One of the D <Yankee division>

Book 1

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CiffiSKIGHT DEPOSm ' ^

ONE OF THE Y.D.

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ONE OF THE

YANKEE DIVISION

By SLATER WASHBURN

CORPORAL C BATTERY, lOlST

FIELD ARTILLERY, TWENTY-SIXTH

DIVISION, A.E.F.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, I919, BY SLATER WASHBURN

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TO

The boys of C Battery, 101st Field Artillery, Twenty-sixth Division, who fought and died for the great cause, and who now lie biu'ied beneath the soil of France, far from home, yet near in spirit to those whose privilege it was to serve with them.

Preface

In writing this little book I have sought to portray the everyday life of a soldier who served in France, treating the subject from the point of view of an enlisted man, one of the many thousands who served in the ranks. It has been my purpose to describe the experiences of the boys in Battery C, 101st Field Artillery from April, 1917, to August, 1918, typical of the experiences of so many young men who answered the ^'call" and served their country in the World War,

I am especially grateful to Miss Margaret Denholm for her cooperation and assistance in the preparation

of the manuscript,

SLATER WASHBURN Worcester March 1919

Contents

I. BoxFORD TO France 1

II. Training at Camp Coetquidan ... 17

III. Moving to the Front 27

Chapter I Boxford To France

There was a certain electric thrill in the air. Something out of the ordinary was about to break; even the "skipper" seemed a bit excited; so when the orders came down to "pack up " we knew it would n't be long before we were on our way to France.

Since April 9, 1917, the members of C Battery, 101 F.A., 26th Division, had been on pins and needles waiting for those orders, and at last the day after Labor Day of the same year they had come.

For weeks (for months it had seemed to us) we had been doing "squads east and west," guard duty, and the many things which make camp life the same the world over. We had simulated fire on our three-inch guns so many times that the mere sight of the flag-pole, which had afforded such a convenient aiming-

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point, filled one with intense disgust. We had been inspected and inspected till we began to answer the customary questions in our sleep. In short, since the 25th of July when we were called out, we had been "playing soldier" according to the most approved methods, and we were heartily anxious to move, because we all knew that our next move would be across. And so, when the captain called all the "non-coms" into the first sergeant's tent and told us to "pack up and hush it up," we went to it with a vengeance.

On Thursday, September 7, 1917, at exactly 12 noon, every tent in the entire regiment was "struck," and with our packs on our backs and a bit of a jump in our hearts, we marched to the station, with the band playing "There's a long, long trail a-winding." It was short work to entrain, and with a final blast of the whistle we were off. Not a word of our departure had got out, and we slipped away quietly without any hand-clapping or cheers. Just business !

As the train made its roundabout way toward New York, the talk and laughter of the boys ceased, and most of them took a long, last look at the familiar landmarks of Massachusetts, breathing a silent prayer for those loved ones whom they were leaving behind, in most cases without a word of good-bye.

It was an all-night trip in the coaches to New York, and the majority of the boys were glad to snatch a few hours' sleep. No sooner had I got fairly comfortably settled, with my head resting on the feet of my opposite neighbor, than I was rudely awakened and told to "shake it up," as we had arrived. "Shake it up" I did, and found that we had indeed stopped, and at once we began to transfer our barrack bags and equipment to the small steamer which was to ferry us up the river. Dawn was just breaking as we wound our way to the dock where the transport lay, gray and grim in the early morning light with its guns ready for business.

We lined up in the huge shed, received cards indicating the numbers of our "staterooms," and, taking a farewell look at real American ground, stepped aboard.

On shipboard, at last ! It was a great feeling, and we all looked forward to a comfortable trip across, as our ship was the Adriatic, an English boat, made over into a transport.

As we wound our way in single file, following closely in the footsteps of our guide, a stalwart English seaman, our minds naturally turned to a mental picture of our quarters. We were glad that we were to have staterooms and keenly anticipated the comforts of a lower berth. We must have penetrated far below the third deck, when a sergeant in front of me, quietly tapping our guide on the shoulder, remarked, "Say, Jack, let's get our stuff into our staterooms first, before we begin this tour of the ship; it's very interesting, but this barrack bag is heavy." He had voiced our sentiments to a nicety and we all eagerly awaited the reply, which was soon forthcoming to the effect that we were on our way to our quarters.

