Don
Martin diary entry for Sunday, June 30, 1918:
Went to the 2nd division. Very little going on.
Sometime in
June, Don Martin mailed to New York a collection of stories about what
the American soldiers were up to, which was published in the War Section of the
New York Herald Magazine on Sunday, June 30, 1918. He started with a mild
critique of the censorship the war correspondents were faced with.
THROUGH DON
MARTIN’S FIELD GLASS
By Don Martin
Special
Correspondent of the Herald with the American Armies in France
One of the most rigid rules of censorship
provides that no correspondent – likewise no newspaper – shall furnish
information which could possibly be helpful to the enemy. The role is quite
proper, but it frequently spoils what seems like a very good story and a most
innocuous piece of information. For instance, if a certain regiment takes its
place in a vital part of the line and engages in a spectacular fight with the
enemy nothing can be written about it unless the enemy has taken prisoners. The
theory is that until a prisoner is taken the enemy does not know of the
presence in the line of the particular unit.
An interesting story is told of how the
Germans learned of the appearance of a certain American regiment in a part of
the line. The Americans had been there for two weeks and things were very
quiet, as indeed, for good reasons, it was intended they should be for a while.
But one day the American colonel had the French commanding officer at luncheon.
The table was spread almost within a shadow of the enemy line, but in what was
presumably a safe spot.
When the
meal was finished the Frenchmen and some of the Americans also were startled by
the stirring strains of “The Star Spangled Banner” coming from a spot very
close by. The officers stood up instantly in respect to the patriotic
selection, but across the face of the senior French officer came a look of
amazement and trouble. The regimental band continued to the end blaring the tuneful
strains with great vigor, while a brisk breeze blew the notes far across the
enemy line. What surprise was caused “over there” will never be known. Hardly
had the playing stopped when a shell struck in the town. Then another and then
a veritable deluge.
“What in the
world did you let that band play your American national hymn for?” asked the
French officer. “Didn’t you know the Germans would recognize and locate your
regiment?”
“Certainly I did,” replied the colonel, with
a satisfied smile. “That’s just what I figured on. They’ll know a lot more
about it, too, before we’ve been here much longer.”
- - -
An American officer from a Southern State was moving
along a country road when he came to a construction gang of big, husky Southern
darkies working on a railroad line which was almost magically extending itself
across the landscape. He was so struck with the great smiling faces of the
darkies that for a moment his thoughts wandered back to Dixieland. He talked to
some of the workers.
“Where you from?" he asked of one.
“I, sah, ise from South Carolina, where’s yo’ from?”
“South Carolina, too,” replied the officer.
“Then I reckon you all must o’
heard o’ me – I’m Jim Crow – hones’ to God that’s my real name.”
Then the negro laughed from head to toe.
“What uniform did you have, Jim?” asked the officer.
“Uniform, uniform? Oh, this is my uniform, Jeans –
just blue jeans.”
- - -
Another story is told of a new soldier whose home in
the States is in Breathitt county, Kentucky. He is typical of the rugged
Cumberland Mountain folk whose feuds and shooting skill date back more than a
century. He was on sentry duty late at night – his first trial at it – when his
second lieutenant came along.
“Halt,” said the sentry,
levelling his gun.
The
lieutenant halted a moment; then taking it for granted the sentry had
recognized him, started ahead.
“Halt!” again demanded the sentry.
“What are you going to do?” asked the lieutenant.
“Goin’ to say halt three times
– then shoot,” was the calm reply.
These
mountaineers from Kentucky are making splendid soldiers. They are scattered
through various units and are admired by officers and men as well.
- - -
Just how
well these brawny boys from Lee and Breathitt can fight in the kind of war
going on now is problematical, of course, but if they can fight half as well as
they can shoot it will be tough on Fritz. One afternoon some of the soldiers
were doing some practice shooting. They were getting ready to take an
examination for sniping. One of these lanky mountaineers was among a group of
onlookers. He looked somewhat disappointed when one of the embryo marksmen
missed three times. He offered a suggestion as to how the aim might be
improved.
“If you think you can beat it, go ahead,” said the
soldier, with some evidence of pique.
“All right, if you don’t
mind,” said the Kentuckian
Bull’s-eye one; bull’s eye two; bull’s eye
three; bull’s eye four.
Then the
Kentuckian handed the rifle back to the piqued soldier. The latter put out his
hand.
“Say, buddie, I don’t know where you came from or who
the hell you are, but you certainly can shoot. You must be one of those
Kentucky experts.”
“Don’t know, sir, as to that, but I’m from Kentucky
an’ I’ve always shot some.”
- - -
In a town some distance back from the line a
ball game was arranged one Sunday. With about five hundred men to select from,
the promoters managed to get two pretty good teams together. Officers and
privates were among the players. One of the best players was a captain who
ordinarily is the soul of dignity and reserve. On the same team with him was a
coal black negro who manages a team of his own in Mobile, Alabama. In view of
the fact that considerable was at stake and that the play was likely to require
excellent team work, it was agreed that all formalities should be put aside for
the period of the game; in other words, that people should be called by their
first names.
There were
some familiarities, but none startling till the eighth inning, when the
captain, on first base, started for third on a short hit. The darky was
coaching at third and his heart was in the game. The run the captain might get
was vital. So as the captain, sprinting as swiftly as he could, was plunging
toward third, the darky was shouting at the top of his voice: --
“Come on there, you kid! Come
on there, you rabbit! Come on, come on.”
Just at that
moment the captain tripped and rolled in a cloud of dust. There was still time
to make it if he rose quickly. The negro, gathering the full power of his
lungs, yelled: --
“Come on, you; come on, you
big stiff, you mud hen; what are we payin’ you for?”
Out of the
dust cloud rolled the captain safe at third. He put up his hand to call the
game for a moment. Then, brushing dust from his clothes and panting for
sufficient breath for the Brodingnagian utterance he was about to make, he said
to the negro: --
“Jim, listen to me, and listen good. From this moment
on it’s captain. Do you understand English? Captain – just plain captain!”
- - -
All through
certain parts of France one hears curious utterances from the children. They
have learned a few American expressions and unfortunately some of them are by
no means polite nor intended for parlor use. Some are merely amusing. One day
an American major was walking through a village street when a little girl,
stepped in front of him, saluted and said in the sweetish childish voice: --
“Hello, kid.”
Everywhere
the children wave and say goodby when they see an American. To them it means
“How do you do?” In a town rather close to the line where our boys have been
quartered for some time the pet of the troops and the town in fact is a
youngster about five, who is always smiling, always dirty and always full of
fun. The general of the division was impressed by him and stopped to speak to
him. The boy listened a moment to the kindly words and said: --
“Goodby, go chase yourself.”
The first request made by a
French youngster of an American is for gum. They never saw gum until the
Americans came. Now they get it in their hair only occasionally and swallow it
only once in a while. The American soldier loves the French children and the
children follow the Americans around everywhere, not looking for coins, but
just to be with them.
- - -
- - -
A shell came over our line one day and struck
a soldier full on the head. It is not necessary to tell what happened. An Irish
private looking at the ghastly result of the hit remarked: --
“I
always knew these damned helmets were no good.”
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