A STORY
of
THE 305th MACHINE GUN BATTALION
77th DIVISION
A.E.F.
By
HENRY W. SMITH
CHAPTER I
WE ARE BORN
T0 BEGIN at the beginning we take you back to August,
1917, and to Camp Upton on Long Island, not far distant
from Yaphank. Few people, apart from the Long Island
trainmen, ever heard of Yaphank before the War but to
those of the old 77th Division it came to be a by-word,
as well-known as Hoboken came to be known to the World.
The first commanding officer of the Battalion was Major
Winnia (later Colonel) who, with a nucleus of regular
army non-commissioned officers established headquarters
on 11th Street between 4th and 5th Avenues in Camp Upton.
In order to ascertain what material he had to start with,
the Major, it is reported, asked one of the bright
sergeants what he knew about paper work whereupon the
sergeant replied that he knew all about paper work as he
had once been a printer in Chicago. The major naturally
"hit the ceiling" and we understand that the
sergeant never mentioned printing again.
Men called into the
service commenced pouring into camp and the Battalion
soon took shape. Many of us were not sent directly to the
machine gun barracks but were sent to the various
infantry regiments, later being transferred. Those who
were transferred will never forget the send-off given us
as we left the infantry barracks to trudge up 5th Avenue
in camp with our belongings in a blanket to join the
machine gunners. Windows and doors were crowded with
infantrymen who shouted such pleasantries as:
"Suicide Club! -Seven-Minute Men, etc." These
were terms that were supposed to describe a
machine-gunner, statistics at that time indicating that
the average life of a machine-gunner was about seven
minutes after he reached the trenches. The writer, one of
those transferred from an infantry regiment, recalls
sitting dejectedly in the mess hall of C Company when one
of the old-timers strolled in. "What's your name,
buddy? Where you from? Going to be with us
permanently?" -were some of the questions to be
followed by: "Boy, you're in luck. You may not know
it but this is one Hell of a swell outfit. We got a real
battlin' bunch here and you're goin' to like it. Say,
this stuff ya hear about machine-gunners is the bunk.
You're with a real outfit now and we got just as good a
chance of coming back as the next guy." His little
"pep" talk helped a lot and as you can see I
was one of those who did come back or I would not be
sitting here telling you about it. Some of our gang did
not come back, though. No, they didn't come back.
There is no need to burden the reader with the daily
routine of a soldier. Those were hectic days and it was a
case of drill, drill, pull stumps and clean mules or
reverse the order if you will. Mules! The bane of our
existence. How they could kick!!! They would look around
at you to get the range, then lash out with one hoof
right at you. No guess work with them.
The winter of 1917 was one long to be remembered. Was it
cold? You walked your post on guard with tears running
down your cheeks. We had a lot of fun at that, what with
one thing or another and C Company men smile broadly when
the Battle of the Kitchen is mentioned. Never heard of
the Battle of the Kitchen? That is how C Company came to
be known as the Cleaver Club but, as Kipling would say,
that is another story and we will have to tell you about
it some other time.
Well, sir, to hurry
along a little, we drilled and we drilled and on
Washington's Birthday, 1918, the Division paraded down
Fifth Avenue, New York City. The parade made a decided
impression and it was the general feeling that we were
ready. The 305th Machine Gun Battalion was the first unit
to leave camp and we will never forget the look of
consternation on the faces of the infantrymen as we
marched by their barracks to the gate of the camp early
in the morn-ing of March 27th, 1918. Reveille was blowing
and as the doughboys rolled out to line up you never saw
a more startled crowd. "Where are you birds
going?" they yelled.
We were on our way
to the great adventure.
Upon arrival at the gate of the camp instead of beholding
the old Long Island Railroad coaches we knew so well, it
was a distinct surprise to see a train of New York, New
Haven and Hartford cars. Speculation as to our
destination was rife and while we all imagined it meant a
long ride, no one expected as long a ride as it turned
out to be. Right here we showed indications of having
absorbed some-thing of the real soldier and that was to
keep our mouths shut and to wait and see what happened.
Well, we rolled along through the old Long Island scenery
right into the Sunnyside yards at Long Island City. Many
thought it would be a change here to ferries for Hoboken
but after the usual troop-train delay we started and
found ourselves crossing the Hell-Gate bridge. Up through
Connecticut we went and we recall with pleasure a short
stop at New Haven. We, of course, were not permitted to
leave the train. Looking down one of the streets we
beheld a sign-New Haven Pie Baking Company. A young lady,
employed at the bakery, saw the troop-train at the
crossing. She was a girl with her heart in the right
place for a soldier for she hurried into the pie plant
and came up the street with pies nicely cut and, as she
passed beneath the windows holding up the pies, everybody
dipped in. Were we down-hearted? Not yet.
The train started
on again and we were favored with a view of
Massachusetts. We pulled into the yards at Worcester
about 1 A.M. and the news of a troop-train passing
through seemed to spread like wildfire. Every engineer in
the yards tied down the whistle cord to give us a
reception. It was anybody's guess where we would end up
on this ride. We had been riding all day and well into
the night as you can see and sleep was the one thing
everybody wanted. We must admit that we were not crowded
aboard the train but on the contrary had plenty of room,
that is, until we tried stretching out for some much
needed rest. We tried folding over the seats and it
looked as though this was the real trick but the backs of
the seats dipped for-ward and back and the idea was
abandoned. Stretching out on the floor extending across
the aisle of the car was about as good a way as any until
someone came along the car and we soon learned that
shin-bones do not make good stepping stones. The next day
was bright and clear and we were still going. We were
getting up north, pretty well, and here and there the
landscape was still patched with snow. At Dover, New
Hampshire, we saw a contingent of men with their bags,
just going to camp. What veterans we were! Into the State
of Maine we rode and finally to the City of Portland.
Right down along the piers until finally the train
stopped and our railroading in the United States was over
for a while. The prow of our ship was there towering
above us in all its wartime camouflage and it proved to
be the good ship Megantic, a White Star liner. Not the
largest ship afloat by any manner of means but a fine
ship for all that. It carried us safely through
submarine-infested waters and there will always be a warm
spot in our hearts for that famous old ship. What a
record she has!
CHAPTER II
WE SET SAIL
AFTER detraining at Portland we received some smart
instructions to empty our pockets of matches. There were
to be no matches carried aboard; danger of a lighted
match disclosing our presence and position to the enemy.
We knew by this time how to obey instructions and away
went the matches. The blue barrack bags were loaded and
we were ordered up the gang-plank. Some of the outfit
were fortunate in being assigned to comfortable quarters
in state rooms but with others it was down, down, down to
compartment K just above the propeller shafts. There
isn't anything so bad but what it could be worse and a
number of the men further forward were bothered by a lot
of rats. We were settled finally and returned to the
deck. About this time a smoke seemed to be in order but
what to do or matches. All we had you will remember were
out on the dock but this did not prove to be any problem
as we were able to buy matches on the ship. An English
sailor in charge of the canteen had plenty for sale; with
thousands of matches discarded on the pier. This sort of
thing did not set well, we can assure you and we felt
that we had been taken over the jumps right at the start.
The ship slowly
glided out of the pier to the accompaniment of a long,
deep-throated blast of the ship's horn and we felt that
we were on our way at last, only to find that we had to
wait awhile longer. Instead of going across directly we
put into Halifax, Nova Scotia, there to wait over Easter
to pick up the rest of the convoy. The liner Carmania
with the 302nd Engineers and nurses came up the harbor
and on Monday following Easter we moved out to start
across the great Atlantic. In addition to the Megantic
and the Carmania we had with us a ship loaded with
Chinese coolies, and another ship loaded with animals
(horses and mules). We had as convoy ship the British
cruiser King Alfred.
Things were
pleasant enough, the weather was glorious and best of all
there wasn't much to do. Boat drills, a little guard duty
and trying to cultivate a taste for oleo-margarine. Not
many succeeded in getting over the oleo and, in a number
of instances, it was used to grease hiking shoes. We
didn't hit it off any too well with members
of the British crew
and we found the best way to get along was to let them
alone. Strange as it may seem they didn't speak our
language, The mornings were pleasant and we can still
hear the D Company quartet harmonize "Good Bye My
Coney Island Baby". How that bunch could sing! Who
can forget Bob Reilly's bass? Speaking of those balmy
mornings brings to mind a scuffle or what would have been
a scuffle. It was over in a moment and no one knew
exactly what it was all about. A lad in C Company
named.... well, maybe it is just as well that we do not
mention his name, but he said something or did something
to Bugler Bert Morgan, one of the quartet. Now Bert could
take a lot of kidding but there is such a thing as
rubbing a man the wrong way and he was off the deck-house
in a flash, making a pass at our C Company man. We
grabbed Bert and he cooled off when things were explained
to him. We just mention this in passing as it served to
bring this C Company boy to your attention. He was a lad
from a remote part of New York State and we felt that he
was a boy who had not had very much schooling and had not
seen much of the world. He should not have been with us
but more of him later.
Well, on we sailed.
Instructions were to wear life belts at all times and to
take to the life boats at six blasts of the ship's
whistle. A crowd of the men were together one evening in
one of the cabins having the usual rough house or talking
soldiering which was usually the case and we had become
careless with the life belts. Suddenly the ship's horn
went off. Once -twice -thrice and a fourth time. Things
were confusion by then with everybody making a wild leap
for the life belts which had been carelessly strewn
about. Four blasts and no more and all was serene again
but for a few minutes there was plenty of excitement and
we assure you the belts were never again where they
should not have been. The days wore on with the King
Alfred running way forward and at times dropping far
astern but usually steaming along between the Carmania
and the Megantic.
The cruiser engaged
in target practice on several occasions, shooting at a
target trailed from the stern of one of the ships. When
first we heard the cruiser's guns there was some
excitement as we were sure they were firing at a
submarine. The target had the appearance of a periscope
and it was interesting to watch the shots. We seemed
destined to have an uneventful trip until one day we were
brought to the realization that we were actually in the
submarine zone. Things seemed peaceful enough with the
King Alfred riding slightly astern of the two liners and
about half way between them. Suddenly there was the sound
of a terrific explosion and a cloud of spray and as the
cruiser slowly settled by the stern, we realized that she
had been hit. She settled almost to her rails but did not
go down and we understand she limped into Belfast,
Ireland, safely. We had picked up the destroyers by this
time, and it was a sight to be remembered watching them
roll and toss and turn as they darted back and forth
crossing and recrossing our bow, circling about the ship
with sailors sending and receiving messages by means of
the wig-wag signaling flags. During this maneuvering,
depth charges were dropped and to those of us who
happened to be below decks it seemed as though every
plate of the ship had been shaken loose. Some claimed
they saw large oil spots on the surface of the water
indicating that at least two submarines had been
accounted for but we were never officially advised. One
may have gained the impression that we were the sole
outfit aboard, but we had with us Division Headquarters
and the Military Police, perhaps eighteen hundred men in
all. Due to the fact that the ship carrying the animals
was rather slow, we were all held back, taking twelve
days to make the crossing. It was indeed a scene of rare
beauty as we steamed through the Irish Sea with the
shores of Ireland and Wales discernible in the distance.
It was sometime around daybreak when we noticed that the
ship had slowed down considerably and that the steady,
heavy pulsating of the powerful engines had ceased.
Arriving on deck we found that we had entered the Mersey
River and were almost opposite the landing stage in
mid-stream at Liverpool. As the morning wore on commuters
from Berkenhead, across the river, passed almost under
our stern aboard the small ferries, a sight, which
reminded us of our own Hudson with the commuters from
Jersey. The people aboard the ferries waved to us in
friendly fashion and it could be seen that they were
surprised to see us. Not long after, there was friendly
rivalry between our Battalion and the engineer regiment
to see who would be the first to set foot on English
soil. We do not know where the M.P.s were at this time.
We did not pay as much attention to them then as we did
later. We won the race with the engineers but we do not
say so too loudly when the engineers are around. We might
pause for a moment to pay our respects to the 302nd
Engineer Regiment, our own engineers. They were later to
prove themselves second to none in the A.E.F. and are
held in high regard by all units of the Division. The
entire regiment was decorated with the Croix de,Guerre by
the French Government and we are proud to have served
with this regiment.
Our stay at
Liverpool was of short duration for we entrained later in
the afternoon. We were at Liverpool long enough, however,
to hear our first English expressions. Some ladies of the
W.A.A.C. (Women's Auxiliary Army Corps) sold us ginger
buns and coffee and when we inquired as to the cost, we
were told just Tuppence Ha'penny. We of course were
weighted down with American money but these English
ladies did not know what coin was the equivalent of
Tuppence Ha'penny. Someone came to the rescue and told us
that our American nickel would take care of things
nicely. Boarding the trains, we came in contact for the
first time with foreign class distinction. We were
loaded into 3rd class coaches, eight men to a
compartment to sit bolt upright with our packs piled in
the best way possible. We were in for an all night ride
across England to Dover although we did not know our
destination then. During the night the train was stopped
and a trainman came along the roofs of the cars and with
a few sharp blows of a hammer extinguished the lights,
leaving us in total darkness. We were to learn that the
train had been stopped and darkened due to the presence
of a Zeppelin over England. Stopping at Nottingham about
midnight we stepped from the train to the station
platform long enough to be served coffee and what coffee.
Let's not talk about it. Back aboard the train we were
again shaken into place to resume our tiresome journey.
It was a weary lot of soldiers that detrained at Dover.
With eyes red-rimmed from want of sleep, our sea-legs
still with us, hungry and very much in need of a good
wash we were in no position to bowl over our friends of
the British Army with anything like a natty appearance.
We lined up in a
mechanical sort of way to be marched up a high hill to
the citadel overlooking the English Channel. We felt that
we would get a little rest here. But no! No, we were like
Napoleon's men, they marched us up the hill and they
marched us down again. We were in the British barracks
just long enough to unsling equipment and to get a bite
to eat. Filing into the mess rooms, we dipped into a
large can of tea, yes, tea, and upon arriving at our
places along rough plank tables supported by iron pipe
legs a Limey (English) soldier slapped a grizzled piece
of corned beef before us on the bare boards. If you
inquire what we ate it with, we can only answer that
fingers were made before forks. Did we eat that meat? We
did! Did we sit down to eat it? We did not. That,
however, was not anything to what we were coming to and
it is a wonder we recall it at all. There wasn't much
time to be lost here. They wanted us in France in the
worst way and down the hill we went to board the boats
that carried us to Calais, France. We were packed pretty
well into those boats, with no room to sit down but it
did not matter much as the trip was a short one of
perhaps an hour and a half duration. It was uneventful
except that many, perhaps most of us, were quite thrilled
at the realization that we were actually crossing the
English Channel, gradually drawing closer and closer to
the great conflict that for so long had seemed so far
away.
CHAPTER III
FRANCE AT LAST
SLOWLY the boat was warped into the quay at Calais. We
were the first American troops to arrive at this port and
believing we had General Pershing with us, the French
people tried to give us a real reception. They had a band
on hand that tried to play our National Anthem but we
can't prove that is what they played. Somewhere someone
snapped to attention and the word was passed along.
Their intentions
were good and they were making a brave effort. Wherever
one looked people were in mourning and it was rather
de-pressing. We disembarked and the wonder of it all was
that at last here we were in France. There was not much
of an opportunity to do any day dreaming as there was too
much to be done. A sergeant came down the line and
spoiled everything. It was "Here, give this man a
hand with the Captain's bedding roll" and we were
back to earth. Trust a sergeant to take the joy out of
life.
Swinging away from
the quay a short hike carried us to a Rest Camp on the
sand dunes not far distant from the city. The camp, for
the most part, consisted of conical tents and crude
wooden shacks. All tents were barricaded with sand bags
to the tops of the walls of the tents, a height of
perhaps three feet, for the purpose of protecting the
occupants from the shrapnel spray that would result from
bombs dropped from enemy aeroplanes or perhaps long range
artillery fire. The latter was somewhat remote but air
raids were not uncommon and we experienced one our second
night there, which was Sunday. It was not learned what
damage had been done but it brought to us a sense of our
nearness to the actual scene of the war. The German Army
was making a push for the Channel ports of Dunkirk and
Calais and the British Army was sorely in need of
reinforcements, especially machine gunners, which was the
principal reason for our being rushed to this sector.
Fortunately the lines held and we were able to add to our
knowledge of warfare, as it was then being waged, during
a period of training with the 39th Division of the
British Army.
To go back for a
moment to the rest camp, so called. By the time we
reached France some of the Battalion had received English
coins at Liverpool and to change these and what we had of
American money, we lined up at the Y.M.C.A. hut where an
exchange for French francs could be effected. The writer
was well fixed, having arrived with a good old American
five-dollar bill. Standing in line was a big British
marine and he started the conversation. "Where are
you chaps from?" he asked. To which we replied, not
without pride, "New York City, and State
principally. Ever been to New York?" "Oh,
indeed," said he with his decidedly English accent,
"I lived at Sixth Avenue and Seventeenth Street for
about five years." It was like music to our ears to
hear the old streets mentioned and how our minds traveled
back to the sidewalks of New York.
In spite of all the
new sights and experiences, a soldier must eat, and mess
call was real music. We filed into one of the shacks used
as a, mess hall and, as one of the boys described it, we
were served with a "nice" meal of sand, tea and
cheese, mostly sand. The wind blows in France during
early Spring days the same as it does anywhere else and
on those sand dunes, it was sand in your eyes, hair and
food. Anyone who has eaten spinach that has not been well
cleaned knows the sensation of closing one's teeth on
grains of sand. A British officer entered the mess hall
just prior to the completion of the meal and, rapping on
a table for attention, announced that after the meal
there would be dessert. Finishing his announcement he
directed us to "Carry on!" This was the first
English command we had heard and, while it may have had
its effect on British troops, it was wildly received by
the "Indians" from the States. From one quarter
it was "After this there will be beer. Carry
on!" From another quarter, "After this there
will be Champagne. Carry on!" and numerous others.
The British officer made a hasty exit and we can only
imagine what his thoughts were. Our own officers knowing
and understanding us, however, secretly enjoyed the
proceedings and therefore, in the language of the
soldier, everything was Jake. The camp was occupied by
British soldiers but to a very much larger extent by
Chinamen and their dress would have made Gunga Din look
like Beau Brummel. They were a pretty filthy lot. It was
spoken of as a Chinese prison camp but as to why these
Orientals were prisoners has never been quite clear to
us. Sunday morning a hike was made to a British Supply
Depot some eight kilometers away where we were presented
with steel helmets and gas masks. Entering a large tent,
an English soldier, who seemed to be somewhat of an
expert at judging the faces, shouted out the mask sizes.
It was number four, number two, number three as fast as
the men filed in and, with few exceptions, he seemed to
hit it right off. The helmets were heavy at first but we
soon became accustomed to them and what pals they were.
They would shed rain water like a tin roof. If you wanted
to sit down in a muddy road, you sat in your hat. If you
wanted a candlestick in a billet or a dug-out, a few
drops of wax on the top and your old tin helmet became a
candlestick. In short, the old tin hats were used for
many purposes.
Turning in for the
night wasn't particularly pleasant as we had been issued
salvage blankets instead of unrolling our blanket rolls
and using our own. The blankets issued had no doubt been
used by wounded men as blood stains were apparent and
what with the odor of the delousing process it took a
little effort to overcome our qualms and to crawl under
them. We had several hours to ourselves to explore
Calais, observing the customs of the people and noting a
number of houses that had been wrecked by German bombs.
Weary was no name for it when we finally stretched out on
the board floors of the tents, a dozen men to a tent,
feet to the center pole, to get some much needed rest in
spite of the blood-stains and the damned odor.
Monday morning it
was rise and shine bright and early for a tramp across
the city to trains that were waiting to carry us out into
Flanders Fields for our period of training. During our
stay in France when the going was rough there were times
when we longed to be back to our days in Upton, but there
isn't a man of the Battalion who ever expressed a desire
to see that camp on the beach at Calais, with its sand
and its smells, and its Chinamen.
CHAPTER IV
40 AND 8 AND BILLETS
T was a cloudy, raw, miserable morning, with occasional
showers, the day we departed from the camp at Calais to
hike across the city to entrain. The narrow street echoed
the sound of our heavy, hob-nailed field shoes as we
clattered along at route step. All the sights of the
ancient French city were intensely interesting and the
French people viewed us with much curiosity for, as
before stated, we were the first American troops to
arrive at this port. As a matter of fact, our Division
was the first division of the National Army to set foot
on French soil. Arriving at the railroad yards we found
the trains made up and everything in readiness. This was
the first sight we had of the world famous French
box-cars, the forty and eight as they were known, from
the fact they would accommodate forty men or eight
horses. The cars are about half the size of an American
car' having a stationary wheel at each corner, whereas
the American car is mounted on pivoting trucks. To get
back to our story, we were ordered into the cars and when
they were sufficiently filled as we thought to allow for
sleeping room, a lot of fellows shouted,
"Enough." Much to our surprise and chagrin more
men were put into each car and still more until we were
standing in a real subway jam. We could not imagine
riding for a very long time situated like that and we
were not being asked to do so as the ride was not longer
than about eighteen kilometers, although it took several
hours to complete the trip. Detraining at the small
village of Audrique, we hiked perhaps eight or ten
kilometers, arriving in the neighborhood of a small
village which we later learned to be La Panne, a name
long to be remembered by 305th Machine Gunners. Each
company swung off on a different road leading to the
billets of the village. I recall C Company quarters
distinctly and the experience of the other companies was
the same elsewhere in the village. The Company was halted
in the road and an officer, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder, said, "Fourteen men in here."
"In where?" "Right in that barn and make
it snappy." Painted on the buildings were the
numerals 2 horses 14 men, or whatever number the farmer
or peasant, as he is called, had room for. Well, for once
the gang didn't make it snappy but ambled into the
structure and took a look around. It was not very
inviting-looking and it was some minutes before any
effort was made to loosen up to get settled. The Company
continued on, dropping a few here and a few there and the
last billet, Number Ninety-one, I well recall, took what
was left of the Company, about seventy-two men. The men
were weary and hungry as it had been pretty much of a
steady grind up to this time. They just sat on their
packs and mooned around for a while, trying to absorb it
all. Here they were in Flanders, in the billets about
which so much had been written. Were we down-hearted?
Yeah! I'll say we were; the morale was shot. We were to
see the time, however, when billets were something to
look forward to and we can all recall just waiting for
the word "Go" to make a dash into the lousy old
stables to pick out a favorable spot, one that was soft,
afforded a good place to stow equipment and was under a
section of roof that did not leak. I say "lousy
stables" advisedly for we had gotten no further than
the La Panne billets before one of the companies had
cooties. I won't say which company because it would be
denied. After a while we all had cooties so that this was
something we did not have to take into consideration when
we had a chance to get under any kind of roof. The most
annoying things to contend with were rats and we had a
choice selection. We soon learned that it was good policy
to stay away from side-walls when laying out a bunk as
the rats used to scamper along the walls. One night in
Billet Ninety-one one of the rats sat up on a fellow's
feet. The soldier drew his feet back gently and gave that
animal a sudden kick into the air, only to have it come
down on his chest. What a wild scramble was there, my
countrymen. If a man placed a piece of hardtack in his
overcoat pocket for a nibble later on in the evening, one
could gamble on it that a rat would get the nibble first,
in a number of instances, gnawing through the material of
the coat. When it came to sleeping we soon learned, as
all soldiers before us had learned, that sleeping with
the face covered was the surest way of getting some sleep
without being disturbed by rats when they ran over us
during the night. Uncomfortable and unsanitary you say!
Most certainly but, oh, how we needed that sleep!