never seen anybody get along so fast. "I can't get it out of my head, Reddy," he said, " that you are going to make your mark over here." "You make me blush, old top," I replied. But his words gave me a lot of encourage- ment, although I knew that he was just trying to make me feel good. OVER THE HURDLES «8 The hard work soon won its reward, for on September 1, 1917, I was made a cannoneer. I was the proudest buddy in the whole Ameri- can army when I got that boost. On the day of my promotion I was turned over to a little French sergeant, who had the reputation of being one of the best artillery- men in France. His English was insignifi- cant, but his gestures were eloquent, and I picked up fast under him. He knew the French " 75" like a jeweler knows a watch. Among the things I learned from him was how to clean and how to disable the gun in case it was threatened with capture by the Huns. I learned to love that little "75'^ as a man loves his horse or his dog. A few days later I was made a corporal, and then my joy was complete. I wouldn't have changed jobs with the chief marshal of the French army. In a battery the corporal sets the deflection, sees that the cross hair is on the target and fires the gun. Already I had visions of mashing in Boche front-line trenches and making direct hits on German 54 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY munition dumps. I wanted to move my little " 75 " right up to the front line at once and begin the devilment. The way we Yanks progressed with the guns amazed our French instructors. It may sound like boasting, but it is a fact that in a few weeks we learned all they knew, and in target practice we dumbfounded them by the number of our direct hits. It is true that the American gunners are the best in the world. They have a truer eye, a steadier hand and work more quickly and accurately than the artillerymen of any other nation. We demonstrated that after we had been on the front line but a few days, and when Ameri- can batteries get going good over there, Germany is going to realize that the Yanks are on the job. American gunners are going to deliver the knockout to Von Hindenburg's forces. Now I will give you a little idea of our every-day life in that little French village on the Swiss border. Reveille sounded at 4 a. m., and we bounded out of our bunks and had OVER THE HURDLES 56 cold showers. We engaged in setting-up exercises until 6 a. M., when mess was served. Gun drill started at 7 o'clock and lasted until 11.30 A. M. Then we knocked off for mess again, and went back to the guns at 1 o'clock, drilling until 6 p. m., when we had the evening meal. After that we were free until 4 o'clock the next morning. The villagers used us very generously until some of the artillerymen learned to speak French fairly well and put them wise to the pay we were getting. Then they thought every American soldier was a millionaire and began to soak us in the matter of prices. I heard a story which illustrates the price- gouging of Americans pretty well. A French soldier went into a shop in the village and asked the price of a souvenir handkerchief. " Five francs, " said the shopkeeper. "Too high," grunted the Frenchman, and he walked out. A Canadian soldier went In andpriced the same handkerchief; he was told he could 56 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY have it for twenty-five francs. He left without buying. An American soldier was the next to call. "How much?" asked the Yankee, picking up the handkerchief which had been turned down by the Frenchman and the Canadian. "Fifty francs," replied the shopkeeper, without the flicker of an eyelid. "Give me five of them," said the Yank, reaching for his wallet. The village where we were billeted had short, crooked, narrow streets. Most of the houses were plain, bare structures made of stone, covered with plaster. The roofs were all of tile. In the center of the village was a church, with a figure of the Virgin set in the front of the building, and a statue of Jeanne d' Arc in a little plot in the back. There were always wreaths of flowers at the feet of both these statues. The houses and stables were built around a courtyard, and the courtyard is used for dumping refuse. Around this courtyard centers the activities of each family unit. OVER THE HURDLES 67 Like as not, the cow resides next door to the parlor, and the horse next to the kitchen. This may be a very handy arrangement, but from a standpoint of sanitation it cannot be praised. The convenience of this grouping of build- ings about a courtyard was demonstrated to me one day while calling on a mademoiselle. She and I were endeavoring to establish a line of communication with the aid of a French grammar, when her mother stepped into the parlor and announced that it was time to milk the cow. The girl took a bucket from a hook, opened a door, and there we were looking right into the stable where the cow stood placidly chewing its cud. When she had finished milking we returned to the parlor and resumed our efforts to understand each other. In consequence of this courtyard arrangement the houses in the village were constantly filled with whiffs from the cow bam, horse stable, the piggery and the hen yard. In that village horses, cows, pigs, hens and geese were privileged individuals, for they roamed the streets and alleys at will. 58 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY The shopkeepers evidently didn't beheve in advertising, for they had no signs over their places of business. When I first hit the village I had a hard time deciding which was a store and which was a dwelling. We were never at loss for ways to amuse ourselves. In good weather we played base- ball or duck-on-a-rock in a field back of the barracks, and when it rained we'd get under shelter and shoot craps or play cards. After supper we could do as we pleased; sometimes we would call on a mademoiselle, or if things lagged we would drift into the Y. M. C. A. hut, where they had games of all sorts, a talking machine and writing materials. Those Y. M. C. A. huts are certainly a godsend to the boys over across. They are doing wonders in the way of boost- ing the morale of the army. Sometimes on Sundays we would procure passes and go to a nearby city. At first we had some amusing experiences on these trips because of our ignorance of the language. On one occasion I became lost because I OVER THE HURDLES 59 didn't know enough French to find my way back to camp. I guess I would be still wan- dering about the countryside if I hadn't encountered a French sergeant who knew English very well. Soon after we were billeted in the village we received three months' pay all in a lump, and maybe we didn't make things hum for a while. Wine was very cheap in that part of the country, and at first many of us drank more than was good for us. It was a very sweet wine and didn't at all agree with the American brand of digestive organs. Most of us became sensible and knocked off on it all together. We quickly realized that if we wanted to retain our pep we must be temperate. On October 19, 1917, a jolt of joy was thrown into our outfit when the orders came to proceed with speed to the front-line trenches. At last we were going into action and start things going for Uncle Sam. CHAPTER VI Off to the Front EVERY one of us bristled with the electricity of excitement as prepara- tions were speeded for the departure to the front. Every man in the outfit was tickled to death. We were going to get a chance to show how Yankee gunners could fight. "We'll make the Kaiser's eyes pop when we start tossing shrapnel over the plate," a tough little gunner said to me in high glee. "Righto," I grinned, every whit as pleased as he was. We made a night hike of twenty-two miles with horses, guns and caissons. It was a chilly march, and there were oceans of mud in which the caissons wallowed to the hub. But we pushed and tugged, and kept the line winding forward through sleepy villages and over open country. Only the horses (60) OFF TO THE FRONT 61 minded the march, and they wouldn't have minded could they have understood, we were sure of that. We were blithe as larks, though every little while we would have to jump from horses or gun carriages and help a stalled wheel. So hilariously happy were we that we were advancing toward Boche-land, that we were almost unconscious of the mud and cold. A hundred times did we make the countryside echo with our battle hymn. "The artillery, the artillery, with dirt behind our ears. The artillery, the artillery, they can't get any beer. The cavalry, the infantry and the bloody engineers. Why, they couldn't lick the artillery in a hundred thousand years." Every mile we advanced our spirits climbed higher and so did our appetites. In the mid- dle of the hike we stopped for chow, which was served from a rolling kitchen. Beans, bacon, rice, bread and coffee was the menu, and we devoured the rations like a pack of hungry wolves. We were soon on our way again, singing 62 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY with such ardor that villagers poked their heads out of windows and doors to see what it was all about. They cheered and shouted encouragement in their native tongue when they learned that we were the first American artillery to start for the front. An old woman whose husband and five sons had given their lives to France came forth from her little cottage, and offered the fervent prayer that we would smite the Huns hard when we reached the front. The picture of her as she stood under a flickering street lamp is still vivid in my mem- ory. She raised her wrinkled hands heaven- ward and poured forth invective against the Germans. Curse after curse this mother of France called down upon the Kaiser and his wicked gang. The old woman smiled a happy smile and clasped her hands thankfully when we prom- ised her we would leave no stone unturned in the effort to avenge the death of her hus- band and sons. "God bless you Americans," she cried. OFF TO THE FRONT 68 "The Almighty sent you over here to save France from those devils, the Huns." Swiftly we picked up hate for the Hun on that memorable hike. In a village five miles further on we paused for a few minutes to rest. Here a woman approached us with a boy about six years old. "You are Americans," she said with blazing eyes, "and I want to give you inspiration to fight." She bent over and lifted up the arms of the boy by her side. "Look," she said in a cold, even voice, "this is what the Boches did to my little son." We hardened artillerymen gurgled with horror at what we saw. My God! The little lad's hands had been chopped off at the wrist. I had heard of such cases, but had never really credited them, but here was one right before my very eyes. A murmur of rage went up from the Yanks grouped about. " Those beasts ! " growled a gunner. " We'll 64 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY send those devils back to hell, where they belong." Other Yanks expressed their shocked feel- ings in a manner quite as vitriolic. "The Boches," said the mother with a face full of tragedy, "crippled my boy so that he could never take up arms against Germany. That is how they are fighting France — they are making war against children as well as men. They stole my fifteen-year-old daugh- ter, and I have no knowledge of her fate. It would make me happy if I knew she was dead." We all swore then and there that we would make the Boches pay, and, thank God, we made good our promise before we left France. For many a long mile after we dropped that little village we were sobered by the thought of the boy with his hands lopped off at the wrist. The sight of the lad forced upon me the knowledge that America was indeed in the war for the cause of humanity and that the world would not be safe until we had whipped the Germans to their knees. OFF TO THE FRONT 65 We arrived at a poky little village through which ran a railroad. Our hike was over, and we were not sorry, for we were a little weary.' We boarded box cars just like the Uttle ones which had taken us into the interior shortly after our arrival in France. When the horses, guns, caissons and other equip- ment had been loaded aboard, the engine gave an asthmatic little toot and oflF we started. It was a smelly, itchy, jolty trip all the way through. When the train bumped over a bum switch, as it often did, or when you managed to squeeze your head through the flock of heads at one of the side doors of these box car Pullmans, you could feel and see that you were moving — somewhere. I have said that it was an itchy trip. It was. I started to scratch good at about dawn, and I noticed that others were doing the same thing. "I wonder what makes me itch so?" I said to a fellow gunner. 66 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "I'll be blamed if I know," he replied, trying to reach an isolated area on his back. "I've got the same thing. I believe it's prickly heat." "Prickly heat nothing," I said; "you don't get prickly heat this kind of weather." A little later we discovered the cause of the itch; we had taken on a crop of the regulation war lice which the French call "cooties." We were in the war at last. The town of Nancy was our destination, and we arrived there October 20, 1917. iWe received our first real taste of war as we pulled into that town. The place was in the process of being bombarded by a flock of Boche airmen. The enemy raiders were dropping tons of bombs, and the place was rocking and trembling from the explosions. Every time a bomb landed, a great crater was opened in a street, or some building crumbled. Between the big explosions we could hear the popping of French anti-aircraft guns. We could see the shrapnel from these guns burst around the OFF TO THE FRONT 67 raiders. One of the enemy planes was hit and it came hurtHng downward like a comet, leaving a trail of smoke and flame. French fliers mounted to meet the enemy, and there followed a thrilling aerial combat over the city. The daring of those French airmen was amazing. They drove straight at the foe, pouring a stream of machine-gun bullets at the Boches. I saw a French machine make a thrilling nose dive and take up a position in the rear of a German plane, sending drum after drum of nickel bullets into the enemy. The Boche went wobbly under the galling fire, turned a fearful somer- sault and shot straight down to earth like a wounded bird. The noise was terrific and death lurked everywhere, but we were glad to bej[ there. It was the first time we had been under fire, but there wasn't a nervous Yank in the outfit. While the raid was going on we were unload- ing our equipment as fast as possible. The raiders quickly got a line on us, for two Boche machines darted in our direction and 68 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY hovered over us. Things became tense for us, I can tell you, when a great bomb shot downward from one of the machines. There was every indication that it would land in the midst of our outfit. CHAPTER VII The First Shot for Liberty FATE was kind to us, for the bomb hit about fifty yards in our rear, and exploded with a terrible racket, spraying us with gravel. Not one of us received the slightest hurt, though a few were stunned by the concussion. That bomb opened up a big enough hole to use for the basement of a twenty-story building. We whipped up our horses and dashed forward. Several French planes darted to our rescue and quickly chased the Boche a,irmen out of our bailiwick. We yelled out satisfaction when we saw one of the German planes go wobbling back behind the Boche lines. Before we reached the outskirts of Nancy, the French had cleared the skies of German fighting planes. Ever since I saw that air battle, which was my first, I have (69) 70 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY entertained a mighty respect for the courage of the French fliers. They don't know what fear is, and they take all kinds of chances. We pulled into camp at seven o'clock that night, a fagged-out bunch of Yanks. We knew we were very close to the front line, for the earth rocked continuously from heavy artillery fire. We groomed our horses and had chow at about nine o'clock. The camp was a filthy place. We laid down that night on six inches of straw which was inhabited by three or four generations of cooties. When we woke up the next morning we found that the lice had taken possession of us body and soul. We sat in the sun and hunted through our undershirts for the pests, but it was a hopeless job. While you were killing one, fifty were born. Eventually we succumbed to the odds, and gave it up. That morning we moved up to the front with a light pack, consisting of one suit of imderwear, three pairs of socks and three blankets. We were billeted in a village about a mile THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY 71 and a half behind the first line. About every twenty minutes the Germans would rake the main street of this village with machine guns, and twice a day they would shell the place. Under these conditions you can well imagine that the main street was a main thoroughfare in name only. Nobody used it for walking purposes unless they had to. When we first went into the village we were so reckless about walking in the street that the oflBcers were obliged to caution us con- tinually. I sneered at the danger on the first day, and told everybody I was going to cross that street, machine guns or no machine guns. I got over all right, but when I started back, hell broke loose. The Germans turned a storm of nickel bullets down the thorough- fare, and I lost no time in flattening myself against the pavement until the hail of death had ceased. After that, when I wanted to cross the street, I went over on my hands and knees so that the enemy gunners couldn't get a line on me. The Huns made a practice of shelling the 72 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY town at about noon and at nightfall. We could almost tell to the minute when the methodical Boches would start hell going, and we arranged our chow hours so that the shelling would not interfere with our digestions. Most of the buildings in the town had been reduced to mere shells, but the Germans kept peppering at them as if it was their desire to knock down the last brick. There were about twenty-five inhabitants left in the town, and most of them were old; most of them lived in the cellars of shell- battered homesteads. An old woman there had lost three sons in the war; she still retained a cow, a pig and several hens. When the Huns tossed over shells she philosophically retired to her cellar and remained there until the death-shower was over. Of course, as you can imagine, each of the batteries of our regiment coveted the honor of firing the first gun for Uncle Sam. We made up our minds that our battery, and no other, would do the trick. But we got a bad shock on the night of THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY 73 October 22d when information reached us that another battery was out to steal the bacon. We howled with rage and appre- hension when we got the news. "Are we going to let them get away with it.^" cried a gunner. "We'd be a sick lot of hounds, if we did," I said. Our battery commander was terribly aroused, for he had set his heart on that first shot. But it was a bad night for any kind of an operation. Rain fell with tropical violence, and mud lay everywhere, a foot or more in depth. "If you lads have the guts," said our commander, "we'll fire that first shot. Who will volunteer to pull the gun into position by hand.?^" Every man-jack in the battery volunteered with a whoop. It was a job that would have taxed the utmost strength and courage of any body of men. Before the gun could be placed in position to fire the first shot, we must drag 74 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY it through the storm and pitchy darkness, for a distance of three-quarters of a mile over an almost impassable country — a swamp, pocked with mud-choked shell holes. But we huskies were fired by the fiercest kind of enthusiasm, and the thought that another battery was planning to cut in ahead of us was just the incentive we needed. So we bent to our task with a will Though the night was black as ink, we were not allowed lanterns to light our way over the quagmire. The flash of a light would have immediately drawn fire from the bat- teries of the enemy. So we stumbled along through the rain and muck, perspiring and cursing at our job, but not relaxing one iota in our determination to land the gun in a place where we could pot the Hun. I was filled with a kind of fierce exhilaration, as I tugged and pulled until I thought my arms would jump from their sockets. If we landed the gun into position I knew I would be the one to fire it, and the very thought of THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY 75 sending the first shot over for Uncle Sammy made my noodle swim with joy. Drenched with muck and rain, as I was, I could hardly refrain from giving whoop after whoop of happiness. Once I stumbled and plunged into a shell hole filled to the brim with soft, slimy mud, worse than quicksand. I sank to my arm- pits, and would have undoubtedly slipped in over my head, had not a comrade grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to safety. A little later, another man sank into one of these death traps, and we had to feel around quite a bit in the darkness before we located him. He was actually gurgling with the mud to his lips when we yanked him out. Several times the gun narrowly escaped dropping into one of the craters, and if it had, the jig would have been up for that night, and probably I would have never fired the first gun. Brush and stumps of trees impeded our progress. Frequently we would fall over these obstructions, and would curse in regu- 76 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY lation United States while we picked ourselves up and felt for the gun ropes again. We barked our chins, tore our uniforms and lost our tempers, but our determination remained as iron-clad. I felt that I would rather die than fail in the attempt to place that little "75" in posi- tion. Thoughts of the ambition of the rival battery spurred all of us to give the best in us. "Going to beat us to it, are they.^" growled an artilleryman who had barked his shins against obstructions until they bled. "Well, they have a fat chance with this bunch of huskies on the job." "If we don't fire the first shot, then nobody will," said another buddy, pufiing at the gun ropes. Our hands were raw from pulling at the rough ropes and the cold rain had chilled us to the bone. A round of cigarettes would have helped a lot, but the commander had issued a rigid order against smoking. THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY 77 We began to take hope when we reached the foot of a Httle hill. Our objective was the crest of that hill, and with a mighty spurt we rushed the gun to the top. Then we flopped in an utter stage of exhaustion. I fell on my back and lay there panting like a fagged-out purp. Every bone and muscle in my body howled with weariness, but I was happy — terribly happy — ^for I felt that I was near the crowning event of my career as a soldier of Uncle Sam, the firing of the first gun in the war for the United States. It had taken us four hours to pull that gun over the marsh. In a pouring rain, six of us slept alongside of the gun which was shortly to make history for the world. We were up at five o'clock, looking eagerly toward the enemy's country. It was still rainy and misty, and we could not see more than three hundred yards away. We carried a few rounds of ammunition over to our position and awaited developments. 78 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY Captain I. R. McLendon came up at six o'clock. He was accompanied by a French colonel who had the firing data. "Battery, attention!" called the battery commander in a cool, even voice. The momentous event was close at hand — the official opening of the war for Uncle Sam against Germany. I thrilled from head to toe, but my head was cool and my hand steady. The gun was wheeled into position, its business end pointing toward Germany. There was barely enough light for us to read the markings on the little piece. The battery commander gave the word to the sergeant and the sights were set. "Use second pieces only," rapped out the commander. A gunner cut the fuse of a shrapnel to meet the requirements of the order, and the shell was placed in the breech of the little "75" by a non-commissioned officer. "Range 5,500 yards," snapped the com- mander. » • >» W' )^I fought side by side. We kept emptying our automatics into the struggling mass of men, who tried to organize them- 188 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY selves into some sort of a defensive fighting unit. "About fifty of the Germans had run away and there was about an equal number left to oppose us. These were reinforced by Prus- sian guardsmen, big husky fellows who have the reputation of fighting until they are killed. "The rescuing party must have come up right through their own barrage, and right here I want to say that it is typical of the Germans to do what those men did that night. Their gunners never slackened up on the front-line trenches, though they knew that their own men were 'clicking it' (dying) with every round fired. "We had intended to stay in No Man's Land and in the German trenches only long enough to get prisoners, but the barrage that the enemy put down was so hot and kept up so long that it was five hours and a half after the time we went over the top before we got back in our own dugouts. During that time we crept from shell hole to shell hole and THE AMERICAN RAID 189 gained what little protection we could from the craters. "I suppose our entire stay in the trenches wasn't more than ten minutes. Four of our men were killed and two were wounded in the encounter. "We were all pretty mad during those hours we waited out in the shell craters for the barrage to stop, because we hadn't brought any prisoners back with us. "When we landed back at one a. m. the lieu- tenant called for volunteers to go back and get the wounded. Sergeant McNiflf and I volunteered to go, and we made three trips at three, five and six o'clock, respectively. In bringing the wounded back we had to carry them from shell hole to shell hole to avoid the murderous fire of the Huns." CHAPTER XIX French War Crosses THE Croix de Guerre, a badge of honor which only the highest heroism wins, was awarded by the French govern- ment to many Americans during March, 1918. Some of the winners were my buddies, and I knew first-hand of the deeds of bravery which won for them the greatest military honor of the French Republic. And every one of them deserved to have the little medal pinned on their breasts, for they had acquitted them- selves with a courage that has burnished anew the sacred battle traditions of the United States. The conferring of the decorations was accompanied by an impressive ceremony. The lucky Yanks picked to get war crosses were lined up with a number of French soldiers, who were selected for the same honor. (190) FRENCH WAR CROSSES 191 A French military band blared away at "The Star Spangled Banner," and when it ceased playing, an American band returned the compliment with the "Marseillaise." Then a distinguished looking French gen- eral, resplendent in dress uniform, went down the line, pinning the decorations to the breasts of the American and French heroes. After he had completed the work of pinning a medal on an uncomfortable looking hero, the general, after the French custom, would kiss the recipient of the honor on both cheeks. I sort of filled up and choked with feeling every time I saw the general put one of the badges on a Yank. I felt proud of them and proud that I was one of their countrymen. I remember fervently wishing that George Washington, John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur, Abe Lincoln, General Grant, and all the rest of America's old-time heroes and patriots could be present and see how America is keeping up the old Yankee traditions in the present war. Honest, the way I felt then, I believe that I could have overcome my aver- 192 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY sion to being kissed by a Frenchman if the general had walked toward me and tried to pin one of those badges on my coat. I know a lot of my buddies felt the same way about it. One of the boys who landed a war cross was Private Homer Whited, of Bessemer, Ala, He came back with me to America to help boost the third Liberty Loan, so I know all about the stunt that made him a hero. It was his pluck that checkmated what might have been a disastrous raid on a sector of the American trenches on the Lorraine front, the night of March 5, 1918. Whited and three companions were attacked by a force of Huns six times their number, but the Americans routed the Germans after killing nine and taking two prisoners. Homer is a modest little doughboy, and I had a hard time pulling the yarn out of him, but at length I got it, and here it is in his own language: "We landed in the front-line trenches at Ancerville, on the Lorraine front, February 17, 1918. On the evening of March 5th, FRENCH WAR CROSSES 193 snow fell, covering the ground to a depth of four inches. "It was cold and disagreeable, and when three fellows from my state came to my dug- out and asked me to go along with them, I was none too merry about it. "The men were Sergeant West, and Cor- porals Edward Freeman and Amos Tesky. They told me they had a liaison message to carry from one sector to another, and were crazy for company. "They kidded me about my disposition until I crawled out of the dugout and went along with them. "We had to pass through five gates between the point we had left to the point we were seeking, and as we went through the last of them. Sergeant West ordered me to return for some hand grenades. I misunderstood the order, and thought he said: 'See if there is any one between us and the gate.' When I reported and he found out the mistake I had made, he insisted that I go back and get the grenades anyway. 194 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "It was a mighty good thing he did, as later events showed, although at the time we had not the slightest thought of meeting any of the enemy. "I soon returned with the grenades, and we resumed our journey. At a traverse, we thought we heard voices, and Sergeant West challenged. Receiving no answer, he fired. "In the flash we saw that a party of Germans, six times as large as our own, was upon us. " 'Give them the grenades, Homer!' yelled West. "I gave them the grenades, all right, and the next minute, two big Germans were running toward me with their hands up, yelling 'kamarad.' "I shoved them behind me as I saw five more coming over the top of the ridge. I emptied five cartridges into them, and they came no further. "Just then I happened to turn, and saw one of my prisoners preparing to leap upon my back. He knew my gun was empty, and FRENCH WAR CROSSES 195 thought it would be easy for him to clean me up. There was nothing to do but give him the butt, and he got that until he couldn't yell 'kamarad' any more. "When the little tea party was over, there were nine dead Germans, and we were able to get back with two prisoners. They told our oflScers of the Forty-second Division that a party of two hundred Huns were preparing to raid our sector that night. We got ready for them, but they never came." Equally as thrilling is the story of Corporal Raymond Guyette, another war cross win- ner. The corporal is a soft-spoken little chap, and before he got into the war was a clerk in the American Brass Company's plant at Waterbury, Conn. Orders came to capture two German prisoners from a certain sector near the Yser Canal and the Chemin des Dames on March 18, 1918. Thirty-five Yanks, including Guyette, and one hundred and ten French- men volunteered. / Twelve American engineers from the 101st 196 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY went out across No Man's Land ahead of the raiding party with pontoon bridges to throw across the canal. The German trenches were on the other side of the canal. The zero hour of the raiders was at 5.15, when the American barrage started. But, unfortunately, the French guides led the raiders too far by a couple of hundred yards, and the raiding party blundered right into the midst of their own artillery fire. Of the twelve engineers, five were killed and the remaining seven were wounded. To make matters worse, the Germans laid down a barrage, behind which their infantry advanced upon the Americans and French. Shells were falling everywhere — our own and Fritz's — and rifles and machine guns were blazing away merrily. There were a good many gas shells mixed up in the German firing, and a lot of our boys got slight doses of the poisonous stuff. Thirteen Americans were wounded, including Guyette; a number of the French were hit too. As Guyette, suffering from his wound, was FRENCH WAR CROSSES 197 limping back to our lines, which were about three hundred yards from the canal, he heard a call for help. It was one of the wounded engineers. Guyette went back and slung the man over his shoulder. While he was doing this he noticed there were other wounded men lying close by. When he had landed the first man safely in our trenches he was pretty well exhausted, but he had strength enough to bring another man in, so he started back. He packed the second man on his back and got back with him all right. Then this gritty young chap from Connecticut went back a third time, and brought in a third man. All this time, it must be remembered the No Man's Land was being raked with a terrific fire by the Germans. If Corporal Guyette didn't deserve a war cross, then nobody ever did. His brave deed or deeds ought to stir the blood of every American. Guyette came back with the Liberty Loan hero outfit, and every time I hear his name mentioned I feel like cheering and tossing up my hat. 198 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY A number of boys of the Ohio infantry received war crosses while I was in France. One of these was Sergeant Ethridge Justice. When the whole team of one of the 37-miUi- metre guns was disabled this spunky chap continued to fire it, at the same time keeping command of the other guns. Another Ohio boy. Private Charles Cain, of the infantry, was wounded on March 9th, but continued to load his piece until his strength was exhausted. Corporal H. W. Fanning, of Maryland, was commended for throwing himself upon a bomb on a parapet and preventing its falling into a trench, averting a serious accident. Private B. J. Block, of Alabama, was cited for pulling the igniter from a gun to prevent firing when the shot would have probably killed a comrade engaged in the rescuing of the wounded. The manner in which Private John McCor- mack, of the 165th, traveled over a shell- swept area to obtain food for his weary com- rades fighting in a front-line trench, furnishes one of the thrillers of the war. McCormack FRENCH WAR CROSSES 199 didn't get a war cross, but he deserves one for the way he conducted himself. He gave up a good job as a keeper in Sing Sing prison to answer the call that stirred his Irish blood.- His experience is sufficient to thrill all Americans who are proud of their fighting men. He is a big blue-eyed boy with muscles as strong as steel. I heard him spin his yarn when he came back with us to America. "We went into the Lorraine sector," he said, "on the night of March 7th. There hadn't been any heavy firing there for two years, the French fellows told us as they came out. They said it was as safe as a church. "Well, we hadn't been there four hours before Fritz let go at us with everything he had. There was only one line of trench there, so there was nothing for us to do but get down into our dugouts. There wasn't any communicating trench through which we could retreat to our rear lines. We just had to hold tight and take our medicine. "I was in a deep dugout with twenty-two 200 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY men and a couple of officers, when a heavy *minnenwerfer' smacked on top of it, and buried us all underneath tons of earth. I was covered with earth and debris up to my neck, and it was an hour before I was able to make the least movement toward digging my way out. "There were a few groans to be heard, but mostly it was silent in the wrecked dugout. And no wonder, for of the original twenty-two, only three of us remained alive. "Finally I worked myself free, and found the other two boys who were alive. We were all hurt, but were strong enough to try to dig our way up to the surface. "This is how we did it: One man would dig away earth with his steel helmet, then pass it to the second fellow, who stood half way up to the steps, leading to the surface. The second would pass the hat to the third, who would chuck the dirt out of a little opening at the surface, through which we were getting air. "Corporal Helmar and Corporal Raymond FRENCH WAR CROSSES 201 were the other two fellows with me. It took us four hours and a half to dig our way out. "The bombardment, which started at 11.30 at night, lasted through until the next day. And this was the sector they said was safe as church. "When we finally got above ground we were cut oflF by a couple of hundred yards from the next sector of the trench that remained intact, but we had to get over there somehow, so we took it on the run, through a rain of all sorts of shells. We made it all right. "All day we stayed in this place (the boys were getting a strafing too) without any grub. In the afternoon somebody said: * Who'll volunteer to go back to the second- line trenches and bring some chow out here.^' "I was pretty hungry, so I said I would go. "There was no communicating trenches and I knew it was up to me to beat it back over the open country. "I will confess that the prospect didn't appear very joyful to me, but when a man is 202 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY half starved he becomes desperate. So I started across. "The whole German army started banging at me and I had to duck into a shell hole. "There, hungry as I was, I had to stick for two hours until Fritz let up a bit. When there was a lull I started on again. "When I arrived where the mess outfit was located, I needed help to carry the chow back to the boys at the front. Lieutenant Ellett and Private McCarthy felt sorry for the hungry lads, and they said they'd go along with me. "We each grabbed two big tins of red-hot stew, thick with meat and vegetables, and oflf we went. "We got there all right, after a few stops at the way stations (the shell holes) and believe me, those twenty-three lads in the first-line trench were mighty glad to get the chow. But I'll tell you that was the hardest dinner I ever rustled for in my life." These are the types of lads America is sending against the Hun, and in view of this FRENCH WAR CROSSES 208 fact, I am certain that the Kaiser has no more chance of winning this war than Charley Chaplin has of becoming the Archbishop of Canterbury. CHAPTER XX Back to the U. S. A. ONE night we noticed a series of light flashes at a point about a mile behind our battery position. Immediately after the flashes ceased one of the Boche batteries began a terriflc bombard- ment, sending shells screaming to a spot in our rear. Our suspicions were aroused after this thing had occurred two or three times, and they were verified the next night when some French soldiers bagged a German spy over back of us in the wood. The spy was a mere boy, and how he got back of our lines nobody knows. From a tree-top this boy had been sending flashlight signals to the German lines, giving information when ammunition trains reached a certain cross-road. The Boche batteries shelled the cross-roads at the proper moment, (204) BACK TO THE U. S. A. 205 with the result that several motor trucks were blown up and a number of men killed. Our boys have to keep a keen watch every minute for German spies. They smuggle themselves in behind our lines through all sorts of avenues. They employ all kinds of trickery to gain their ends. Some of them land behind the American and French lines in aeroplanes. They are disguised in American and French uniforms. Some of them hang around staff head- quarters trying to sneak information while others go boldly into the trenches and mingle with the oflScers and men. I heard of one case where a spy in the uniform of a Yankee lieutenant appeared one night in an American trench, and said to the captain: "We are to fall back at once to the second line." The faintest of accents in the fellow's speech aroused the captain's suspicions, and he turned his flashlight into the face of the speaker. The little circle of tell-tale light revealed the Teutonic cast of the man's 206 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY features, and the Yank leaped at his throat and bore him to the ground. The spy was hustled to the rear under heavy guard. That incident showed that the Huns have got to get up early in the morning to fool the Yanks. We are all from Missouri and have to be shown. In March, 1918, an American battery to the right of us in the woods was subjected to a terrific gas attack. This battery was in charge of Lieutenant Hirsch, of Philadelphia. The outfit was under fire from gas shells for four days, and as it is impossible for men to keep their masks on for that length of time, every man-jack in the battery was gassed. Lieutenant Hirsch refused to leave the battery until the last man had succumbed, and then he was so badly blinded that he had to be led away. Every clear day our airmen would go up and meet the enemy. When we first moved into our sector the Huns were slightly our superior in the matter of machines, but not for long. The French came to our rescue and BACK TO THE U. S. A. 207 loaned us some planes, and in short order the United States took over the control of the air. The Americans have proved themselves to be the most daring and resourceful of aviators. They excel even the dare-devil French fliers. One day I saw an American aviator dive down three thousand feet into a nest of Boche planes, forcing one to the ground, and compelling the remainder to flee. The exploits of American aviators were the topic of daily conversation in our battery. One of our fliers was scouting fifteen miles back of the Boche lines when engine trouble obliged him to alight in the enemy's country. He repaired the engine without any trouble, but discovered to his dismay that he had not enough gasoline to get back to his hangar. It was a desperate situation, but the Yank was not discouraged. He hid his machine in a clump of woods and, taking a brass con- tainer, started foraging for oil. He located an enemy hangar near a farm house, and, as luck would have it, the place was unguarded. He had just finished filling his container with 208 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY oil when a car filled with German ofiicers ^hizzed around a bend in the road. The Yank jumped through an open window of the farm house, ran upstairs and hid under a bed. By the sounds the American soon con- cluded that he had butted into the very thick of a German staff headquarters meeting. There was nothing for him to do but remain under the bed until things had quieted down. In about an hour two Hun oflBcers, dusty from travel and apparently dog-tired from the stress of battle, lumbered into the room, and after many German curses and much imbibing from a suspicious-looking black bottle, tumbled into bed with grunts and groans of weariness. They were quickly fast asleep, their snores sounding like French barrage fire. The Yankee airman crept from under the bed and, clinging tightly to the container, he softly opened the door and reached the top of the stairway, only to run plump into a fat German officer coming up. The Hun let loose a wolfish grunt and his BACK TO THE U. S. A. 209 big watery eyes threatened to pop from his fat face. Down came the container on the top of his head, and the Teuton crashed back- ward down the stairway. But three or four Huns had rushed into the lower hallway, and with fierce cries they started up the stairs. The Yank dealt with them in a typical breezy American fashion. From the top of the stairs he leaped into their midst, dealing blows to the right and the left with his container. There was a cork fastened securely in the top so that not a drop of the precious oil was spilled. The Germans went down as if they had been felled with an ax. The Yank darted out of the house and sprinted to the hiding place of his plane. He replenished the exhausted tank and a few minutes later was 2,000 feet aloft, heading for the French lines, where he landed in safety. Our aviators are doing excellent work mapping the enemy's country, bombing trenches and blowing up munition dumps, railroad stations and lines of communication. 14 210 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY Well, I got mine, the latter part of March, 1918. TWiile under fire my mask was cut by a piece of shrapnel, and I got my first bad dose of gas. It was mustard gas too, one of the worst kind the devilish Boches send over. I was pumping away at my gun, when sud- denly I felt a choking, stinging sensation, and then I passed out like a baby hit with a brick. TVTien I came to I was in the hospital with nurses fluttering all about doing kind things. But I couldn't see them, for I was as blind as a bat. When I discovered there was something the matter with my eyes I was so mad I almost foamed at the mouth. "I'm going to get a Boche right now," I yelled, "if I have to crawl to the front." And, clad only in my night-shirt, I rolled out of my cot and charged at the spot where I figured a door might be located. I plunged into a convalescent soldier, and we both went to the floor biting and scratching. I must have been a little delirious, for I fixed such a tight grip on his windpipe that BACK TO THE U. S. A. 211 it required the combined efforts of four nurses and an attendant to pry me loose. I must have thought the poor chap I knocked down was a Boche. The next day I was all right in my noodle, but I was still blind and mad as the devil. I was a little consoled that afternoon when some Irish lads from a famous New York regiment were brought in. They were in worse shape than I was, suffering from both gas and wounds, but they were as game as bulldogs. They cursed the Huns with all of the variations of the Gaelic temperament. Their Irish blood was to the boiling point, and their chief desire was to get back to the front double-quick and get another crack at the Hun. Never have I heard men swear with such picturesqueness. If they ever get a chance to do all the things they threat- ened to do to the Kaiser, there won't be so much as a toenail left of his royal highness for purposes of identification. One of the lads who had lost a leg was par- ticularly vitriolic. 212 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "So help me," he said, "I'm going back if I have to carve me own wooden leg out of a bedpost. And that blankety blank German Emperor, may the devil get him, for if he don't I will." At the end of the sixth day I regained my eyesight, and was a happy lad to be able to see the world once more. I remained in the hospital two weeks and was then sent to a casualty camp. While there doing light duty, I was picked with thirteen others of the First Division to return to the States and help out in the third Liberty Loan Campaign. Thirty-seven others from various branches of General Pershing's over- seas forces were also selected to go back. In this Liberty Loan contingent were artillery- men, infantrymen, machine gunners and sig- nal corps men, representing every section of the United States from New York to San Francisco. One of the lucky lads. Private Langhorne Barbour, seventeen years old, of Chatham, Va., was in that vicious fight on the Swiss BACK TO THE U. S. A. 213 border, November 2, 1917, when the Germans box-barraged a tiny sector and killed that trio of American soldiers whose names will go down in history as the earliest martyrs of the war — Enright, Gresham and Hay. I was picked to go because I had fired the first shot for Uncle Sam in the war, but when I was told I was going back to the good old U. S. A. to boom the bonds, I couldn't believe it until I was actually aboard the transport and saw the coast-line of France disappearing in the distance. Then I knew it was true and fairly hugged myself for joy. The trip back was an excursion for us war- battered men. All of us had been gassed or wounded, and every man-jack of us was seasoned to our toes in modern trench war- fare. Rigid training and the hardest of knocks had been our lot for many months, so that the life of luxury and ease on the transport was as balm to us. The chow would have satisfied the palate of a millionaire. Our menu included turkey, chicken, pie and cake. And that pie was wonderful; I ate a 214 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY whole one at every meal. During my nine months in France, I hadn't even caught sight of a pie. Every afternoon we were treated to a movie show aboard the transport, and again we saw the friendly faces of Douglas Fairbanks, Charley Chaplin and Mary Pickford. Many of us could not restrain our tears when we sighted the coast-line of good old Yankeedom. All of us had gone over to France prepared to die for our country, and never expected to see America again. Yet there it was looming up on the horizon. When we reached New York harbor, April 28, 1918, our transport was guided to the transport docks and remained there all night, the next day we were taken to Fort Jay, Governor's Island, and that evening we were allowed to go into New York. The following day we paraded up Broadway — ^good old Broadway, the best thoroughfare in the world. We were greeted by the Mayor of New York and then escorted to the Stock Exchange, where we were given a royal reception. We BACK TO THE U. S. A. 215 were dined by the Bankers' Association and the Harvard Club, then our unit was split into teams and sent to different cities to boost the third Liberty Loan. I went to Philadel- phia with eleven others of Pershing's men. I am happy that I played my little part in this big war by firing the first shot for liberty. I think it was fitting that I should be sent to Philadelphia, the birthplace of liberty and the shrine of that wonderful old relic, the Liberty Bell. Every man- jack of us who came over is going back to put in more blows against the Hun. We feel that it is our duty to do this, and besides the fascination of war has its grip upon us. In Philadelphia I met the best girl in the world, and now I have her to fight for as well as my country when I return to France. The Hun peril is a real one, as every American will soon realize if they do not put their full weight into this war. The boys over on the other side are getting splendid treatment, and since the putting over of the last two Liberty Loans there has been plenty of food 216 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY and clothing. The Yank who fails to get into this war with both feet is losing the oppor- tunity of his life. I will not rest content until I am fighting with my battery again over there in France on the front line. It is my burning desire to send over many more shots for liberty into the Boche trenches. TRENCH TALK THE war has evolved what is almost a new language, to which each nation involved has contributed lavishly. The American soldier went to France richly provided with a store of slang, to which each day has added a new and choice selection of terms and phrases. Some of this new lan- guage is clear to those at home, but much of it needs explanation. Archie. The soldiers' name for the sky-pointing guns that shoot at aircraft and sometimes hit them. automatic. The Colt 45-caliber automatic pistol with which our boys are armed. If it doesn't happen to jam it is a pretty deadly weapon. barrage. High explosive shells fired by artillery so that they pass over the heads of an advancing or retreating force and fall in a line in front or back of them and protect them. A box- barrage is one which is laid down all around a small force so that it cannot move in any direction. battery. A specified number of pieces of artillery which operates as a unit under the command of a captain. Bertha. Sammee's name for a big German gun, from the name of the eldest daughter of Krupp, the German gunmaker. big stuff. Various kinds of large German shells. The big ones filled with high explosive are called crumpSy from the noise they make when they explode. The ones that give off a cloud of black smoke are called coal-boxes or Jack Johnsons. The French call the big stuff marmites or stewpots. billet. The barracks, French village or encampment to which the soldier is sent after his tour of duty in the trenches, supposedly for a rest, but usually to work very hard at some non-fighting branch of military work. The soldiers usually spend one week in the front-line trenches, the next week in the support, or second- (217) 218 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY line trenches, and the third week in the rest billets, after which they return to the front line. Blighty. The favorite word of the English Tommy, which to him means England, home and usually a rest in the hospital. It is also applied to any wound too serious to be cured by treatment at the field dressing station or field hospital, for which the soldier must be sent to England. The "Blighty" of the French soldier is Paris, which he affectionately calls "Panam." Boche. The name which has long been applied to the Germans by the French, is an abbreviation of "caboche," which means a hobnail with a hard, rough and square head. The simile is apparent. Among the British soldiers the enemy is generally referred to simply as "Fritz.'* bomb (aerial). Long cylinder of steel filled with high explosive which the Boches are in the habit of dropping on hospitals as well as military objectives. One of these bombs is capable of destroying a building of considerable size bowlegs. The American infantryman's name for a cavalryman. bunkie. The companion who shares a soldier's shelter, usually his best friend for the time being. butcher. The company barber. caisson. The two-wheeled wagon which carries the ammunition for a field gun. camouflage. Artificial scenery made of wire netting, covered with leaves and branches, or of cloth painted to represent scenery, which is used to conceal guns, roads and other points of military importance. cannoneer. The member of the gun section who sights the gun on its object. chow. Sammee's name for food of any kind. clicked it Getting killed and so needing the services of Holy Joe, the chaplain, is usually referred to most delicately as having clicked it or gone west. After the ceremony the unfor^ tunate is sewed in a blanket and after that he is referred to as pushing up the daisies. communication trench. The zig-zag trench which leads from one line of the trenches to another. After a position has been held for some time these sunken roads become quite numerous and are indicated by street signs which exhibit much wit and ingenuity. cooties. The soldier's closest acquaintance and worst enemy, otherwise known as trench lice. Croix de Guerre. The French war cross which is only given for acts of extreme bravery under fire. The recipient is usually kissed on both cheeks by the French oflScer who bestows the decoration, to temper the extreme pleasure of the occasion. TRENCH TALK 219 deflection. In sighting a field piece, the movement from one side to the other to bring the piece to bear on its object, as dis- tinguished from the elevation, which means moving the piece up or down until the proper range is secured. direct hit. Used when a shell strikes directly on the object at which it was aimed. The phrase is quite common in the Amer- ican lines. dog robber. An affectionate name for a soldier who works for an officer. doughboy. The cavalryman's name for an infantryman. duckboards. Planks which are laid along the bottom of a muddy trench to give solid footing. Usually two boards are laid down with cross pieces nailed on and this simple expedient has made it possible to live in trenches which would otherwise be nothing but mudholes. dugout. A cave excavated in the ground and protected above by sandbags, steel plates, etc., used by officers and by men in the trenches to protect them from shell fire. In the trenches it is commonly known as a "funkhole." entanglements. Barbed wire strung on steel posts driven in the ground outside a trench for a depth of some ten to forty yards to make it harder for the other fellow to get at the men in the trenches. Before an attack this wire is blasted away by a barrage of high explosive shells. fajj. The soldier's name for a cigarette, often a scarce article In the trenches and the first thing the wounded soldier asks for when he gets to the dressing station. firing data. The instructions as to elevation, deflection, land of shells to be used, etc., given to the commander of a battery of artillery. flare. A white rocket sent up at night which illuminates the ground in front. It is the bane of night raiding parties, who are taught that if they stand absolutely still they cannot be seen. The least movement, however, brings a blast of fire from the machine guns of the enemy, which is apt to prove fatal. franc. A piece of French money worth about twenty cents in American coin. French "75." The wonderful little French field piece which has a bore of about three inches. The poilu calls this piece the "Little Frenchman" or "Charlotte." This gun is capable of firing twenty shots a minute of shrapnel or high explosive shells. gas. The general name given to the various kinds of poisonous or tear-producing gases sent over against the enemy by means of shells or from cylinders in which the gas is compressed and 220 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY released from the trenches to be blown against the opposing forces by a favorable wind. gas mask. The name given to the protective device which the soldier pulls over his head when a gas alarm is given. The soldier breathes through a chemical compound, which renders the gas harmless. goat. The disrespectful name given to a junior officer, which the soldier is careful never to mention in his presence. **gone west." The same as clicked it. grenade. A small bomb, one form of which is mounted on a stick to be shot from a rifle and another an oval ball, which is thrown from the hand. The latter form has a lever which reaches down the side of the bomb and is grasped by the hand. At one end of the bomb is a pin to which a ring is attached and just before the bomb is thrown this pin is pulled out and this releases the lever which flies off as the bomb is thrown. This starts a time fuse which causes the bomb to explode in a fixed number of seconds from the time it is thrown. gun pits. Excavations dug for artillery to conceal it from enemy observation and fire. hangar. A house or shed built to house airplanes. hick-boo. The flying man's term for a rumpus, bombardment, or attack. Holy Joe. The usual and entirely respectful name for the regimen- tal chaplain. incendiary bombs. Another sample of German frightfulness. These bombs when they explode throw out a flaming liquid which sets fire to anything burnable within a large area. kamarad. The German soldier's word of surrender and plea for mercy. It has grown very familiar to our soldiers on the western front. kiwi. An officer in the ground service of the flying corps. The name is taken from that of an Australian bird. K. O. Short for commanding officer. lanyard. The line which is attached to the trigger of a field gun. The cannoneer jerks this line to fire the piece. lead team. A field piece is drawn by six horses in pairs. The first pair is known as the lead team and, of course, directs the gun. The left-hand horse is saddled and ridden by the artillery- man known as the lead driver. lead piece. The first gun of a battery section which leads the rest of the battery. leftTe. The brief vacation given to soldiers, which they usually spend in a nearby city or town. The soldier's entertainment is TRENCH TALK 221 usually mild, and on his return, when his fellow Sammees ask him what happened, he is apt to reply, "father of twins," which is his equivalent for the French phrase jxu de taut, which being translated means nothing at aU. listening post. A position near the enemy line, usually in a shell hole or in an advance section of the trench, where men lie quietly listening to what is going on in the enemy trenches. Much valuable information about enemy movements is picked up in this way, mademoiselle. Sammee has quickly picked up the French word for "Miss" and any girl who seems attractive to him is known as a "mademoiselle." mess. The army term for any meal, be it breakfast, dinner or supper. If the cook happens to be afraid and the firing is hot, the term is apt to be literal. mess kit. Every soldier is supplied with an aluminum frying pan, with folding handle, which locks a similar dish on the pan as a cover. Inside repose a knife, fork and spoon and this outfit in a canvas bag, together with the army tin cup, make up what is known as the soldier's mess kit. With it, he can cook himself, from his emergency rations, a very acceptable meal wherever he may happen to be. minnenwerfer. The German name for a trench mortar, a short gun of sometimes large caliber which is equipped to throw heavy mines or bombs from the bottom of a trench into the enemy's trenches. mitrailleuse. A kind of machine gun. mule skinner. The soldier's name for a teamster. munition dump. In order to have an ample supply of shells at hand, it is customary to bring up huge numbers of high explosive and shrapnel shells and pile them somewhere near the artillery. This dump then becomes a target for the enemy's guns, and air- planes, which endeavor to drop a bomb on the dump which will explode the whole. mustard gas. A variety which the Huns take great delight in sending over against the Allied lines. It smells like mustard and makes the eyes water. No Mail's Land. The strip of territory lying between the hostile trenches, which no man owns and no man wants. It is populated chiefly by shell holes and barbed wire. nose-dive. An airplane maneuver in which the pilot points the nose of his machine downward and dives at his adversary with full engine power on and firing his machine gun as he falls. Machines have been known to attain a speed of more than 200 miles an hour in this maneuver. 222 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY onion shell. The flaming, explosive shell which the Huns shoot at our airplanes. It looks like an onion before it bursts and smells like one afterward. Panam. Paris, the Frenchman's Blighty. penguin. An airplane pilot who, for some reason, does not go up in a machine. periscope. The eye of a submarine, a steel column extending ten or fifteen feet above the deck of a sea snake, which is fitted with lenses and prisms through which the observer in the body of the ship can see what is going on without bringing the boat to the surface. poilu. The universal name for a soldier of France, which means brave, strong. He also calls himself un bleu from the light, gay blue of his uniform. quirk. In the slang of the air service, a pilot or one who operates an airplane. reveille. The early morning bugle call which turns the soldier out ^ for his day's work. It is about as popular as the 3 a. m. rooster. rolling kitchen. An ingenious stove on wheels on which the company cook and all his utensils ride and serve hot food to the hungry Sammees as they march. round of ammunition. One complete shell in its loaded cartridge. salient. A part of a trench system which sticks out further than the rest into the enemy's territory. It is usually an uncom- fortable place to be stationed, as it is a natural bone of contention. saw-bones. The regimental doctor. sector. A division of a trench system which is under one conmiand, or one which lies between certain points. shell crater. The round hole dug by the explosion of a big shell. No Man's Land is dotted with these holes and they form use- ful havens of refuge in this desolate space. shock troops. Especially trained and selected troops which are used in the first line of attack. shrapnel. A kind of artillery shell in which the case is filled with pieces of iron, bullets, etc. When the shell strikes or when it is exploded by a time fuse, these pieces are driven with great force in all directions. This type of shell is chiefly used against infantry which is advancing to attack. shave-tail. A newly app>ointed second lieutenant. slum. Sammee's name for his meat or vegetable stew, which forms a frequent item in his diet list. sniper. A crack shot whose business it is to conceal himself in some favorable spot and pick off enemy troops who show them- selves carelessly. TRENCH TALK 223 SOW belly. The universal army name for bacon. star shells. A kind of reman candle or rocket which throws a white light into No Man's Land and lights up all the surrounding country. trench hehnet. A steel hat which Sammee thinks is comfortable or uncomfortable, very large or very small, depending on whether or not he happens to be imder fire. trench knife. A broad-bladed weapon which makes a good tool for digging or for making a Hun say "kamarad." wagon soldiers. Artillery men who ride either on the guns, caissons, or horses, and whose lot is often envied by the infantry- man plowing along in the mud. wind jammer. The obvious name for a trumpeter or band man. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATB ►r,'i* • *•'- • STAMPED BELOW Books not returned on time are subjec^t ^o ^a fine.^^^ 50c per volume after the third aay o ^^^ .^ expiration of loan period. Vc SEP 22 1919 FEB 8 ^9^" HECTJCD JUL3- 73-3PM#S 50m-7.'16 YB 2 1 305 /^ 39,3585 UNlVERSmr QF CAUFORNIA UBRABY