The Flash Service, to which I belonged, was not a fighting unit. While we were heavily armed, so that we could defend ourselves and fight if necessary, we were not, in the strict sense of the word, combatants. It was more important for us to keep the lines of communication in working order, to give the artillery the range on certain objects, to locate machine gun nests and direct fire upon them so they could be destroyed, than to fight, for there were sufficient numbers in other branches of the army for that purpose. But we did not overlook an opportunity to help our cause, and it is with a great deal of pleasure that I tell of a machine gun nest of thirteen men captured by three of the men of our detachment, though of a different post from mine. It was during the early morning of the first day of the drive. It should be stated that the American infantry advanced so rapidly that it frequently went right by carefully concealed machine gun nests. This was just what the Germans wanted them to do, because they opened fire from the rear and rained bullets on our men from two sides. The three men that captured the nest of which I am telling were just in back of the second wave of infantry that went over the top, following it up for the purpose of establishing our line of communication from front to rear. They came upon this nest as the Huns were preparing to fire at our advancing men. When they first located the nest the Americans had their revolvers carefully wrapped in greased coils and in their holsters, not expecting to use them—the greased coils being to keep the weapons from rusting from the dampness of the trenches. These resourceful American boys lost no time, however, in getting their weapons ready for use, and by a quick and intrepid manoeuver, they approached the Huns, covered them with their revolvers, and compelled them to surrender without so much as firing a shot. The Huns were taken to the rear, and their gun, a Vicker, became a trophy of war.

It was about 9 o'clock in the morning while we were advancing that I came upon a petite French tank, which had run upon a Hun mine and had been completely destroyed. The machine was reduced to a pile of junk, and it was hardly believable that a mine would work such destruction. The heavy iron was torn in shreds, and while we knew it was a tank and we knew what had happened to it, it was now nothing but scrap iron.

Just about that time the infantry was capturing thousands of Hun prisoners—men who had occupied the front German trenches and who were overcome by our boys. As I was advancing, I saw 3,700 German prisoners marching to the rear, and as it was still early in the day, you may know with what thoroughness our boys were doing their work. Among these prisoners was a German officer who knew the location of the mines that had been planted to destroy tanks, bridges, roads, etc. The Americans were not long in learning this and they compelled him to point out these locations. Under his guidance, 52 mines were destroyed. These might have done great damage to American tanks and soldiers if they had not been set off. As it was, they opened a pathway through which our tanks passed without danger.

As we went forward into the territory that had been held by the Huns, we could see the results of our own work, that is to say, we could see objects upon which we had given the range to the artillery, completely destroyed. It was gratifying to note that our work and the work of the artillery had been so accurate. Objects, such as headquarters, railroad tracks, cross roads, that we had located through our strong glasses before the drive, and upon which we had given the distance to the gunners, had been shattered by direct hits, speaking wonders for the marksmanship of the American gunners. At some places we saw scores of men and animals that had been killed by shell fire; at others we saw trenches that had been as completely wiped out as though they never existed; we also saw ammunition dumps that had been hit and set afire and which burned steadily for several days. These were exceedingly dangerous places, and we kept a good distance from them until they burned completely out, as the exploding shells threw flying metal for a distance of a hundred yards or more. We also came across railroad trains that had been hit as they were proceeding, and so badly crippled that they had to be abandoned by the enemy, later to be captured by us.

We advanced about ten kilometers the first day, and then our men were directed to dig in. Here we met with our first real resistance. The enemy counter attacked during the night, but his charges were finally broken up by our accurate fire.

Our advance that day had been rapid and had penetrated deeply into the enemy line. This had been possible because of the rapidity with which our supplies had been brought up. The roads for the most part were not badly cut up, and those that were damaged were quickly repaired by our engineers. Bridges had been hastily built, obstructions removed from highways, and shell holes filled in so that traffic could go on almost uninterruptedly. This made it possible for all necessary munitions to move forward.

One thing that was annoying to our advance was the German "pill boxes" in which machine gunners were placed. These pill boxes were of concrete. They were round and flat, a few square, and took their name because of their resemblance to a pill box. They had slits about six inches wide and eighteen inches long in the concrete through which the Huns fired their machine guns at our troops. Our most effective weapon against these pill boxes was our one pounders. They fired a small shell directly at the box and continued to fire until they got the range of the slit. The shells would then penetrate the slit and hit the other side of the box, exploding when they did so, and killing or wounding the occupants. Once the range was obtained, our gunners kept pouring in these shells until there was no longer any fear that the Fritz soldiers in that box would harm any more Americans. Our boys put many of these pill boxes out of commission with big loss to the enemy. They made duty in a pill box certain death for the Huns when any Americans were around.

We spent a rather restless night after our first day's advance. Though we had marched many miles and were mentally and physically fatigued, it was not easy to sleep. We were in constant danger of counter attack and of being shelled by the enemy, and the sensation was not pleasant.

