USA > Pennsylvania > York County > York > York County and the World War: Being a war history of York and York County > Part 19
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I am now really and truly in the war. All the realities of a terrible warfare have been opened before my eyes.
To think that I am now in the very midst of this greatest war in history is something that my mind is hardly able to grasp.
For three years I have read about it in a careless, rather unsympathetic manner. Every day at home I read about the terrible casualties, but my heart never beat any faster for all that; but now I am interested heart and soul.
I have seen what France has sacrificed. Everywhere out here you see immense military cemeteries, where men are actually dumped into the ground, and as you look over what seems like measureless acres of rude erosses, each one bearing this inscription, "Mort pour le France" (Died for France), you go home with a heavy heart.
I wish I could tell you where I am and through what places I traveled to get here, but I can't. Nevertheless I will say that I am three-quarters of a mile from the French first line trenches somewhere in France.
Now three-quarters of a mile is not very far, you know; the artillery these days is very heavy; so we are situated in front of all the French guns.
Some of the heavy French guns are several miles behind us and from that distance guns are placed nearer and nearer the lines as they grow smaller in size, you understand. Now these guns shoot over the heads of their own men in the trenches into the German trenches beyond; and, of course, they are continually shooting over our heads. because we are only a little distance behind the trenches.
I am writing this letter from a "Poste de Secours". Now this Poste de Secours is a cave deep underground, because the Germans have a nasty habit of shelling this place continually.
You see the Germans not only shell the French infantry, which is in front of us, but the French artillery, which is behind us. So we eat, write and read to the tune of flying shells.
I have grown accustomed to the sound of the French shells flying over our heads. They are, of course, not meant for us, but nevertheless at first they are rather disturbing. They make a swishing sound, like a bueket when you swing it around your head as fast as you can. You can hear them coming a long way off.
There is a battery of heavy guns not a hundred feet from here. When they fire it almost knocks you down; and when they fire at night, like they did last night, you can't sleep.
Of course there are hundreds of guns all around us, and when they all get going you have a nice little Fourth of July celebration.
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At night, when all these guns get going, you have a sight which can never be forgotten. Every hill for miles around seems to belch out a little hell all its own. Everywhere you look there is a continuous stream of fire. Add to that the noise of the shells passing over and the noise of bursting German shells, and you can realize, if your imagination is fertile, what a terrible rumpus is kicked up. I never saw a more terrible, yet more inspiring sight, than artillery fire at night. You have to see the thing to rea- lize it.
I didn't get much sleep last night; there was too much noise and I hadn't grown accustomed to it yet. Besides, stretcher bearers were bringing in wounded a good part of the night, and we had to get out and take them to the hospital.
We work four "Poste de Secours". There is one car at one poste all the time. Every day we move up to a new poste. Thus we are out four days at a stretch from our base, which is five miles from the lines.
We have (George Griffith and I) been out at the front three days. We have one more poste-one that only can be reached at night with any degree of safety. We go there tonight at 8:36, leave at 4 in the morning for our base, where we can rest for about four days.
Thus for four days I have slept only about ten hours. But I shall make up when I get back to base. It is too much strain to stay here all the time.
Before I came out here I had a ride in an aeroplane. We were stationed for a few days right beside an aviation camp. I got chummy with a pilot and seized the opportunity when it came. You told me not to take any unnecessary danger when I left. I have disobeyed this order once. I could not resist the temptation to take an aeroplane flight. We were up twenty minutes, during which time I managed to almost freeze. I wasn't scared a bit after I got used to it; it is not like being on top of a high building; you get no sensation of dizziness, because the machine is all around you.
You can't talk-too much noise from the motor. You can't imagine the sensation of gliding along absolutely unburdened in mid-air. You get a certain sense of freedom, just like a bird must feel.
When you take a dive (and we took plenty) your stomach comes up in your mouth as if you were descending in a fast elevator.
But the thing that scares you at first is this: when you take a turn you bank your machine up on one side so that the planes point straight to the ground. In other words, you turn your machine half way over to take the turn properly.
Well, the first time he did this, I had a funny feeling: I thought sure I was a goner. The ground looks awfully far off and you say. "well, I do hope that motor keeps going". But I enjoyed the ex- perience a lot and would like to go again.
When he came down, he came straight down for about 1,580 feet, when he straightened and touched the ground as softly as a feather. I have a picture taken as I was coming out of the machine after the flight; will send it to you.
We have lots of fun here dodging aeroplane bombs. It has been moonlight here for a week-very suitable time for air raids. The first time they came over was one of the beautiful nights we were beside the aviation camp, before we came to the front. They like to bomb aeroplane camps, you know.
Imagine the scene: We were sleeping in our cars on the stretchers (we always sleep in our cars when we are not in a dangerous place). Here, however, we sleep in a cave, as I said before, very deep under- ground. Last night the Frenchmen in here closed all the doors, started their terribly strong pipes, with a result very conducive to headache in the morning.
Between the artillery, bad air and huge rats, which run joyfully over your blankets and across your bunk, I had very little sleep. To tell the truth, I was more afraid of the rats than the German shells.
But to return to the aeroplane story. We were all sleeping soundly, when a guard cries out, "Des Bosches, des Bosches: cher chez les abris" (the Germans, the Germans; go to the underground cave.)
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Well away everybody runs like frightened sheep to the caves. We never undress on duty, so of course we did not have to dress.
You hear the German planes draw nearer and nearer-a dull, humming sound in the night, like a distant hive of bees. Soon you see the French searchlights search the sky, a beautiful sight, and soon you hear a tap, tap of the machine guns and anti-aircraft guns. But the German planes grow nearer. Soon the motor ceases for a moment and almost simultaneously with that you hear a fearful explosion. A German bomb dropped from the plane. They have never come very close to me yet, but they cause terrible destruction and make you hunt the caves at all hours of the night. Of course I see lots of German planes by day. By day they observe; at night they drop bombs.
A French plane is a common sight. You see it flying very high, with clouds of white smoke all around it. These small bunches of clouds of white smoke are French shells. In exploding they leave a white smoke, so that it can be determined how close the shell came. The Germans, in firing on French planes, use a shell which leaves a black cloud of smoke. Likewise you can tell German shrapnel by the size cloud of smoke it leaves.
Yesterday I saw a battle between a German and French plane. It was the most exciting thing imaginable. They were very high, but easily seen. They would make for each other, all the time firing their guns. Then one would take a long dive, which looked all the world like it was falling, and everybody would draw a breath. Then the machine would right itself, swoop down in a long eircle and up again, in an endeavor to get above the other plane. The higher plane has the advantage. I never saw such clever maneuvering. But at last the Frenchman got above and down the German came like a stone, his machine turning over as he came. It was a terrible sickening sight to see him fall, but we all cheered.
Sunday, July 15th.
As I was writing this letter a call came for wounded at another poste de secours, even nearer the line than this one. So we went up there in the dead of night, the night of July 13th, carried our wounded down to the hospital, arriving there about 4 A. M. We rested there a day. Then we came out to this poste again-the place where I started this letter and hope to finish it.
k .- * As I said, we are way underground here, practically safe from shell fire, but we dare not go out and stand around. The Germans are shelling pretty heavily this morning, although most of them are going over our heads, in an effort to hit the French artillery in the rear of us.
You can see the devilish things as they come. They make a whining, growling sound miles off. As they get nearer the whine gets more and more distinct. The dickens of it is that you can hear the whine but you can't tell at all where it will land.
I had an interesting experience last night. When we were coming out here, the guard along the road stopped us and told us to stop at a certain poste a little farther on, because the road beyond that was being heavily shelled; so we did stop. I had just put my machine in when I heard that infernal whining sound. I immediately lay flat on the ground, following the example of all the rest. Well the shell wasn't very far off; nobody was hurt, of course, but after that everybody went in the cave.
We wear steel helmets to protect us from shrapnel. They are very heavy at first, but we easily get used to them. We are also compelled to carry our gas masks with us at all times.
Well, as I said, we stopped a while at this poste along the road, until it was safe to proceed. But the Germans weren't satisfied with ordinary shrapnel sheels; they began to send over gas shells. When these explode they fill the air with gas, for the purpose of hindering French artillery fire. This was not dangerous gas, only tear gas. It makes you cough and cry like a baby; the tears just stream down your face; it's a funny sight. Well, the way to get around that is to put on your gas mask, and that is what we did. You stop crying at once. Then everything goes fine. It's a funny sight to see men running around with these masks on, just like a bunch of men with false faces, but with them they can
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proceed to their various tasks unhindered by the gas. Well, as we were running around there with these masks. we found out we had to proceed on our way. So we did.
Yesterday was the 4th of July for the Frenchmen, you know; that is the 14th of July. They cele- brated the occasion by giving the Germans a very severe artillery fire from 6 to 9 P. M. So as we started out and were proceeding along the road, all the French artillery all around us opened up. We were right in the midst of noise that almost shook your heart out of you. Add to that the gas. a few German shells and a road filled up with wagoners yelling and crying at their horses. It was a great experience, not particularly dangerous, but rather trying on the nerves. If some one had been with us and hadn't known that all the noise around us was French artillery fire, he would have died from fear. because it really was horrible.
You learn to know when you are in danger very soon, and as for the horrible shell fire, you soon get used to it. But I don't want you to worry about me. This may seem bad when you read it, but,
FUNERAL OF JAMES WILSON GAILY
believe me, it is not particularly dangerous. I only write about shells, etc., because I want you to know about some of the methods of this war.
If you were sitting beside me now, transported, as it were, by some Divine way (I wish it were true), and hadn't grown used to this thing, you would think that there wasn't very much chance for this poor kid.
It is now ! P. M., Sunday. But who would know it is Sunday? You are now in church and I can't help envying you. There is a church in this town, but only one seat left, so I guess we won't attend today. I say you are gathered together in that good old church at Centre. far away from war. Would to God there was no war here. I can walk ten feet and see a hundred stone piles, all that is left of a hundred happy homes, all the inhabitants gone. the church destroyed, the trees shot into stumps: and so it is all over this war zone.
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I have seen the war now and I know what it is. Thank God it can't last much longer: it may be over by winter. When I realize that hundreds of thousands have given up their lives, when I see all this destruction of property, when I carry wounded who yell every time you drive over a rough road too fast, it makes me siek and also makes me think this business is no fun. It is nice to talk about in America, but here it is hell.
I have only received one letter from you since I left home. I have written you often, but do not know whether you ever received them or not.
The mail system over here is naturally very irregular. I have quite a lot of postals and pictures (my running mate has two cameras and I shall get the pictures he takes), but can't send them now. You will see them when I get home.
I wish I could tell you all I see and hear and feel, I know I will be a better man for it all.
Don't worry about me. Write me often and I shall try to do the same. Remember that, after all. I am not in so much danger as thousands of other men. We must do our duty.
I send my love to you all.
WILSON
LETTER RECEIVED BY MRS. A. L. BAIR ON HER SON HAROLD'S DEATH
October 20, 1918. France.
MRS. A. L BAIR, Hanover, Pa.
My dear Mrs. Bair:
You will know of your son's death by the time this reaches you, and I am not writing to sadden you, but to tell you all I know about the circumstances of his death on the field of battle, and to tell the love and esteem all of his comrades bore toward him.
It was the last day of the battle, and Regimental Headquarters was located on the edge of a little woods on top of a hill. Through the woods, down the gentle slope and across the little valley, another woods, and there were the Germans with batteries and machine guns. We were right out in the open. and shells had been exploding about us all day, gas, shrapnel, and high explosive.
About 2:30 in the afternoon-it was Sunday, September 29th the Colonel was dietating a message to Harold, and I stood facing both of them, a few feet away. A high explosive shell burst behind me, and after the stun of the deafening crash. the Colonel and Ilarold lay on the ground. The Adjutant and I rushed to them. The Colonel was only bruised-a piece of shell had ripped his canteen apart and only bruised him. Harold got a large fragment, tearing a great gash in his right leg below his thigh and in back. Major Cornwell himself was there, Chief Regimental Surgeon, and he immediately composed Harold's leg, applied a tourniquet and handage, gave him an anti-tetanus injection, and later a little morphine to relieve his pain. He was conseious throughout, and as brave as any man I have ever seen, although he was rapidly losing strength. We did everything possible for him, for we loved him and respected him.
He called me to him and asked me: "Am I going to die, Lieutenant?" I couldn't tell him, and told him he would soon be asleep, and I gave him of my canteen. A few minutes later he called me to him and asked: "Captain you are a Mason, aren't you?" I told him, "Yes", and he said: "Won't you write to my good old mother, she is a Quaker, and you tell her she is right,-and that I love her". Then he closed his eyes. Ile murmured a bit after then in his sleep, and died about four o'eloek.
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The battle continued, and I had to continue the message that he had started-working to the last. I saw him lie quiet, and walked to him and covered him with a captured German shelter-half, and there on the field of battle, with shells still bursting about his noble body, I stood a moment in prayer, and my heart wept for this splendid man, your son.
We had to leave him there when another American regiment relieved us. He wore his identification tag, and you will doubtless hear officially of his death and place of burial, probably about two kilo- meters north of Montfaucon, not many miles from Verdun.
I enelose some papers from his notebook and some cards. I don't know who has his personal things. The photograph of the French girl is of Odette Audie, the little school teacher baek in the town where we had our peaceful training. Harold and I both have talked with her together in those quiet days. She is a good girl, and would grieve for your son.
Tell the members of his lodge that I, a Mason, Conemaugh Valley Lodge No. 692, Johnstown, Pa., esteemed him as a worthy brother.
And to you, his mother, I write my heartfelt sympathy. He lived nobly and died nobly, held the highest non-commissioned office the Regiment offers, Regimental Sergeant-Major, and was loved by all his comrades.
Believe me, Very sincerely,
CARL E. GLOCK, 616 Somerset St., Johnstown, Pa.
Censored C. E. GLOCK Captain, U. S. A.
LETTER RECEIVED BY MR. R. H. KLINEDINST DESCRIBING HOW HIS SON JOSEPH WAS KILLED IN ACTION
Dear Mr. Klinedinst:
The boys of Company F wish to thank you for your kind letter, and we respect your noble and manly spirit with which you accept the news of the death of your boy.
We mourn with you the loss of a good friend and comrade. Joseph was a friend of every man in the Company. You have good reasons to be proud of your boy. He went through the second battle of the Marne, and let me tell you there were but a few of us that eame back.
Then we were up in the St. Mihiel seetor, and later on the Verdun front, but when we came back from there Joseph was not with us. He was used as a messenger at the front, and it was while per- forming this duty that he was killed. Unselfishly he offered his life for the great cause, for his Country, his flag and his loved ones.
Two messengers were sent out over a shelled field. It looked like certain death, but they had orders to deliver the messages. One messenger turned back. the other went forward to perform his duty-after the battle he was found on the battlefield. the message still with him. That was your boy. Ile had himself received a greater and more important message from the Almighty above, and he had responded cheerfully.
FROM THE BOYS OF COMPANY F.
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LETTER RECEIVED BY MRS. ANNIE C. ALTHOFF FROM CAPTAIN N. H. MASSIE DESCRIBING THE DEATH OF HER SON SERGEANT PAUL J. ALTHOFF
In replying to your letter of February 16, 1919, inquiring as to particulars of your son's death, I will endeavor to accquaint you with all the details that tend to alleviate the sorrow of a loved one's death. To know the exact manner of how he was wounded and how he accepted his fate will no doubt seem to shorten the time and distance between him and you since you last saw him.
It was on the 11th day of June, 1918, when the U. S. Marines had been holding back the Huns in Bellau Woods, and standing between them and Paris, when even the French soldiers had been giving ground. They stayed when it seemed that nothing could resist the hordes of Hun shock troops that were thrown against their lines. Paul was in the midst of the fiercest part of this fighting and time and time again proved himself a hero by his gallant actions and fighting abilities. There was no such word as " Fear " for him. On this day the Marines seeking greater honors than merely stopping the invaders, started to push them back and caused them to retreat some few kilometers.
It was while making this glorious advance in the Bois de la Brigade de Marines, (so named in honor of the Marines who fought there in June), that our Company was held up by a machine gun. Your son Paul volunteered with several other men to capture this gun. They captured it too but while rushing this machine gun, the gunners of which were firing at its highest speed, Paul was struck by a machine gun bullet that inflicted a wound which caused his death in Feld Hospital No. 15 a few hours later.
He knew his wound would be fatal, but accepted circumstances calmly. When some of his com- rades were bearing him off of the field to the hospital he conversed with them on the glorious beating they had given the enemy that day, and how he was sorry to think that he would not be able to get another erack at them. It was with great sorrow that his comrades parted with him at the dressing station. Paul had made himself a friend with the entire company on account of his never ending good humor and willingness to bear his share of the burden, never complaining and always a source of good cheer. It was during this battle that the commanding officer of his company was mortally wounded.
I regret that I am unable to inform you as to the location of Cemetery No. 211, but rest assured that you will soon be notified of the exact spot. It is my most earnest desire that you may find com- fort and solace in these lines, and that the knowledge that your son bravely sacrificed his life for the benefit of his comrades and country on the field of honor may in some way recompense you for your great sacrifice.
Signed CAPTAIN N. H. MASSIE Commander 51st Company U. S. Marines, A. E. F.
ROSCOE HANNIGAN, EAST PROSPECT, DESCRIBES THE ACTION IN WHICHI HE WAS DISABLED
On the Riviera, November 2, 1918.
Dear Brother:
Tonight I am happy pourquoi (why)? Simply because I received oodles and oodles of letters in today's mail from home, sweet home, the first mail to reach me since the latter part of August, thus the joy and happiness. There is nothing that will bring more cheer and gladness to me than news from the good old U. S. A. During my sojourn in France I have done very little corresponding, practically all of my writing has been in the form of little notes, which I mailed to the folks at home whenever
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the opportunity presented itself, just merely stating conditions in a rather indefinite manner, for I was afraid to go into details owing to the censorship which existed in our division; then again during the months of July and August my regiment was continually in the trenches and my position as bat- talion surgeon kept me extremely busy: then following my misfortune the last week of August, which I never gave you the full details of more than that I was sick in the hospital and physically unable to write.
However, since kind Providence spared my life and I am away down here along the Riviera con- valescing, I will give you a short synopsis of how it happened. It was one bright morning just as dawn was breaking, the birds in the trees singing their beautiful morning melodies, the entire front peaceful and quiet, everybody fully clothed and at their post for stand too-suddenly like a bolt out of the beautiful blue sky the Boche opened with their big guns. It was a perfect barrage and accurately laid down. Prior to this we had daily combats with the Boche artillery and I had sort of become accustomed to the howling and bursting of their shells. However, during my stay in the front, I never experienced such a terrific bombardment as we had that morning-the whole earth apparently shook and the noise was indescribable, bits of shrapnel and missiles flying in all directions. The air became foul smelling and extremely pungent. Ah! gas phosgene and mustard. I was busily engaged administering to some of the poor boys who had been hit. Assisting me was my sergeant and several stretcher bearers; neither one of us detected the gas until we all inhaled some of the poisonous substance.
Immediately we adjusted our masks but the damage had already been done, at least to me, for at that time I was a bit put out with the Spanish Flu and my respiratory organs were not in a very receptive mood for gas.
We did not adjust our masks immediately at the first sound of the thrombus horn and gongs. My aid station was located a short distance in the rear and consequently we did not hear the signal, the noise was so great. My little band of M. C. boys and I continued to work until we had all of our casualties for the morning disposed of-went to my dugout extremely tired and feeling none too good from the gas which I inhaled. I continued to grow worse and by night was violently ill. In a little while found myself on a stretcher, carrying me out of my dugout and gently placing the stretcher and its contents in an ambulance, rushed off' to a field hospital about nine or ten kilometers in the rear. Oh! I was some sick boy-with each breath it felt like someone was sticking a dagger into my back and chest. The following day my attending physician told me that I had pneumonia. Long about the sixth or seventh day of my sojourn at the field hospital the Boche decided that I remained there long enough and immediately began to shell the small town in which the hospital was located. It was a damp. dark and foggy night, and at the most critical period of my illness. Nevertheless the order came through to move all patients.
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