Chapter 7

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.