TRANSCRIBED FROM THE JONESBORO EVENING SUN NOVEMBER 12, 1918 p 4.
My Dearest Mother:
Well, can you imagine what has happened to me? I have been captured!!! For three hours I was a prisoner of war. Can you picture it? Of course you could never, so I’ll try to tell you of it.
About two or three weeks ago our organizations were hot on the heels of the Boche, in fact, we were racing madly. We moved our headquarters twice in one day and were ordered forward before day light to a little town which we were supposed to have captured the afternoon before. Three of us started out at 3:00 o’clock, that we might establish our office and get lines out to the batteries from our post of command. Well driving at night without lights on a dark night doesn’t reveal so very much of the surrounding territory. We dashed into the town, selected the best looking house in sight, and started to make ourselves at home. You can imagine our glee, when we stopped a soldier to ask about how things were going, the answer came back in ------ German! We were immediately taken prisoners and placed under guard. We were not questioned, as there were none of them who could speak English. Alas! my dear mother, I feared your young son had come to a sad and inglorious end.
Well, we spent three of about the most uncertain hours that I ever spent in my life. Many were the probable outcomes that we discussed. And how it happened we couldn’t understand.
It all cleared up in the morning when our reserves came up and took all the Boche into the care of the U. S. It happened like this. Our infantry in its rapid advance had gone around the town as it was between two division sectors and each thought the other had the town, so in the rush they passed it up and joined above, leaving the town occupied by the Boche.
So you see how I was a prisoner of war for a short time.
Let me assure you, mother dear, that I shall certainly not be soured in life after the war. I can smile today just as well and perhaps a little better and with a truer realization of the value of it, than I could before the war. For what reason should one forget how to smile? Of course, it’s a very hard life to live, it couldn’t be otherwise. But I’ve noticed since my first arrival at the front that it’s the man that’s having it the worst that is the most cheerful about. Since the 4th of June I have been continually at the front in active fighting. In that time our organization has been in the line at six different points between Rheims and Switzerland, fighting always. During that time I have seen many, many men lying wounded, and dead, but not one that showed the least spirit of melancholy dejection. Many were tired to exhaustion, many in intense pain, but never, mother, were they ready to give up. That is, the live ones. Why just the other day I saw and heard a most amusing and at the same time pathetic conversation between two wounded men lying side by side on stretchers at a first aid station, one waiting for an ambulance to take him back to the hospital, the other just arrived from the line.
“Hello, Buddy, were’d they get you?
“No where much! Just took a little of my breeches off and because those fools in the states made them so --- small and tight it took some of my skin off with them. How long will you have to stay out?”
“Not long. The colonel just wanted me petted a while or I’d be up there now.”
“Well, good-bye, old scout, here’s my chauffeur.”
“Good-bye! See you again.”
And one of these boys had a leg shot off and the other an eye out and a big piece of his shoulder gone. This is only one of hundreds of such instances that occur daily. These men smile. Why should we forget how to smile when they don’t. Of course we have few moments to devote entirely to merriment, but when there’s a moment there is most always some one to tell of an amusing incident, not some sad, gruesome tale. So I think that is a rather spineless sort of person that’ll come home without a smile. And I’m most certain that even though I should forget to smile over here, the moment that I saw you would be quite enough to bring back to my face the happiest smile that I ever ever smiled, mother, dear.
I am very very sorry about Willie’s leg. I am quite proud of him and want him not to forget that he musn’t always do the kind of work he has been doing. There is always room on the next higher step for the earnest worker. I would so much rather he had joined the army than the navy, but then he knows best, what he wants and I’m quite certain that I shouldn’t like for any one to try to decide things for me.
I shall write Gene soon. I don’t have much time now however. I am expecting a great deal of him, and I want him to get the most out of school. He is one of the reasons that I feel that I must come home.
Had a letter from Neil the other day. I know where he is but haven’t had a chance to see him yet. Had I known a few days earlier I could have gone by and seen him as we passed within twenty miles of his training areas.
By the way your letters to me are not censored.
NOTES: This is a partial letter written by John Snyder. Captain John Snyder was the second of three brothers that were in the military in World War I at the same time. Neil was the eldest and William “Willie” was third in line. Willie went into the Navy, broke his leg in action and was sent home to recuperate. John was born January 21, 1895 in Jonesboro, Craighead County, and died October 8, 1985. He is buried at the National Cathedral, Washington D. C. He was Secretary of the Treasury 1946-1953 under president Harry S. Truman.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT
My Dearest Mother:
Well, can you imagine what has happened to me? I have been captured!!! For three hours I was a prisoner of war. Can you picture it? Of course you could never, so I’ll try to tell you of it.
About two or three weeks ago our organizations were hot on the heels of the Boche, in fact, we were racing madly. We moved our headquarters twice in one day and were ordered forward before day light to a little town which we were supposed to have captured the afternoon before. Three of us started out at 3:00 o’clock, that we might establish our office and get lines out to the batteries from our post of command. Well driving at night without lights on a dark night doesn’t reveal so very much of the surrounding territory. We dashed into the town, selected the best looking house in sight, and started to make ourselves at home. You can imagine our glee, when we stopped a soldier to ask about how things were going, the answer came back in ------ German! We were immediately taken prisoners and placed under guard. We were not questioned, as there were none of them who could speak English. Alas! my dear mother, I feared your young son had come to a sad and inglorious end.
Well, we spent three of about the most uncertain hours that I ever spent in my life. Many were the probable outcomes that we discussed. And how it happened we couldn’t understand.
It all cleared up in the morning when our reserves came up and took all the Boche into the care of the U. S. It happened like this. Our infantry in its rapid advance had gone around the town as it was between two division sectors and each thought the other had the town, so in the rush they passed it up and joined above, leaving the town occupied by the Boche.
So you see how I was a prisoner of war for a short time.
Let me assure you, mother dear, that I shall certainly not be soured in life after the war. I can smile today just as well and perhaps a little better and with a truer realization of the value of it, than I could before the war. For what reason should one forget how to smile? Of course, it’s a very hard life to live, it couldn’t be otherwise. But I’ve noticed since my first arrival at the front that it’s the man that’s having it the worst that is the most cheerful about. Since the 4th of June I have been continually at the front in active fighting. In that time our organization has been in the line at six different points between Rheims and Switzerland, fighting always. During that time I have seen many, many men lying wounded, and dead, but not one that showed the least spirit of melancholy dejection. Many were tired to exhaustion, many in intense pain, but never, mother, were they ready to give up. That is, the live ones. Why just the other day I saw and heard a most amusing and at the same time pathetic conversation between two wounded men lying side by side on stretchers at a first aid station, one waiting for an ambulance to take him back to the hospital, the other just arrived from the line.
“Hello, Buddy, were’d they get you?
“No where much! Just took a little of my breeches off and because those fools in the states made them so --- small and tight it took some of my skin off with them. How long will you have to stay out?”
“Not long. The colonel just wanted me petted a while or I’d be up there now.”
“Well, good-bye, old scout, here’s my chauffeur.”
“Good-bye! See you again.”
And one of these boys had a leg shot off and the other an eye out and a big piece of his shoulder gone. This is only one of hundreds of such instances that occur daily. These men smile. Why should we forget how to smile when they don’t. Of course we have few moments to devote entirely to merriment, but when there’s a moment there is most always some one to tell of an amusing incident, not some sad, gruesome tale. So I think that is a rather spineless sort of person that’ll come home without a smile. And I’m most certain that even though I should forget to smile over here, the moment that I saw you would be quite enough to bring back to my face the happiest smile that I ever ever smiled, mother, dear.
I am very very sorry about Willie’s leg. I am quite proud of him and want him not to forget that he musn’t always do the kind of work he has been doing. There is always room on the next higher step for the earnest worker. I would so much rather he had joined the army than the navy, but then he knows best, what he wants and I’m quite certain that I shouldn’t like for any one to try to decide things for me.
I shall write Gene soon. I don’t have much time now however. I am expecting a great deal of him, and I want him to get the most out of school. He is one of the reasons that I feel that I must come home.
Had a letter from Neil the other day. I know where he is but haven’t had a chance to see him yet. Had I known a few days earlier I could have gone by and seen him as we passed within twenty miles of his training areas.
By the way your letters to me are not censored.
NOTES: This is a partial letter written by John Snyder. Captain John Snyder was the second of three brothers that were in the military in World War I at the same time. Neil was the eldest and William “Willie” was third in line. Willie went into the Navy, broke his leg in action and was sent home to recuperate. John was born January 21, 1895 in Jonesboro, Craighead County, and died October 8, 1985. He is buried at the National Cathedral, Washington D. C. He was Secretary of the Treasury 1946-1953 under president Harry S. Truman.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT