TRANSCRIBED FROM THE ARKANSAS GAZETTE DECEMBER 16, 1917 P. 10
A Dirty Little Town in France.
November 13, 1917.
Wonderful experiences have crowded down upon me since I wrote you last at the termination of our five weeks schooling with the British army. At that time, I wrote you that I was off to witness and perhaps take a part in the biggest thing in the history of the world, a world’s war. I have seen it and it is more gigantic, more ruthless, than one can dream, even in one’s wildest fancy. The trenches, those avenues of death and safety combined, miles of them, in which thousands of men have been sacrificed.
At the close of school each American left with a British officer (his friend) for a different division which held a different sector in the ever changing, boundary line of war – the trench. It was my good fortune to visit in company with a fine young English officer, Captain Bond, a sector upon which ensued enough excitement for any live American. After a day and a half of traveling by train we arrived at the war area, eight miles from the German lines, the division headquarters of the British army (First army). Here my friend took off his finery and put on his trench clothes and we both were fitted out with steel hats, gas respirator, and the long Webly pistols, to take the last lap to the trenches’ edge. We were given two horses and two soldiers to accompany us the remaining eight miles.
We passed through several French villages through which raced back and forth English ambulances, ammunition carts, and huge automobile trucks bearing fresh fuel (men to the hell that is forever waging on that front). As we came close, we passed through villages in which there stood no house that was not completely ruined by shell fire. These villages you would easily recognize if I could only tell you their names. Village after village, ruins after ruins, utter desolation mutely spoke of wild barbaric treatment at the hands of the Germans. Not one soul did we see in these villages as we drew nearer the distant booming of the guns we could so distinctly hear.
In the heart of a deserted village we were compelled to leave our horses and strike out on foot, and after a three-quarters of an hour walk along a camouflaged wood we reached at last the mouth of the trenches. As we bid farewell to level ground and walked down into the trench I looked overhead and saw seven British planes flying overhead observing for the artillery that was at that moment sending screeching shells into the German lines.
The entrance into the trench was situated smack in the center of a ruined and deserted village in which two months previous was waged one of the fiercest battles of the year, at which time the English succeeded with the help of those wonderful fighters, the Canadians, in taking a hill which is a wonderful point of vantage for the allied forces. I found out that the trenches through which we passed were the old German trenches. They were well made though somewhat battered up by constant shell fighting. It was about 10 feet deep and wound round and round like a horrible snake. We were constantly drawing nearer the German lines and the artillery fire of the English and the retaliation of the German guns were deafening.
At last after walking around and around we finally reached the battalion headquarters (it was then 4 pm and gradually growing dark), which was quartered as everything is in a dugout 45 to 50 feet under the ground. After climbing down steep steps I came to the dugout and it was certainly a surprise. The first thing that greeted my eye was a long table upon which was a cover of spotless linen, with silver placed all around, and grouped around were five English officers drinking tea. Oh, these English you cannot beat them. They go to war with a tea cup in one hand and a revolver in the other.
This dugout was an old German one which consisted of four rooms, a large dinning room, a signal room, a kitchen and bedroom. Imagine that if you can, all fixed up with huge mirrors, lounging chairs, stoves, lighted candles in brass holders. These men were sitting around calming drinking tea and whiskey while 45 feet overhead the shells were screaming by. I was introduced as the American who was attached for a few days for instruction and I was made quite welcome, such a welcome I had never had before anywhere. My hosts were a colonel, captain, two majors, ably assisted, several privates whose only duty it seemed was to look after me and to be sure I saw everything in the way of excitement and believe me, I did. I was just in time for tea so I sat down after taking off my tin hat, as the steel helmet is called.
As I drank my tea I was plied with questions, for I was the first American officer they had seen. I seemed to be refreshing to them because they were constantly laughing at my answers. If one could have seen us around that table little would they have thought that a war was waging just 45 feet above our heads. Just before dinner I was led by the colonel, the two majors, the captain up the steps to see the heavy guns which belch into the night, sending huge missiles of death into the German lines; also, the heavy guns of the Huns would grunt in retaliation.
My first night in the trench was a sensation I never had before. After a wonderful dinner, consisting of fresh meats, sugar, cream, and a whole course dinner, even down to cheese and coffee – think of that if you can on the firing line. These “blooming Britishers” certainly do live.
About 9 o’clock I went to bed in an adjoining room about 20 feet square and my bed was a berthlike affair with heavy blankets and I slept soundly in spite of the fact now and then I could get the jar of a German shelling lighting overhead. I was awakened next morning by the colonel’s servant handing me a cup of steaming tea which I drank with much gusto. I was also brought hot water for shaving and for washing and was told breakfast was ready. And such a breakfast! – You would think that this was some hotel instead of a dugout on the western front-wonderfully cooked oatmeal-fresh eggs and ham, hot coffee and tea, jam greeted me.
After breakfast, I was furnished with two runners (privates with full equipment) and a fine daredevil lieutenant for the purpose, as the colonel expressed it, of seeing the whole show.
So, I started out with my tin helmet, gas respirator, a cane and a 45 revolver just as a German machine gun spat out a welcome, the bullets coming 100 feet away. My guide took me down one trench into another, every one named, down into dugouts, bomb dugouts, out into observation posts, looked into periscopes overlooking the German lines, saw Germans walking around, peered into German wire entanglements, saw dead Germans lying in captured dugouts (this hill has been only captured two-months). As we walked on the Germans were sending huge shells over us and the English were giving tit for tat, overhead eight English planes were flying, observing for the artillery. One especially claimed my attention. It would fly around and around, then swoop down straight for the German trench, getting about 100 feet above the Boche, then let fly his machine gun, which would pop-pop-pop certain death in their trench, then we would yell. It was wonderful!
Up on the top of this famous hill in my ramblings I came upon an artillery officer directing his battery and he was most kind to me. They are very picturesque, these artillery officers with their glasses to their eyes directing the fire of their heavy guns 1,500 yards behind. When I came up he was shelling the houses in a tiny village held by the Germans not 800 yards away. He stopped and shook my hand most heartily and seemed most glad to meet me. He explained everything to me, showed me the tiny telephones his orderlies used to give the range to his battery at his command. He then asked me if I would like to see him make a few hits and of course I said that I would not mind, secretly tickled to death.
He told me to put my glasses to my eyes and pointed out a red brick house on the extreme left of us, a house which he pointed out on his pocket map which was reported to billet a German company. I instantly glued my glasses to my eyes and I heard him call to his orderlies who stood four feet behind him with the tiny telephone something which sounded like “two degrees to the left, repeat.” Then suddenly I heard a distant boom and a screeching through the air, and after a few seconds another boom and, bless you- the house which I had confined within my glasses blew up into the air and fell back in smoking ruins. His had been a perfect hit. The British artillery is wonderful. It is in perfect liaison with the infantry; they work hand in hand.
I remained with the artillery officer for 15 minutes and I think just for my amusement he must have blown up six or seven houses.
We left the artillery officer and took a nice looking trench named Heaven (all the trenches are named), which led up to the tiptop of the hill. Gaining the top, we stood out wholly unprotected for 15 minutes while my intrepid guide showed me what a wonderful point of vantage this hill commanded. And it did, even to me, who has little military knowledge. The English by securing this hill had the Germans on three sides, and a town held by the Germans could easily be taken any time. But the hill upon which I stood had cost the British 17,000 men and as I stood upon the tiptop I could see countless shell holes. Canadians and English unburied, lying, just as they had fallen nearly two months ago. German rifles, helmets, hand grenades, arms and legs sticking out of holes. I shall never forget the sight or odor of decomposing humanity.
I was abruptly brought to by a German shell which burst barely 100 feet from me, which scattered clay over me and I realized that I was standing out against the sky a good target for a German sniper. The lieutenant, my guide, thought it a good joke and told it afterward about the crazy American who got almost in No Man’s Land looking for Boche helmets, German bayonets and other souvenirs.
As I passed down another trench, which proved to be 100 yards from the boche, there passed a stretcher party having two dead soldiers, who had just been killed by pieces of shell. I got quite used to seeing dead men, arms and legs and such. Just before lunch I was taken down into a part of the line which had been captured by the English the night before after quite a scrap, in which the Germans lost 300 men. As I climbed down the slope I was in the midst of it before I knew it and there burst upon my sight dead men lying all around, huge stock of bombs, rifle grenades and stores captured by the English. Going down to this place you had to pass an open space facing the boche lines, 200 feet away, so my guide told me to run for dear life in a zigzag direction, and I complied straightway and I afterward learned that 10 minutes prior to my coming the German sniper had killed a Britisher.
I saw many things of interest to numerous to mention, and wound up my day’s sightseeing by taking lunch with another friend of mine who was with me at the British school. This lunch was in another dugout and the food was excellent. The British idea is wonderful. They believe in giving their officers and men good food, even better than the rest of the army receive in rest areas. Their dugouts are mostly old German ones and are made like everything German complete in every detail. Our army will do well to pattern everything British, for they have gone through the mill and ought to know. I will cut this short, if I ever get to mail it. I have loads of other things to tell you all, but must go easy.
I will tell you in my next letter about returning here to join my regiment, the old 16th Infantry, to find Heber McLaughlin from Toltec, Ark., who came out with me. He is in a next company and has ably represented Arkansas. He was commanding the platoon which was raided by the Germans. He had a terrible time and was knocked senseless twice and barely came out with a whole skin. He was in the first fight for the Americans and while in the hospital was interviewed by the French and American generals. He did many heroic things and will perhaps receive the French military cross. He is still suffering from shell shock but is all o. k., being in the hospital only six days. He didn’t write his mother anything about it. You might get in touch with his family. McLaughlin, Toltec, Ark., planters, and tell his mother what a hero she has for a son. It won’t come out in any news, so I am sure a am writing things I should not write. I have not received a line since I arrived. Our letters are held up somewhere. Am working hard now. Will go to Paris next Saturday. Will write tomorrow. Love to all.
Paul,
Co. G., 16th Infantry, France
NOTES: This letter was written by Lieutenant Paul Remmel to his uncle H. L. Remmel of Little Rock, Arkansas. He volunteered for the first officers training camp during the summer of 1917 at Fort Roots. He graduated as a lieutenant and was one of a few officers sent directly to France for additional training at a British training school. Paul was born Paul Hirsch on February 12, 1891. He was taken as an infant by his uncle H. I. Remmel to raise and assumed the Remmel name. He died September 14, 1991 and is buried in the Calvary Cemetery, Little Rock.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT
A Dirty Little Town in France.
November 13, 1917.
Wonderful experiences have crowded down upon me since I wrote you last at the termination of our five weeks schooling with the British army. At that time, I wrote you that I was off to witness and perhaps take a part in the biggest thing in the history of the world, a world’s war. I have seen it and it is more gigantic, more ruthless, than one can dream, even in one’s wildest fancy. The trenches, those avenues of death and safety combined, miles of them, in which thousands of men have been sacrificed.
At the close of school each American left with a British officer (his friend) for a different division which held a different sector in the ever changing, boundary line of war – the trench. It was my good fortune to visit in company with a fine young English officer, Captain Bond, a sector upon which ensued enough excitement for any live American. After a day and a half of traveling by train we arrived at the war area, eight miles from the German lines, the division headquarters of the British army (First army). Here my friend took off his finery and put on his trench clothes and we both were fitted out with steel hats, gas respirator, and the long Webly pistols, to take the last lap to the trenches’ edge. We were given two horses and two soldiers to accompany us the remaining eight miles.
We passed through several French villages through which raced back and forth English ambulances, ammunition carts, and huge automobile trucks bearing fresh fuel (men to the hell that is forever waging on that front). As we came close, we passed through villages in which there stood no house that was not completely ruined by shell fire. These villages you would easily recognize if I could only tell you their names. Village after village, ruins after ruins, utter desolation mutely spoke of wild barbaric treatment at the hands of the Germans. Not one soul did we see in these villages as we drew nearer the distant booming of the guns we could so distinctly hear.
In the heart of a deserted village we were compelled to leave our horses and strike out on foot, and after a three-quarters of an hour walk along a camouflaged wood we reached at last the mouth of the trenches. As we bid farewell to level ground and walked down into the trench I looked overhead and saw seven British planes flying overhead observing for the artillery that was at that moment sending screeching shells into the German lines.
The entrance into the trench was situated smack in the center of a ruined and deserted village in which two months previous was waged one of the fiercest battles of the year, at which time the English succeeded with the help of those wonderful fighters, the Canadians, in taking a hill which is a wonderful point of vantage for the allied forces. I found out that the trenches through which we passed were the old German trenches. They were well made though somewhat battered up by constant shell fighting. It was about 10 feet deep and wound round and round like a horrible snake. We were constantly drawing nearer the German lines and the artillery fire of the English and the retaliation of the German guns were deafening.
At last after walking around and around we finally reached the battalion headquarters (it was then 4 pm and gradually growing dark), which was quartered as everything is in a dugout 45 to 50 feet under the ground. After climbing down steep steps I came to the dugout and it was certainly a surprise. The first thing that greeted my eye was a long table upon which was a cover of spotless linen, with silver placed all around, and grouped around were five English officers drinking tea. Oh, these English you cannot beat them. They go to war with a tea cup in one hand and a revolver in the other.
This dugout was an old German one which consisted of four rooms, a large dinning room, a signal room, a kitchen and bedroom. Imagine that if you can, all fixed up with huge mirrors, lounging chairs, stoves, lighted candles in brass holders. These men were sitting around calming drinking tea and whiskey while 45 feet overhead the shells were screaming by. I was introduced as the American who was attached for a few days for instruction and I was made quite welcome, such a welcome I had never had before anywhere. My hosts were a colonel, captain, two majors, ably assisted, several privates whose only duty it seemed was to look after me and to be sure I saw everything in the way of excitement and believe me, I did. I was just in time for tea so I sat down after taking off my tin hat, as the steel helmet is called.
As I drank my tea I was plied with questions, for I was the first American officer they had seen. I seemed to be refreshing to them because they were constantly laughing at my answers. If one could have seen us around that table little would they have thought that a war was waging just 45 feet above our heads. Just before dinner I was led by the colonel, the two majors, the captain up the steps to see the heavy guns which belch into the night, sending huge missiles of death into the German lines; also, the heavy guns of the Huns would grunt in retaliation.
My first night in the trench was a sensation I never had before. After a wonderful dinner, consisting of fresh meats, sugar, cream, and a whole course dinner, even down to cheese and coffee – think of that if you can on the firing line. These “blooming Britishers” certainly do live.
About 9 o’clock I went to bed in an adjoining room about 20 feet square and my bed was a berthlike affair with heavy blankets and I slept soundly in spite of the fact now and then I could get the jar of a German shelling lighting overhead. I was awakened next morning by the colonel’s servant handing me a cup of steaming tea which I drank with much gusto. I was also brought hot water for shaving and for washing and was told breakfast was ready. And such a breakfast! – You would think that this was some hotel instead of a dugout on the western front-wonderfully cooked oatmeal-fresh eggs and ham, hot coffee and tea, jam greeted me.
After breakfast, I was furnished with two runners (privates with full equipment) and a fine daredevil lieutenant for the purpose, as the colonel expressed it, of seeing the whole show.
So, I started out with my tin helmet, gas respirator, a cane and a 45 revolver just as a German machine gun spat out a welcome, the bullets coming 100 feet away. My guide took me down one trench into another, every one named, down into dugouts, bomb dugouts, out into observation posts, looked into periscopes overlooking the German lines, saw Germans walking around, peered into German wire entanglements, saw dead Germans lying in captured dugouts (this hill has been only captured two-months). As we walked on the Germans were sending huge shells over us and the English were giving tit for tat, overhead eight English planes were flying, observing for the artillery. One especially claimed my attention. It would fly around and around, then swoop down straight for the German trench, getting about 100 feet above the Boche, then let fly his machine gun, which would pop-pop-pop certain death in their trench, then we would yell. It was wonderful!
Up on the top of this famous hill in my ramblings I came upon an artillery officer directing his battery and he was most kind to me. They are very picturesque, these artillery officers with their glasses to their eyes directing the fire of their heavy guns 1,500 yards behind. When I came up he was shelling the houses in a tiny village held by the Germans not 800 yards away. He stopped and shook my hand most heartily and seemed most glad to meet me. He explained everything to me, showed me the tiny telephones his orderlies used to give the range to his battery at his command. He then asked me if I would like to see him make a few hits and of course I said that I would not mind, secretly tickled to death.
He told me to put my glasses to my eyes and pointed out a red brick house on the extreme left of us, a house which he pointed out on his pocket map which was reported to billet a German company. I instantly glued my glasses to my eyes and I heard him call to his orderlies who stood four feet behind him with the tiny telephone something which sounded like “two degrees to the left, repeat.” Then suddenly I heard a distant boom and a screeching through the air, and after a few seconds another boom and, bless you- the house which I had confined within my glasses blew up into the air and fell back in smoking ruins. His had been a perfect hit. The British artillery is wonderful. It is in perfect liaison with the infantry; they work hand in hand.
I remained with the artillery officer for 15 minutes and I think just for my amusement he must have blown up six or seven houses.
We left the artillery officer and took a nice looking trench named Heaven (all the trenches are named), which led up to the tiptop of the hill. Gaining the top, we stood out wholly unprotected for 15 minutes while my intrepid guide showed me what a wonderful point of vantage this hill commanded. And it did, even to me, who has little military knowledge. The English by securing this hill had the Germans on three sides, and a town held by the Germans could easily be taken any time. But the hill upon which I stood had cost the British 17,000 men and as I stood upon the tiptop I could see countless shell holes. Canadians and English unburied, lying, just as they had fallen nearly two months ago. German rifles, helmets, hand grenades, arms and legs sticking out of holes. I shall never forget the sight or odor of decomposing humanity.
I was abruptly brought to by a German shell which burst barely 100 feet from me, which scattered clay over me and I realized that I was standing out against the sky a good target for a German sniper. The lieutenant, my guide, thought it a good joke and told it afterward about the crazy American who got almost in No Man’s Land looking for Boche helmets, German bayonets and other souvenirs.
As I passed down another trench, which proved to be 100 yards from the boche, there passed a stretcher party having two dead soldiers, who had just been killed by pieces of shell. I got quite used to seeing dead men, arms and legs and such. Just before lunch I was taken down into a part of the line which had been captured by the English the night before after quite a scrap, in which the Germans lost 300 men. As I climbed down the slope I was in the midst of it before I knew it and there burst upon my sight dead men lying all around, huge stock of bombs, rifle grenades and stores captured by the English. Going down to this place you had to pass an open space facing the boche lines, 200 feet away, so my guide told me to run for dear life in a zigzag direction, and I complied straightway and I afterward learned that 10 minutes prior to my coming the German sniper had killed a Britisher.
I saw many things of interest to numerous to mention, and wound up my day’s sightseeing by taking lunch with another friend of mine who was with me at the British school. This lunch was in another dugout and the food was excellent. The British idea is wonderful. They believe in giving their officers and men good food, even better than the rest of the army receive in rest areas. Their dugouts are mostly old German ones and are made like everything German complete in every detail. Our army will do well to pattern everything British, for they have gone through the mill and ought to know. I will cut this short, if I ever get to mail it. I have loads of other things to tell you all, but must go easy.
I will tell you in my next letter about returning here to join my regiment, the old 16th Infantry, to find Heber McLaughlin from Toltec, Ark., who came out with me. He is in a next company and has ably represented Arkansas. He was commanding the platoon which was raided by the Germans. He had a terrible time and was knocked senseless twice and barely came out with a whole skin. He was in the first fight for the Americans and while in the hospital was interviewed by the French and American generals. He did many heroic things and will perhaps receive the French military cross. He is still suffering from shell shock but is all o. k., being in the hospital only six days. He didn’t write his mother anything about it. You might get in touch with his family. McLaughlin, Toltec, Ark., planters, and tell his mother what a hero she has for a son. It won’t come out in any news, so I am sure a am writing things I should not write. I have not received a line since I arrived. Our letters are held up somewhere. Am working hard now. Will go to Paris next Saturday. Will write tomorrow. Love to all.
Paul,
Co. G., 16th Infantry, France
NOTES: This letter was written by Lieutenant Paul Remmel to his uncle H. L. Remmel of Little Rock, Arkansas. He volunteered for the first officers training camp during the summer of 1917 at Fort Roots. He graduated as a lieutenant and was one of a few officers sent directly to France for additional training at a British training school. Paul was born Paul Hirsch on February 12, 1891. He was taken as an infant by his uncle H. I. Remmel to raise and assumed the Remmel name. He died September 14, 1991 and is buried in the Calvary Cemetery, Little Rock.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT