A STORY
of
THE 305th MACHINE GUN BATTALION
77th DIVISION
A.E.F.
By
HENRY W. SMITH
Chapter 8
We Leave Lorraine
CHAPTER VIII
WE LEAVE LORRAINE
GETTING a real bath
was quite a problem and as the weeks camenand went, our
prospects of a good scrubbing seemed to become more and
more remote. It was not very long after our arrival at
Gellacourt, however, that we were lined up with all our
equipment and marched to Mervillier for an official bath
and delousing. While we had heard of the delousing plants
before, this was our first introduction to one. All our
equipment with the exception of anything made of leather
was placed in a net bag of large mesh and these bags were
placed in a large cylinder or boiler which was then
tightly closed and steam forced in under pressure. While
this was taking place the men were scrubbing down the
decks, as the sailors would say. After the bath the bags
were taken from the delouser and it required just a shake
or two to free the clothes of the dry steam and they were
ready to be worn again. Shaking out the steam was very
simple but trying to shake out the wrinkles was a
different story. The wrinkles refused to be shaken loose
and we discovered later that even a hot iron will not
remove wrinkles put into a uniform by a delousing plant.
From that time on it was hard to believe that this was
the snappy battalion that had paraded down Fifth Avenue.
Gellacourt was
still too close to the lines for us to have too much
activity in the open during the daylight hours and no
doubt the old-timers will recall our program. It is
remarkable how the buglers ever escaped with their lives
when they sounded first call at 4:45 A.M.
Most of the outfit was doing its best and most tuneful
snoring at that hour. Setting-up exercises, washing up,
policing the area, breakfast and drilling carried us
through to nine o'clock when activities in the open
ceased. From then until 3:30 P.M. our time was occupied
with household duties, such as sewing on buttons-and
ducking fatigue details. All good soldiers know that when
you have not been grabbed for a detail, the wise course
to follow is to fade. Fade right out of the picture and
stay faded. Gold-bricking is something else. At 3:30
drilling was resumed and carried on until 5:30. Retreat
sounded at 6:00 and mess call blew at 6:30. After that
there wasn't much to do other than to drift over to
Gellacourt, and it was not much of a place. Taps blew at
nine or ten o'clock and as a general thing most of the
men were in bed before that, as it was a long day. Of
course we had our quota of stay-outs like all good
outfits.
One evening, in
Gellacourt, some Army entertainers put on their show for
us from the tail-board of a truck and, on another
occasion, we had our own division players with us, who
were later to become known as the Argonne Players. Who
can forget Harry Carroll and his female impersonations?
MacManus and his famous ditties: "Clarence
Fitzgerald", "Sweet Evening Breeze",
"Primrose from Old Broadway" and "She Took
Away My Identification Tags Because She Thought They Were
Francs". Then there was that other boy with his
violin, none other than Old Joe Raymond from our own
Battalion. How he did play when he visited his old outfit
with the show! Pincus is another name that comes to mind.
How well we remember them although we are unable to
recall their names.
There was a certain amount of curiosity to be satisfied
whenever the old outfit had a breathing spell and, while
one village was just about the same as another, there was
always a desire to see what was around the bend of the
road. There was a lure about Division Head-quarters town
and, at the first opportunity, we had to have a look at
Baccarat. It was probably little larger than the
neighboring villages but it certainly held more than
enough high ranking officers who had to be saluted right
smartly. Any store that handled souvenirs did a land
office business but the really busy place was a
photographer's studio. The photographer at Baccarat had
re-established himself amid the ruins of his home and
what a fine opportunity it was for us to be able to send
our pictures back home to the folks so they could see
what grand and glorious soldiers we were. Where is there
a soldier who didn't have his picture taken in Baccarat?
Yep, we were there, smiling, scowling or just plain
ferocious; singly, in pairs and in groups. We paid in
advance and the photographer promised to send the
pictures by mail when they were completed. This Frenchman
was true to his word and, in due course the pictures
arrived. Yes, sir! there we were, wrinkles and all. Maybe
it would have been better if the photographer had not
sent the pictures. Well, the girls at home thought they
were great so we accomplished something.
While we were
quartered at Gellacourt, orders were received calling for
the return to the States of the senior commissioned and
non-commissioned officer of each company. They were to be
returned to help train men in divisions in the process of
organization and, while at the moment, we envied the
lucky ones, there really wasn't a man who wanted to leave
the old Battalion. This was true of the men ordered home.
They were somewhat jubilant at first but as the time for
departure drew near they were reluctant to go. It was
like losing a member of the family but, as the saying
goes in the Army, "Orders are orders".
When elements of
the 37th Division commenced pulling into the area, we
knew that our days in Lorraine would soon be at an end.
As usual we were having plenty of rain which turned the
country-side into a sea of mud. The 37th men in our
immediate neighborhood could not pitch tents because of
the mud and they were accom-modated in the barracks we
were in. Of course it meant sleeping on the floors for
them and crowded things a bit but they were certainly
grateful to be able to get away from the incessant
downpour. Those fellows had troubles of their own. A
great many of the horses they had received were stallions
and it was a man-sized job handling those animals. Many
of them had never known any more harness than a halter
and it was a brutal job that particular 37th Division
outfit was up against. Oh, well! it was not a pink tea
for anybody. We all had our troubles. Take our own case.
Weren't our mules bad enough? Look at the corporals and
sergeants we had to contend with.
The early part of
August we left our comfortable barracks at Gellacourt
and, after a long, difficult hike through a terrific
storm, we arrived at Gerbaiville. It was about 3:30 A.M.
when we arrived and pitched our pup tents on the grounds
of the Chateau, resuming our tussle with the weather. The
next day was clear, however, and as the sun came out in
all its warmth and glory the storm of the previous night
soon became a thing of the past. We resumed our hike and
our next stopping place was in a small orchard where we
again pitched tents.
The following day
was spent cleaning equipment of every description,
machine guns, carts, harness, haversacks, pack-carriers,
yes, and Lieut. Dunne (Tough Eddie to the old gang) had
us down in the brook cleaning the kitchen and scraping
the black crust off the bottoms of the dixies. Two
minutes after they were placed over the fire they were
black again but that was alright. It was at this time
that Bill Wheatley, of C Company, was at the side of the
road en-gaged in polishing up a cart when an elderly
French lady came up to where he was at work.
Incidentally, all these French ladies seemed to be
elderly and I guess the young ones were in Paris. Well,
the one of whom we are now speaking asked Wheatley a
question. Now it was not the question that was important
but the response, which was simply "Oui,
Madame". Then ensued the greatest one-word
conversation on record so far as is known. Wheatley could
not understand French but when there was a pause or what
he deemed the proper time he said "Oui" in more
ways than it had ever been spoken before or has, since.
He seemed to fit the word into the right place as it gave
the French woman a fresh start each time. She probably
went to her grave wondering what a peculiar sense of
humor the American soldiers had when they almost died,
laughing at an ordinary conversation.
The next day, with all equipment as clean as a hound's
tooth (but the men in need of a bath) the long march was
again taken up. The rest of the hike was uneventful. It
was the usual pounding along the hard, white roads which
never got any softer; in one end of a village; the
occasional shout, by some French boy of "Vive
L'Amerique"; out the other end of the village; up
hill, down dale, hour after hour; finally arriving at a
village with the American- sounding name of Blainville.
We marched down to the railroad station and there, on the
tracks, waiting for us - yep! you're right - our old
friend the Forty and Eight. We did not lose much time in
loading and, with a couple of shrieks from the engine for
old time's sake, we were off again. But not to Italy.