Part 2

LOOKS LIKE AN ALL NIGHT JOB.

THAT GUY IS ALWAYS TRYING TO BURY HIS CAMION!

THE MECHANIC

ANY DAY IN THE M.T.C. RESERVE MALLET.]

_November 27_

DEAR MOTHER—

The lid is off, at last we can come out of the trenches and go over the top in our letters. Old Man Censor has had his whiskers cut and we can throw the ink from bottle to paper without a worry.

As you know, I jumped from the minor league (American Field Service) into the major (U. S. Army) on October 1st, 1917. After taking the leap we were sent to Soissons (Aisne) which was to be our home for some little time. Soissons was some town! The Boche had been there before us, but had left a great part of the city standing. With its hotels, cafés, tea rooms, stores, and bath house, we led the life of Riley.

Our camp lay just on the edge of the city on the bank of the Aisne river, and in the camp I had my first lesson in ditch digging, kitchen policing, drilling, rock breaking, and a few other like things.

Things went along pretty smooth for us until March 21, when there came the grand finale as far as Soissons was concerned. Up to that date we had had a few air raids, which would start the twins barking and us running for abris. The twins were a pair of “seventy-fives” in a field right behind camp.

On March 21 things began to pick up. All the morning I had been hauling rock and more rock, and along towards noon I was tired, dirty, and didn’t much care if school kept or not. I walked into our barracks and started some water boiling to remove my rock hauling makeup (as far as I know, that water is still boiling). Was lying on my bunk when the word came that we were to pack up our stuff and be ready to move at any moment. It was like a bolt out of a clear sky. “Be ready to move,” and we thought we were settled for the rest of the war!

It did not take long to roll up my blankets, to dump my stuff into my barracks bag, and to lug it all down to my truck. Started to roll my blankets after I got them to the camion, when there came a whistle, a bang, and a shower of dirt, stones, and twigs. A shell had landed on the other side of the river. Before I had time to collect my thoughts there came another whistle. This time I was under the truck ahead of the bang,—more dirt, rocks, and twigs. No wonder they were moving camp! There was a bridge dead ahead of me, about forty yards away. These two shells had just missed the end furthest from me, and I could see that if the bridge was the attraction I didn’t want to stick around. My blankets were still unrolled and I started at them again. Another whistle, another dive, and this time a regular downpour. This shell had landed on my side of the river just off the bridge. Right on its heels came another, and this one saw my exit. I started for camp on the run, but didn’t get far before there came a bang. The concussion floored me and when I picked myself together, saw a bunch of the boys gathered around something under a tree that had been hit.

The something was one of the boys wounded, in the leg. Why no one else was wounded, or no one killed, is a miracle, as that shell hit where every one seemed to be. No doubt hitting so high up the éclat was thrown over our head. The boy who was wounded is now in the States. His leg is now O. K., but he will always be lame.

That noon while at lunch two more shells landed in the river, side of the dining room. It seemed as though they were following us. Later on when we turned the trucks around and ran them by camp away from the bridge, the shells began to land up at that end. That night, however, the Huns raised their guns and began to send the shells over our heads towards the railway station. All that night we would hear the whistle of the shells passing over head and the bang in the distance of their landing.

The next day we moved out of Soissons onto the “Route de Paris.” We were just outside the city and all night and most of the day it was bang, bang, bang. The Huns certainly were throwing the shells into the city, and it didn’t make you feel “in the pink,” when you had to go into it for water, and to the storehouse and railway station for supplies. All the time we were there it was “beaucoup” work. We carried a great many troops from one front to another and miles of shells. In fact it was work from then on.

After a short stay here we carried on to Villa Helon, which is about two kilometers from Longpont. This town was a gem and it certainly was tough when we had to leave. The day we left, May 28, I believe, the town roads were crowded with incoming and outgoing troops.

We moved at about midnight and the Huns gave us a farewell in the shape of a bombing. The French were setting up their famous seventy-five guns in the rear of the chateau as we pulled out. That wonderful chateau is now, no doubt, a heap of ruins.

Refugees were everywhere. Wagons loaded with their goods, people on foot, in carts, on bicycles, all moving towards Paris, crowded the roads.

From Villa Helon we pushed on to Barcy, stopping over night a couple of times at some towns. Barcy lies just outside the city of Meaux and is right where France turned the Germans back in 1914.

While in this town we carried shell after shell to those points where the heaviest fighting was going on. It was at Chateau-Thierry that we first saw the American troops in number.

What a changed Chateau-Thierry it was when the Boche were driven out! It wasn’t as badly shot up as I expected to find it, but it certainly had been mauled.

From Barcy we moved to Hardivillers. This small town lies between Breteuil and Crèvecœur-le-Grand, not far from Amiens. In the latter place and beyond, we saw our first of the British. It was in and around Amiens that bombs were the thickest. The country was so open that a night convoi was always an invitation for a bomb. Between Moreuil and Hangest they took twelve shots at us without a hit. That same night, however, they got another section and wounded a couple of men and killed another.

Our next stop was Bus, the town of no roofs and German dugouts, with the nearby woods that sported the German huts. Bus is between Montdidier and Roye. The former city is the worst shot up of any that I have seen. It lies on the top of a hill and is just blown to dust. Not a wall or a tree standing. One could live in Roye without a great deal of rebuilding, but there are only walls left. Ham wasn’t shot up, but burned. While at Bus my permission came through and I left the bunch not knowing where I would find them when I came back.

Port-à-Binson was where I found them. No doubt you read how the Germans tried to get into Épernay on account of its being a centre for supplies. Port-à-Binson is not far from Épernay, lying on the bank of the river Marne. Here it was I took up the duties of clerk—something I’ll always remember.

When we moved again it was to Jonchery, between Fismes and Rheims. While in the Field Service I had often gone through Fismes; you wouldn’t know it now, ruins is no name for it. From there we rolled on to Malmaison. Here we got the news that the armistice had been signed. Since leaving that town, we have stopped over night in a few other villages until we struck here.

This account is more or less a bunch of names. I haven’t said much about the work, which has been carrying shells most of the time. Nor have I given much dope on some of the excitement that we have seen. Believe me, we have had a little excitement in the way of bombs, and once in a while, shells.

I wrote about the Boche and their camouflaged plans. That took place at Chézy aux Orxois between Chateau-Thierry and Mareuil sur Ourcq. On that day we were carrying shells and my car being the last had the fusees. You can see that underneath my car was no place at all to use as an abris.

I’m enclosing a bit of German propaganda, some of the bunk that they used to drop from planes. They certainly must have been in a pipe dream if they expected any one to fall for that stuff. Their minds work in a queer way.

One of the men who used to work in the atelier when we had French workmen, came in to see us the other day. He had just got back from his permission and from seeing his wife and son who had been prisoners. The Huns had cut the forefinger from each of his wife’s hands. That was mild compared with some of the other things that they did.

The other night we staged a party. The result is my drawing of Monsieur Light Wine. Never again.

Rumors are flying about. The latest is that all men will return to their original companies. That’s all right, but what becomes of the Field Service men? If it’s all the same to those higher up, I’ll take home.

_December 19_

DEAR MOTHER—

Winter has at last taken the padlock off. The rain that has been falling for the last few days, has now turned to snow and the temperature has moved from its suite half way up to one near the ground floor. Rubber boots and an over coat are very much in style these days—also a red nose.

We are now taking the count in the village of Boulzicourt near the cities of Mézières and Charleville. Sedan is also quite close by. The day before yesterday I took a trip to Charleville: object, a bath. Managed to catch a ride on a truck going over.

After the bath, met a couple of the boys and we hustled around to get things fixed up for supper. None of the cafés or restaurants have started in to serve meals so we went into the market and got some steak and potatoes. The prices are sky high, but one has to eat. These we took around to a small café and had them cooked up. The steak was tough, but the “cuisinier” had cooked it in a most delicious way — with Pinard. The potatoes as usual were French Fried. We had brought along our own wine or we would have been out of luck.

After supper we drifted around to a dance hall. It was crowded, about ten men to one girl, so we didn’t try our luck at the French dancing. All they do is whirl—always in one way and they never reverse. Once in awhile you see someone trying to do the old turkey trot. After sticking around a short while, we started home. No ride this time—no luck at all, so we burnt up the road for the ten kilom’s.

Yesterday I was over to Sedan. It was raining so hard that I didn’t do much chasing around. Of the two cities Charleville is the more picturesque with its long sloping roofs and its quaint old fashioned French appearance. Sedan looks more modern, more like the States.

The day we moved, five of us got left behind. That is there wasn’t enough room in the remaining camion—the others had pulled out and we thought they were waiting somewhere down the line. The first stop we knew was to be at Boulzicourt, so we started out on foot. All of us were dressed pretty warmly, as we had expected to hold down the front end of a camion. It was raining and soon our overcoats were weighing close to a ton. Up the line about three miles, I discovered that two letters for one of the boys had been forgotten in the shuffle. It was up to me to go back and one of the boys said he’d come along. Back we went and rescued the mail. We got under way again and this time had the luck to jump an ambulance that was going straight through. It was going, it didn’t even hit the high spots. About half way we passed the other three birds riding the back end of a truck. We pulled into Boulzicourt and discovered that the camion had moved on to a place called Flize, which is on the way to Sedan.

A camion came bowling along so we hopped aboard. Of course it was going to the wrong village, but we didn’t worry—one can always catch a ride. At Mézières the truck pulled up and we jumped off. It was still raining and we weren’t what you would call dry. Hungry and not a thing could be had in the way of food. Nothing in the shops, but we did manage to get coffee. Along towards night, we ran into a Frenchman that set us up to one fine supper with wine and rum. About that time we decided we might as well be setting out for the camp. It was raining great guns and was so dark that we gave it up as a bad job. Instead we got a room over a café. The woman who ran the place came over on the ark. She had remained during the years that the Boche held the town, and, as a consequence kept running in German with her French—something that happens quite frequently in these parts. Our room was a wonder. The bed boasted seven mattresses; reminded me of the fairy story of how to tell a real princess—when a bunch of Janes claimed the crown and to test them out they put them to bed on a stack of mattresses. Underneath was a pea. The fake ones slept like a log, but she of the purple couldn’t sleep at all and, in the morning, she was black and blue from the lump raised by the pea. We either are not of the purple or there was nothing under the mattresses, for we certainly tore off the sleep. Just before we turned in there was an awful banging on Madame’s door, and yells in French, German, and Sanscrit I guess. She had locked herself in. We went out and discovered the key sticking into the lock of her door. We gave it a turn, but the door stayed shut. We gave it a couple of more turns, and tried other combinations—still the door refused to open. In the meantime the old girl was yelling “nicht’s” and “ja’s” and French cuss words. We expected the whole town to show up. Finally Bill had the brilliant idea of seeing how our door worked. We went over to try it out and in fooling with it the door knob came out in my hand. I went over, stuck it into Madame’s door and “Voilà” the caged bird was free. In the morning we set out for Flize.

It was still raining and we didn’t get a ride. We walked and walked and no sign of camp. My coat was soaked through, my rubber boots were raising the devil with my feet, and my labors had given me a turkish bath. We pulled into Flize, with nothing like a camp in sight. While we were deciding whether to wait around for a ride to Sedan, where the Mission was, or to look for quarters, one of our trucks came panting along. The camp was at Boulzicourt. They had come over near Flize, had stayed two hours, and had gone to Boulzicourt. A staff car came flying along, we got a ride and here we are.

This town is quite large. Our quarters are very comfortable. We are billeted in a French house. Four of us have a front room, and if the sun ever comes out, we should get our share of it. Our fireplace is working all the time and we are kept busy getting wood to keep the home fire burning.

Madame had us in for coffee the other afternoon. She was here while the Huns held the town. Naturally she has no love for them. What they couldn’t steal they took, and she’s just about left high and dry. Her son was captured at Verdun, but is now home.

The town hasn’t come back to life yet. When it does there are enough cafés to feed and drink us all. Two dance halls with these player pianos are open. Ten centimes sets the music going. They have a total of nine tunes among which is the Merry Widow—you can see how up to date the music is. At nights these places are crowded with the French troops and Italian road workers. All told I’ve seen three girls, all at once, in these places.

Yesterday my Christmas box showed up. The cigarettes came at the right moment, as for three days I’d been using a corn cob. The “Y” had run out of smokes, and they hardly ever visit us nowadays. The knife was a wonder—too good to use.

The other day some of our trucks hauled champagne. They came through here and stopped for supper, and then went on. They left a few cases behind, so water isn’t very popular just now.

There is a chance of our getting back inside of a year—just a chance. Hate to think of another winter over here. Guess by the time I get back there won’t be anything going on in the states, the war will be a dead issue then.

_December 26_

DEAR MOTHER—

Of course we had a big feed. The army didn’t come across with any extras, but by scouring the country for miles around our company, and all the companies for that matter, had some meal served up. Here’s our line up—celery soup, roast beef, mashed potatoes, macaroni with cheese and tomatoes, a salad, cake, prune pie, celery, and cocoa. Besides the Red Cross sent cigarettes, candy, and crackers.

In the afternoon we took a ride by camion to Sedan where the “Y” was putting on some kind of a show for us. After much cheering, and not missing a single bump we arrived and found that the show was going on—movies were being run off—French movies, a nice long drawn out thing in six or seven parts on Nero, his love affairs, his fiddle, and Rome. I for one wasn’t at all mad when they cut the picture short and started in on some live stuff. After a Lieutenant got a couple of stories off his chest, the ball started. Some real American coons from a near by outfit were the live stuff. They sang by fours, threes, and twos, and when they got tired of that they gave us some A No. 1 clog dancing. Believe me! they could sure shuffle their feet. The “Y” had decked them out in some paper caps which added to the hilarity. They were the whole show and it was worth the trip to see them.

The “Y” also were there with the Christmas tree. We rang the bell for chocolate, cigarettes, a cigar, and cookies.

The other day I went over to Charleville again. Ran into a place that had real pies—chocolate and apple. Also had cakes. The prices were near the top, but we bought a few notwithstanding. The girl behind the counter could have sold us ice at the North Pole—she was a peach. Two of us told the boys to break away and we would show them something better—and we did. There was a girl in a small café that we had discovered on our last trip. We took the boys along in and they agreed that she was _the_ class. Here we ate the pies and cakes and the girl behind the bar came in for a share. It was a good thing that we were riding in the Ford and not walking, or we would never have got back to camp. Those pies went fine but we ate more than our share I’m afraid.

Last night and today it snowed again—just enough for snow balls. This afternoon we were throwing them with the French kids. They can peg them as well as our boys, but I guess they forget how to use their wing when they get older.

There are two kids that drop into the office three times a day for their cigarette allowance. The oldest is sixteen and the youngest thirteen. I made the mistake of giving them one the first day and they now take it as a matter of course. Guess I’ll start them to work sweeping out the place on their next visit. That may break them of the habit—like offering a tramp work when he asks for food.

I don’t know if it will work, however, as there are a couple who hang out at our kitchen. They lug all the water, and do all the odd jobs. They are a great help to the K. P.’s—in fact our kitchen police, since these kids came along, live the life of Riley and as for the kids, they eat to their hearts’ content.