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Stories from the Trenches: Funny Tales the Soldiers Tell

[47] <h2>LIFE AT THE FRONT</h2> HERE are letters from the boys at the front telling the folks at home of their experiences, humorous, pathetic, and tragic. They present pictures of war life with an intimate touch that brings out all the striking detail. James E. Parshall, of Detroit, is serving with the American ambulance unit in the French army. The Detroit Saturday Night, which prints his letter, believes that the “drive” referred to by him was either on the Aisne front or in the Verdun sector. The letter says in part: Dear People: Sherman was right! I have been debating with myself about what to say in this letter. I think I’ll tell you all about it and add that if by the time this reaches you you have heard nothing to the contrary, I am all O. K. You see, we are in a big offensive which will be over in about ten days. As a rule it’s not nearly as bad as this. The day before yesterday we arrived at our base, about seven miles from the lines. It is a little town which has been pretty well shot up, and is shelled now about once a week. In the afternoon one driver from each car was taken up and shown the roads and posts. The coin flopped for me. The roads to the front run mostly through deep woods. These woods are full of very heavy batteries which are continually shelling the enemy, and, in turn, we are continuously being sought out by the Boche gunners.[48] As a result, it’s some hot place to drive through. Also, as a result of the continuous shelling, the roads are very bad. [Here there is a break in the letter, which begins again after four days.] I was so nervous when I started this letter that I had to quit, and this is the first time since then that I have felt like writing. A great deal has happened, but in order not to mix everything up I’ll start in where I left off. Our first post from the base is in a little village which is entirely demolished. It is in a little valley, and the two big marine guns that are stationed there draw a very disquieting Boche fire about five times a day regularly. The next post is at a graveyard in the woods. There are no batteries in the immediate vicinity, and so it is quiet, but not very cheerful. (That’s where I am now, “on reserve.”) The third post out is where we got our initiation. It was a hot one! Right next to the abri is a battery of three very large mortars. Besides these there are several batteries of smaller guns. When we came up they were all going at full tilt. In addition, the Boches had just got the range and the shells were exploding all around us. As we jumped out of the car and ran for the abri two horses tied to a tree about fifty feet from us were hit and killed. We waited in the abri till the bombardment calmed a bit. When we came out two more horses were dead and a third kicking his last. From here we walked about a half mile to the most advanced post on that road. I’ll never forget that walk! The noise was terrific and the shells passing overhead[49] made a continuous scream. Quite frequently we would hear the distinctive screech of an incoming shell. Then everyone would fall flat on his stomach in the road. Believe me, we were a scared bunch of boys! I was absolutely terrified, and I don’t think I was the only one. Well, we eventually got back to the car and to the base. At twelve o’clock that night the Boches started shelling the town. You can’t imagine the feeling it gives one in the pit of one’s stomach to hear the gun go off in the distance, then the horrible screech of the onrushing shell, and finally the deafening explosion that shakes the plaster down on your cot. Our chiefs were at the outposts, and none of us knew enough to get out and go to the abri, so we just lay there shivering and sweating a cold sweat through the whole bombardment. Gosh, but I was a scared boy! Of a gas attack he writes: “We had to wear those suffocating gas masks for five hours,” and then: About three o’clock in the morning the car ahead of us at the post started out in their masks and in the pitch of blackness with a load. In about a half hour one of the boys on the car staggered back into the abri, half gassed, and said that they were in the ditch down in a little valley full of gas. So we had to go down and get their load. Believe me, it was some ticklish and nerve-racking job to transfer three groaning couches from a car in the ditch at a perilous angle to ours, in a cloud of gas, and with the shells bursting uncomfortably near quite frequently. We finally got them in and got started. We got about a half mile farther on to the top of the hill going down[50] into what is known as “Death Valley.” In the valley was a sight that was most discouraging. Seven or eight horses were lying in the road, gassed, some of them still kicking. A big camion was half in the ditch and half on the road. An ammunition caisson that had tried to get past the blockade by going down through the ditch was stuck there. Remember that all this was just at the break of dawn, in a cloud of gas, with the French batteries making a continuous roar and an occasional Boche shell making every one flop on his stomach. How we ever got through there I really couldn’t tell you. My partner told the Frenchmen who were vainly trying to straighten out the mess that we had a couple of dying men in the car, so they yanked a few horses to one side, drove the camion a little farther into the ditch, and, by driving over a horse’s head and another one’s legs, I got through. On the whole, I’ve been quite lucky. Some of the other boys have had some really awful experiences. About the day after tomorrow we go en repos, and it’s sure going to seem good to eat and sleep, without getting up and sprinting for an abri or throwing one’s self, and incidentally a plate of good food, on the ground. We saw a very interesting thing the other day. We were sitting out in front of our cantonment at the base. About a quarter of a mile from us was one of the big observation balloons or “sausages.” Suddenly, from behind a cloud, just above the balloon a Boche aeroplane darted out. The Boche and the balloonist both fired their machine guns at each other simultaneously. The[51] aeroplane wobbled a little and started to volplane to earth. The balloon burst into flames. The observer dropped about fifty feet, and then his parachute opened and he sailed slowly down. When the Boche landed they found him dead with a bullet in his chest. It was quite an exciting sight. A battle between two planes is quite common, and one can look up at almost any time and see the aircraft bombs bursting around some Boche thousands of feet in the air. At last the “drive” is over, and the letter describes the prisoners, at whose youth he expresses surprise. But they are happy, though nearly starved—happy to be prisoners. The writer says: I have seen hundreds of Boche prisoners, four thousand having been taken in the attack. We see them march past the poste-de-secours about half an hour after they have been captured. I have talked with several of them and received lots of interesting information. They are all very happy, but nearly starved. Two slightly wounded ones were brought into the post the other day. A dirty little crust of bread was lying on the ground. They both made a dive for it. They are all awfully young, mostly between seventeen and twenty-one. One of them told me, among other things, that by next spring Germany would be absolutely finished. A soldier’s fare, he said, was one pound of poor bread and one liter of wine a day, except during a heavy attack, when they are given some thin soup. The civilians, he said, were still worse off, especially in the cities. [52] An Iowa boy, a Y. M. C. A. secretary, who is in the camion service in the French army, tells how he arrived in Paris, how he happened to become a soldier of France, and some other interesting details, including the amount of his salary—$1.20 per month! He found the ambulance service—which he had intended to join—crowded, and was told that there would be some delay in getting cars. Even if he did get a car he was told that the chances were against his seeing any action, as he might be attached to an inactive division. He was therefore urged to join the camion service—the ammunition truck organization—in which he was assured he would be kept busy day and night as long as he could stand it. There was no camouflage about that. In order to get into this service, one must join the French army, and after thinking the matter over for a few days the Iowa lad “joined” the French colors with a group of American college boys. Here is his letter in part as printed in Wallace’s Farmer, of Des Moines: So here I am enrolled as a member of the French army, carrying a French gun, gas mask, and helmet, and eating French army rations. We are paid for our services the sum of $1.20 a month. We underwent a week of intensive training, being drilled in the French manual and army movements, and spending our leisure hours in building roads. Our sector was active when we arrived at the camp, which is situated a few miles back of the lines; so we were put to work almost immediately. We make two kinds of trips, day trips and night trips; and perhaps if I tell you about my first experience in each it will give you an idea of the character. [53] We were called at 3:30 A.M., so as to be ready to leave at four o’clock. Our convoy went to the nearby loading station and loaded up with 468 rounds of ammunition for the French “75” guns, which correspond to our three-inch guns. We carted these up to the dumping station near the batteries, and then came back. Nothing exciting happened, and we arrived in camp about 7 P.M. That night I was on guard duty during the last watch, and the following morning we worked our cars. The rough roads and the heavy loads are very hard on the cars as well as on the drivers, so that we must go over the cars every day to keep them in the pink of condition. That afternoon we got our orders to leave at 4 P.M. We loaded with barbed wire, iron posts, and lumber. The man in charge at the yards warned us that the wind was exactly right for Fritz to send over a bit of gas. So we hung our gas masks about our necks. It takes only thirty seconds for the gas to get in its work on you, and you must be prepared to put on the mask quickly. We started for the front at dark; no lights were allowed. We traveled along screened roads, by columns of artillery wagons, and with infantry moving in every direction, and with staff cars and ambulances dodging in and out for several miles. Finally we turned off on a narrow road which bore the marks of having received a shelling, and went through towns which had been leveled absolutely to the ground by shell fire, and passed an endless chain of dugouts, until we came to our destination. Most of our cars were unloaded and drawn up on a long, straight road just outside of the station, when our batteries opened up on the Germans. They certainly[54] made some noise. They had not fired many rounds before Fritz began to retaliate, and then it was our turn to worry. His first shells went wild over our heads, but he got the range of the roads on which our trucks were packed, and very soon a shell struck about half a mile down the road. The next shell came closer. He was getting our range and coming straight up the road with his shrapnel. By this time the remaining cars were unloaded and had swung into line ready to leave. Just as a big shrapnel burst about fifty yards away, our lieutenant gave orders to start, and to start quickly. Believe me, brother, we did! The shells were screaming over our heads, and I was just about scared to death. I should not have worried about the screaming shells, because they are harmless as a barking dog. It is when they stop screaming that you want to get worried. Then he describes briefly the horrors of the war and expresses some doubt as to man’s status being much above that of the beast. He says: When you see the fields laid waste, depopulated, battered, and desolated, and people in the last stages of poverty, you doubt whether man is nearer to God than is the most cruel of beasts. It is truly a war for liberty, for liberty in politics, ideals, and standards of living. I believe that any one here who is at all sensitive or responsive to his environment feels as I do. <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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