Never having been on shipboard before, but having somewhere acquired the impression that staterooms, as a usual thing, were not below the fourth deck, I was surprised and interested. Down, down, even farther down we went, until it reminded me of the time I scorned the elevator in the Washington Monument, preferring to walk. At last we stopped, and with our sudden halt the truth burst upon us. Gone were the visions of comfortable staterooms; our dream was rudely shattered. We were in the steerage. There could be no doubt of that. The narrow iron bunks, tier upon tier, proclaimed the fact to a certainty. One optimistic soul inquired of our guide if there was anything below us, and received the cheering news, "Nothing but several tons of high-explosive." That was a comfort, at any rate, to know that we were not actually at the bottom of the ship.

We made ourselves comfortable, however, and after crawling over three other boys, I reached my "roll," and was ready for the trip.

We hoped for immediate departure, but delay was caused by the fact that we had more cargo to take on. The following morning, bright and early, our tug came alongside, and soon we were moving slowly down the river.

No man was allowed above decks — except, of course, the officers — and we eagerly sought a portion of a porthole, to get a farewell glimpse of "God's Country."

As we passed the Statue of Liberty and realized that we were really on our way, a thrill shot up and down my back, and the next minute my eyes dimmed a bit as I realized that of all those boys (almost the first American soldiers to sail for France) who had so willingly offered themselves to their country, many would never again gaze upon that statue, so dear to the hearts of all Americans, which was swiftly fading away on the port side.

After noon mess we were allowed on deck, the pilot having left us sometime since, and the ship was making rapid headway under its own power. The shore grew less distinct, finally melted into the distance, and we were alone, as far as the eye could reach, headed up the coast for our first stop, Halifax.

The journey to Halifax proved uneventful, and the morning of the following day we steamed into the harbor amidst the cheers of the blue- jackets on the English cruisers which lined the channel. We spent the day at lifeboat drills, impatient at the delay and anxious to be off again. The following afternoon found us again at sea, and after a day or two we settled into the regular routine of life on shipboard.

On looking back, the trip really was most comfortable. We had our meals served in the third-class dining-room, which was also used for a smoking-room. There was plenty of deckroom for exercise, and good weather most of the way. The only formation of the day was set for nine o'clock every morning, and we spent that hour going through exercises on deck or playing games, in order to keep in fit condition.

Our one real excitement of the trip occurred after we had been out about eight days. I happened to be one of the corporals of the regimental guard, and had just posted my relief about midnight, when, suddenly, all lights on the ship went on. In two minutes they were turned off again, but inasmuch as we were in the danger zone, and a lighted ship could be seen for miles, you can imagine the sensations of the men on deck who saw this phenomenon occur. The oflBcer of the guard went over the ship carefully, but no soldier on post had seen any one near the switches. It was a mystery. But when the same thing happened on four successive nights, always in the dead of night, it was clear that there was "dirty" work afoot. And so it proved, because on the fifth night, the man was caught red-handed, having made the connection by two hidden wires and thus causing the circuit. Rumor had it that he was an Austrian, and after we reached England, he was reported as having received his wellmerited reward, a blank wall and a firing squad. We landed at Liverpool after sixteen days on shipboard, and everybody was glad to be on "terra firma" again. We entrained in third-class coaches and pulled out of the Liverpool station at noon, bound for Southampton. It was a beautiful trip, the green fields and rolling hills forming a most welcome contrast to the monotonous expanse of ocean. Southampton, where we spent the night, gave us our first real touch of war. The streets were dark, no lights showing because of air raids. We marched through the silent town with here and there a face visible at some window crack, wondering, no doubt, who we were, very few of the inhabitants realizing until the following day that we were Americans.

We spent the night in a rest camp some three miles outside of the town, and the following afternoon we again boarded a ship, but this time a Channel steamer. It was a very small boat, and we had standing-room — that was all. A great target for a submarine. The men were crowded so closely together below decks that it was impossible even to sit down. When darkness settled, we crept out from the dock, and after picking up our escort of "chasers" zigzagged our way across to Havre, where we landed the following morning. I had managed to catch two hours' sleep, reposing on the deck beneath the smokestack, when, awakened by a sudden turning of the ship, I asked one of the boys, who was standing at the rail, whether anything interesting had happened during the night. "No, nothing much," was the answer; "a torpedo just missed us by twenty-five yards." Realizing that there might be more of them, and anxious to be there to see the fun, I joined my friend at the rail. No more excitement, however, and we docked at Havre, shouldered our packs, and stepped ashore. At last we were in France.

It was a wonderful feeling to see the enthusiasm of the French when they realized that we were Americans. They were glad to see us, — there was no question about it, — and we were equally glad to see them. There, for the first time, we saw a large base hospital with a steady stream of ambulances busy, bringing in the wounded. We heard rumors of a "big drive," and the number of wounded coming in seemed to corroborate this. As those wounded were carried by, you could see our boys straighten up, for they saw for the first time what war meant and they were more anxious than ever to get into it, to get to the front and to fight, as those boys had fought who were

BOXFORD TO FRANCE ii

passing by on their way to the hospital, with a smile on their tired faces.

The order came down to ''fall in" and off we went, packs on back, to another camp where we spent the day. I was assigned to an unloading detail, and so remained behind at the dock. While standing there waiting for orders, I saw my first "Boches." There they were, lots of them, German prisoners, working on the roads. It was a most welcome sight, and how they looked at us ! They would not believe we were Americans, but thought us English in disguise, as they put it. They could not imagine that America was in the war. It did not take them long, however, to accept this last report as a reality. After all the baggage had been unloaded, I rejoined my battery at the rest camp, where I found most of the boys, stretched out on the floor of the tents, snatching a few hours' sleep.

For the benefit of those who have not had a personal acquaintance with a rest camp, I will say that the expression "rest camp" does not, as its name implies, mean a camp for rest — n ONE OF THE Y. D.

far from it. The title was no doubt chosen with a view to inspiring in the hearts of the unknowing a hope of repose. We had no sooner arrived, however, and laid aside our packs temporarily, than orders came down to hurry "mess" and be ready to leave as soon as possible. All of which was done, and late afternoon found us again on our way, this time bound for the station, where we entrained and started on a journey to an unknown destination. Here it was that we made our first acquaintance with the "French Pullmans," and their well-known signs, " Hommes 40, Chevaux 8." They consisted of rather small box-cars with wooden benches placed inconveniently within, so that one could neither lie on the floor nor sit in any but the most uncomfortable positions.

Before leaving the station, some Australians, who had been back on a brief furlough and were returning to the front, came up to the cars and soon they were exchanging cigarettes and stories with our boys. They were fine examples of the highest type of soldier, fearless, good-natured, and with a certain dash which at once won the admiration and affection of their American brothers. They told us bits of "front-line" news and wished us "good luck" as we pulled out.

That night was one of the worst I ever spent in France. We had a car crowded to the full capacity, with scarcely room for the men to sit down, to say nothing of lying down. In fact, even to sit one had to be a contortionist of no mean ability. Finally, after much shifting of my position, I secured the least uncomfortable arrangement, and with my head and back on a bench and my legs on the floor was about to seek "soothing slumber" when I discovered that our car had a square wheel which made a most disconcerting noise. I began counting each revolution, reached somewhere about the sixteen hundred mark, when I fell into a semi-comatose state from which I was several times awakened by the too close proximity of some of my neighbors' feet. Thus passed the night.

Sunrise found us all awake and eagerly catching our first glimpse of "France from a box-car." We passed through much beautiful country — picturesque villages with their quaint houses, and large cities with their beautiful cathedrals. These, and especially the costumes of the people, were so interesting that the day passed quickly, and we were thinking once more of the night to come. We had decided that the benches must be taken up, piled in one corner, and the floor space utilized: which, after much difficulty, was accomplished. We stretched out, and were peacefully falling asleep when the train stopped, and we were ordered out. Out we jumped, and "fell in " with no idea of where we were or what was going to happen. After the usual delay the command "Rest" came down, and without even removing their packs the boys simply sank down on the ground, pillowed their heads on the soft side of a rail, and were "dead to the world," in less time than it takes to tell it. I never realized before how very comfortable a rail could be when used as a pillow, but it is all in the point of view. Soon we were again awakened, marched away from the tracks.

loaded into some trucks driven by French soldiers, and after ten or fifteen minutes, unloaded and marched away into the night. Some cheerful soul made the statement that he had overheard one of the officers say that we had only ten miles more to "hike" that night. Our optimistic friend, at precisely that moment, stubbed his toe and pitched headlong into a deep ditch, much to our delight. On and on we went, and as the distance increased so did the weight of our blanket rolls. Some one whispered in my ear, "Just think of all those good porters doing nothing down at the South Station." It was an awful thought. Soon we began to swear that the next step would be our last, and to curse inwardly the officers who marched steadily on, oblivious to the fact that they were carrying no equipment and we were. Suddenly came the order "Halt," and we did so gladly, only to move forward the next minute. A building loomed out of the darkness; we were led in. Our barracks! Concrete, with a very damp floor; but without even taking the time to undo our rolls we sank down and at once were asleep. As I drifted slowly into luxurious slumber, never, in the softest of feather beds, have I been one half as delieiously comfortable as I was on the damp concrete floor, with my mess-kit for a pillow.

