Trench Knives and Mustard Gas: With the 42nd Rainbow Division in France

Chapter 1 On the Way

O N T H E W A Y 5 C HAP TE R O N E On the Way T he time was September, 1917. The place was a New York dock, overflowing with humanity. The transport Kroonland, with its cargo of newly commissioned reserve officers, made ready for sailing. Western Union boys scurried up and down the gangplank; swarms of relatives and friends crowded the “poop” deck, men awkwardly stolid and women tear-eyed. And all of this despite an ordered secrecy of departure. Four of us, jammed against the stern rail near a gun crew of youthful sailors, complained bitterly of our shortsightedness. Tim, who was well knit and blondly handsome, had relatives in Manhattan who might have been there to wish us Godspeed . I had local kinspeople too. Why hadn’t we thrown caution to the four winds, like some of the others? Well, there was no use crying over spilled milk, we consoled each other. Boyhood friends, Tim and I soldiered together in the same squad at the Fort Oglethorpe training camp near our home in Chattanooga. We had bumped into the other two fellows during the monotonous line formations at Hoboken. Sawyer, a big, good-natured shavetail with a pronounced “whataman” complex boasted frequently of his prowess on the gridiron. Walron or Barney, a trim, well-poised first lieutenant with a fuzzy mustache, seemed a bit older than our twenty-two and twenty-three years, owing to a more dignified bearing. 6 TRENCH KNIVES AND MUSTARD GAS Now that we were really sailing, departure did not rest as lightly upon me as I had supposed. I became lost in a fit of reverie. Memories just a few days old and of the summer just passed tumbled over each other in a cascade of indelible pictures . There was the afternoon at Mineola; troops of the Rainbow Division had danced between rows of pyramid tents to the tune of rasping phonographs, with bright-eyed girls of all descriptions . And the enthralling evening on the Strand roof, where my cousin, Hugh, was a professional dancer. He was then awaiting orders to report for training to the Air Service. Older memories drowned out those newer images: the ninety days of laughing, cursing, sweating labor to the tunes of “Tipperary,” “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,” “Over There,” and “Keep the Home Fires Burning”; the weekend leaves in the old home town, now swarming with men in khaki; the dates with the girl who wore my crossed rifles as a badge of understanding.1 We had continued to talk of “when the war is over” and “when you come back,” despite an epidemic of hurried marriages. Deep down, I realized that in face of such an intimacy with June I could never make a good soldier . The knowledge came home more vividly during our farewell meeting. Tim and I were to leave in the wee small hours. I had spent the early part of the evening with the family. All of us were to meet later in the depot café for the send-off. June and I climbed to a favorite trysting place on Cameron Hill, above the city. Lights twinkled in the valley below us. The air was sweet with a faint odor of clover. We spoke the age-old endearments; we clasped in a long embrace—and I was sorry there was a war. An excursion boat drifted down the river, its lights making other lights in the water. Music and soft laughter came from the distant side-wheeler. These ceased, momentarily . The revelers broke into plaintive song: There’s a long, long night of waiting Until my dreams all come true, ‘Til the day when I’ll be going Down that long, long trail with you. O N T H E W A Y 7 The Kroonland’s whistle penetrated my dream world. The transport was moving. We waved hysterically to the bedlam of good-byes and dancing handkerchiefs. The crowded quay became smaller. A lump in my throat grew larger. Miss Liberty, her torch aloft, grew, shrank, and became a hazy lady. An impressionistic skyline did likewise. A scow with its burden of freight cars crossed our gentle wake. A hulking ferryboat followed . We glided through the Narrows and out into the open water. Halifax harbor made a picture that might have been called “The Spirit of...