TRANSCRIBED FROM THE COURIER-INDEX SEPTEMBER 20, 1918 P. 1
Here I am in the harbor of Brest, France, yet aboard one of the huge vessels the United States took over at the outbreak of the war.
We sailed out of New York Monday, the 26th, but the ship had an accident in the boilers, killed nine men, and it delayed us a little.
When we arrived here this morning I sure felt glad to see land. I surely did get tired of water and the submarine suspense. However, I did not get very seasick. One day my head was dizzy and heavy. We had a rough sea the first four or five days and it was a pitiful sight below to see the boys that did get seasick. Almost all of them below were sick. I was lucky enough to get guard duty and was on boat deck (top deck). The boys that were sick—some worse than others—came back to life about the sixth day looking as if they wer recovering from a spell of fever.
There were two hundred Red Cross nurses on my part of the ship. Some of them were sick, but they sure were a brave bunch of women. Singing and laughing most of the time, and never getting frightened. They are on their way to American Hospital No. 2, Paris. We also had on board three thousand negroes that had the worst voyage of us all. They were scared half white after we left New York and cards and dice rained overboard. Praying, singing, and preaching among themselves. In troops there were almost seven thousand and our ship was crowded and uncomfortable. Feeding that number of men daily, and most of them eating three meals a day, was a mix up. It was hard to keep from getting mixed up with the negroes at meal times, because on a transport and a negro thinks he is the same as us. But this is war and the quickest way out is best, I guess. But they have one negro to bury.
Our meals were worse than I have ever had. I sure will be glad when I get ashore to a real meal. I have learned from the sailors how to get them, and they claim they are some feeds by the French cooks.There were three transports with us, practically all our division. We were guarded by air and water in the war zone leaving America and arriving over here, but on the high seas we had to look out for ourselves. If a sub shows itself it has a poor chance, anyway. One afternoon two of the ships fired on one and claimed to have sunk it. We were fired on two different nights but no hits as the dark is the best protection. A light is not allowed on board anywhere. Even have to turn in all matches and illuminous dial watches.
I don’t know where we go after we land in the morning. We take a three days rest at Brest first. The weather here is about the same as New York. Course out on the sea the wind is high.
I would love to know the news, especially when there is nothing to do. I don’t even know how the war is progressing, and it was very interesting when I left Brooklyn.
We have had one French woman visitor aboard. All of the sailing boats, etc., seemed to recognize the troops coming in. We brought two of the French soldiers that were instructors at Beauregard along with us, but they went ashore as soon as we dropped anchor.
There are no piers here and we are about half a mile out. They have been unloading troops ahead of us all day and tomorrow this time I will begin to meet my surprises on French soil.
I don’t know that you will receive this letter as I am going to send it back to New York by a sailor, to miss the censor. Will write again my first chance.
Write to me often, for there will be a long space between each letter.
NOTES: This letter was written by Thomas Gordon Mathews to a friend. He was born on November 10, 1896 in Marianna, Arkansas and died on September 13, 1981. He is buried in the Cedar Heights Cemetery in Marianna. He was the son of Ehperson J. and Mary B. Mathews. He enlisted on August 5, 1917 and was discharged on July 17, 1919. He made a living as a bookkeeper at a local insurance business.
TRANSCRIBED BY LINDA MATHEWS
Here I am in the harbor of Brest, France, yet aboard one of the huge vessels the United States took over at the outbreak of the war.
We sailed out of New York Monday, the 26th, but the ship had an accident in the boilers, killed nine men, and it delayed us a little.
When we arrived here this morning I sure felt glad to see land. I surely did get tired of water and the submarine suspense. However, I did not get very seasick. One day my head was dizzy and heavy. We had a rough sea the first four or five days and it was a pitiful sight below to see the boys that did get seasick. Almost all of them below were sick. I was lucky enough to get guard duty and was on boat deck (top deck). The boys that were sick—some worse than others—came back to life about the sixth day looking as if they wer recovering from a spell of fever.
There were two hundred Red Cross nurses on my part of the ship. Some of them were sick, but they sure were a brave bunch of women. Singing and laughing most of the time, and never getting frightened. They are on their way to American Hospital No. 2, Paris. We also had on board three thousand negroes that had the worst voyage of us all. They were scared half white after we left New York and cards and dice rained overboard. Praying, singing, and preaching among themselves. In troops there were almost seven thousand and our ship was crowded and uncomfortable. Feeding that number of men daily, and most of them eating three meals a day, was a mix up. It was hard to keep from getting mixed up with the negroes at meal times, because on a transport and a negro thinks he is the same as us. But this is war and the quickest way out is best, I guess. But they have one negro to bury.
Our meals were worse than I have ever had. I sure will be glad when I get ashore to a real meal. I have learned from the sailors how to get them, and they claim they are some feeds by the French cooks.There were three transports with us, practically all our division. We were guarded by air and water in the war zone leaving America and arriving over here, but on the high seas we had to look out for ourselves. If a sub shows itself it has a poor chance, anyway. One afternoon two of the ships fired on one and claimed to have sunk it. We were fired on two different nights but no hits as the dark is the best protection. A light is not allowed on board anywhere. Even have to turn in all matches and illuminous dial watches.
I don’t know where we go after we land in the morning. We take a three days rest at Brest first. The weather here is about the same as New York. Course out on the sea the wind is high.
I would love to know the news, especially when there is nothing to do. I don’t even know how the war is progressing, and it was very interesting when I left Brooklyn.
We have had one French woman visitor aboard. All of the sailing boats, etc., seemed to recognize the troops coming in. We brought two of the French soldiers that were instructors at Beauregard along with us, but they went ashore as soon as we dropped anchor.
There are no piers here and we are about half a mile out. They have been unloading troops ahead of us all day and tomorrow this time I will begin to meet my surprises on French soil.
I don’t know that you will receive this letter as I am going to send it back to New York by a sailor, to miss the censor. Will write again my first chance.
Write to me often, for there will be a long space between each letter.
NOTES: This letter was written by Thomas Gordon Mathews to a friend. He was born on November 10, 1896 in Marianna, Arkansas and died on September 13, 1981. He is buried in the Cedar Heights Cemetery in Marianna. He was the son of Ehperson J. and Mary B. Mathews. He enlisted on August 5, 1917 and was discharged on July 17, 1919. He made a living as a bookkeeper at a local insurance business.
TRANSCRIBED BY LINDA MATHEWS