Early in the morning of September 13th, the second day of the drive, we advanced again in the gray of the early dawn. It was between 8 and 9 o'clock on this morning that I saw a great aerial fight in which probably thirty-five and perhaps forty machines participated. We had advanced so far the first day that the Germans sent their aircraft out in numbers on the second day to look at the territory that had been lost. Our men were ready for them. It was the most thrilling sight I ever witnessed, and I cannot imagine anything more sensational. At first these machines were very high in the air, perhaps ten thousand feet, for they were mere specks in the sky to the natural vision. It was wonderful to see them manoeuvering for positions of advantage. They twisted, turned, looped and dove. At times two or three would be very close together and then again they would separate. Little white puffs of smoke told the tale that the machine guns were in action. They reminded me of bees swarming, as they buzzed and circled around each other in the air. As they fought they descended, coming nearer to earth and thus plainer to our vision. Suddenly one dropped out of the ranks, a struck machine. We knew it was permanently out of commission the minute it started to fall, for it dropped like a dead bird. It was a Hun machine and it dropped close to where I was located, so close in fact that within a few minutes I was inspecting it and taking small souvenirs to send home from its collapsed wings. Then another dropped, but it fell far from where we were located and its descent was so swift that we could not see its insignia and were unable to tell whether or not it was a Hun machine. Then one came down wounded, but still able to fly. It was an American machine, for it sought refuge in back of our lines. And so the fight continued for a few minutes—it did not last long—until a total of eight machines dropped and several others flew away wounded. Just what percentage of Hun and Allied planes fell, I was never able to ascertain, but the best evidence that the majority of them were Hun machines was the fact that the remaining enemy planes soon departed from the aerial battle field, leaving the Allied planes in complete control. The Allied fleet of planes in this fight was composed mostly of Americans, though our airmen were aided by a couple of British and a couple of French machines.

We continued our advance throughout the second day, though we did not proceed as rapidly as on the first day. This was because the roads were in poorer condition and supplies could not be so rapidly moved forward and for the further reason that the country was more wooded and offered Fritz a better opportunity for defense. Our boys were counter-attacked on several occasions, but each time they sent the Huns flying to the rear with heavy losses. In hand to hand fighting, such as often resulted when counter attacks were lodged, the Germans were no match for the Americans, who seemed to excel in close work which required bravery, skill and dash. In fact, it was in this kind of work that our boys showed Fritz what we mean in America by "punch."

On the third day we advanced as far as Thiacourt, which was our objective. On this day we also met with stubborn resistance. It was here that we encountered many pill boxes and it required considerable difficult and accurate work to put them out of business.

It was on the night of September 15th that we saw our hardest fighting, and were given a taste of how hard Germans could fight when pressed. It was on this night that our losses were the heaviest of the drive.

My post was dug in on a ridge that was occupied by a detachment of incomparable fighters—the Marines. The ridge was only about 500 yards in length. The roads being in bad condition, we were unable to get the protection of any artillery. All that we had to keep Fritz at bay on this ridge was about forty machine guns, which were no match for the heavy shells that the Huns were pouring on us, having our range to a nicety. We were in what is known as "graves," or shallow trenches, not having had time to dig deep trenches or to strengthen our positions as we were constantly under fire. But these Marines laid down a machine gun barrage, the first that I had ever seen. They kept up the fire all night and thus held Fritz away. It was a tense period. Hun shells were dropping all around us and frequently right among us, but the machine guns never ceased their excellent defensive work. When day broke, and the Hun ceased firing, only seventeen of these machine guns and their crews were in condition to fight. Twenty-three of them had been destroyed by the German artillery. It was a sad sight that met our eyes the morning when we saw the losses that we had suffered during the night.

It was on the night of the fourth day of the drive that fresh men were brought up, and those of us who had been out in front during the drive were relieved. It was, indeed, a great relief. It permitted us to relax our bodies and minds after four days of steady strain, with no more food than was sufficient to sustain us and without rest during the entire time. We were grateful to be away for a short time from the devastating fire that the Huns were pouring into our front line trenches in an endeavor to check a further penetration into their lines, but we were still under shell fire.

We were taken a short distance to the rear, where we were billeted in German dugouts. The day before these had been occupied by German officers. They were elaborately fitted up with all things necessary for luxury and comfort, such as beds, bathtubs, electric lights, etc.

It was here, seemingly as a reward for my small services in the great fight, that I met my friend and companion, McKinley Johnston, of Sacramento. Nothing could have pleased me more for McKinley Johnston is like a brother to me, having been my companion since boyhood. It was with him that I had talked of enlisting long before I volunteered, and it was he who enlisted with me. Though we became soldiers together and entered the same company, the fortunes of war separated us in France, and united us at a moment that was most gratifying to us both. We sat down together and related our experiences. He was driving a truck, and from him I learned of remarkable escapes that he had had from death during the four days of the drive. On one occasion a Hun shell, sufficient in size to have blown him to atoms, lodged in his truck among supplies and failed to explode. I saw the shell myself, also saw the hole in the top of the truck through which it passed and can vouch for the truthfulness of the story. On another occasion a shrapnel shell exploded on the road just to the right of his truck. When it burst, it sent small pieces of metal flying in all directions. About twenty-five or thirty of these passed through his truck, but not one struck him. I saw the holes they made. The motor of the truck was not as fortunate as the driver. A number of the pieces passed through the hood and lodged in the engine. It was damaged considerably, but it still ran and McKinley was able to complete his trip. I marveled at these stories because they concerned a young man of whom I am very fond, but escapes of this kind were numerous in these days and almost every soldier who passed through the drive can truthfully tell of similar escapes. We were facing death all the time and the remarkable thing is that so many of us did pass through the drive and come out alive.



CHAPTER VII

Gassed

One of the happiest days that I experienced during the period that I was at war was on Friday, September 20, 1918. On this day, after having made several visits to our new posts in the front line, I came back to our billet, where, to my delight and surprise, I found eight letters from home awaiting me. No one knows the joy that a letter from home gives to a soldier on the firing line. It is like taking him out of hell and placing him back on earth again. For several days we had been in the very thickest of the fight, facing death at every minute, seeing our companions fall around us, doing everything we possibly could to help our side win, and willing to go back and do it all over again without complaint—and then to get these welcome letters from dear ones 9,000 miles away right in the midst of it all. Is it any wonder that on such occasions we frequently gave way to our emotions?

The letters that I received were enjoyed not only by me, but by my companion, McKinley Johnston, as well, as he knew all of my people and was as familiar as I was with the things that they wrote about. It is a peculiar circumstance, but it is a fact, nevertheless, that all of the boys, even those who did not know my folks and who came from other States than California, were interested in these letters. They were news from home and that is what all the boys were craving. They wanted to read anything that came from America. So, after reading the letters, I passed them all around and every boy in the camp read them. After getting the letters back, I read them over several times. Several of them contained photographs of familiar scenes and faces, and it seemed good to look upon them again, for no one knew but that it might be the last time we would see them. I thought it would be a nice thing to sit right down and write, after reading these letters, but when I attempted it, I was so overcome with emotion caused by thoughts of those who were near and dear to me, that I was unable to give expression to my thoughts.

The position of the American troops at this time was not favorable. The enemy held the commanding ground, and was concealed in woods, while our troops were out in the open. The Boche could see what we were doing while we were unable to detect his moves. This disadvantage, you might well know, would not long be tolerated by Americans. We wanted the commanding ground and we wanted to put Fritz in the open. So on Monday, September 23rd, we gave Fritz a three-hour barrage and it was a hot one. By the time the barrage started, all our light artillery had been brought up and put in place, and we were able to rain shells from the famous 75's upon the enemy in torrents. This barrage was for the purpose of breaking up the morale of the Germans. We were counter-barraged by the Huns, and for a time they made it hot for us. But our superiority began to show after about an hour's firing. The men in the Flash Division worked hard to give our gunners the correct location of the German batteries. We worked hard and fast and the accuracy of our effort was shown by the silencing of the German guns. One by one they ceased firing, as the American artillery, with the data we supplied them, dropped shells on the Hun batteries.

It was just about 5:45 in the morning when our artillery ceased firing and our boys advanced again. This time our objectives were only about two kilometers in back of the German front trenches. We met with stubborn resistance at first, but with the usual American determination and pluck, we soon forced the Boche back.

It was here that I first saw the German minnewafers and trench mortars at work. The shells thrown from the minnewafers are as much feared as any German weapon of war. They are thrown from a large gun with a smooth bore and short barrel. The projectile is shaped like a rolling pin, though it is much larger. In each end, or handle of the shell, is a cap, which explodes as the handle strikes the ground. As the projectile somersaults as it travels, one handle or the other is sure to hit the earth, so there are no "duds" that I saw among these shells. They explode with a terrific racket and tear up the earth for a great distance around the spot where they land. They are not thrown very high in the air, and are intended for use in close fighting, that is to say, two or three hundred yards. As the shells whirl through the air, you can plainly hear them whistling, and if you look sharply you can occasionally see them coming. These minnewafers and mortars are of various ranges—from three and four inches up to twelve and fourteen inches. Aside from these trench guns, the Germans in this fight also resisted heavily with machine gun nests and one pounders.

In going over the top this time, we did not have the protection that we did when the St. Mihiel drive started. In other words, we did not have any tanks or any aerial protection, but had to advance with only such help as the artillery could give us.

The Germans were well protected and it took clever work to outwit them. Their machine gun nests were always cleverly concealed. Many of them were concealed in trees, and it was a common sight to see our infantrymen advance unseen by the machine gunners, and then with their rifles, shoot them out of the trees. I had seen machine gun nests in trees before, but never so many as this time. Not only were they numerous, but they were so well provided with ammunition that they could fire thousands of rounds of shells, if necessary. I have seen long belts of cartridges hanging to limbs of trees, all ready for use on the part of the gunners. I have also seen many of these belts attached together so as to provide an almost endless chain of cartridges for the gun. Under one tree where there had been a nest, I saw empty cartridge shells eight inches deep, which was some shooting for a short fight such as this was. That machine gun had certainly done all that could be expected of it.

We gained our objectives at 4 o'clock of the afternoon of the day the drive started. We were then in the best possible position, so far as ground is concerned, as it was possible for us to occupy. We had taken the commanding ground from Fritz, and we began digging in so as to be ready for a counter attack. All during that night we dug our trenches, making them deep and as safe as possible. Between 3 and 5 o'clock the next morning, the expected attack came. We experienced a heavy shelling from the German artillery. Of course, our light artillery that had been hastily brought up was not slow in returning the fire. Our barrage was very accurate and eventually the Huns were silenced.

It was at this time that I was called upon to witness the greatest horror of war—that of seeing some of my dearest friends fall from the enemy's fire before my very eyes. I was working in a post with three other men. We had been constantly together since the drive began and our hardships that we had undergone resulted in a bond of friendship that held us together like brothers. All three of these men were killed during this barrage. Two of them were instantly killed and the third lived but a short time after being hit, dying about 6 o'clock in the morning.

When you consider that we were working in a post that was not more than twelve feet in diameter, you may well imagine my feelings as I saw these boys fall. I fully expected that my turn would come at any minute, but I kept at work so as to keep my mind off the gruesome surroundings.

The next twenty-four hours were about the worst that I experienced throughout the war. My post was right out in front, and I was the only man left in it. Our communication lines had been badly cut up by German shells, and I was unable to make a report of the disaster that our post had suffered to headquarters. I could not leave the post, because I could not leave the instruments. They were too valuable to be left there with no one guarding them, and it would not do to leave any chance of their falling into the hands of the enemy. So I remained at the post all day. About 7 o'clock in the evening, men from headquarters fixed the communicating lines and I made my report of the loss of three men. Help was immediately dispatched to me, but, because we were heavily shelled again that night by the Huns, it was impossible for aid to reach me. It was not until 4 o'clock the next morning that a detachment reached the post and I was relieved.

A detachment was also sent from headquarters for the purpose of removing the bodies of my three dead companions. They were taken back of the lines to a beautiful spot in the woods, and there they were buried. Because of the fondness of the men of our detachment for these and for the further reason that fighting had slackened up some, we were able to give these men a little better burial than is accorded most soldiers who fall on the field of battle. In most cases a grave is dug, the body wrapped in a blanket and deposited without a casket and without ceremony. But for these boys, some of the men in our detachment made boxes to serve as coffins out of material that we had captured from an engineering dump. One big grave was dug and the bodies were laid in it side by side. One of the boys said a prayer and the graves of these brave lads, way out there in the woods in France, were covered over. This is one of the incidents of the war that will never leave my mind, as two of the boys were among my dearest friends.

I realize that my escape from death while at that post was by a narrow margin. It seemed to be the beginning of a number of miraculous escapes, such as many soldiers experience. Mine came in such rapid succession that I began to have a feeling that Fritz would get me yet. About 11 o'clock at night on the 30th of September I was aroused from my bed in a dugout to repair the communication lines, it being part of the duty of our detachment to keep the lines in working order when not observing. It wasn't very pleasant, of course, to get out of bed in the middle of the night, but this was the luckiest call that I had ever had. I had not been out more than five minutes when Fritz scored a direct hit with a big shell upon that billet, destroying everything it in. If I had not been called out, I would have been killed. Fortunately for our post, all the other members were on duty at the time, so we all escaped. But while I escaped with my life, the shell destroyed all of my personal belongings. This resulted in my discomfiture for many days, as I will relate. I had previously captured a pair of German officer's boots, which I would put on when called out at night, rather than my regulation army shoes and leggins. On this night I slipped on these boots, and my army shoes were torn to shreds. Therefore, I was compelled to wear the German boots, and they were the most uncomfortable things that I had ever had on my feet. Though they were my size, I could not get used to them, and they burned and blistered my heels so that I could hardly walk. As we were way out in front, it was not easy to get new shoes from headquarters. My foot troubles became so serious that my officer granted me a day off duty for the purpose of trying to find a pair of shoes that would fit me. I spent the entire time in a fruitless search. I found several pairs of shoes that belonged to boys who had been killed, but they would not fit me, so finally I had to give it up. I wore those Boche boots sixteen days, and I had to keep going all the time with sore and blistered feet. I suffered more from those German boots than from anything else in the war.

On October 4th I had another interesting experience and narrow escape, which was as close as any that I ever want to experience. I was one of a detail that was sent after water. We had to go from our dugouts a distance of about two kilometers. On our way there we were walking in a gully. Fritz had probably used that gully for the same purpose himself when he held that ground, and he probably knew that we would be using it too. At any rate, he had the range to a nicety. On our way he first dropped a number of gas shells around us. We hastily put on our masks and escaped injury. But the gas shells were followed by a few high explosives. A flying fragment severed the air tube of my gas mask. This meant immediate death, unless there was quick action. I had the presence of mind to take hold of the tube, so as to prevent any gas from entering my lungs, and then I ran to high ground. The reason I sought high ground is because the chlorine gas is heavy and settles in low places and is not likely to be as thick if high ground can be reached. I was accompanied by one of the buddies, who saw my plight and ran to assist me. By a stroke of luck that seems almost unbelievable, we ran across a salvage dump on the ridge to which we ran, and there we found a good gas mask, which I hurriedly slipped on, and used until a new one was issued to me. As if to add insult to injury, while I was having trouble with the mask, I was struck on the shoulder by a piece of shrapnel. The fragment, however, had about spent its force, and while I was knocked down by the force of the blow and suffered from a bruised shoulder for several days, the skin was not broken and my injury did not reach the dignity of a wound.

We proceeded on and got our water, and on our way back we were shelled again when we were in approximately the same place. This time one of the men received a small scratch from a piece of flying shell. It just broke the skin between the knee and the thigh, but was so small that it did not cause any inconvenience. Shortly after this, another bit of shrapnel hit my helmet and knocked it off my head. I gave the boys cause for a hearty laugh as I scrambled on all fours after my "tin derby," and no doubt I cut an amusing figure. Fritz seemed to be picking on me all day, but I was glad that I got off so lightly after being exposed to so much danger.

There is no room for sentiment in the army. Birthdays usually don't mean much. It just happened, however, that I had a day off of post on October 6th, and, that being my birthday, the occasion was made doubly pleasant. But the thing that made the day a perfect one for me was the fact that when I reached headquarters I found fourteen letters from home. I have already told how happy I felt when I received eight letters—well, fourteen made me feel just twice that happy. They were from relatives and friends and no gift could have made my birthday more pleasant.

October 16th was another red letter day for me. On that date I had a detail to pack in supplies, and I had the great fortune to find a new pair of shoes, just my size. What a relief to get rid of those uncomfortable ill-fitting, detestable German boots. If there was one thing that made me hate Germans worse than anything else, it was those horrid German boots. The boys said they were a hoodoo and that if I continued to wear them Fritz would get me sure. However that may be, I did not cease to have close calls. The very next day I got a small sniff of chlorination gas. It happened while I was fixing communication lines. I did not get enough to hurt me, but it made me deathly sick. I was unable to do much for a couple of days, and was taken to headquarters, where I was assigned to the duty of fixing communication lines, which were constantly in danger of being broken. On October 24th two of us were sent to repair a break, which we located at 5 o'clock in the morning. Dawn was just breaking and the place where we found the break was in the woods. The Germans had during the night thrown a lot of chlorine gas shells into this woods, so we donned our masks. The break in the line was a difficult one to repair. We soon found that we could not do it with our gas masks on—one or the other must take his mask off. We could not return without making the repair. To a soldier there is no such word as fail. It is either do or die. The buddy who was with me was a married man with a baby at home. I, being unmarried, could certainly not ask him to take off his mask, while I kept mine on. So I stripped mine off, made the repair, and while doing so was gassed severely. With the aid of the buddy, I was able to reach our billet. There I was put on a stretcher and taken to a field dressing station. As the old saying goes, it never rains but it pours; gassing was not the only trouble I was destined to experience on that day. As I was being carried to headquarters a shell exploded nearby and I was struck in the leg by a piece of shrapnel. It was a small but painful wound just below the left knee. I tried to accept it with a smile, and I was really glad that I was struck instead of one of the other men, as I was already out of the fight, while if one of them had been wounded, it would have been two out of commission instead of one.



CHAPTER VIII.

Hospital Experiences.

After being gassed and wounded, I was taken immediately to a dressing station, where the wound in my leg was carefully, but hurriedly dressed and my throat was swabbed with a preparation used in all hospitals to relieve the severe burning in the throat caused by gas. Of all the unpleasant experiences that I had at war, this throat swabbing was the worst. It seemed to me like the surgeon who performed this act had found in my throat a bottomless pit, and as the swab went up and down my burning esophagus, I suffered great agony. Although I knew this treatment was necessary, if I was to recover speedily from the gas burns, I could scarcely endure it.

As soon as the wound in my leg was dressed and my throat doctored, I was examined as to my physical condition by a Major, who labeled me with a tag upon which was written, "tuberculosis." This, of course, was very annoying and caused me considerable worry. It was certainly not a pleasant word for one to receive when lying in the condition that I then was. But I afterwards learned, much to the relief of my mind, that this tag had been put on me by the Major as a warning to the next surgeon into whose hands I should fall, against tuberculosis. In other words, in my condition, it was necessary to take precautions against the white plague.

I experienced great pains in my throat and lungs from the gas and seemed to be choking. My strength was entirely gone, and I was about as miserable as one could be. I could not utter a sound and any attempt to speak only increased my pain. I relate these facts about the agony that I suffered simply to show what a terrible weapon of war this deadly phosgene gas is, and to emphasize the villainy of the Hun government in using it after having agreed with other nations years before not to do so.

I was placed on a cot and made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances and was awaiting a motor truck to take me to a base hospital. On all sides of me were other wounded and gassed boys. Some of them were exceedingly jolly and talkative, notwithstanding their pitiable condition. I remember one boy in particular, who was about my own age. He was going over on a raid and was shot through the temple. The bullet entered on one side an inch or two above the eye, and went straight through, passing out the other side at about the same distance above the eye. It passed through apparently, without striking the brain, and the boy was fully conscious while the wound was dressed and seemed to be quite jolly. I watched the surgeon shave both sides of his head around the wound to prevent infection, and then carefully dress his head, without administering any anesthetic. I marveled at the boy's condition, with such a nasty wound, but what surprised me still more was several months later when I was on board ship on my way home, there was this same boy with his wound entirely healed. Two little white scars, one on each temple, were the only marks that told of his awful experience.

From the dressing station I was taken to a field hospital, about fifteen kilometers to the rear, and there placed in a ward in a tent. The purpose of the field hospital is to treat soldiers who are too severely wounded to be taken to base hospitals. My wound was again examined, cleaned and dressed and again the terrible swab went its depth. About 4 o'clock that afternoon I was loaded into another stretcher on an ambulance and taken to Base Hospital 51 at Toul. The distance from the field hospital to Toul was about twenty-five kilometers and we did not reach there until about 9 o'clock that night. The trip was a rough one, and I suffered greatly. I positively believe my recovery would have been much faster, had I not been transferred so hastily to this hospital. I was placed in a ward in a large hospital built of stone. In this hospital the wounded men were classified in accordance with the nature of their wounds. I was not long in this hospital when a nurse took charge of me, and again, I received that awful swab. Each time it seemed worse than before and how I dreaded the time when it was to be given again! But much to my surprise and pleasure, my treatment was changed at this hospital. My chest and throat were massaged by the nurse with an oil that brought me immediate relief. This nurse continued this treatment several times a day and night and I began to feel a little better. All this time, however, I was unable to utter a word, and I began to wonder whether or not my speech was permanently injured. In my predicament, however, I soon learned the sign language. It is remarkable how well a man can make himself understood merely by the use of his hands. I had no trouble at all in making my wants known. I was in the base hospital at Toul for fourteen days and all of that time I coughed up great chunks of solid matter and mouthfuls of blood, as the result of the burning that I had received. After the seventh day, the nurse stopped the use of the swab, much to my delight, but continued the more appreciated massage.

On the morning of my fifteenth day at this hospital, I was able to make my wants known by a faint whisper, and on that day I was transferred to another hospital. I was placed in a motor car and taken to the railroad station, about half a mile distant and there loaded on to a French hospital train, our destination being Tours. Before the train pulled out of the station, American Red Cross workers, always in evidence in every city in France, came and made us as comfortable as possible. They gave us coffee and doughnuts, hot chocolate and cigarettes, and their kindness was greatly appreciated by all the wounded on that train.

All the members of the crew of the train were French, and there was also several French surgeons aboard. They all showed much interest in the American troops. They asked us many questions about America and the American people. The fighting qualities of our boys were highly praised by them. The members of the crew in particular were interested about working conditions in America, and were anxious to know whether or not they would have any difficulty in getting work if they came to this country. They showed plainly that they had been so favorably impressed by Americans in France that they had a longing to become a part of this great nation.

It took us a day and a night to reach Tours. The journey was a tiresome one and we were glad when the train finally stopped at Tours. Again we were put on motor ambulances and taken to Base Hospital 7, in the suburbs of the city. We were immediately given a physical examination, and all our personal effects, including our clothes, were taken from us, except a few toilet articles. We were then given a bath robe, a towel and soap and taken to a warm shower. It was with great delight that we got under that shower and enjoyed a thorough bath. The showers were of American make and were built large enough so that twenty-five or thirty men could take a bath at a time. After the shower we were given a solution to rub on our bodies for the purpose of killing the cooties. The time had come, I am glad to say, when we and the cooties, must forever part. But the cootie in the front line trenches was not altogether an enemy. That may sound strange, but the fact is, when we were fighting the cooties and chasing them out of our dug-outs, our minds were not on our more serious troubles and we were unmindful of the dangers that surrounded us. So there were times when the cooties were really friends and they kept our minds and hands occupied.

After the bath, we were taken back to the ward and were not allowed to have any clothes for three days. This was probably so there would be no chance of a stray cootie getting into our new outfit. When three days had elapsed, however, we were given slips, which we filled out in accordance with our needs. When I got back into a uniform, life at the hospital was more pleasant. With the aid of crutches I was able to move around a little and to enjoy the company of other boys. The time was spent in playing cards, light conversation, and other amusements. We kept our minds off our rough experiences at the front.

I had an unusually pleasant experience soon after I was at Tours. A Red Cross nurse came to our ward to take orders for our small wants, such as candy, cigarettes, tobacco, writing paper and such articles. She spoke a few words to me and then passed on. It was the first time I had spoken to an American girl since leaving the United States. A few minutes later one of the boys told me she was from the West and then one said he thought she was from California. I could not wait until she came to bring our supplies, but immediately started out to look her up, so anxious was I to see and talk with a Californian. I found her and told her I was from California and that I had heard that she was from that State, too. To my great pleasure and surprise, I learned that she was from Sacramento, my home town, and that she was acquainted with my folks and knew of me. Her name is Miss Mae Forbes, and after her patriotic work in France, she is home again in Sacramento. One must experience the delight of meeting a charming young woman from his own town, in far-off France, and under the circumstances that I did, to appreciate my feelings at this time. It is an experience that I will always remember as one of the most happy of my life. It was only a few days later that I made my way, without the aid of crutches this time, to the American Red Cross station where I again met Miss Forbes and had a long and pleasant chat with her about California. Miss Forbes introduced me to the other members of the station, and from that time until I left Tours, it was like my home. I spent many a pleasant hour there and its memories will always be dear to me.

I was in the hospital at Tours on November 11th, when the armistice was signed. There was a great commotion in my ward when we first learned the news. Most of the boys were glad that the war was over and that the lives of so many boys still at the front had been spared. Others said they hoped the end had not come so suddenly, as they were anxious to recover and get back into the front line to take another crack at the despicable Huns.

At this time I was gaining strength rapidly and was able to get around fairly well. I was given a pass out of the hospital, and with two other boys who were fairly strong, we went into the business district of Tours to witness the celebration. It was like a great city gone mad. The streets were crowded with civilians, and everybody was waving flags. Most people had a French flag in one hand, and the flag of one of the Allied nations in the other. The American flag predominated above all other Allied flags; in fact, the people of Tours seemed to be very partial to America. "Vive l'Amerique" they shouted, "La guerre est fini." They are very emotional and demonstrative. They lined the sidewalks of the business streets, waving their flags and shouting in their native tongue, while an American Marine Band playing patriotic music, marched up one street and down another. It was a general holiday and no business was done that day, and but very little for several days thereafter. All American soldiers in the city were lionized. When a group of enthusiastic Frenchmen would get hold of a buddy, they would insist on taking him to a cafe and buying the most expensive of wines. If we could have conserved all the liquor the French were willing to buy for us that day, dry America would not worry us.

I was seated on a bench in one of the parks watching the demonstration and contrasting it with the probable demonstrations in American cities on that day, when two flags, one French and the other American, dropped over my shoulders. I straightened up and the next thing I knew I was strongly clasped in the arms of a beautiful young French girl, elegantly dressed and bewitchingly charming. She kissed me fervently on each cheek. The sensation was pleasant, but it was rather embarrassing inasmuch as it was in full view of hundreds of people who were celebrating. If the shades of evening had been falling, the spot more secluded and the number reduced to two, it would have been more to my American tastes. However, I arose, conscious that I was blushing, and offered the beauty my hand. She could scarcely speak a word of English and I scarcely a word of French, but we managed to make each other understand that it was a pleasurable greeting. She was soon on her way joyfully waving her flags, and I—well, I charged myself up with a lost opportunity for not being more proficient in the polite use of the French language.

We remained in the city until 9:30 that evening, and the people were still celebrating. And they kept it up for several days and several nights, so great was their joy in knowing that the war was over and that the enemy had been crushed.

My stay in Tours gave me some opportunity of seeing this ancient city. Tours lies in the heart of the Loire Valley, which is the garden of France. It is 145 miles southwest of Paris by rail and is on the left bank of the Loire River. It is an exceedingly old city and has an interesting history. There are numerous castles and chateaux in the vicinity, which in peace times are visited annually by thousands of tourists. It contains a number of ancient buildings of interest. In normal times it is no doubt one of the most interesting cities in France.

The hospital in which I was treated was a very large one, in fact, it was a great institution of many buildings. It contained forty-five wards of fifty cots each. It covered a large area and had every comfort for the men, such as a motion picture house, library, reading room, etc.

After I had been there about five weeks and had regained much of my physical strength, the authorities in charge began to classify the boys, either for further duty, or for shipment home. All were anxious to be put in class D, which meant the United States—God's country. Nobody wanted class A, which meant further duty with the army of occupation, and another year at least in Europe. It seemed very much like a lottery, as the boys who were able to do so, walked up and received their classification. I was exceedingly happy when I was given class D, which meant that nothing would stop me from seeing "home and mother."

After being classified, we were notified to make ourselves ready for a trip to the coast. Although we were not told that we were going home, we knew that the good old U. S. A. was our ultimate destination. So I received a pass and made my last visit to the business district of Tours for the purpose of purchasing some souvenirs of France for the women folks at home. The men I had already remembered with rings, made during my convalescing days at the hospital out of French two-franc pieces. I might add that ring making was a favorite occupation of the patients and we spent many pleasant moments working them out sitting on our cots, while a group of interested buddies would sit around and watch and comment.

I found it no easy matter to make my purchases. In the first place, the French merchants, knowing that many of the American boys had money to spend, asked about four prices for everything, and, secondly, the French methods of doing business are quite different from our own. But by spending practically the entire day, by attempting Hebraic methods in purchasing, and by pretending that I had only a few francs to spend, I managed to spend about $25 in buying the few things that I wanted to bring home.

I was then ready to leave, whenever Uncle Sam was willing to take me.



CHAPTER IX.

Home Again

On the morning of December 11th a number of the boys at the hospital at Tours received orders to prepare for a trip to the coast. This was the most welcome news that we could have heard and we hastily got our personal belongings together. It was about 10 o'clock when we were placed in ambulances and taken from the hospital. We were driven to the railroad station about a mile distant, and there assigned to quarters in an American hospital train.

This was the first American train I had been on since I arrived in France, and it certainly was a great relief to me to know that we were not to be crowded into one of those uncomfortable, stuffy and tiresome French trains. The American hospital train furnished an excellent example of American efficiency, and when contrasted with the French trains. I could not but think how much more progressive our people are than Europeans. We had everything that we needed, and plenty of it. We enjoyed good beds, good food, and sufficient room to move around without encroaching upon the rights and the good natures of others. We pulled out of Tours with no regrets on what was our most enjoyable train trip while in France. It was enjoyable for two reasons—first, we were traveling in comfort and as an American is used to traveling, and secondly, we were traveling toward home.

The trip down the Loire Valley followed practically the same route that we took on our way from Brest to Tours. The scenes, of course, were very much the same, except that the country now wore its winter coat, while it was mid-summer on my previous trip.

We arrived in Brest on December 13th, and to our surprise, we learned that President Wilson had just previously landed there, and the city had gone wild with enthusiasm over him. A tremendous crowd gathered at the station to greet him. Bands were playing and the occasion was a gala one. Our train stopped about a quarter of a mile away from the station, where the President greeted a mass of French people and American soldiers. I regret very much that I was unable to get a view of the President while he was at Brest; that was not my fortune. We did, however, see his train pull out on its journey to Paris.

Soon after we arrived at Brest we were told that we would be taken back on the "George Washington," the liner upon which President Wilson crossed the Atlantic, and great was our joy. However, we were soon doomed to disappointment, for orders were changed, and we were taken to the Carry On Hospital, just out of Brest. The ride to the hospital was a disagreeable one, as it had been raining and the streets were muddy and wet. The ambulance rocked more like a boat than a motor car. We were assigned quarters and given food. We met a number of boys in the various wards who were awaiting their time of departure. We asked them about how long it was after arriving at Brest before soldiers were embarked for home, and they said the time varied all the way from three to thirty days. That was not very encouraging and we were hoping that in our case it would be three days. The very next morning, however, a number of our boys received orders to get ready to depart. I was not included among them, to my sorrow, and had no idea how long I might be kept at Brest. It was only a day or two later when we were made happy by the news that our time to depart had come. It was joyful news and made our hearts beat with the joy that only a returning soldier knows.

We were loaded on the hospital ship "La France," which is a beautiful, four-funnel French liner, 796 feet in length. It was the third largest liner in use in transporting troops at that time. We took our places on the boat about noon, but the big ship laid in the harbor all afternoon, and it was not until about sundown that she started to pull out and we bade "good-bye" to "la belle France." One might think that there was a lot of cheering when the boat pulled out on the eventful afternoon of December 17, 1918, but there was not. Some of the boys, it is true, cheered heartily. Most of us, however, were too full of emotion to become wildly demonstrative. Our thoughts were on home, the folks that are dear to us, and our beloved native land, and our emotions were too strained for expression in cheers.

The vessel was manned by French, who treated us splendidly for the first two days out. After that, however, they began to skimp on our food and to give us things of poor quality. For instance, we were given coffee without sugar or milk, cereals of poor quality without even salt in them, and no fruit, though it was understood that fruit was to be a part of our diet. The boys complained bitterly at this treatment, and finally our officers, knowing that we were not being properly fed, made an examination of the ship. They found several hundred boxes of apples that were supposed to be for us, stowed away in the hold. It had been the intention of the French in charge of this boat to steal that fruit, evidently to sell it, at the expense of the wounded American soldiers on this hospital ship, who had fought and saved their country from the Hunnish hordes. We had been cheated and overcharged for everything we purchased in France, and we knew it, but it surely did hurt when we were thus treated by men whose homes we had saved at the cost of our blood. I will say this: We did not hold this kind of treatment against the French people as a whole, but to individuals who are so unprincipled and so greedy that they are willing to sacrifice the fair name of their people for a paltry gain. I might add here that it was the smallness of some of the individual "Y" workers that brought the Y. M. C. A. into such disrepute among the American soldiers in France. This simply shows how important it is for an individual to sustain the reputation of his country, or his association, as the case may be, by honorable conduct.

After our officers uncached the horde of stolen apples in the ship's hold, we were well fed and on the last two days of the journey had no complaint to make on this score.

On December 24th at 10 a.m. some far sighted individual shouted "Land" and what a welcome word it was. Columbus, watching from the deck of the Santa Maria, was not more happy when he first set eyes upon the faint outline of the new world than we were as the dim blue shoreline began to rise upon the horizon. There was a mad rush to the deck and everybody who could get out was soon watching over the rail. It was not long before the Statue of Liberty came into full view and there was joy in our hearts for we knew that at last we were home.

In a very few minutes our ship stopped and a pilot was taken aboard to guide the great vessel safely into the harbor. Next we were greeted by a yacht that steamed out beside us carrying a great sign, "Welcome Home." It was the 24th of December, and this boat carried a large Christmas tree, typical of the season.

As we entered the harbor, we were given a wonderful welcome. It seemed as though every whistle in the great city of New York had been brought into action to make noise on our account. Certainly every boat in the harbor from the smallest tug to the trans-Atlantic liners was blowing a blast; and the noise, though of an entirely different character, was as deafening as that of a battle. Every window of all the great buildings that make up that wonderful skyline of New York was filled with patriotic citizens waving a welcome to us. It was a great sight and one that the boys will never forget. It seemed so good to see our own people again—our pretty girls, our fond fathers, our dear mothers, our elderly folks, and even our street gamins. It gave us a feeling that we would like to take them all in our arms, for they were ours and we were theirs. I knew, of course, that there would be none of my folks to meet me, as my home is in California, but it did me good to see the other boys meet and greet their mothers, fathers, sisters and sweethearts.

We started disembarking at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. I was on the top deck and did not get off until 9 o'clock, being among the last to leave the ship. We were taken on a ferry to Jersey City, where we were entertained and given food. Later in the evening we were taken to Camp Merritt, New Jersey, by train. It did seem good to ride on a real American train, on American soil, and among our countrymen. We arrived at Camp Merritt at 11 o'clock at night and I was taken to the hospital. I was assigned to a ward and after getting comfortably fixed was given a real American meal, and you may be sure that it was thoroughly enjoyable. We had to stay in the barracks the next day to undergo a physical examination and for the further purpose of taking precautions against the persistent cooties—some of the boys having encountered them on the boat.

The spirit of Christmas was everywhere manifest, and certainly I could have had no Christmas present better than to arrive in America on Christmas eve. The Red Cross brought us boxes of good things to eat and Christmas presents, and the people entertained us wonderfully. They took us on automobile rides in their private cars, to dinners, to theaters, etc. Their hospitality was of the real American sort and it was deeply appreciated by the boys.

At the very first opportunity after reaching camp, I sent a telegram to my parents in Sacramento, telling them that I had arrived safely. I received an answer saying that all at home were well, that same day, and it was a welcome message. It was the first word I had heard from home since I had been gassed and wounded in October. I had been transferred from place to place so frequently that my mail never quite caught up with me. It kept following me around, and I did not get all my letters until some weeks after I arrived home.

I was in Camp Merritt for a month and five days, and during that time I had an excellent opportunity of seeing New York. I made several trips to the metropolis and enjoyed seeing the points of interest of that great city.

While at the camp I met Harry Nauman, a Sacramento boy, and greatly enjoyed the pleasure of his company. From my folks I heard that James Brenton, my room mate at college, was also there. I looked him up and was fortunate in finding him. We spent three or four pleasant days together before we departed for California.

On the first day of February, I left the camp and was sent to the Letterman Hospital in San Francisco. The trip across the continent was uneventful, except for the last one hundred miles of the journey. At Sacramento I again saw my folks after a year in the service and my father and mother accompanied me to San Francisco, making the ride most enjoyable as Dad related all the local happenings during the long time that I was away. I spent several days in the Letterman Hospital and was then honorably discharged from the service.

I have endeavored to relate in a general way many of my experiences. I have not told all. Some of the more gruesome occurrences I have left untold, not believing that any good would come of their repetition.

I can honestly say that I am glad that I went to war and that I fought for my country. The experience was of untold value to me, as it gave me a broader and more serious view of life. Notwithstanding all the horrors of war, if called upon again, I would willingly go. I am ready to serve my country any time it calls. We have a wonderful country and a wonderful people. I realize that now more than I did before we went to war. My rather limited observations lead me to believe that we are far ahead of any European country. If Americans live for America, if they put country above self, if they obey the laws and become acquainted with all the wonders of their own land, this nation will make even greater progress in the future than it has in the past. The war brought out a wonderful spirit; let our spirit in times of peace be just as patriotic.

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