TRANSCRIBED FROM THE DAILY ARKANSAS GAZETTE JANUARY 26, 1919 P. 12
There is a wonderful brotherhood in the American army! You would have thought so one night had you seen me and a Greek and a Wyoming Indian named “Broken Cup” dividing a piece of muddy bread we found up in the front lines during a food (MISSING TEXT)
My first trip up we were whirled about 100 miles over France, and went into trenches that night. We had only a little rifle fire but we were shelled all the time. We were there only 35 hours. Finally we were sent into the trenches on a desperate active front against Prussian Guards, Royal Hussars and Imperial Guards. We were told we were to take part in the world’s greatest offensive—and it was great enough for me! We were taken in trucks across the country during the night, and about 3 a.m. were halted on a high hill in front of a long line of what looked to be small shanties. We were marched into these shanties. They were dug-outs for troops way down in the ground. Two divisions, 80,000 men, slept that day in the dug-outs. After dark we came out and took the hike. We were told we were going into the trenches and over the top in the morning. Our lieutenant told us how much artillery we had behind us, and that at 2:30 a.m. preparations for our drive would start in with a good barrage. Say, boy! It seemed as if hell had broken loose. At. 2:30 they started with a roar, seven lines of artillery, most of it at that hour being the heavy six, eight, ten inch guns, seventy-fives and big naval guns—all started on the minute. They were some miles behind us, but they seemed only a block. The lines must have been six or eight miles long. Every second, boom! boom! There was not a still moment. I cannot describe it further—really can’t. The German artillery then started and we were busy keeping our noses in the dirt all the while. We knew we were going over soon—a while later the exact time of the zero hour was given. Near the hour our one pounders started. Oh boy! Seemed like there was a million—a sharp, clear whistle in their song. It was just breaking day. I’ll never forget that morning! An old sergeant said to me; “Boy, we’re going somewhere and the one-pounders are going to follow us up. It’s the same old song.” A piece of shrapnel tore his head off a few minutes before we went over.
“Load and lock pieces; fix bayonets,” was the order yelled above the din. Lieutenants took their area of various companies and gave the word to the ladder details. Quickly they were placed and over we went at daybreak. It was glorious. All the doughboys were cold and wet—mad as hell. We went over, line after line, in a double wave formation, a swell line; there was not a buckle in the whole of it, and it extended both ways as far as we could see. All the while the artillery had not been still a moment. Then came our best support; the six-inch guns of our front line opened up after our advance, and they, added with the seven lines, made it one inferno, yelling, swearing, shooting, one half sobbing at the machine gun wounds, and shrapnel and all kinds of babel. We would advance, then go down, then up and gone again! I didn’t think there were so many machine gun bullets in the world. A machine gun in action sounds like a well-oiled air rivet hammer doing steel construction work, and those Prussians had a nest behind each knoll in front of their trench.
It was zip, zip, around your face and body every second. The doughboys faced all that, the 47th in the lead. These “pills” dusted my raincoat, tore my leggins, tore my pack half off, one split the palm of my left hand, and the shrapnel! There was to be brief, plenty of action. We kept going, and as they saw us making the last half mile, all but the machine gunners began to retreat. They were chained to their guns. They shoot till they were captured, then yell ‘Kamrad.’ We took many prisoners, the dead Boches were in piles. We took the trench, and halted for half an hour for the artillery to move up. The Boches retreating across the open land; caught our glorious barrage. We went over again and across No Man’s Land. In every hollow was a dugout and a machine gun nest, and behind every knoll were more machines guns and snipers by the hundreds. That’s their style of fighting. But we went there just the same. Miles to the left of us were the French, the English at the right, and their barrage started at the same hour as ours. They went over to the minute with us. That, with the German artillery, made quite a little noise! It was a co-operative drive. A few of the days and nights on that front I will never forget. I can’t tell you how long we were on that front, but it rained 29 days while we were there. When we were relieved, we started out and hiked “too many” days and nights and were all exhausted, when we were met by a runner from battalion headquarters with the order to hike to Nancy, to get a furlough for seven days. We are now in a large resort in southern France, an enlisted men’s camp, quartered in regular hotels, eat regular meals, sleep in regular beds. Uncle Sam pays all; we have no duty, no officers; we are free until our pass expires. Our only restriction is a certain area. I hardly knew how to sleep in a feather bed last night, after three months of sleeping in old French barracks, French barns, woods, trees, dugouts and trenches.
Speak a good word for the Y.M.C.A., the Red Cross and the K.C.S. They are wonderful—the soldiers only friend; never a favor refused. The “Y” and K. C. men came through shell fire where we were pocketed by German artillery, with smokes, stationery, and chocolate. Services were said by the “Y” chaplain in the dense woods, drizzling rain, mud a foot deep. When a rough soldier is touched to the heart enough to say, ‘O, God, be merciful to me, a sinner,’ there’s a reason. With shells bursting here and there during these services, every man realized what a grand and glorious thing it is to be alive. Sounds strange, but this over here is indescribable. You never know what life, home and mother are until you are up against what we are, and especially the doughboys, the roughest, toughest, hardest and most dangerous branch of the service. Uncle Sam does his best, but at times the line men are too far up for food to be brought up to him. Water is scarce, and your blankets are not always with you. On my last trip to the lines. I went 71 hours at one time, 63 another without a minute of sleep, and it raining half the time.
NOTES: This partial letter was written by Fredrick Francis Ford to his brother Sgt. Robert A. Ford at Camp Pike, Arkansas. He was a former office boy and later a printer for the Arkansas Gazette before going into the service. He was born on July 10, 1894/5 in Anniston, Alabama. His family had moved to Little Rock, Arkansas by 1910. He died on April 2, 1940 and is buried in the Mt. Olivet Cemetery in East Ridge, Tennessee. He was described as being short and of medium build with hazel eyes and black hair.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT
There is a wonderful brotherhood in the American army! You would have thought so one night had you seen me and a Greek and a Wyoming Indian named “Broken Cup” dividing a piece of muddy bread we found up in the front lines during a food (MISSING TEXT)
My first trip up we were whirled about 100 miles over France, and went into trenches that night. We had only a little rifle fire but we were shelled all the time. We were there only 35 hours. Finally we were sent into the trenches on a desperate active front against Prussian Guards, Royal Hussars and Imperial Guards. We were told we were to take part in the world’s greatest offensive—and it was great enough for me! We were taken in trucks across the country during the night, and about 3 a.m. were halted on a high hill in front of a long line of what looked to be small shanties. We were marched into these shanties. They were dug-outs for troops way down in the ground. Two divisions, 80,000 men, slept that day in the dug-outs. After dark we came out and took the hike. We were told we were going into the trenches and over the top in the morning. Our lieutenant told us how much artillery we had behind us, and that at 2:30 a.m. preparations for our drive would start in with a good barrage. Say, boy! It seemed as if hell had broken loose. At. 2:30 they started with a roar, seven lines of artillery, most of it at that hour being the heavy six, eight, ten inch guns, seventy-fives and big naval guns—all started on the minute. They were some miles behind us, but they seemed only a block. The lines must have been six or eight miles long. Every second, boom! boom! There was not a still moment. I cannot describe it further—really can’t. The German artillery then started and we were busy keeping our noses in the dirt all the while. We knew we were going over soon—a while later the exact time of the zero hour was given. Near the hour our one pounders started. Oh boy! Seemed like there was a million—a sharp, clear whistle in their song. It was just breaking day. I’ll never forget that morning! An old sergeant said to me; “Boy, we’re going somewhere and the one-pounders are going to follow us up. It’s the same old song.” A piece of shrapnel tore his head off a few minutes before we went over.
“Load and lock pieces; fix bayonets,” was the order yelled above the din. Lieutenants took their area of various companies and gave the word to the ladder details. Quickly they were placed and over we went at daybreak. It was glorious. All the doughboys were cold and wet—mad as hell. We went over, line after line, in a double wave formation, a swell line; there was not a buckle in the whole of it, and it extended both ways as far as we could see. All the while the artillery had not been still a moment. Then came our best support; the six-inch guns of our front line opened up after our advance, and they, added with the seven lines, made it one inferno, yelling, swearing, shooting, one half sobbing at the machine gun wounds, and shrapnel and all kinds of babel. We would advance, then go down, then up and gone again! I didn’t think there were so many machine gun bullets in the world. A machine gun in action sounds like a well-oiled air rivet hammer doing steel construction work, and those Prussians had a nest behind each knoll in front of their trench.
It was zip, zip, around your face and body every second. The doughboys faced all that, the 47th in the lead. These “pills” dusted my raincoat, tore my leggins, tore my pack half off, one split the palm of my left hand, and the shrapnel! There was to be brief, plenty of action. We kept going, and as they saw us making the last half mile, all but the machine gunners began to retreat. They were chained to their guns. They shoot till they were captured, then yell ‘Kamrad.’ We took many prisoners, the dead Boches were in piles. We took the trench, and halted for half an hour for the artillery to move up. The Boches retreating across the open land; caught our glorious barrage. We went over again and across No Man’s Land. In every hollow was a dugout and a machine gun nest, and behind every knoll were more machines guns and snipers by the hundreds. That’s their style of fighting. But we went there just the same. Miles to the left of us were the French, the English at the right, and their barrage started at the same hour as ours. They went over to the minute with us. That, with the German artillery, made quite a little noise! It was a co-operative drive. A few of the days and nights on that front I will never forget. I can’t tell you how long we were on that front, but it rained 29 days while we were there. When we were relieved, we started out and hiked “too many” days and nights and were all exhausted, when we were met by a runner from battalion headquarters with the order to hike to Nancy, to get a furlough for seven days. We are now in a large resort in southern France, an enlisted men’s camp, quartered in regular hotels, eat regular meals, sleep in regular beds. Uncle Sam pays all; we have no duty, no officers; we are free until our pass expires. Our only restriction is a certain area. I hardly knew how to sleep in a feather bed last night, after three months of sleeping in old French barracks, French barns, woods, trees, dugouts and trenches.
Speak a good word for the Y.M.C.A., the Red Cross and the K.C.S. They are wonderful—the soldiers only friend; never a favor refused. The “Y” and K. C. men came through shell fire where we were pocketed by German artillery, with smokes, stationery, and chocolate. Services were said by the “Y” chaplain in the dense woods, drizzling rain, mud a foot deep. When a rough soldier is touched to the heart enough to say, ‘O, God, be merciful to me, a sinner,’ there’s a reason. With shells bursting here and there during these services, every man realized what a grand and glorious thing it is to be alive. Sounds strange, but this over here is indescribable. You never know what life, home and mother are until you are up against what we are, and especially the doughboys, the roughest, toughest, hardest and most dangerous branch of the service. Uncle Sam does his best, but at times the line men are too far up for food to be brought up to him. Water is scarce, and your blankets are not always with you. On my last trip to the lines. I went 71 hours at one time, 63 another without a minute of sleep, and it raining half the time.
NOTES: This partial letter was written by Fredrick Francis Ford to his brother Sgt. Robert A. Ford at Camp Pike, Arkansas. He was a former office boy and later a printer for the Arkansas Gazette before going into the service. He was born on July 10, 1894/5 in Anniston, Alabama. His family had moved to Little Rock, Arkansas by 1910. He died on April 2, 1940 and is buried in the Mt. Olivet Cemetery in East Ridge, Tennessee. He was described as being short and of medium build with hazel eyes and black hair.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT