TRANSCRIBED FROM THE ARKANSAS DEMOCRAT NOVEMBER 5, 1918 P. 12
I am again privileged to plant my feet on American soil, after several weeks’ absence it is a pleasant sensation. After making our little bow to the Statue of Liberty we started on what promised to be an uneventful trip, until we were far out at sea. One evening late, when, as Browning in his beautiful line, expresses it, “the winds seemed to be pillowed on the waves,” an alarm from all quarters of the ship made us to know that we should get our best and truest friend, immediately, namely, our life preservers. The importance of such a product on ingenuity being described by a soldier passenger in these words: Out on the deck, wrapped in overcoat and slicker, cuddled to your buddy for his 98.3 degrees of animal warmth—with your introls growling and your brain reeling—when the sun comes out from behind a cloud and you look up at it and give birth to a genuine diaphragm, racking, ripping, whooching, sneeze—man? That’s a life preserver.
At the time of the alarm I was enjoying the Review of Reviews in my usual afternoon fashion, which is retiring to some quiet spot on the topside, for, fresh air and sunshine. I was the third man to reach the boat deck, and I could plainly see the German sub, the latter being about two feet out of the water, but gradually going down. The explosions from our guns were almost deafening, but the hits were ___feet. Soon the destroyers made for the scene, but before we could cripple that one another had turned a torpedo in our direction, we could see the wake of the torpedo, and only the excellent maneuvering of our ship permits me to write to you today, or at least write from American soil. Needless to say, our destroyers sunk both of them, and during the dropping of the 17 depth bombs I saw wreckage from one of the submarines thrown 20 feet out of the water. No attempt was made to capture or take any of the Germans. For having calmly stood by while we were making our miraculous escape each member of our crew has been decorated with a gold chevron.
Our homeward trip was devoid of thrilling events, but full of entertainment and pleasure. The “Spanish influenza” was raging in the French port visited, and we were privileged to go ashore but once.
When we turned our bow westward I noted that the port side, leeward, was filled with Red Cross men and Y.M.C.A. secretaries, and entertainers being about ‘alf and ‘alf men and women. These men had been ordered home to answer the present draft. There were lady singers, male quartets and performers of various interpretations, so it was strictly in order that we have a “smoker” on our homeward trip. Every day the ladies would sing to the wounded soldiers we were bringing over, and my office being near the sick boy, privileged me to thusly benefit or suffer as the case might be. The date for the smoker was decided upon, and with the doctors’ permission we took the soldiers in their stretchers down two ladders to the music room, that they might witness and enjoy it. It was some procession, to see the armless, handless and legless men of our own blood, come hobbling down on crutches, and note the cicatrix that was inflicted at German hands. However, these lads are still game, and are typical of our manhood.
The “smoker” was a grand success; rendition after rendition for one hour, and intermission for refreshments, consisting of candy, cake, fruit, cigarettes, cigars and orangeade. We have one on each trip, and the class of performance, movies etc., make it a longed-for occasion by all of the crew. One of the crippled marines told of his experience in the Argonne forest, where the American marines did noble work, and also related how he received six machine gun bullets in his left leg above the knee, which necessitated its amputation. It would make your heart ache to see boys of apparently fine parentage who have lost an arm or leg in this fierce conflict. I have seen hundreds of amputation cases, alone, and all have been in the line of duty on my ship. It became necessary to operate on one boy’s arm while at sea. I gave the ethyl chloride anaesthesia. During the second stages of anaesthesia some patients are talkative, and this poor lad prayed to his mother in “Heaven,” whom he said he did not remember. It came home to me, and with upmost grit I held out until we completed the small amputation. This was the fifth time he had been under an aesthetic since being wounded.
We also had six congressmen on the ship, they had been to the front lines, as they said, to see the boys. Probably they had been to Paris. I know that one of them found my resting place on the topside, and it ceased to be the same.
NOTES: Woodford Ransom Smith was writing to his brother, D. E. Smith of Arkadelphia, Arkansas. He was serving as a pharmacist mate in the Navy. He was born on December 14, 1894, Magnolia, Arkansas and died on May 21, 1980 in Apopka, Florida. He is buried in the Greenwood cemetery in Orlando, Florida. He was described as being of medium height and build with blue eyes and dark hair.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT
I am again privileged to plant my feet on American soil, after several weeks’ absence it is a pleasant sensation. After making our little bow to the Statue of Liberty we started on what promised to be an uneventful trip, until we were far out at sea. One evening late, when, as Browning in his beautiful line, expresses it, “the winds seemed to be pillowed on the waves,” an alarm from all quarters of the ship made us to know that we should get our best and truest friend, immediately, namely, our life preservers. The importance of such a product on ingenuity being described by a soldier passenger in these words: Out on the deck, wrapped in overcoat and slicker, cuddled to your buddy for his 98.3 degrees of animal warmth—with your introls growling and your brain reeling—when the sun comes out from behind a cloud and you look up at it and give birth to a genuine diaphragm, racking, ripping, whooching, sneeze—man? That’s a life preserver.
At the time of the alarm I was enjoying the Review of Reviews in my usual afternoon fashion, which is retiring to some quiet spot on the topside, for, fresh air and sunshine. I was the third man to reach the boat deck, and I could plainly see the German sub, the latter being about two feet out of the water, but gradually going down. The explosions from our guns were almost deafening, but the hits were ___feet. Soon the destroyers made for the scene, but before we could cripple that one another had turned a torpedo in our direction, we could see the wake of the torpedo, and only the excellent maneuvering of our ship permits me to write to you today, or at least write from American soil. Needless to say, our destroyers sunk both of them, and during the dropping of the 17 depth bombs I saw wreckage from one of the submarines thrown 20 feet out of the water. No attempt was made to capture or take any of the Germans. For having calmly stood by while we were making our miraculous escape each member of our crew has been decorated with a gold chevron.
Our homeward trip was devoid of thrilling events, but full of entertainment and pleasure. The “Spanish influenza” was raging in the French port visited, and we were privileged to go ashore but once.
When we turned our bow westward I noted that the port side, leeward, was filled with Red Cross men and Y.M.C.A. secretaries, and entertainers being about ‘alf and ‘alf men and women. These men had been ordered home to answer the present draft. There were lady singers, male quartets and performers of various interpretations, so it was strictly in order that we have a “smoker” on our homeward trip. Every day the ladies would sing to the wounded soldiers we were bringing over, and my office being near the sick boy, privileged me to thusly benefit or suffer as the case might be. The date for the smoker was decided upon, and with the doctors’ permission we took the soldiers in their stretchers down two ladders to the music room, that they might witness and enjoy it. It was some procession, to see the armless, handless and legless men of our own blood, come hobbling down on crutches, and note the cicatrix that was inflicted at German hands. However, these lads are still game, and are typical of our manhood.
The “smoker” was a grand success; rendition after rendition for one hour, and intermission for refreshments, consisting of candy, cake, fruit, cigarettes, cigars and orangeade. We have one on each trip, and the class of performance, movies etc., make it a longed-for occasion by all of the crew. One of the crippled marines told of his experience in the Argonne forest, where the American marines did noble work, and also related how he received six machine gun bullets in his left leg above the knee, which necessitated its amputation. It would make your heart ache to see boys of apparently fine parentage who have lost an arm or leg in this fierce conflict. I have seen hundreds of amputation cases, alone, and all have been in the line of duty on my ship. It became necessary to operate on one boy’s arm while at sea. I gave the ethyl chloride anaesthesia. During the second stages of anaesthesia some patients are talkative, and this poor lad prayed to his mother in “Heaven,” whom he said he did not remember. It came home to me, and with upmost grit I held out until we completed the small amputation. This was the fifth time he had been under an aesthetic since being wounded.
We also had six congressmen on the ship, they had been to the front lines, as they said, to see the boys. Probably they had been to Paris. I know that one of them found my resting place on the topside, and it ceased to be the same.
NOTES: Woodford Ransom Smith was writing to his brother, D. E. Smith of Arkadelphia, Arkansas. He was serving as a pharmacist mate in the Navy. He was born on December 14, 1894, Magnolia, Arkansas and died on May 21, 1980 in Apopka, Florida. He is buried in the Greenwood cemetery in Orlando, Florida. He was described as being of medium height and build with blue eyes and dark hair.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT