TRANSCRIBED FROM THE ARKANSAS DEMOCRAT DECEMBER 13, 1918 PP. 1, 4
Well, to begin my story, on the day we left my 714 Station, I had not the vaguest idea how I was expected to function, nor did anyone else. The commanding officer said he wanted me to go, so I did. We arrived after a day and night’s trip to our railhead in the woods, where we immediately detained our organization. It rained cats and dogs all the time and I was only attached and without any specific duty as yet. I volunteered to assist in getting the first truck train forward. Never will I forget that night, the cold, drizzling rain, the slippery, congested roads and the pitchy darkness of the night punctuated by the sound of guns and the occasional flares sent up from the front lines lent a setting for my first adventure that couldn’t have been more complicated with difficulties. My men were cold and shivering and it seemed as though just as the road could clear and things get going smoothly, off in the ditch one would go. Bob Liewellyn, a lieutenant, was with me and we had a time.
The next two days were spent in the woods wading ankle deep in mud—rain all the time, with gas mask always under your chin at “alert” and hanging you every time you moved. Finally on the eve of the attack, September 11, I and my loyal six were ordered to headquarters. Upon arrival at 8 p.m., I was informed that I was chosen liaison officer for the brigade and that the hour of attack was close at hand. I had five stations to establish with couriers, runners, motorcycles and phones, and myself and some others were to be in the advance post of command before 10 p.m.
Well, we did some hustling. The reason for the haste was that was because Fritz always shelled the village near where our post of command was at 10 a.m. We were just sliding down the dark, muddy communication trenches to our dugout when the damdest scream rent the air and a shell burst not over 50 yards from us—then another and another. They seemed to be going over our heads and dropping on the rear trench. Every time one sailed over it seemed closer and we scrambled on, slipping and falling with our cumbersome loads of rations and equipment, past a large ammunition dump, and finally into our dugout.
That was my first experience, and I must confess that the shelter of the dugout, notwithstanding our promixity to the front line, seemed a very safe and welcome place to be. It was damp, deep and dirty, but we draped ourselves around on the makeshift bunks and tried to snatch a bit of sleep—we hadn’t had any to speak of for three days—before the opening of the barrage at the hour of attack. Needless to say, our sleep was not all it could have been otherwise.
When the barrage started we went up on the top. I can’t describe it, but it seemed that all hell had broken loose. We were between the guns and the Boche. Back of us the roar of every kind and size of guns was going on, lighting up the sky with their flashes. Over us with their screaming, shrieking fury they came; over and before us in the darkness of the night they burst. It seemed they covered everything. The barrage continued until 5:30, when the jumping off commenced. It was just breaking down and we could see our tanks ambling through the trenches, spitting fire and rocking up and down over the obstacles and in the shell holes. The doughboys sprang from the ground like magic and in perfect order and alignment and in seemingly countless numbers moved forward steadily and with no confusion behind the barrage. The air was split with the rat-tat-tat of the machine guns and rifle fire and the crashing of the bursts of artillery fire directed at some strong point.
The small clump of woods white with smoke, and through the smoke now and then the ludicrous but assuring sign of one of our “bugs” (tanks) mopping up the Boche machine gun nests that were holding them up. The air was full with planes buzzing over and back directing the artillery and signaling the troops in the front line. Now and then a sharp brief combat with the Boche airmen would take place, who seemed to be more bent on seeing what was going on, and hastening back to report rather than waiting to take a chance with our planes.
Soon the wounded walking cases began to trickle back through the lines; then groups of Boche prisoners, guarded by some slightly wounded but exuberant Yank with a smile that won’t come off on his face. The prisoners seemed happy and pleased. Some had a dazed wonderment on their faces and for the most part lent the impression that the cares of war were no longer theirs.
As the attack progressed the reserves came filing in and went forward in perfect formation and in battle wave lines, the most picturesque sight one can imagine. To the right and left as far as I could see with my glasses the small villages were either passed or in process of passing into our hands. For the most part such work was done by the tanks and they did it well. As the troops moved onward the field ambulances “ambled” up and gradually moved forward over the few small roads leading over the trenches and where they could receive the wounded.
Everything worked like clockwork—no hitches—no confusion at all. All day we were busy, too; my phone was ringing constantly, and we were receiving dispatches to and from our tanks. I was tired, sleepy, hungry and wet but the excitement of it all made me realize none of it, and we kept going all the time.
That night it started to pour again and at 9 p.m., the colonel decided to move forward to one of the “new villages.” I was ordered to establish communication by phone from the new point by daybreak. I got my now 14 men together and at 12:15 (midnight), moved out afoot along the road, carrying our wire. Our destination was only six kilometers, but it was the roughest, most exciting six I have ever walked. We could barely get through, the road was jammed with moving troops, artillery, ammunition, ambulances and supplies; they were torn up with shell holes and hedged with barbed wire. To add to the zest of the party, Hun planes were bombing the road and you felt like the size of a 40-acre field even among the crowd. We tramped all morning and finally reached our destination. There the town was beginning to fill with our reserve troops, and everybody was hunting souvenirs. Dead Boche and horses lined the streets; old people—Alsatians who had been prisoners—were trying to express their appreciation in smiles and French to our grinning, mud-smeared and tired boys.
Our new post of command was a ruined old house, where some German officers had been quartered with a family. I am sending, when I get to where I can mail the parcel, a small Bible and a bundle of some kind of lace, shell torn, which was lying in the window as a souvenir of this place.
Shells were crashing into our village all day long, regularly and on scheduled time. They were apparently directing their fire toward the crossroad and bridge. Gee! They came close, and how the stuff flew around us. Sometimes the slow, accurate style of artillery shooting from so far away gets a fellow’s nerve. I’d rather know where they are shooting when I’m around. Well, we stayed there for several days, and then were suddenly ordered out to report to the old headquarters again. Just as I arrived I learned that Tommy Thompson, my old Leon Springs pal, was across the street from me. We had a great old confab and I slept with him that night.
The next morning I went on up to (CENSORED). We stayed there for a few days, and again while waiting the Boche put over a few, just enough to make you keep the gas mask close by and remember that he was on the job. All this latter time I was with my old colonel. We moved to another post of command, and when this later and new action began on this front—well, things picked up.
The night of the hour of the attack I sent my men up ahead of the post command and started back with the colonel to ride up with him. I had a trip to make to general headquarters for him and we started late. The road was shelled to beat ---on the way up, but we got there O.K. the attack commenced at dawn, the foggiest, the dampest morning you could imagine. At one hour after the attack we set out afoot, following the tracks of our machines. The colonel, myself and another lieutenant and my “staff” carrying the wire, pigeons and telephones. For what purpose we carried the wire I have never found out. Our post of communication was right in the trenches and as we progressed through the fog (we could only see 100 yards or so) it seemed that guns were going on every side. We kept on walking overtaking some of our “babies” (tanks) on the trail, who had stopped on account of minor mechanical difficulties. We pushed on, meeting more, and went over the old front line trenches. Now and then a bullet would whiz by and as we got ahead of our own advance units of artillery we commenced to run into freshly made shell holes, and some wounded and the marks of the battle which we thought was far ahead.
On we pushed until we reached a small railroad track. We had met several groups of soldiers in the fog from other units and billets and 77’s were rather thick. We sat down in some shell holes near by and the colonel wrote a message “as he could see it.” The fog was just lifting. Just as we released the pigeon the worst racket burst forth directly in front of us. Machine gun bullets came whizzing by. We ducked to the cover of the track and the bullets came singing over our heads in a perfect rain.
The colonel said “I guess it’s a pretty safe place here for a minute.” Just as he said so one of my men gave a grunt and said, “Like hell it is,” and scrambled over near me. A piece of shrapnel had hit him in the stomach but didn’t pierce his leather jerkin. We “decided” to scramble back over the crest of a knoll behind us. We did, and believe me, the “music” was terrific. It was 10,000 wonders but not a man was wounded. While we were sizing up the situation and it was developing fast; as the fog lifted, a Boche plane came over and we let loose with everything we had—but didn’t touch him. He had no more time to get back than things commenced to pop. Our place became a perfect inferno—shells. 77’s, 105’s, 155’s came dropping over, all around us. They were shooting at US and, God! how close they came. There we were, practically unarmed, being shelled, and we were just behind the new front line of attack, the place where they try to shell the most to keep reserves from coming up. Some of our “machines” (tanks) were behind us at the base of the hill.
We sent a runner to tell them to come up over our hill and attack the machine guns before us. He started out dodging the shells—the poor devil was so excited that he couldn’t deliver the message and the order was sent for a captain further to the rear. The fire increased and we were flattened out (some 150 of us, including doughboys and other units). Men were being blown about in chunks. God! how slow those tanks came, and just as they got 100 yards from us they encountered two old trenches too wide to cross.
Then I was sent to “get those tanks over here.” I went under machine gun fire, and they were as thick as flies, it seemed, and with the shells tearing all around us. I pressed into service all the French soldiers, Americans and everything I could get my hands on, and fairly tore down the sides of that trench. Finally one tank came over, then another, then five, going forward like old cows, it seemed.
I resumed my position on the hill and just as I got there the colonel was brandishing his stick and said, “let’s go.” The other lieutenant and I stayed with our staff, and the whole bunch started. Hadn’t gone but 50 yards when the colonel was wounded. The fire was terrific and all who were not wounded or killed flattened out again, and we did wisely. Just then a mine blew up right in front of us, not 25 yards away. It was awful—the fire and debris shot a mile it seemed, up in the air—it got two men and I can see yet the fragments of stuff and men flying through the air.
We finally got the colonel back. The tanks had silenced the machine guns and we started for the rear. I sent two or three pigeon messages and was ordered to find one of our majors who was to assume command. This at 11:30 a.m. I found my major at 4 p.m. and we moved into a dugout once occupied that morning by Fritz and commenced to get our command in hand. We went further to the rear next morning. I established a perfect liaison system and from that time, except the few dozen shells we get daily, we have had comparative peace at headquarters.
I am now, and have been, on the reverse side of a ruined village we have taken, in a ruin overlooking our lately conquered ground, about three kilometers from the lines. I see the most amazing things, some ludicrous, some sad. There is a little spot in the front in the valley were several very recently made Yanks’ graves are. The other morning as I sat here I saw a bunch of boys filing down the hill, four of them had a dead comrade on a stretcher wrapped in a blanket. A chaplain, one of the good old fatherly looking sort, was with them. They dug out a shallow grave and let him down into it. I should say about 15 were there—they were soiled and torn with the work of battle and as the chaplain took off his cap they too, did so and stood there looking at their dead comrade. As I looked at them I couldn’t resist the wave of sentiment that surged over me. To look at our boys here, pausing in the midst of their work to render a last tribute to their comrade. Then they bowed their heads in prayer and our good-hearted brave and God-fearing boys, for they were only boys, it seemed, stood there, one of the most pitiful yet shining examples of the finer sentiment that seems to guide us all to victory. Things like that make a fellow think, and think of home, too, while he damns the Hun an extra, it also instills in his thoughts things that one doesn’t associate with the life and ways of soldiers.
We are a sober bunch in my outfit now. I can’t tell you what we have suffered and how we came through as to personnel, but, believe me, we have made a name for this corps and set a mark for fighting standard that no one will find it easy to eclipse. I can tell you after this show some figures but as to our deeds, we have won the praise of all the troops from the lowest buck to the highest general, have aptly been called the “Suicide Club” for it doesn’t amount to anything else.
Bob Liewellyn, the boy whom I mentioned in the first of the letter—all we have of him is his wrist identification tag. A “77” hit him and the whole works blew up, his ammunition (all high explosive) and all.
We are the “fightingest” thing out, and Fritz seems to think so, too.
I don’t know when I’ll get back, but I want to try and be early enough to get some kind of Christmas box for you all. There is a rather remote chance of my coming home, but I don’t dare set my heart on it—it doesn’t pay. Won’t hear from the boys till I get back. I hope they are safe.
NOTES: Lieutenant Paul Sutphin Edwards was writing on October 12, 1918 to his wife, Myrtle Edwards of Little Rock, Arkansas. He was one of 15 employees of the Southern Trust Company of Little Rock that entered military service. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions on September 26 near Cheppy, France. He served in the Signal Corps attached to the 304th Brigade Tank Corps. He was born on October 29, 1889 in Michigan and died on April 5, 1971 in California. His Little Rock draft registration card describes him as being tall and slender with brown eyes and dark hair. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia. His military headstone identifies him as Michigan, Colonel US Army, during both World War I & II.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT
Well, to begin my story, on the day we left my 714 Station, I had not the vaguest idea how I was expected to function, nor did anyone else. The commanding officer said he wanted me to go, so I did. We arrived after a day and night’s trip to our railhead in the woods, where we immediately detained our organization. It rained cats and dogs all the time and I was only attached and without any specific duty as yet. I volunteered to assist in getting the first truck train forward. Never will I forget that night, the cold, drizzling rain, the slippery, congested roads and the pitchy darkness of the night punctuated by the sound of guns and the occasional flares sent up from the front lines lent a setting for my first adventure that couldn’t have been more complicated with difficulties. My men were cold and shivering and it seemed as though just as the road could clear and things get going smoothly, off in the ditch one would go. Bob Liewellyn, a lieutenant, was with me and we had a time.
The next two days were spent in the woods wading ankle deep in mud—rain all the time, with gas mask always under your chin at “alert” and hanging you every time you moved. Finally on the eve of the attack, September 11, I and my loyal six were ordered to headquarters. Upon arrival at 8 p.m., I was informed that I was chosen liaison officer for the brigade and that the hour of attack was close at hand. I had five stations to establish with couriers, runners, motorcycles and phones, and myself and some others were to be in the advance post of command before 10 p.m.
Well, we did some hustling. The reason for the haste was that was because Fritz always shelled the village near where our post of command was at 10 a.m. We were just sliding down the dark, muddy communication trenches to our dugout when the damdest scream rent the air and a shell burst not over 50 yards from us—then another and another. They seemed to be going over our heads and dropping on the rear trench. Every time one sailed over it seemed closer and we scrambled on, slipping and falling with our cumbersome loads of rations and equipment, past a large ammunition dump, and finally into our dugout.
That was my first experience, and I must confess that the shelter of the dugout, notwithstanding our promixity to the front line, seemed a very safe and welcome place to be. It was damp, deep and dirty, but we draped ourselves around on the makeshift bunks and tried to snatch a bit of sleep—we hadn’t had any to speak of for three days—before the opening of the barrage at the hour of attack. Needless to say, our sleep was not all it could have been otherwise.
When the barrage started we went up on the top. I can’t describe it, but it seemed that all hell had broken loose. We were between the guns and the Boche. Back of us the roar of every kind and size of guns was going on, lighting up the sky with their flashes. Over us with their screaming, shrieking fury they came; over and before us in the darkness of the night they burst. It seemed they covered everything. The barrage continued until 5:30, when the jumping off commenced. It was just breaking down and we could see our tanks ambling through the trenches, spitting fire and rocking up and down over the obstacles and in the shell holes. The doughboys sprang from the ground like magic and in perfect order and alignment and in seemingly countless numbers moved forward steadily and with no confusion behind the barrage. The air was split with the rat-tat-tat of the machine guns and rifle fire and the crashing of the bursts of artillery fire directed at some strong point.
The small clump of woods white with smoke, and through the smoke now and then the ludicrous but assuring sign of one of our “bugs” (tanks) mopping up the Boche machine gun nests that were holding them up. The air was full with planes buzzing over and back directing the artillery and signaling the troops in the front line. Now and then a sharp brief combat with the Boche airmen would take place, who seemed to be more bent on seeing what was going on, and hastening back to report rather than waiting to take a chance with our planes.
Soon the wounded walking cases began to trickle back through the lines; then groups of Boche prisoners, guarded by some slightly wounded but exuberant Yank with a smile that won’t come off on his face. The prisoners seemed happy and pleased. Some had a dazed wonderment on their faces and for the most part lent the impression that the cares of war were no longer theirs.
As the attack progressed the reserves came filing in and went forward in perfect formation and in battle wave lines, the most picturesque sight one can imagine. To the right and left as far as I could see with my glasses the small villages were either passed or in process of passing into our hands. For the most part such work was done by the tanks and they did it well. As the troops moved onward the field ambulances “ambled” up and gradually moved forward over the few small roads leading over the trenches and where they could receive the wounded.
Everything worked like clockwork—no hitches—no confusion at all. All day we were busy, too; my phone was ringing constantly, and we were receiving dispatches to and from our tanks. I was tired, sleepy, hungry and wet but the excitement of it all made me realize none of it, and we kept going all the time.
That night it started to pour again and at 9 p.m., the colonel decided to move forward to one of the “new villages.” I was ordered to establish communication by phone from the new point by daybreak. I got my now 14 men together and at 12:15 (midnight), moved out afoot along the road, carrying our wire. Our destination was only six kilometers, but it was the roughest, most exciting six I have ever walked. We could barely get through, the road was jammed with moving troops, artillery, ammunition, ambulances and supplies; they were torn up with shell holes and hedged with barbed wire. To add to the zest of the party, Hun planes were bombing the road and you felt like the size of a 40-acre field even among the crowd. We tramped all morning and finally reached our destination. There the town was beginning to fill with our reserve troops, and everybody was hunting souvenirs. Dead Boche and horses lined the streets; old people—Alsatians who had been prisoners—were trying to express their appreciation in smiles and French to our grinning, mud-smeared and tired boys.
Our new post of command was a ruined old house, where some German officers had been quartered with a family. I am sending, when I get to where I can mail the parcel, a small Bible and a bundle of some kind of lace, shell torn, which was lying in the window as a souvenir of this place.
Shells were crashing into our village all day long, regularly and on scheduled time. They were apparently directing their fire toward the crossroad and bridge. Gee! They came close, and how the stuff flew around us. Sometimes the slow, accurate style of artillery shooting from so far away gets a fellow’s nerve. I’d rather know where they are shooting when I’m around. Well, we stayed there for several days, and then were suddenly ordered out to report to the old headquarters again. Just as I arrived I learned that Tommy Thompson, my old Leon Springs pal, was across the street from me. We had a great old confab and I slept with him that night.
The next morning I went on up to (CENSORED). We stayed there for a few days, and again while waiting the Boche put over a few, just enough to make you keep the gas mask close by and remember that he was on the job. All this latter time I was with my old colonel. We moved to another post of command, and when this later and new action began on this front—well, things picked up.
The night of the hour of the attack I sent my men up ahead of the post command and started back with the colonel to ride up with him. I had a trip to make to general headquarters for him and we started late. The road was shelled to beat ---on the way up, but we got there O.K. the attack commenced at dawn, the foggiest, the dampest morning you could imagine. At one hour after the attack we set out afoot, following the tracks of our machines. The colonel, myself and another lieutenant and my “staff” carrying the wire, pigeons and telephones. For what purpose we carried the wire I have never found out. Our post of communication was right in the trenches and as we progressed through the fog (we could only see 100 yards or so) it seemed that guns were going on every side. We kept on walking overtaking some of our “babies” (tanks) on the trail, who had stopped on account of minor mechanical difficulties. We pushed on, meeting more, and went over the old front line trenches. Now and then a bullet would whiz by and as we got ahead of our own advance units of artillery we commenced to run into freshly made shell holes, and some wounded and the marks of the battle which we thought was far ahead.
On we pushed until we reached a small railroad track. We had met several groups of soldiers in the fog from other units and billets and 77’s were rather thick. We sat down in some shell holes near by and the colonel wrote a message “as he could see it.” The fog was just lifting. Just as we released the pigeon the worst racket burst forth directly in front of us. Machine gun bullets came whizzing by. We ducked to the cover of the track and the bullets came singing over our heads in a perfect rain.
The colonel said “I guess it’s a pretty safe place here for a minute.” Just as he said so one of my men gave a grunt and said, “Like hell it is,” and scrambled over near me. A piece of shrapnel had hit him in the stomach but didn’t pierce his leather jerkin. We “decided” to scramble back over the crest of a knoll behind us. We did, and believe me, the “music” was terrific. It was 10,000 wonders but not a man was wounded. While we were sizing up the situation and it was developing fast; as the fog lifted, a Boche plane came over and we let loose with everything we had—but didn’t touch him. He had no more time to get back than things commenced to pop. Our place became a perfect inferno—shells. 77’s, 105’s, 155’s came dropping over, all around us. They were shooting at US and, God! how close they came. There we were, practically unarmed, being shelled, and we were just behind the new front line of attack, the place where they try to shell the most to keep reserves from coming up. Some of our “machines” (tanks) were behind us at the base of the hill.
We sent a runner to tell them to come up over our hill and attack the machine guns before us. He started out dodging the shells—the poor devil was so excited that he couldn’t deliver the message and the order was sent for a captain further to the rear. The fire increased and we were flattened out (some 150 of us, including doughboys and other units). Men were being blown about in chunks. God! how slow those tanks came, and just as they got 100 yards from us they encountered two old trenches too wide to cross.
Then I was sent to “get those tanks over here.” I went under machine gun fire, and they were as thick as flies, it seemed, and with the shells tearing all around us. I pressed into service all the French soldiers, Americans and everything I could get my hands on, and fairly tore down the sides of that trench. Finally one tank came over, then another, then five, going forward like old cows, it seemed.
I resumed my position on the hill and just as I got there the colonel was brandishing his stick and said, “let’s go.” The other lieutenant and I stayed with our staff, and the whole bunch started. Hadn’t gone but 50 yards when the colonel was wounded. The fire was terrific and all who were not wounded or killed flattened out again, and we did wisely. Just then a mine blew up right in front of us, not 25 yards away. It was awful—the fire and debris shot a mile it seemed, up in the air—it got two men and I can see yet the fragments of stuff and men flying through the air.
We finally got the colonel back. The tanks had silenced the machine guns and we started for the rear. I sent two or three pigeon messages and was ordered to find one of our majors who was to assume command. This at 11:30 a.m. I found my major at 4 p.m. and we moved into a dugout once occupied that morning by Fritz and commenced to get our command in hand. We went further to the rear next morning. I established a perfect liaison system and from that time, except the few dozen shells we get daily, we have had comparative peace at headquarters.
I am now, and have been, on the reverse side of a ruined village we have taken, in a ruin overlooking our lately conquered ground, about three kilometers from the lines. I see the most amazing things, some ludicrous, some sad. There is a little spot in the front in the valley were several very recently made Yanks’ graves are. The other morning as I sat here I saw a bunch of boys filing down the hill, four of them had a dead comrade on a stretcher wrapped in a blanket. A chaplain, one of the good old fatherly looking sort, was with them. They dug out a shallow grave and let him down into it. I should say about 15 were there—they were soiled and torn with the work of battle and as the chaplain took off his cap they too, did so and stood there looking at their dead comrade. As I looked at them I couldn’t resist the wave of sentiment that surged over me. To look at our boys here, pausing in the midst of their work to render a last tribute to their comrade. Then they bowed their heads in prayer and our good-hearted brave and God-fearing boys, for they were only boys, it seemed, stood there, one of the most pitiful yet shining examples of the finer sentiment that seems to guide us all to victory. Things like that make a fellow think, and think of home, too, while he damns the Hun an extra, it also instills in his thoughts things that one doesn’t associate with the life and ways of soldiers.
We are a sober bunch in my outfit now. I can’t tell you what we have suffered and how we came through as to personnel, but, believe me, we have made a name for this corps and set a mark for fighting standard that no one will find it easy to eclipse. I can tell you after this show some figures but as to our deeds, we have won the praise of all the troops from the lowest buck to the highest general, have aptly been called the “Suicide Club” for it doesn’t amount to anything else.
Bob Liewellyn, the boy whom I mentioned in the first of the letter—all we have of him is his wrist identification tag. A “77” hit him and the whole works blew up, his ammunition (all high explosive) and all.
We are the “fightingest” thing out, and Fritz seems to think so, too.
I don’t know when I’ll get back, but I want to try and be early enough to get some kind of Christmas box for you all. There is a rather remote chance of my coming home, but I don’t dare set my heart on it—it doesn’t pay. Won’t hear from the boys till I get back. I hope they are safe.
NOTES: Lieutenant Paul Sutphin Edwards was writing on October 12, 1918 to his wife, Myrtle Edwards of Little Rock, Arkansas. He was one of 15 employees of the Southern Trust Company of Little Rock that entered military service. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions on September 26 near Cheppy, France. He served in the Signal Corps attached to the 304th Brigade Tank Corps. He was born on October 29, 1889 in Michigan and died on April 5, 1971 in California. His Little Rock draft registration card describes him as being tall and slender with brown eyes and dark hair. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia. His military headstone identifies him as Michigan, Colonel US Army, during both World War I & II.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT