The first shot for liberty; the story of an American who went over with the first expeditionary force and served his country at the front
*y* ^ ■<*■♦■ »■»■ *■ fc-*-< '^ ... FIRST SHOT FOR LffiERT Y CORPORAL OSBORNE deVARILA 0 c z ENSE PETIT PLACI DAM SUB LIBER > < m 70 From the Library of m o 1 H -< RALPH EMERSON FORBES 1866-1937 c m 1 o -n H m > 2 SACHUSETTS BOSTON LIBRARY 1 1 Corporal Osborne de Varila Battery C, Sixth Field Artillery THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY THE STORY OF AN AMERICAN WHO WENT OVER WITH THE FIRST EXPEDITIONARY FORCE AND SERVED HIS COUNTRY AT THE FRONT By CORPORAL OSBORNE DE VARILA Battery C, Sixth U. S. Field Artillery, Who fired the first shot of the American Army ILLUSTRATED THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO F'S- Copyright, 1918, by THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. tDNIV. m MAMACHUSgpi ^^ JRT BOSTON - tlB^MlPi CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I, I Join the Colors ^ II. Off for France 20 III. With Pershing in France 32 IV. A Royal Welcome 40 V. Over the Hurdles 50 VI. Off to the Front 60 VII. The First Shot for Liberty 69 VIII. The Infantry in Action 80 IX. Feeling Out the Hun 93 X. Clashes with the Enemy 101 XI. Camp Life 112 XII. Back to the Front 121 XIII. Scott Y, the Irrepressible 130 XIV. Geri^l^^n Atrocities 140 XV. Strafing the Enemy 153 XVI. The Gas Attack 164 XVII. Yankee Heroes 173 XVIII. The American Raid 183 XIX. French War Crosses 190 XX. Back to the U. S. A 204 Trench Talk 217 (5) ILLUSTRATIONS Corporal Osborne de Varila Frontispiece PAGE We Gai^ibled for Positions at the Side Doors. 48 The Empty Cartridge from which the First Shot was Fired 78 Sergeant Hugh IVIarsh Illustrates Life in the Trenches 94 McNicHOL Wrote Back: "Lizzie, I'll Get a Hun for You or Bust" 126 Diagram Showing the Arrangement of the Modern Trench System 184 I Soon Returned with the Grenades 194 (T) The First Shot for Liberty CHAPTER I I Join the Colors SOME of my buddies have the super- stitious belief that destiny picked me to fire the first gun for the United States in the war against the Hun. Personally, I take very little stock in destiny, fate or any of those things of the occult, around which sentimental, half-baked novelists like to weave impossible yarns. According to my understanding of the case, I was selected to send Uncle Sam's first shell- message to the Kaiser because I put in many weeks of hard training, and got to know every twist and wrinkle in the disposition and temperament of my French "75." But, just to give the romantists a little consolation, I will concede that I come of a race of red-headed, freckled-faced fighters, and am proud of it. My father, Walter de Varila, was a United (9) 10 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY States cavalry scout in the early seventies, and helped to round up the Apaches in Arizona. Dad was a red-head, and had freckles as big as copper cents. He was a fighter, and a good one too, as United States Army records will show. Hemmed in by savages, while on one of his scouting expeditions, he cut his way out in a running fight, using two Colt's revolvers to excellent advantage. The Indians dubbed him, "Red the Brave." My grandfather on the paternal side fought for the Confederacy under General "Stone- wall" Jackson; he had hair like burnished copper. My mother's father served the Union under Grant. There was a red-haired de Varila with "Mad Anthony" Wayne when he stormed Stony Point, and a pair of sorrel-topped, lusty de Varilas, delivered hammer-blows for democracy of the pioneer brand, in the French Revolution. Every one of these fighting de Varilas had freckles as well as red hair — God bless them aU. I JOIN THE COLORS 11 My mother was of Irish descent, and my father French. Now, you need wonder no longer why I love to fight when the fighting is good. When you get a French and Irish combination, and breed it for several generations on the stimulating soil of the good old United States, you are bound to produce something that absolutely refuses to "let George do it," when there is a scrap on deck. I was fifteen years old when the Kaiser and his gang of international burglars set out to crack the safes of the nations of the world, and revive the chain-gang methods of the unholy old Roman Empire. I wanted to get into it then, honest I did, although I had just blossomed out in my first suit of long trousers, and was proudly wearing my first dollar watch. My hair always has a habit of bristling like a cat's tail when I scent a scrap, and when the Kaiser started to reach through Belgium to get at the throat of France, I could feel that red alfalfa of mine crinkle all over. n THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY The hair of some folks bristles when they get scared. It is just the opposite with me. When mine starts to lift up, I'm just* fighting mad. My mother has told me that it was always that way with the de Varilas. My buddies in the battery over in France used to get a lot of fun watching my hair when I got real warmed up with my French "75" gun, and was pumping shells into the Boche first line trenches. They found the effect particularly startling one day, when, in the height of a battle, I put on my gas mask. After that, they called me "The Little Red Devil." But that is pushing ahead of the yarn. As I started to say, I felt the old de Varila fighting itch when the German Emperor began to blast his way through Belgium, burning cities, blowing up villages, and kill- ing women and children. Maybe it was the blood of some of those French ancestors stirring in me and urging me to do something for France, but more I JOIN THE COLORS 13 likely it was that unbeatable combination — American, Irish and French. I stood it as long as I could, and then I told my mother I was going to Canada to enlist. I let her know I thought it was a disgrace for a fighting de Varila to be wasting his time going to school while a bunch of boodling Huns were running loose over Belgium and France, and doing murder wholesale. I could see that she liked to hear me talk that way, for there were tears in her eyes, and she gave me one of those warm, motherly smiles that make an American boy in his first long trousers feel that he has suddenly grown three inches taller and is a man. But of course I did not realize then that no sensible mother is going to enthuse very much about sending a fifteen-year-old son into the gore of battle. But she understood her boy all right, and didn't argue with me. She snaked a freshly baked mince pie out of the oven, and told me to scoot to the back steps and gorge myself. 14 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY It was a mighty good pie of the mother-used- to-make kind, and in the eating I almost for- got about the Kaiser and the Belgians. A few months after mother had camouflaged the de Varila fighting itch with mince pie, I was packed off to a prep, school at Los Angeles. I found the school a regular incubator for the war spirit. There were a couple of English lads there who received frequent letters from relatives in the thick of the fighting in France. The Britishers used to sneer at us American lads because Uncle Sam wouldn't get into the fight for civilization. I was obliged to lick one of them to make him stop saying rotten things about Uncle Sammy. I have often wondered if the Eng- lisher I pummeled knows that the Reddy de Varila who blacked his eyes on that memorable day is the same de Varila who fired the first shot for Uncle Sam against the Boche. If he does, maybe he has forgiven me for the licking I gave him. I am certain that by this I JOIN THE COLORS 15 time he has taken back all the unkind things he said about Uncle Sam. I warmed up good and plenty when our Uncle Sammy told the German Ambassador to pack up his duds and clear out for Germany^ I couldn't concentrate on my studies after that. The print on my lesson books became blurred, and all I could see were marching troops and maneuvering battleships. But the bottom dropped clean out of my education when Congress bucked up to the occasion and declared the United States at war with the German Empire. Wow! Every fighting de Varlla in the whole list of de Varllas seemed to rise up before me in spirit and announce: ''Now is the time to get in, my boy.'* That settled me ; I determined to get into the scrap while the getting was good. I was eight- een then, and big for my age. All I needed was my mother's signature to precipitate me into the biggest war in history. I packed my suitcase, went home and told my mother I ^as going to enlist in the United States Army. 16 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY She was game and didn't even blink a tear. And why shouldn't she be game? She was Irish, her father had fought under Grant, and besides, she had married a de Varila. "You are a de Varila," she said, '*and I'd be ashamed of you if you didn't want to go. Your father and both your grandfathers went in when they were eighteen." Her voice shook a little bit, and the next morning I noticed her eyes were a trifle red. I enlisted in Battery C, Sixth Field Artillery, U. S. A., April 25, 1917, nineteen days after the United States jumped into the war. I was as proud as a six-year-old boy just learning to whistle when the army doctors looked me over and decreed I was as sound as copper from head to toe. I was hustled off to the recruiting barracks at Angel Island in 'Frisco Bay, and was inoculated and vaccinated. I was pretty miserable for about a week from the different brands of anti-disease virus which they pumped under my hide, and on the whole I felt like an animated fever blister. But just I JOIN THE COLORS 17 as soon as the effects of the virus wore away I developed the appetite of an army mule, and took on weight like a woman who is kidding herself with one of those anti-fat treatments. We were given full equipment, including uniform, underwear, leggings, shoes, mess kit and blankets, and shipped to Douglas, Arizona. For eight days we raw recruits were kept shut up in a quarantine camp, and after that followed weeks of arduous training on the Mexican border. It was a tough grill, but it made every man- jack of us hard as rocks. Our training embraced bareback riding, instruction in the use of equipment, and the grooming of horses. We were given an idea of the various parts of the field pieces, and engaged in battery drill and target practice with three-inch guns. We put in a lot of work on those guns, little thinking that we would handle an entirely different kind of field piece when we arrived in France. I became the driver of the lead team of the first section field piece, and before many 18 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY weeks had passed I could maneuver that piece like a veteran. By listening to the fiery rhetoric of some of the old-time drivers in the battery, I learned there are certain cuss words which have a special and most effective meaning to artillery horses, and I sometimes used them with wonderful results. But say, I hate to think about the early stages of that bareback training. It was fierce, worse than anything I encountered later on the battle front. Our battery was afflicted with positively the most evil-minded, devilish-dispositioned horses on earth. Hon- est, I believe that German propagandists had been working among every one of the nags, for how they did hate us ! No one can tell me that the horse doesn't possess the power of thinking like a human being. The way my nag used to scheme to break my neck rivaled the machinations of the villain in a melodrama. Every time the nag tossed me into the desert sand among the cactus, he would grin and toss up his heels in the most fiendish manner. I JOIN THE COLORS 19 During the first few days of the bareback riding, I hadn't the shghtest desire to sit down, and couldn't have if I had wanted to. There was a httle comfort in knowing I had company in my misery, for all of the raw recruits ate their chow standing up as I did. But as time wore on I became toughened to the work, and developed a contempt for a nag that lacked ginger. All this time, as you can imagine, we were getting keyed up for war. We longed for action and waited impatiently for the day when we would receive orders to move eastward. The latter part of July, 1917, one of my buddies rushed into my tent one night, and said excitedly: "Reddy, we're off for France tomorrow." I thought he was kidding me, but no, the news was buzzing all over the camp, and the next morning we "entrained for parts unknown." We all knew what that meant — we were going to France, going overseas to put the Yankee punch into the fight against the Hun. CHAPTER II Off for France WE were boiling over with the fight spirit as we slid over the rails toward the east coast. The weeks of training in the dry, bracing air of Arizona had steel-plated our constitu- tions and lifted our morale to the twentieth story. Every fiber of our bodies ached for a try at the Hun; we felt then that our regiment, unaided, was capable of turning the tide against the Boche. We gave our pals husky blows across the back and told what we were going to do when we bored our way into Berlin. "When I get to Berlin town," said a giant artilleryman from Montana, "I'm going to drop everything else and put in my time hunt- ing for the Kaiser. Remember now, he's my meat; I'm going to settle with that bloody old boy, and I don't want any interference." (20) OFF FOR FRANCE 21 "You've got no monopoly on this Kaiser- kilHn' job," retorted a gunner from Kansas. "You've got to walk fast if you beat this buddy out looking for his royal highness, the chief butcherer of Berlin." This sort of talk may sound foolish, but it showed the excellence of our spirits. We were ready for anything — the rougher the better. I believe we were about as reckless an outfit of artillery roustabouts as ever moved toward a battle front. The trip overland was one continuous ovation from Douglas to the Atlantic port where we embarked. At every stop, even at the tank stations, enthusiastic Yankees pulled the hero stunt on us, flowing into our trains and overwhelming us with fruit, candy and pa- stry. Everybody wished us God-speed in our mission against the Hun. All this, of course, lifted our war spirit several more notches. At three o'clock one morning we piled off our trains in an Atlantic port, and marched on to a transport. The ship pulled down the channel and anchored. 22 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY We remained there for two days, and they were blamed tiresome days. We couldn't see any sense in this delay at getting a whack at the Hun. I growled with the best of them, for the Boche hate had taken a heavy grip on me. In me was a deep-seated feeling that I would not be content until I had planted both feet on French soil. I suppose some of my buddies would say that it was destiny pulling me on to fire the first gun for liberty. I'll confess that I did have a feeling I was needed on the other side to help start the ball a-rolling for Uncle Sam. Every mother's son of our lusty crew of Boche haters gave an ear-ringing yell of joy when, at sunset on the second day, the trans- port weighed anchor and steamed slowly out of the harbor. Off to the fight-country; it seemed almost too bully good to be true. I felt like kicking myself to see if it wasn't all a dream from which I would soon awaken and find myself in that rather dull prep, school in Los Angeles. Most of us were a trifle glum as we saw the OFF FOR FRANCE 23 coast-line of Yankeedom fade away in the violet mists of evening, but not long did we hearties mope. Out of the east stiff, salty breezes brought to us a smell of adventure that jacked up our spirits like draughts of sparkling wine. Here at last, I thought, I am afloat in the sea of mystery and danger — the sea which for three years had been the theater of events which had vibrated the world. Hundreds of miles to the eastward, I knew that destroyers prowled about on the alert for the treacherous submarine, while cruiser and battleship fleets patrolled wide, watery areas, effectually bottling up the battle squadrons of the Kaiser. I was supremely content as I hung over the rail and watched the foam churn over the bow. About a mile ahead, a United States cruiser of the latest model rode the seas majestically, while on our flanks Yankee destroyers saucily plowed the waves. ''Uncle Sam is on the job," I said enthusi- astically to my buddy. Sergeant Pasquale 24 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY Atillo, a young, intelligent New York Italian, one of the best artillerymen in the battery. "You can bet your bottom dollar Uncle Sam is on the job, Reddy, " he replied. " Mr. Submarine has about as much chance of poking in on our game as a Jersey mosquito has of drilling through one of the steel plates of this transport." I was mighty lucky to have the sergeant for my buddy, for, aside from being one of the best chaps that ever rode an artillery caisson, he was a competent man, and it was largely through his instruction that I was promoted to cor- poral after the regiment landed in France. This war has opened my eyes to the fact that the sons of our immigrants have the makings of absolutely top-notch Americans. This is being demonstrated every day on the western battle front in Europe, where they are fighting and dying in the cause of Liberty. And before this war is over we are going to take oflf our hats many times to the lads who, in ante-bellum days, we rather contemptuously classed as foreigners. OFF FOR FRANCE 25 Believe me, they are proving themselves Yanks of the first water, every one of them. Some of them are wobbly in their English, but they are backing up the spirit of Wash- ington and Lafayette, just as if their ancestors had played heavy parts in the American Revolution. When we have the Kaiser interned in Sing Sing prison, and the nations of the world have returned to peaceful pur- suits, we are going to show our appreciation for what these lads have done for their adopted country, or I'm a poor prophet. There was only one fly in our ointment on the trip over, and that was the chow, which, for the first few days was about the worst ever ladled out a ship's kettle. It smelled to the heavens, did that chow, and before we were two days out, a third of the outfit were groaning in their bunks with dysentery and other ailments of the digestive organs. We bellowed long and loud to the head chef, a big, fat darkey, who didn't know as much about cookery as a longshoreman. We might just as well have complained to 26 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY the ship's anchor or the keel of the transport. The chow grew worse and more of the boys went to the mat. I have a stomach as vigorous as a blast furnace, but it balked at the kind of stufiF that was being served up in the mess-room. I saw I would have to do something to keep out of the sick bay, so I decided upon a little strategy. I was on pretty good terms with an under- cook by the name of Sam, and for two bits a day he supplied me with chow from the officers' mess. I let my buddy, the sergeant, in on the graft, and a little before mealtime we would steal away to the boiler-room and eat the food which had been cached there by Sam. The best in eatables on the ship was pur- loined for us by the ebony rascal, and my buddy and I waxed fat and comfortable while our comrades howled in increasing volume at the steady decline of the chow. Of course the sergeant and I had to yelp and complain with the rest so as not to excite OFF FOR FRANCE 27 suspicion. If the bunch had discovered our little game they would have mobbed us. We felt like a paii' of Judases at first, but under the influence of that good food our consciences became covered with rawhide. I have always noticed that a well-filled stomach is the best conscience soother in the world. Things came to a ripping climax on the third day when the rascally chef served a concoction which he labeled, ''Irish stew." The stuflF was an insult to the Irish race. Several of the boys gagged and beat it to the deck rail the minute they got a whiff of the steaming, stinking mess, while downright murder, and nothing else, gleamed in the eyes of other artillery huskies. As for me, wretch that I was, I pounded on the mess table and yelled: ''Boys, this thing has gone far enough; I'm willing to die for my country on the field of battle, but I'll be blamed if any lump-headed, fumbling, jackass of a nigger cook is going to shuffle me off with a kettle full of ptomaine bugs." 28 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY If the lads had known that only ten min- utes before I had polished off a good square meal in the seclusion of the boiler-room, they would have lynched me. But they didn't know it. My words had an immediate effect, for they were ripe for murder, pillage and every- thing else in the category of lawlessness. "Right you are, Reddy," yelled a buddy from Michigan. "I move we hang that rotten cook to the yard-arm. He's out to get a sea funeral for all of us, and he'll accom- pHsh his purpose if we don't get him first." "There ain't any yard-arm on this ship," observed an old artilleryman, "but, boys, we can lift him to the crow's-nest and drop him off into the brine." "To the crow's-nest with the black beggar, " chorused the desperate crew, and the rush was on into the galley. The big chap from Michigan led the band. He was a ferocious looking object as he jabbed viciously at the air with a pair of table forks. OFF FOR FRANCE 29 But the chef heard the uproar and the rush of feet down the stairs. He must have suspected that a day of reckoning was coming up cannon-ball express, for he scrambled up another companion way and gained the deck. So great was his haste that he took along with him a great wooden ladle from which hung threads of dough. The boys were hot on the trail and they reached the deck just in time to see the white coat-tails of the chef disappearing around a corner of the chart house. The chase was now on in earnest. Up and down companion- ways, through the main saloon, down into the engine-room and back up again to the deck, the chef ran for his life with the pack of enraged artillerymen at his heels. Finally, exhausted, the terrified negro plunged head first into the cabin of the commanding officer, bellowing: Save me, for de Lord's sake, save me." What does this mean.^" asked the colonel sternly as he surveyed the panting, per- spiring artillerymen gathered about his door. c< C( 30 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "It means just this, Colonel," spoke up a gunner who had just arrived from the mess- room. He stepped forward with a bowl of the stuff that had been served as stew. "Just take a whiff of this. Colonel," he said. "It's the kind of chow that black rascal has been serving up ever since we left land." The colonel did take a whiff, and he drew back with an expression of disgust. "Well, I should say so," he observed. Then he turned to the chef and said angrily: "That's not fit to feed to pigs; you are sus- pended until I have a chance to investigate." The colonel did investigate, and he found that the men in the culinary quarters never washed the kettles. Bits of food were allowed to lay in the bottom of the pots and decompose. Fresh food was put right in on top of this mess, cooked and served up to the boys. It's a wonder that the ptomaine bugs didn't get us all. The chef was laid off the job for the rest of the voyage, and we had no further trouble OFF FOR FRANCE 31 with the chow. However, the sergeant and I continued to get our private stock from the boiler-room cache. ' The day after the chef was fired out of the galley in high disgrace, a shrill call rang out from one of the lookouts of the transport! "Periscope on the port bow." , CHAPTER III With Pershing in France ADYNAMIC thrill ran through every mother's son of us. Here, at last, we were face to face with that dread mechanical monster of the deep — the German submarine. Stinging with excitement, we crowded to the rail and strained our eyes to port over the dancing sea. All was a-bustle on the transport; oflScers issued sharp, quick orders, while the gunners swung their pieces and felt for the range. Sailors in blue yanked the lids from munition boxes and lifted out shells. The cruiser ahead swung about, pointed her prow due north, and forged along swiftly in response to the quickening of her engines. The guarding destroyers darted about like eager hounds searching for a quarry that had temporarily eluded them. (32) WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 33 *'This is the life," I heard a comrade say through gritted teeth. I stood tense, expecting every second to hear a shell go screeching out into the brine. About a quarter of a mile away I could see something sticking up out of the sea. "That rubberin' periscope," I thought; "I hope we make a direct hit." Then came the sickening reaction. "False alarm; nothing but one of those d n porpoises, " cried the lookout, lowering his glasses. A groan of disgust ran through the ship. "Wouldn't it make you sick.?" observed a Calif ornian. "Here we were all primed for the best movie of our lives, and the lights go out and the screen goes on the blink. I'd like to skin that hell of a porpoise." As for me, I was as mad as a devil, for I felt that our trip across would not be complete without a good warm argument with one of Germany's U-boats. Anyway, that was our introduction to the much-talked-of submarine zone. 34 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY A porpoise at a distance does look very much like a spying periscope, and the pesky mammals fooled our lookouts several times before we reached France. But then, these instances only showed that our men were ever on the alert for the Kaiser's under-the- sea dogs. Our oiBicers took no chances while we were passing through the territory of the U-boat. For three nights the transport traveled with- out lights, and our guardians, the cruiser and the destroyers, redoubled their vigilance. We were routed out of our bunks at three a. M. on each of those three days, and were com- pelled to remain on deck until seven a. m. with our life preservers buckled on and our shoes and trousers unlaced. The favorite time for the average submarine to attack is around dawn. We didn't sight a single U-boat all the way over, but we had a lot of fun at the expense of these sneaking craft. Naturally we were all thinking about subs when we entered the zone, and hardly an hour would pass but that some jokester would yell : WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 35 "Hey, boys, there's a sub.'* Then, we fall guys would crowd to the rail and put our eyes out looking for periscopes. I was taking my turn at poker one day around noon when the submarine chestnut came along and caught me an awful wallop. My hand was a pretty good one — well it was nothing less than a royal flush, something which had never before rubbed acquaintance with me during my brief experience as a poker player. I was about to proceed with this poker knockout, when a voice screeched at my elbow: "Holy smoke, lads, here comes a torpedo; going to hit us 'midships.'" Zowie! I was on my feet in an instant, dashing my cards on the table. The other players followed suit. We did our little Marathon to rail, only to find that we had been properly guyed again. When we returned to the table, of course we found the cards all mixed up, and had to make a new deal. I spent an hour looking 36 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY for the jokes ter, but he was wise enough to stay out of sight until I had cooled down. One of the breeziest, brightest little per- sonalities on the ship was our chaplain, a man by the name of Dixon from Illinois. That fellow was just one human bottle of sunshine, with the cork out so that the glad stuff could pour out and warm up the whole boat. Well, the chaplain sure did love that song, "Uncle Sammy." Every time he found a bunch of us together he would say with one of his blithe smiles: "A cigarette for every boy who will sing 'Uncle Sammy.' " We would obediently yelp all three verses of the song, and after we had roared forth the last stanza, the little chaplain would deal out the cigarettes. We dubbed him "Uncle Sammy," though he didn't look any more like Uncle Sam than the man in the moon. He really looked like a pocket edition of Theodore Roosevelt, with his eye-glasses, moustache and gleaming teeth, which he displayed abundantly when he smiled. WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 37 It was the ambition of the chaplain to have us go ashore in France singing the "Marseillaise" in French, and he drilled us with this song every afternoon. There were a few in the outfit who had good voices, but the majority couldn't have qualified for the choir of the corner church in Podunk. And the way we slipped and slid over those French words would have worn the nap oflf any ordinary man's patience. But the chap- lain had patience that made Job's seem thin in comparison. He kept at us hammer and tongs until once in a while we made a direct hit on a French word. The chaplain would reward us with one of his Rooseveltian smiles and hand around the smokes. The ship was a-throb with excitement on August 13th when we sighted a thin blue line on the horizon- — the coast of France. "Hip! hip! hurrah! France," yelled a gunner, and we joined him in a deafening roar of cheering. "Now for the Hun," I ^aid to my buddy, the sergeant. 38 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "We'll soon be in his bailiwick," he replied with a glad grin. Then my buddy said something which I have thought of a good deal since that mem- orable day. "Do you know, Reddy," he said, "I believe you are going to do well over here." "Not any better than yourself or anybody else, " I replied, trying to be modest. "Oh, I don't know," he said with an air of seriousness: "I've a hunch you are going to do something big." " Can that stuff, Buddy, " I observed, trying not to show my pleasure at his words. On the day after I opened the war for Uncle Sam, my friend the sergeant grasped me by the hand and said: "Didn't I tell you, old man, you were going to do something real over here?" But that is getting ahead of my story. The excitement grew as our transport swept nearer the French coast. Soon we could make out dozens of neat little white houses with red tile roofs — all against a WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE 39 background of beautiful green. It was a sight good for sore eyes. A warlike touch was given the scene as we neared the entrance of the harbor. Two big French airplanes advanced to meet us, flying low and scanning the water closely for hostile submarines. It was a dangerous spot, the entrance of that harbor. Only the day before we learned later, a German U-boat had sneaked close in and sunk a supply ship. CHAPTER IV A Royal Welcome IT was evident that our approacli had been well heralded, for the docks were dense with people, and on public build- ings, dwellings and warehouses, hundreds of American and French flags were snapping to the breeze. Quaint little French fishing boats swarmed about the transport, and the occupants of these craft were the first to greet us. These fishermen were very picturesque in their rakish, red tam-o-shanters and corduroy trousers rolled up to the knee. They wore a red scarf about the waist, and their feet were bare. The faces of these foreign-looking men were wreathed in smiles; they jabbered and gesticulated after the manner of the French, shrieking questions at us, which we did not in the least understand. One of them became so excited that he (40) A ROYAL WELCOME 41 forgot to steer his boat, and the craft rammed another, and was upset, throwing the fisher- man into the water. We threw a Kne to the capsized party and pulled him dripping and gasping to the deck of the transport. We gave him a hilarious reception, slapping his damp back and shouting ,'' Howdy, Frenchy.^" He replied with a torrent of enthusiasm in his own language, and a wide smile unfolded under his queer little eyebrow of a moustache when we filled his hand with American coins. He stayed on the boat until we docked and did not seem to worry in the least about the fate of his smack which he had left upset in the harbor. In the meantime, the French aircraft had wheeled about and were following the trans- port, serving as a sort of rear guard. The United States cruiser rode proudly ahead and the destroyers steamed behind us. It sounded pleasant and warlike to hear the buzzing of the motors aloft. ' We yelled greetings to the airmen, and they peered at us through their goggles and waved in reply. 42 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY They were flying so low that we could almost talk to them. Dense crowds were lined up on both banks as we passed through the first locks. There were quaintly dressed peasant women who made me think of the pictures of Puritan dames in my history book back in 'Frisco. They w^ore prim white caps, exceedingly tight bodices, wide skirts and wooden shoes. The little girls w^ere pocket editions of their mothers and big sisters. The men were attired in velveteen coats, corduroy trousers and sabots. The whole scene put me in mind of a grand opera I had once attended in 'Frisco. The populace, so as to speak, went wild as we slipped through the locks, our band playing alternately the *'Star Spangled Ban- ner," and the "Marseillaise." Men ripped their gaudy scarfs from their waists and waved them frantically; women and girls fluttered their handkerchiefs, and American and French flags were in evidence everywhere. A ROYAL WELCOME 43 We could easily gather by the actions of these good people that we were the best things they had looked upon for a long time. There was something pathetic and childish about their joy. Many of them sobbed like children, they felt so glad to see us Yanks, and I did not blame them when I thought of what they had been through the past three years. Sons, brothers and fathers from this city had died by the thousand on the front line, along with other loyal Frenchmen. Li the coming of the Americans these poor folks saw hope and a prospect of a turning of the tide against the invading Boche. Our fighting edge was sharpened when we glimpsed the depth of their welcome. We couldn't understand a single syllable of the jargon they tossed to us, but we took it for granted that it was all complimentary and consoled them with good old United States. "Take heart, you folks, for we're going to paste hell out of the Boches," yelled an artilleryman. 44 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY '* Uncle Sam is on the job now," cried another Yank. We docked that night, but were not allowed to go ashore. But the Frenchies seemed determined that we should feel the welcome of France, even though we were penned up aboard ship. They swamped us with baskets of fruit and bouquets of flowers. Soon the old transport looked like a florist shop, and we consumed fruit until we were threatened with colic. The Yankee spirit of exploration and adventure got the best of some of the boys that night, and they slid down ropes to the dock. Some of them were grabbed by the marine sentries and returned to the ship, but most of them penetrated into the city, returning before morning and bringing glowing reports of the hospitality of the French. "Great place, this France," said one of the night prowlers, a little thickly, upon his re- turn. "Folks in this burg wouldn't let me pay for a blamed thing; never saw so much wine in my life. It must rain booze in these parts." A ROYAL WELCOME 45 We landed the following day — August 14, 1917, and I shall never forget the event. At this same port, the first detachment of Gen- eral Pershing's forces put in nearly two months previous, on June 26, 1917, and they were received like a lot of gods. But the novelty of seeing Americans had not yet w^orn oflF, and the inhabitants of the port gave us quite as rousing a reception as they did the first arrivals. It was a clear, beautiful morning as we marched down the gangplanks, singing the "Marseillaise" with an ardor that nearly prostrated "Uncle Sammy," our chaplain, with pride and joy. Well, say, those Frenchies fairly mobbed us. Shouting, "Vive le Amerique," they made for us as if we were something good to eat. The first thing I knew, a middle-aged woman in peasant costume had swung her arms around my neck and was kissing me first on one cheek and then another. Any- body would have thought I was a long-lost son. I tried to pry her loose, but she had a 46 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY grip like iron, and I had to grin and bear it until she let go. But the thing was not over by any means; it now developed into a matter of taking turns. No sooner had the elderly woman let go my neck, when another pair of arms flopped around my collar, and I started to run, but I changed my mind when I got a good look. And you would have changed your mind too if you had been in my place. The pret- tiest girl in France had annexed herself to my neck. My eyes told me that there couldn't be a prettier girl in France than she was. Her hair was as black as a crow's wing; her eyes were big and brown, and her red lips pouted up at me invitingly. I am an American and do things in a hurry. I gave her a smack that must have been heard at the battery in New York. She blushed and then kissed me on both cheeks and let go. And I am frank to say I was sorry to see her go. The next in the line-up was an excitable, Frenchy-looking chap with a goatee and A ROYAL WELCOME 47 eyeglasses. He had his Hps pursed up like an interrogation point, and he was making for me, full steam up. I blocked his approach with a twist of my elbow, for I suspected his design. "Nothing doing, Frenchy," I said. "Over where we come from men don't kiss each other." He evidently didn't understand and tried to sneak in under my guard, but I shook a fist warningly in his face. "Lay off," I yelled, "or I'll soak you one." He saw I meant business and abandoned his kissing offensive. Of course I knew it was the custom of everybody in France to kiss, but I made up my mind not to get used to men saluting each other on the cheek That night we slept in an open field in our blankets. It was bully to feel solid ground once more and know that we were close to the fighting zone. We remained there a week, stretching our le^s and resting from our voyage. Of course 48 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY we were impatient at the delay, for we wanted to beat it to the front immediately and take a hand in the big scrap We were elated at the end of the week when we were loaded into funny little box cars, which were about half the size of the American brand. We were packed so tightly that we barely had standing room, and had to shove and squirm before we could create space big enough to sit down. Nevertheless we were in high spirits and were glad to be on the move. We gambled for the positions at the side doors, and I was lucky enough to win a seat in the open several times. Our chow on the trip consisted of corn beef, tomatoes and hardtack, and at some of the stations on the route we received handouts of steaming hot coffee. We passed through a pretty rolling country, dotted with towns and villages. We saw very few young men, for most of them were at the front doing their bit against the Hun. The work on the farms was being done mostly o TO o o i H o CO O i— t O a o o w CD o s a- s o s o o A ROYAL WELCOME 49 by old men, women and children. The inhabitants gathered at every station to see us pass through. After traveling for three days we reached the end of the line, where American auto trucks took us to the best artillery barracks in France. That night we hit the hay on real mattresses and real pillows. But, best of all, we were near the front line, and could hear the boom of heavy guns. Every one of us felt a thrill when we realized that only a few miles away, French batteries were potting away at the Germans. We were all eager to start at once for our positions behind the French line, but such a happy fate was not in store for us. We learned, to our grief, the next day that we would have to undergo many weeks of stiff grilling under the most exacting French artillery instructors before we would be allowed to pepper away at the hated Boche. CHAPTER V Over the Hurdles OUR barracks were located in a village near the Swiss border. It was a hilly, wooded country, and the air was as bracing as new wine. There was not the slightest delay in starting our training. The morning after our arrival we drew French horses and French guns and caissons, and hiked to a park where some French artillery instructors were awaiting us. Our first work was to break the horses to harness. It was the hardest job I ever tackled, for the nags didn't understand a word of English. So we had to start right in and teach those animals how to take orders in the language of the United States. Some of the fellows had brought French grammars over with them, and they tried out some of the French words on the horses. But their pronunciation was so punk that the (50) OVER THE HURDLES 51 nags didn't savvy at all. As driver of the lead piece, I had my troubles, as you can well imagine. The horse may be the most intelligent of the beasts, as the naturalist tells us, but he is no linguist, and can't carry more than one language in his noodle at the same time. Before you can graft a new lingo into his brain you have to kill off the old one, and that is the method I followed with my nags. I gave orders that nothing but United States be talked to the horses, and every time I caught a Frenchy "parlevoing" to them I blew up and asked him what in thunder he meant by butting in on my educational system. I guess the first United States words the nags learned were "damn" and "hell," for I confess I used both pretty freely at the start of the instruction. I had to laugh when I looked at the French 75-millimeter guns, they seemed so small and inferior when compared with our American field pieces. "If we have to use those toys," I thought, 52 THE FIRST SHOT FOR LIBERTY "the Huns won't do a thing to us when we get into action." But I underwent a radical change of opinion after several days of target practice with the little fire-eaters. I found that we could do faster and more accurate work with them than with the more warlike looking American pieces. It is certain that the Germans know to their cost what the little "75's" are capa- ble of doing. With my buddy, the sergeant, to help me, I put in some hard work on the guns, prac- ticing with the sights and getting familiar with the parts. It was my ambition to be able to send accurate shell messages into Boche- land. My buddy was enthusiastic, and said he had never seen anybody get along so fast. "I can't get it out of my head, Reddy, " he said, " that you are going to make your mark over here." "You make me blush, old top," I replied. But his words gave me a lot of encourage- ment, although I knew that he was just trying to make me feel good. OVER THE HURDLES 53 The hard work soon won its reward, for on September 1, 1917, I was made a cannoneer. I was the proudest buddy in the whole Ameri- can army when I got that boost. On the day of my promotion I was turned over to a Httle French sergeant, who had the reputation of being one of the best artillery- men in France. His English w^as insignifi- cant, but his gestures were eloquent, and I picked up fast under him. He knew the French "75" like a jeweler knows a watch. 