Chapter II Training At Camp Coetquidan

Camp Coetquidan, where we found ourselves, was a typical French camp. It had been used by Napoleon as a place for the mobilization of his Second Army and had many interesting traditions. Many of the streets were named for French oflBcers who had fallen in battle and the place was filled with French soldiers and German prisoners. We were the first Americans to set foot in that neighborhood and were at once the center of interest. Those who were fortunate enough to speak French made speedy friends with the French poilus, who did all in their power to make us feel at home.

The surrounding country was beautiful. Long, rolling hills stretching far into the distance with here and there the tiny spire of some church marking the center of a small town. There were two towns near the camp, both picturesque from a distance, but upon nearer acquaintance found to be very dirty.

and the inhabitants exceedingly poor. But even from the poorest the hospitahty and goodcheer which were extended to our boys won their everlasting affection.

The German prisoners, for the most part, had been confined here since the beginning of the war. They were comfortably quartered in wooden barracks and seemed well fed and contented with life. They would not, at first, believe us Americans, but considered us, as had those at Havre, English in disguise.

Our quarters were in stone barracks. We slept on iron cots, and on the whole were very comfortable. In looking back at these luxuries when at the front, some one would remark, lying upon the floor of a leaky dug-out, "The Battle of Coetquidan was a tough one." We were well off, and we knew it. One day of rest, after our journey, and we started in upon our course of intensive training. Until the material (guns, caissons, and limbers) arrived, we spent most of the time taking long "hikes" into the surrounding country in order to toughen the men and get them into condition as rapidly as

CAMP COETQUIDAN 19

possible. The first Sunday in camp was a "redletter" day in my life. After much "parlezvous"-ing, I succeeded in getting a French corporal for an hour's instruction on a French "75." It was the first time I had seen the famous gun, and inasmuch as we knew that we were to use the French guns, I was particularly anxious to learn the differences between the "75" and our American three-inch which latter we had used in the States. It was wonderful to hear this old French soldier, who had been at the front for three years, explain in simple French the wonders of the gun that had saved France. Before I knew it, the afternoon had passed.

Within a comparatively short time our guns came, and under French instruction we started our preliminary training. Our officers, as well as the men, had to learn the field artillery game as the French played it, from the very beginning. It was hard work for all concerned, and when night came we were all more than glad to seek a good meal in the small town of Saint-Malo, our bunks, and sleep.

Five or six of us used to patronize a certain cafe. We were the first Americans whom they had ever seen and consequently we always had the best. We ordered huge omelets of from thirty-six to fifty-four eggs regularly, but it was not long before we tired of omelets, and so one night I suggested good old American scrambled eggs. The vote was unanimous, so I arose and sought the madame. It took me four successive evenings of explaining, in French, before we attained the desired result, but finally we were successful, and from that night on, our cafe was famous as having "les oeufs americains." To my surprise, the French do not eat toast. It took me a long time to teach the good old lady how to make this delicacy, but we were again successful, and our suppers at this place were oases in the desert of long hours and hard work.

Although the work was hard, it was interesting, and we made such rapid progress that after two weeks of simulated fire, the officers decided to take us on the range for actual firing. I will never forget the excitement of that

CAMP COETQUIDAN 21

early start for real fire. It was a cold, wet morning, and we were well on our way at dawn. The guns had been put into position the night before by the French, as we had no horses of our own as yet, so all was in readiness when we arrived. The first four gun sections took charge of their respective guns, cleaned them with great care, and received the final instructions from the battery commander. There was some delay caused by the fog which made observation diflScult, but as the sun broke through the cloud, the command "Load" was given, and we stood clear for the first shot. "Fire," and C Battery spoke for the first time in its official capacity. After the first shot, all nervousness vanished, and before noon the men were performing like veterans.

For weeks we had been eagerly expecting our horses, and at last they arrived. Never in all my life have I seen such confusion. Of course those who were entitled to single mounts were anxious to get their pick before the best ones had been taken. The officers come first, and then the "Non-Coms" in order of rank. I shall never forget one sergeant, who was anxious for a horse with ''pep." He had been making the stable sergeant's Hfe miserable for the previous two weeks. Finally, when his turn came we all lined up to watch him make his selection. It had been raining all the night before and the ground was covered with some three or four inches of nice, soft, slimy mud. After choosing a high-spirited animal, he led it out and sprang into the saddle, paused there a moment, and after executing a complete somersault (one of the neatest I ever saw), measured his six feet in the mud. It took three of us to help him extricate himself from the clutches of mother earth. His only request was that he be given any horse at all, provided that it was a gentle beast, and preferably blind. Many were the boys who, a few short weeks before, had boasted of their equestrian powers, but now met with a similar Waterloo.

Thanksgiving was drawing near and great was the interest among the men as to whether or not they would have real turkey. The supply companies were working day and night.

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CAMP COETQUIDAN 23

Great truck-loads of provisions were coming in daily, and when, the day before Thanksgiving, our battery received four more turkeys than their allowance called for (thanks to our mess sergeant, who was an "old-timer" at that great army game "catch as catch can"), joy reigned supreme. The cooks were busy for twenty-four hours preparing the dinner. And so on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day we trooped into the mess shack with our messkits "stripped for action," to find a feast awaiting us which was worthy of the highest traditions of good old New England. We had mashed potatoes, \yith real gravy, turkey and all you could eat of it, celery, peas — in short, everything that our minds had been picturing for the previous two weeks as essential to a Thanksgiving dinner. But when real apple, squash, and mince pies were brought on, followed by candy and cigars from S. S. Pierce's, Boston, imagine it! There was n't a man in that mess shack who would n't have cheerfully yielded up his life (after the dinner, of course) for those cooks.

As time passed, the 102d and 103d Regiments of our brigade arrived from the States, and were immediately set to work. As the Americans moved in, the French began to move out, and it was not long before the camp was almost entirely American, save for the German prisoners. There was a certain division which was reported as having sailed before us, but when they arrived a good month after the Yankee boys, there was much good-natured joking at their expense.

Training, at best, is very tiresome, and it was not long before we were thoroughly anxious to be on the move again, especially as we knew that the next move would be "the front."

Christmas came with its many letters and packages from home. Much delicious fruitcake and cigarettes, and last, but by no means least, a real Christmas dinner. The weather was cold, but no snow had fallen and our regular routine of training continued unbroken, save by the rumors of a move which continued to float down to us from time to time.

CAMP COETQUIDAN 25

Early in January, we prepared for an inspection by our brigade commander. General William L. Lassiter, a splendid soldier and very popular with the men. For days horses were groomed, material cleaned, barracks swept. We were given to understand that upon this inspection depended our fate: whether we would leave, or continue our training. We passed with flying colors, and soon the orders came down to turn in all surplus equipment and get ready for a quick move. Rumor had it that we were to join our infantry at Neuf Chateau where we were to train with them for a short time and then go up to the line.

On Thursday, the 31st of January, 1918, the long-expected orders came. Everything had been in readiness for days, so it was a simple matter to pack up, and by night everything was prepared. That day we went through the gas chamber in order to test both our French and English masks, which we found in excellent condition.

The next morning at exactly eleven-thirty, we " hitched in," made our blanket rolls secure on the carriages, and pulled out of park. We reached the entraining point at about twothirty, but it was not until four that our battery began to entrain. It took us something over two hours, and shortly after dark we pulled out of the station, bound for — no one knew where.

CHAPTER III MOVING TO THE FRONT To entrain a battery is no small task. In the first place, an officer and several men are sent ahead of the battery and their duty is to mark each car with chalk indicating for what it is to be used. The horse-cars have an allotment of eight horses, and the cars in which the men travel, hold anywhere from thirty to forty, depending upon their size. Then there are the flatcars for the guns, limbers, and caissons, the two park wagons, fourgon wagon, forge and store wagons, ration-cart, water-wagon, and last, but most important of all, the "soup gun" (or movable kitchen). The greatest difficulty comes in loading the horses. To induce, by fair means or foul, a horse to enter one of those cars requires much patience and practice. There was one particular horse that caused no end of trouble. He simply would not go in. Finally the captain, doubtless disgusted with the efforts of the men, seized the bridle with a determined hand, but all to no avail. A horse is the one thing in the army that treats oflficers and men alike. And the captain did not impress this one in the slightest. He would not move. Then it was that a wise old sergeant suggested a method of attack. Two men, each holding the ends of a rope, standing on each side of the horse maneuvered the rope so that it surrounded the animal's quarters, then with a sudden pull, they deftly slid our troublesome friend into the car in a "sitting-down" position; humiliating, no doubt, for the horse, but a very effective method.