When a freezing storm blew in on a late September morning, thousands were without winter clothing and blankets. Another cold storm hit the camp in early October, leaving more than half the units without fuel wood to keep warm. Men went on sick call in droves, suffering from measles, pneumonia, and meningitis, and the hospital, the largest structure in camp, overflowed with patients.
CJ took to the training with enthusiasm and tried to keep his spirits up, although he wondered at times if the army could ever do anything right. Many of the junior officers didn’t know spit about soldiering, but a few of the sergeants were seasoned troopers, including CJ’s sergeant, a tall, easygoing Texan named John Lockhart. A veteran of the Rough Riders and the Regular Army, Lockhart knew his stuff and treated his men fairly. He had a way of getting the most out of his men without being bossy. CJ asked Lockhart if he remembered knowing Patrick Kerney from the New Mexico troop.
Lockhart said he did. “Was he kin of yours?”
“He’s an uncle on my mother’s side,” CJ lied.
Lockhart looked surprised. “He’s alive?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll be,” Lockhart said with a shake of his head. “We were in the same hospital ward at Camp Wikoff. As sick as he was, I figured him to be a goner.”
When a corporal in CJ’s platoon died of pneumonia, Lockhart recommended him for the promotion, and soon CJ sported stripes on his uniform blouse.
He’d been writing letters to Ma and squirreling them away to send before he left for France. He didn’t want her to know where he was stationed for fear she’d demand that he be sent home.
He told her about San Antonio and Fort Worth, the two biggest cities he’d ever seen, and how there were motorcars everywhere and more people on the streets than a body could count. He drew a sketch of the tanks that had been unloaded off the camp’s railroad spur and wrote that he’d never seen such marvels of destruction, with their huge tracks that ground deep ruts in the earth and the big rotating guns on both sides. He told her the cavalry boys he served with weren’t happy about being turned into foot soldiers and that several had deserted to go back to their farms and ranches.
A week after he got promoted, CJ sat on his cot in the evening and wrote another letter.
Dear Mother,
Today, a British army officer who served in the trenches in France gave a lecture to noncommissioned officers on field fortifications. I got to attend it because I am now promoted to corporal and will be going to various schools here at camp that teach noncoms and officers how to use the bayonet, proper ways to protect against poison gas, musketry training, and a lot of other soldiering skills. I don’t get to go to all the schools, but each company and regiment sends enough noncoms and officers to them so that the training can get passed on to every man in the entire division.
My sergeant, John Lockhart, says I’m sure to keep getting promoted, as many of the fellas here don’t take well to military discipline and get their rank taken away for things like insubordination or being absent without leave. He just got made a master sergeant himself.
Our camp is growing. Our colonel told us there are over 25,000 soldiers here now. We all live in tents that are laid out like villages in neat squares connected one to the other. It’s quite a sight.
The other day just about everybody stopped dead in their tracks to watch three Army Air Service biplanes fly overhead. It was something to behold, and we talked about it until lights-out.
They’ve been back a couple of times since then and it’s a marvel to see what those pilots can do in the air, flying upside down and twisting the airplane in the sky.
I’ll close now as I am very weary. We’ve been digging makeshift trenches to practice what it’s like to go to war in Europe. A big trench is being built outside of camp a ways that will be as much like the real McCoy as they can make it. But until it’s finished, we dig for a spell and then practice how to use hand and rifle grenades, do target shooting—I’m expert at that—and build trench fortifications. Drilling and hard marches round out the day.
This is letter number five. I’ll bundle them up and send them to you before I leave for France. I hope you’re proud about my promotion, and don’t worry about me as I am fine.
Tell that little button Matt I miss him.
Your loving son,
CJ
Feeling a touch homesick, he sealed the letter in an envelope and put it with the others. He hadn’t written that he was just out of the hospital after a bad case of the measles and that one of his tent mates, Private Buddy Nice from Big Spring, had died from it. That would just worry her to tears when she got the letter.
Several of the men had already turned in and were snoring in their sleep. Two others were cleaning their rifles. Another trooper, Sammy Longbow, a Cherokee Indian, was sharpening the Bowie knife that he valued more than any weapon the army could issue to him.
CJ checked the tent stove, banked the fire, and stepped into the cold November night to round up the rest of his squad before lights-out sounded. He’d taken a shine to army life and was starting to think it just might suit him to make a career of it.
67
From winter to the late spring of 1918, CJ worried that he would be left out of the action. Since December, the First Division had been in the trenches with the French, and four more outfits, including two National Guard divisions, had joined the fighting. No one seemed to know when the Thirty-sixth would get overseas orders, and all the officers were tight-lipped about it, but in early June a flurry of paperwork and new orders signaled the division would soon be under way to the Port of New York for embarkation to Europe.
Supplies and equipment were inventoried and supplemented; all soldiers underwent physical exams; mechanized tanks, trucks, and field pieces were inspected and repaired as needed; and daily roll calls were held to limit desertions. A note from one man in CJ’s regiment was found on his cot saying he’d be back after he helped his widowed mother on the farm.
Although the impending departure was supposed to be kept secret, the boys were allowed to write home about it, and soon family members were pouring into Fort Worth to see their sons, brothers, and husbands off to war. Passes were granted to men whose loved ones were in town. CJ stayed in camp with the other soldiers who had no kin visiting, and they kept their spirits up in the evenings by writing letters and playing cards until lights-out.
Tapped for promotion to sergeant, CJ received orders to leave early for New York. On July 3 he wrote a quick note to Ma.
Dear Mother,
Tomorrow I leave for France ahead of the division with a small detachment of men and officers who have been promoted and ordered to attend school in France. I am now a sergeant and will be receiving instruction to become a proficient noncommissioned officer.
I’m including some pay I’ve saved up over the last year, about six months’ worth. If you need it that’s okay by me, or you can save it for me. But take some and get Matt a present from me. Tell that little rascal I miss him.
You’ll get this in a parcel I’ll wrap up that has all the letters I’ve written to you over the last year. I hope when you read them you’ll forgive me for worrying you these many months, but I didn’t want you trying to take me out of the army for being underage.
I’ve just written Pa to tell him where I’m going. I figure he has a right to know.
I’ll write you again from France and tell you about all the sights I see.
Your loving son,
CJ (Sgt.)
On the early evening of July 4, CJ boarded a train in Fort Worth with a detachment of soldiers including John Lockhart, recently commissioned a second lieutenant, who also had orders to attend school in France. They sat together in a coach car staring out at the rolling hills of the North Texas plains.
“Tell me true, CJ,” Lockhart said, “how old are you?”
“Just now nineteen,” CJ lied.
“I figured you to be about that,” Lockhart said with a smile. “You
’re the youngest sergeant in the division. Did you know that?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re gonna be scared when you go to war. Every man is, no matter how many times they do it.”
“I reckon that’s right,” CJ said.
“Sergeants can’t show it, though,” Lockhart counseled. “It throws the boys under him into a panic and gets a lot of men needlessly killed.”
“I sure don’t want to falter.”
“You won’t. Use your noggin. Think things through. Don’t rush unless you’ve got to scamper because of the situation, and don’t give stupid orders.”
“What if I get stupid orders?” CJ asked.
“For certain you will,” Lockhart answered, leaving it at that.
In the gathering darkness the train entered the thick forests of East Texas. The two men smoked in comfortable silence as the trees turned to countless shadows dancing against the windows.
* * *
During the next four days they crossed rivers, including the wide Mississippi, cut through deep forests, passed by rich farmlands with tidy farmhouses, rolled through small towns, and traversed big cities where smokestacks billowed grime and soot into the air. From the train they saw St. Louis, Chicago, and Cleveland. Often they were greeted by flag-waving, cheering crowds lining the tracks in the towns and cities.
On infrequent breaks when they were allowed to stop and stretch their legs, CJ tried hard not to look like a country bumpkin, but sometimes his jaw dropped in amazement at the sight of an enormous stream-driven tractor in a farmer’s field or the dozens and dozens of city tenements with folks living stacked up one on top of the other.
Arriving at Camp Merritt in Hoboken, New Jersey, the detachment received orders canceling their early departure and went to work readying for the division’s arrival. Across the bay, New York City rose like some futuristic world beyond CJ’s imagination. He promised himself to come back and visit it someday.
As the main body of the division began to arrive, men and equipment poured off the trains coming from the south, west, and north, depending on how the different regiments were routed. The outfits were assembled, squared away, and ferried almost immediately across the bay to a camp to prepare for embarkation.
On his last night before boarding for departure, CJ wrote to Ma.
Dear Mother,
We leave tomorrow for France. I have now traveled from coast to coast and seen more of this great country than most folks I know. The forests and the farmlands are nothing like the land back home. The sky isn’t as big and the land crowds you.
People lined the rails to cheer us as our train passed by and that made us feel good. We’re encamped in a weedy, sandy area favored by pesky mosquitoes, and I’ll be glad to get done with them. Soon I’ll be on the ocean and then in France, but to reach our ship we go by train and ferry back across the bay. We should be at sea for about twelve days.
We’ve got a new commanding general, and the old-time regular sergeants who know him say he’s a good one. Strict but fair.
I’ll write to you from Europe and will send mementos to you and Matt.
Your loving son,
CJ
He sealed the letter in an envelope and put it aside. He was eager to cross the ocean on a ship and at the same time worried about it getting sunk by a U-boat. He couldn’t swim a lick and the idea of drowning frightened him.
John Lockhart had said all men go to war scared. CJ figured it was just happening to him a bit early. He pushed aside his worry and picked up the noncommissioned officers infantry field guide John Lockhart had given him to study. At least he’d go to war prepared.
68
In the port of Brest, CJ left the troopship seasick and miserable. There were times during the voyage when he felt like drowning might not be such a bad way to die after all. Ferried to the dock in barges called lighters, the men were assembled and marched through the town in the rain to a muddy, smelly camp. The fact he was in France registered, but at the moment CJ didn’t give a damn. He’d been leaking at both ends for days and was just glad to be on solid ground. After he put up his shelter tent, he fell asleep without bothering to eat chow or take off his boots. John Lockhart woke him the next morning.
“Get moving,” he said, handing CJ a lit cigarette. “It seems we’re gonna be here for a little while, so the colonel wants us to get our gear in order and squared away. Then it’s hot showers, a hot meal, and the rest of the day to ourselves.”
CJ tested his land legs and figured he was better. He actually felt hungry. “When do we go to war?” he asked.
Lockhart shrugged. “According to the generals, we ain’t fit to fight yet. We’re gonna get trained some more before they send us to the front.”
“Here?” CJ asked, looking around.
A two-story stone building that made up one side of a large stone-wall enclosure loomed over the sea of tents. A breeze picked up, blowing a foul smell over the camp as it started to rain. CJ clamped on his helmet.
“No,” Lockhart answered. “We’ll be moved inland to a training center.”
The water-soaked pup tents sagged, muddy water filled the puddles, and rivulets ran in the gravel walkways. “I hope it’s better than this place,” CJ said.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Lockhart replied.
That afternoon, feeling better than he had in days, CJ wrote home.
Dear Mother,
We arrived in France yesterday so I haven’t seen much of the place. We got marched through town to our camp so the best I can say for now is it’s an old country and the folks look poor and ragged. Where we’re bivouacked is near a two-story stone barracks where Napoleon housed troops and prisoners a hundred years ago. Leastways that’s what I’ve been told. Of course, that’s where the generals and the colonels get to sleep.
It rains here a lot and it is damp and muddy. But we’ll leave soon for training and I’ll get to see more of the countryside. I’ll write again when I can.
Your loving son,
CJ
The rain had stopped and the sky cleared when he dropped the letter off to be mailed, so he took a hike away from the camp to stretch his legs. He ambled along a dirt lane past some old farmhouses and cultivated fields partially hidden by hedgerows that were as pretty as a picture. The houses and barns were all stone, with steep roofs that looked like they somehow grew out of the land. Big trees with massive trunks shaded tended lawns. He veered off the lane up a path through a meadow of knee-high coarse grass to the crest of a small hill. Below, an orchard surrounded a whitewashed stone cottage, and several goats were in a small paddock near an ancient-looking barn.
He perched on a stone wall, smoked a cigarette, and took it all in, thinking he’d have to remember what he saw because when he got home, Ma would pester him about every detail.
He turned back when it clouded up and started to drizzle. Already there were rumors in camp that the division was to be held in reserve after training. At roll call, the colonel had addressed the regiment to tell them a big push was on to drive the Germans back. The Allies had fought off the spring offensives by the Huns, and a recent French counterattack had smashed their lines on the Western Front. The colonel warned that if the German army collapsed and retreated, the war could be over before the division joined the line.
CJ didn’t like that notion at all. If he could help it, he darn sure wasn’t going to be left out of the action.
* * *
After two days of rest, the division moved to a training center behind the front lines, near a château, where huts and dozens of buildings had been thrown up in level fields. Twenty-eight thousand men were encamped, and for the next six weeks the troops trained day and night.
They learned how to fire as a line while continuing to advance, how to flank machine-gun nests and use rifle grenades to destroy them. Heavy wire cutters were issued and the men practiced cutting through wire in mud-soaked fields. They were taught to crawl and infiltrate enemy lines, how
to cross open fire-swept ground in small units, and how to concentrate fire on an objective.
Told they would lose their stripes if they didn’t measure up, CJ and the other noncoms received additional instruction in squad and platoon tactics. They practiced how to control the movement of men on patrol, maneuver platoons across open fields, use cover and concealment, and deploy automatic weapons when attacking the enemy. CJ became expert with the new Browning automatic rifle and was soon teaching others how to use it.
CJ kept his rank, but a number of men got busted down to private. Even some junior officers were sent packing. Assigned to a replacement company to be moved to the front, CJ wrote a note to his mother the night before he left and gave it to John Lockhart, who had been promoted to first lieutenant and ordered to remain with the division pending reassignment to the front.
“Just in case something happens,” he said, “please mail this for me, sir.”
Lockhart nodded. “I will, CJ. You’ll do just fine.”
“I sure hope so,” CJ said with a tight smile.
“Are you a drinking man, sergeant?” Lockhart asked with an easy smile.
“I got drunk once in Fort Worth,” CJ said, “and didn’t like it much.”
Lockhart laughed and slapped CJ on the back. “I’ve got a bottle of sipping whiskey that goes down smooth as silk. Let’s you and me have a drink together before lights-out.”
“I’d like that,” CJ said.
Lockhart fetched the bottle from his tent. They walked to the small white church with a soaring spire at the far end of the château, drank some sipping whiskey that indeed went down as smooth as silk, and talked about anything but the war and home.
Hard Country Page 47