Preface

This story traces the life of my Grandfather, Nelson Douglass Jr., between the years 1921 and 1940. He served as a noncommissioned officer in the 316^th Engineer Corps of the 91^st Division of the American Expeditionary Forces during the Meuse-Argonne offensive in World War One. The story is based on an experience he had as a runner on the third day of the battle. What occurred on that run would become an integral part of his life after the war and for the balance of his life.

The story winds it's way around a collection of 35 letters exchanged between Nelson Douglass Jr. and another ex-soldier that also fought in the Meuse-Argonne campaign - on the other side - August Grimm, a machine gun sergeant in the Prussian army.

My grandfather also wrote of his experience in a story he titled An Episode in Friendship, which he submitted to Fox Studios as a potential screenplay. The story was returned with little interest for the direction of the studio at the time. It is this document and the letters which inspired this book.

The story of each man's life illustrated in the story is fictional. Though there might be some historical inaccuracies, I put much research into the backdrop of both characters. The story is structured around the original letters in my Grandfather's records. All letters from both men are included in their original text - nothing has been edited or added.

This is the story my grandfather authored about his experience as a runner and the resulting relationship he began with a German soldier whose personal effects he picked up while avoiding enemy shelling. The last letter he shares here is dated 1928, yet the correspondence continued for another ten years.

An Episode in Friendship

"But I say to you, love your enemies..."
Matthew 5:44

If war engenders hatred and the Seven Deadly Sins, it is also an awakener of many things, at the man who escapes annihilation finds his existence enriched by memories over which to brood his life through, learning the truth of the old Spanish proverb:

The joys of the heart turn to sorrow.
The joys of the flesh are gone tomorrow.
But the joys of the mind are with us always -
Even to the end of our days.

During my short war experience, I hated well for a memorable quarter of an hour - then found my hatred turned into friendship because of a little adventure stored away in my memory to be brought to life after six years. This happening convinces me of the truth of the statement that these joys of the mind are with us always, for it has been a constant source of pleasure and interest to me, and the joy of it will be with me - "even to the end of my days."

And now, at this time when international friendship seems to be the most desirable thing to cultivate toward the acquirement of the New Consciousness dreamed of in the world today, this little incident of the Great War may take on some significance.

My story begins on the cold, damp morning of September 26th, 1918. A fog, which had greeted us at the jump-off, had lifted, and our section of the Argonne front was now cleared for the real business at hand. Opposing us were nine Prussian divisions, and since the early hours of the morning they had been subjected to a devastating fire from the artillery supporting us, preparatory to the general advance.

Square in our way was the little French town of Very, which had long been occupied by a German garrison. The little village, not often even dignified by a place on the average map, had to be taken and put behind us, and there couldn't be much delay about it.

So my story opens up with a relatively inexperienced battalion of engineers supporting one of our infantry regiments in the attack on Very. A heavy machine gun position protecting the entrance to the town had been captured and its remaining crew taken prisoner. The infantry was working up the slopes beyond the town, and we engineers were spread out on the ground in skirmish formation, supporting their advance.

The infantry was doing the heavy work. I can still see them advancing, leap-frog fashion, getting the hell pounded out of them. In contrast, we were sitting pretty, since they were getting the machine gun fire and the heavy stuff, and we were only getting incidental rifle fire, and occasional shelling. So we had a little time to think, which was unfortunate if you were taking your war seriously.

I refer above to my outfit as being relatively inexperienced. And inexperienced we were, for most of us had been civilians about a year before and our only previous taste of the front had been at St. Mihiel. So, as far as I was concerned, I was still very impressionable. The experiences of that morning were being seared into my consciousness. The bombardment preceding the attack had been terrifying. The noise was overwhelming. The whole thing stunned me, and while I had been given intensive preparation for all of this, it didn't take much to scrape me off down to my very civilian self, and let loose all of my normal emotions and reactions. I was scared. I hadn't seen enough of this war business to get hardened to it, and having a little time to think was bad medicine.

While we were waiting for the infantry to consolidate its position, I was doing plenty of thinking. My buddy, Paren Schickley, was lying beside me, and he and I got to talking it over - sort of thinking out loud. The scene in front of us hypnotized us both. Hell was breaking down over the heads of the 363rd, which was making a run of it uphill in the face of the knifing machine guns. We couldn't get our eyes off of it. Due to the hypnotic effect of the scene before us, we had not noticed a couple of doughboys lying about twenty yards ahead. We couldn't tell if they were dead or wounded, so we went out to them.

One of the boys had been drilled through the head, and the other had been cut across the middle. Both were gone. They were stretched out, heads toward the heavy machine gun nest that held us up on our first assault on the town. They had apparently been stopped in a headlong plunge at the guns. Each lad had both hands clutched around their rifles. Their bayonets were fixed, pointing to the now dismantled guns as if to say "there was the gang that did it".

These particular machine guns had been placed strategically in order to cover the entrance to the Very, and had given our infantry stubborn resistance. Our line had gotten around them and they were finally stopped. I well remember the prisoners, huddled together, waiting for the detail that would take them back. They were already on their way to the rear when Schikley and I went out to check up on the two dead doughboys.

When "Schick" and I found that the two boys were dead, we were in a state of shock. At that moment the war came home to us in all of its reality. We were raw recruits to this business of war. We were not of a militaristic background. We felt that we had joined a just cause, but up until this point we had not thought much of war in terms of death and suffering. There is a contradiction between the old recruit days with bands, flags, parades, and the heroic atmosphere, and the stark reality of dead men splattered with blood, lying sprawled out in the mud, the smell of gas and powder in the air, and rumbling, shrieking, and snapping noises all around you.

It is with no lack of courage that I admit that it scared me to the core and made me long for home. The noises had continued all night. Up until this point we had been continually moving forward. There had been things to do - leaving little time to think. Our barrage had been most efficient, throwing the enemy's main body far back. Then came these damned machine guns, in particular those at the entrance to Very. A little slice of hell all cut out and dumped in our laps. It was murder at the crossroads. Short, snappy bursts from the guns, then longer ones when a squad would rush them. Some grenades and well aimed fire from 45's and Enfields and then "Kamerad!" In the wake of all this, dead men and wounded grew in number on both sides. Right here, right now, was no time or place for everything to be brought to a halt with the order to cover the outfit that would go on and through the line. Orders are orders, and they sounded fine, familiar, until we found we had time to think and time to see.

As Schickley and I rolled the two doughboys over, something happened inside of me. I know that right there I could have knifed, in full satisfaction, the first German I might see, prisoner or not. I took my war too seriously. The expression on the dead face of that first boy still haunts me. Schick had two clean handkerchiefs cached away in his blouse pocket. He took them out and spread them out over the faces of the two. A foolish gesture, perhaps - but we took our war to heart. We might end up like that before nightfall, and a clean handkerchief over the face would be poor consolation in that event.

When we got back to our line we were both sick at heart. My mind flooded itself with inquiries about the lads. I wondered where their families were, where they were from. They both looked like good eggs - one a burly, heavy-set fellow, the other sort of rangy. Both had their jaws set tight, the expressions with which they died were grim and determined. You could see that they must have enjoyed life to the full. I wondered what sort of place they might have carved for themselves in the years that should have been theirs.

With the reality and shock of what was before me, this war was at once justified. You only have to look a dead man in the face to see it - or see a man go down in a heap as if he were thrown there. I silently breathed a curse on whomever or whatever was responsible. I felt like a trapped animal. Something had yanked me out of a peaceful environment and stuck me into an unreal inhuman existence that might snuff me out at any minute. When I died I wanted to be let down easy like, into a chair or a bed. I didn't want to be slopped into the mud by a direct hit or get machine gun bullets or a bayonet in my guts. In the days that followed, my senses became numbed to things, and I was able to quit thinking. But right now, at this moment, I was just a scared little fellow who wanted very much just to get away. Hatred of whatever was responsible, which always follows fear, had to be directed against something or someone. This feeling welling up inside me right then was directed against the Prussian gunners that had laid low those two boys. They were the nearest Heinies, anyway. How I wanted to get my hands on the one in command! Why the hell didn't he surrender at the start? They didn't have a chance and he should have known it. Fighting it out just killed that many more men.

I mention all of this because it has an important bearing on my story of friendship. We often hear references made to the "ripening" of friendship. My story illustrates how friendship ripened from its exact opposite. Friendship that develops from an unreasoning hatred must be real.

The town of Very was behind us before the day was over, and in succession in the days that followed we took Epinonville and Eclisfontaine. Two days after the fighting at Very, I was ordered to take some reports back to division headquarters at a crossroads back of Very. The shortest route to follow was by way of the road on which the ambulance, supply and ammunition trains were traveling. This road was being continually peppered by shell fire, and at the time I started for headquarters, was being blasted out by the enemy's heavy guns. It was a very unhealthy road on which to travel. Being of a practical turn of mind, I decided that my chances were much better to skirt Very by swinging around to the East of it, which would keep me off that damned road. If I traveled fast, I could make headquarters about as quickly, and of course being the surest I could of getting there at all was what interested me.

The route I chose to follow brought me to the edge of Very at the location of those machine guns that had caused so much hardship. As if fate itself were taking a hand in the matter, I had no more than reached this position, when everything but the kitchen sink began dropping around me. Some crazy German battery seemed to be particularly interested in tagging me. There wasn't another living soul for a hundred yards in any direction; only dead men, dismantled machine guns and scattered equipment in the immediate vicinity. It was nice company.

With the first shell, which landed too close to be comfortable, I instinctively "hit the dirt". As I dropped down, I found myself lying beside an open German knapsack. Strewn about it were letters, postcards, and the owner's pay book - "Soldbuch", I believe it was called. I gathered up some of the letters and cards, and the pay book, and stuffed them into a pocket. Common to American troops was "souveniritis" - a disease I had been inflicted with.

I can assure you that in this instance I was not duplicating my reactions of two days' previous. Was not emoting. The past two days had changed me. I had lived a long time in that short period, and my only thoughts were of the immediate future - ie. staying alive. At the first lull in the shelling I was up and on my way. I got through to headquarters safely and nothing in particular happened along the rest of the way.

As I look back on that experience as a runner, it seems strange that circumstances took me off the natural route, carrying me directly to the machine guns that have since become so important a detail in my overseas experience. Such circumstances stopped me there long enough to pick up the personal effects of the German sergeant in command of those guns - the very man I had wanted so much to get my hands on forty eight hours before.

The pay book, which I had picked up on the dank smelly ground by those machine guns, carried the owner's name, address, rank, and army record. It belonged to August Grimm, machine gun sergeant in the 2nd Guard Regiment of Prussians. And I have since found out that Sergeant Grimm was in fact the one in command of the guns that held us up at the entrance to Very.

Grimm, according to the records in his pay book, had been in the service since 1914. He was twenty-three years old. With the pay book was a photograph - postcard sized - of a young German soldier standing beside a mighty good-looking girl. I thought from the first that this must be a picture of Grimm and his wife or sweetheart. There were several other cards, letters, and pictures, but the pay book and this particular photograph are all that figure in this experience.

In the weeks that followed, I thought very little of Very or of any of the events connected with this shattered little French village. We were relieved in the Argonne in about a week's time, and after a few days rest, the outfit was ordered to a front in Belgium. A little later on, the Armistice was signed, and then ensued about five months of being shifted around before the start home. During all of this time, I managed to keep the small packet containing Seargeant Grimm's paybook and the cards, pictures, etc. In due courese they took their place among my war souvenirs.

Many times during the next few years I would find myself looking at the photograph, which I supposed was of Grimm and his lady, wondering what had happened to him. I did not know whether he had been killed or wounded, or whether he had been among the prisoners at Very. The picture was that of a fine, clean, upstanding young fellow with character and personality sticking out all over him. The more I looked at it, the harder it became to reconcile my original feeling of hatred with the feeling of concern and understanding I now experienced. I felt that I had become acquainted with the fellow. Tying in events or circumstances with a photograph will sometimes do that. At any rate, the more I looked at the picture, and the more I th0ought of the man Grimm, the more disturbed I became, and the more anxious I was to know more about him. It never occurred to me that there was a very simple way to find out about August Grimm.

Early in 1924 - nearly six years after the Argonne Drive, I was discussing the war with a friend who had been born in Austria. I told her about my interesting German paybook and the photograph, which I thought was that of the owner, and that I was most curious as to what had happened to him. "Why not write the Burgomaster of his town?" Mrs Sachs suggested, "He will know." So I did, or rather Mrs. Sachs kindly did so for me.

That letter to the Burgomaster, Herr Krusmann of Bad Wilsnack, Brandenburg, Germany, brought to me something our of my own experience that has softened the ugly memories, and given me a better understanding of humanity. Sergeant Grimm was alive! He had been taken prisoner at Very, where he had been in command of the machine guns. On his return home from the prison camp, he had married and settled down. He would like to hear from me!

According to the Burgomaster, my hated enemy was only a brick-mason, but "honest and honorable", working hard to support himself, and his wife, together with his and her parents! "Setting an example to others", continued the Burgomaster, "by his industry and plain mode of living." Generous he was too, for Herr Krusmann described him on his return to the Fatherland after the war as full of praise for the Americans who had treated their prisoners kindly. The American, he said, is a gentleman!

On receipt of the Burgomaster's letter, I immediately wrote to Grimm, giving him a sketch of my short military career, and trying to make amends for my thought toward him of which he was unconscious, by suggesting that we two become friends, saying:

"I am very glad to know that you received good treatment while a prisoner of war in our hands. The war brought on so much unhappiness and so much pain that you and I both can congratulate ourselves that we managed to come through all right. I don't know exactly how you feel toward the Americans at this time, but I can assure you, now that the war is over, we must each bear a friendly attitude toward each other. You fellows gave us some mean fighting, and we tried to do as much damage to you as possible, but that is all over now, and personally I hope Germany can get the proper kind of relief, which will permit all of you fellows to get back on your feet and be able to prosper once more."

To show my good faith, I enclosed a draft for a small amount, and soon I received a letter from Grimm himself, in which after thanking me for the check, which seemed a fortune to him at that time, and courteously accepting my offer of friendship, he replied:

"How terrible was that war! I myself was in the front ranks from 1914 until I was taken a prisoner and in innumerable battles have I fought. How often did you - and I also - face death courageously! To the right and to the left my comrades were torn to pieces and we - it is a miracle - came out sound and sane. Many a time have I closed the eyes of my comrades killed by the enemy's lead. Wounds without number has this war caused to the whole world and the German people still every day shed tears for the fallen father or the providing husband. How often did you and I lie in the enemy's territory and think lovingly on the dear home.

But God be praised, that is over now and we work day and night to regain our former health as a people. Indeed the German nation was a great nation, though now become bitterly poor through the war. Over the ocean I extend my hand to you and promise that we will work earnestly to have world peace.

Mr. Douglass, there was a time when I feared and hated the Americans as my enemies, but since I was a prisoner I have found out that the American people have a heart full of justice and love. I assure you that I do not hate you and your people any more."

August Grimm has been an interesting correspondent. His letters indicate something of this character. I like him. During our seven years correspondence, we have grown to be good friends. The following extracts from his letters tell his story and that of Germany during those years.

Writing in November 1924, he admired some pictures I sent him of our California houses, parks, etc. showing fruits and flowers in abundance, and exclaimed:

"How rich and producing your country must be! But just the same I love my poor, dishonored country. The soil upon which I was born is my home. I do not want to complain, but believe me my dear friend, we have terrible times here. Almost everybody has to give to the state on quarter of his earnings in taxes. Thousands of people walk the streets and have no work. A large percentage of the children are under nourished, and their growth is retarded. Many factories are closed because they cannot sell their products. All this, my friend, is caused by this terrible war, which brought such misery over the whole world, which killed so many men in the prime of life. Let us be thankful that it is over."

In this and in every letter, on notices Grimm's rancor against his traditional enemy the French - an enmity which will be harder to eradicate than any other, but which must be killed also by friendship and understanding between individuals.

Then he goes on in the same letter to show his pride in German workmanship:

"Oh that it would be true at last: Peace on earth and good will to men. The big Zeppelin that flew to America will show the American people what German workmanship can do, and that we are willing to live in peace and friendship with your people. Woe unto those that try to start another war. I hardly can understand it how you could advance so quickly from an ordinary soldier to a lieutenant. You surely must have done your duty."

On January 4th, 1925 he writes:

"When I study over this whole situation, I am wondering again and again that we two so far apart found each other, and not only I but the whole town here is surprised over our friendship. I wish the governments of our countries would get along as fine as we do, then the scars of war would soon be healed.

Christmas the best of festivals is here again. But our nation is still too weak and too poor to rejoice. The scars of war are not as yet healed. Untold numbers of widows and orphans suffer in misery and want. The war took away so many a child's father who rests today under the sod of France. Only a few years ago we were also in this miserable France that still tries up to this day to press the last drop of blood out of my beloved country. You and I, my friend, were spared, we could return to our homes, and it surely is our solemn duty to warn everyone.....

Christmas 1918 I was a prisoner of war in an American camp. Even if the Americans were our enemies I shall always be thankful that they treated us kindly. We had plenty to eat - all we could wish for - only home and liberty we did not have. Our American guards gave us all the presents they could get at Christmas. Christmas evening we had a celebration and even the American officers took part.

But now we want to hold our heads high: we will work and labor faithfully so that better times come again. I assure you, my friend, Germany is a country without arms, we do not want another war, all we want is justice. How depressing it is for us that up to this day the enemy in arms occupies the German soil, is in arms on the German Rhine. We are not barbarians as they call us. We are an honest people who fought like lions but were overpowered by numbers."

In August of the same year, 1925, Grimm's picture of Germany becomes a little brighter:

"As for me, dear friend, at present there is everywhere work to do, for in my profession the summer is always the harvest time of the year, while winter usually brings unemployment. By reason of foreign credit, and a fixed standard in the country, the opportunity for employment is again arising in the German empire.

I wonder that you and your wife do not wish to come to Europe. Surely you would like to visit the battlefields of France with your wife, for these in part have not yet been broken up. It will certainly take years before the damages of this unhappy war will be restored. I should be so glad if you would then come on to Germany, and if so you must not forget the German Rhine. With us, you would have an opportunity to get to know the land and thepeople, and I assure you you would feel happy in the German country. We are not a nation of barbarians, as they shrieked we were during the war, but a people conscious of Right and Justice. I promise you that you will have a happy time while with us. Of course I cannot offer you the riches and elegance that prevail in America, for tteh German people - by reason of the lost war - live in very modest circumstances...

With the election of Hindenburg as President, I may inform you that foreign nations may feel at rest on this point. Germany is and will remain a Republic. The pillars of the Republic are its workmen. Even though some men in the German Empire should seek to impose upon us the old rulers, they would not succeed. Germany will never forget the horrors of the war. The German now breathes freely, for the French are now leaving the Ruhr district.

If you, my dear friend, would do me and my whole people a favor, use in your land every opportunity to show the world that the German is a willing, industrious, peaceful people with equal rights to live in the circle of nations."

In the summer of 1926 the picture is again dark. Grimm writes:

"Already a few months have elapsed since I wrote last to you. To the great sorrow for us all, nothing has changed for the better in our German Fatherland during this time. At first, dear friend, I would like to say, please do not in any way think that I am not telling you the truth, but believe me as your really sincere and honest friend who tells everything just as it is in our German country. Consider yourself happy and do thank your Maker in Heaven that your Fatherland has not lost a war, and that in your home and land does not reign the insane need as in ours.

Germany is as poor as a beggar and quite defenseless. On the outside it is tortured from our most deadly enemy - and on the inside the different parties of the extreme right and left tear it to pieces. Since last winter there is terrible need everywhere. Our industries and factories have not got the necessary capital to work with. My dear friend, it is true that millions of capable men of Germany walk on the streets trying to find work and pretty near never do so. They are supported by the Government and get every week from $1 - $3. Wilsnack has about 600 men out of whom are about 90 or 100 out of work. My father is since November 1925 out of work without a bit of money I was fortunate enough to be out of work for only six weeks. What a terrible Christmas will many, many people have in my country. Those are the effects of the lost war. Let us hope there will soon be better conditions!

Dear friend, tell me in your next letter what you are doing. Nobody here can tell what it means on the envelope: "Trust and Savings bldg." Some say you are a contractor or in the bank business and so on. I am very much wondering what it is now. Please write to me what you do during the day and how your dear wife and daughter are. Is the weather in California also as terrible as we have it? Here it is already raining since a few months and a large part of our crop is totally spoiled. I go to work every day from 7 until 5 o'clock. After that and on Sundays we do the work around home. Yes, we Germans can have no rest now, we have to go on and on until we have better conditions again! Let this be enough with this for today.

With grateful hearts for all the good that you have done and the many signs of your dear, deep friendship which connects us, I greet you, your dear wife and daughter,

Your ever thankful friend,

August Grimm.

Best regards from my wife also."

It would be very hard for me to reconcile myself to the job of fighting Germany again. I am not thinking now of the principles involved in the late war. I am thinking of Germany in terms of August Grimm. If the little drama of September 26th, 1918 at Very were to be reenacted, I am sure that Grimm and I could not play our respective parts. We are both looking at things differently now - at least as far as America and Germany are concerned. A bond of friendship and understanding has grown between us. It's a crime that there cannot be a similar community of interests between all nations.

When I think of the misery and trouble brought about by the war and the utter lack of good that came from it, I wonder why it is that nations of intelligent and educated people can succumb to the snare of it. What a mockery it all is. The Chaplain of my outfit would lead us in prayer to the God above - asking Him for victory. August Grimm had on his belt buckle, "Gott mit uns!" God would surely be in a tough spot trying to play both sides. In all probability He was thinking up there, what a bunch of fools we were down here.

Some time ago, I asked Grimm to write me of his experience in the fighting at Very. He was an old campaigner. Beside him, I was an infant in arms, as far as experience went. I wanted to see what his reactions were during those morning hours on September 26, 1918. It would be interesting to compare them with mine. In asking for his story of the fight, I wrote,

Los Angeles
Sept 30, 1928
My dear friend Grimm;

I have been waiting for your first letter covering your experiences during the war - particularly your experience in the Argonne Drive.

As I first told you, my only object in suggesting this was that it might prove to be an interesting story of friendship. When anyone stops to consider the circumstances under which you an I labored just ten years ago this week, and realizes the state of mind that each of us was in at that time, and our strange contact several years later, the development of the sincere friendship which I feel has since existed between us, seems all the more interesting and remarkable.

I have felt that out of these incidents could be developed a story that would have an interest not only to the reader but may also serve as a lesson for good.

Ten years ago you and I were in opposing regiments and were each bent upon the destruction of theh other. Each of us was sincerely fighting for what he thought was right. In retrospect the whole situation seems unreal and impossible.

On the 30th of last month a little baby boy was born in my home, and I feel more keenly than ever now, that war and all it brings upon humanity should be abolished. While I would expect my little son to fight for his country should it be necessary, I hope it will never be necessary. Wars in general can only be abolished when the peoples of the world come to their senses, and realize that no material good comes from war.

Most Sincerely,
Nelson Douglass Jr

Here is Grimm's story of his last fight - our little party at Very:

Wilsnack, December 10, 1928
My dear Friend:

It is time for me to write once more. I know that I haven't been very prompt but all this is due to our restless and busy time. Only two more weeks and we will have Christmas. I do not know how you in America celebrate this Christian feast, but here in Germany it is the feast of peace, happiness and conciliation. May it add to the peace and conciliation of the nations and peoples of the earth. To you and your family I wish happiness, prosperity and a blessing for the New Year, together with a happy home life.

I will now live up to my promise, and give you an outline of the Argonne battle. The sad days of the battle on the Marne had passed, especially for the proud Prussian guards. We had buried many friends and comrades in their last resting place on the banks of the river. Retreat! What a heavy and disastrous word! Through treason it was possible for our enemy to win the battle over our army. I personally received an order on a Sunday to hinder and delay the crossing of American troops over the Marne, in which I succeeded. For it I received the Hohenzollern House medal with a sword. In the evening of this day we retreated further back. The number of our enemy, ammunition and supplies was too much. After those unhappy days we received a few days rest. I was transferred to instruct artillerymen in handling machine guns. However, these peaceful days were of short duration.

On September 22nd, 1918 I received orders to report at once to my company. In the forenoon of September 23rd all was quiet. I was sitting in the room with several of my comrades listening to stories. All at once the telephone rang and from the Reserve Battalion came the order to send a Sergeant with two machine guns. My hour had come. I was ordered to go in the trenches at once. We got there just before dark and stayed there until the next day. In the afternoon of September 25th we were in the trenches, and according to orders we cleaned our guns and pistols and in general put our things in order. Suddenly, late in the evening I received the order to report to the battalion. We were again put into action. I had command of these two guns with another Sergeant and gunner. I talked matters over with the head gunner and we placed our two guns in position. I must say that right here from the start I had a strange feeling. All guns were made ready for action and everything else looked after. Our men stood silent in their places watching the movements of the enemy. Who was in the opposite trench? Was it the French, or British, or the less war trained Americans? Anyway we made up our minds to fight to the last man.

For the present all was well. Calm and with serious thoughts we went back to our dugouts. All at once we noticed heavy artillery fire, so-called drumfire, at our right, as if hell had been turned loose. Light signals arose all over the front and turned night into day. My rheinischer landsman looked at me rather seriously and said: "The sky is thick and they are turning loose." We stood silent for a while looking at this dreadful hell-fire from a short distance, as it was quiet in our section. Both of us knew too well what was going on as we both had been in the front line since 1914 and took part in many battles. Poor brothers, how many of you will close your eyes forever? Cursed be the enemy, to hell with war - such were our thoughts. However, we didn't have long to think as at once the storm swept over us. We were covered with shells of all sizes and caliber. We jumped from our dugouts and looked to see if our guns were in order. All the men were at their posts, watching the enemy line. With great speed the enemy fire set in. Fog and gas bombs filled the air with disagreeable fumes. Curtain fire - help and assistance came to our minds. The enemy is making a general attack. Half of the night was gone but the enemy's guns were still drumming. We jumped out from our dugouts, looked over our machine guns to see if everything was in order. We found all well and all our men were at their posts. The expression on their faces asked the question, "How long will this shelling keep on and who is on the opposite side?" Apparently all sympathy in the world was gone. We went back to our dugouts and waited for the enemy's infantry attack. It was seven o'clock in the morning before the firing let up and was layed farther back. At the command, all our men went to their places at their guns, - the enemy's attack is coming! German soldiers fight for your honor and the Fatherland! Heavy fog, black powder smoke, all over biting and deathening gas. All of us at the machine guns were ready for action. Due to the fog, gas and smoke, we could not see the enemy. We fired blind without seeing anybody and woe to them who dared to come close to our machine guns - death is sure to them.

We fired up to ten o'clock. The fog rose and sun came through. I asked the battalion to be allowed to retreat to the next height, but this was denied, and we received orders to hold out. So we stayed in our position. We wasted another hour and again I sent to the commander asking for permission to retreat to a better position. Without any answer the sentry came back and reported that apparently the Battalion Staff, with men and mice, were taken prisoners. We looked around and found we had enemies on all sides of us, and that we were apparently cut off from the rest of the division. We signaled for aid but failed to receive any. The stroke of the enemy was too great and our comrades were thrown back. Again the question arose - Who is opposing us? God grant it is not the hateful Frenchmen. We had plenty of ammunition, and we were also willing to fight to the last man if we had the artillery support. Crawling into a shell hole we waited for the things to come. We did not have to wait long. Behind us came three enemy trucks. We let the first one go through, and leveled our two machine guns at the last two. After a few rounds of well aimed shots, both trucks stopped. We thought that both trucks were done away with but we soon found out differently. After a few minutes we were covered with a shower of small grenades, like a hailstorm. We were lost! We jumped back in our dugouts and the truck kept on firing, watching us for a while until the enemy infantry came close to us.

We again waited and noticed that we were surrounded from all sides, and waited for the enemy to take us prisoners. Thinking of our guns falling into the hands of our enemy we quickly destroyed parts of them. Then we waited and wondered if we would be shot down or if they would spare us. Such were our thoughts! We closed up with our lives in this moment as we were at the mercy of strangers. Goodbye all dear ones at home. We are expecting now the grace or revenge of the enemy. Damned be such war which puts so much misery and suffering on to humanity.

Then one comrade reported that the enemy were Americans! Thanks to God, as we expected human treatment at least from them. Then they were calling to us and giving us signs to come out. We obeyed their command and with our hands up we walked out. But, my friend, Douglass, the first one of my comrades stepping up was shot in the forehead and instantly killed by the American soldier. He fell to the ground with his young and bloody face, while his blood soaked the French soil. How much sorrow and how many tears has this bullet of an American soldier brought to the parents, sister or brother of this German comrade? Why such a thoughtless act? We were nothing but helpless prisoners and had done nothing else than our duty to our country. A few groans and this young man had no more suffering.

We others stood there astonished, expecting the same. However, they gave us mercy. We had to line up with a row of American soldiers back of us with their rifles ready. In front of us a Sergeant with his pistol in his right hand and with his left hand searched our pockets. When my turn came he found my billfold with the photograph enclosed and smilingly he took them from me. I asked him to let me keep them as they were of sweet remembrance to me. He gave me to understand that I was a prisoner and threw this billfold with all its contents into the grass. This, my dear friend, is the billfold that you later found and I thank you that you are so good and willing to return same to me. Keep it as a sign of our friendship, and by it keep in mind what an immense suffering this war has brought to humanity.

After the first scare had passed, we were marched back to the rear. I am still happy to say that I from this time on can call the American soldiers our friends, no matter if white or black, as I know them to be men with hearts in their chests. After a short walk we came to a forest and met hundreds of colored soldiers. It seems all were glad to see us and asked for some kind of token in the form of buttons, medals, etc. We gladly gave them something and in return they handed us money, cigarettes, bread or pieces of bacon. All these things were much appreciated by our men inasmuch as our rations had been short for some time due to the blockade. After a night's march we came to the so called Straflager, Kronprinzen Lager in Shully. Here we spent a hard day, had lots of rain without barracks or shelter and very little to eat.

For this time my friend I have to close. During Christmas I will write again telling all about life in the prison camp.

With kindest wishes to yourself, your dear wife, daughter and young son.

Your thankful friend,
August Grimm

It seems a long trail back over the years to that foggy morning in the Argonne. Thirteen years ago, on a well remembered September 26th, in a strange land, on a strange job, I found reason to hate - to hate in particular the German commander of a certain brace of machine guns - a man unknown to me and at the time completely out of my reach. He was a Hun - a barbarian! All the recruiting officers had told me so. Since then, through strange circumstances, I have found the man. He isn't a Hun at all. He isn't a barbarian. He is even as you and I. He is my friend.

I haven't as yet had the thrill of meeting Grimm. Relatives, while traveling in Europe several years ago, visited him, and they have verified all the good things I can say about him. Some day I am going over there to see August Grimm. He and I are going to go back to the little French village of Very. We're going out there to the old gun position, and if it's the last thing I do, I'm going to clasp his hand over the same spot where in those misguided days of the past we were shooting at each other.

Surely the joy of this friendship will be with me always - even to the end of my days.

"I traversed Hate's grove
In the hatefullest nook to dwell;
But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched love
Where the shadow threefold fell."
Browning

The End

The Cauldron

This "newspaper column" was typed out in six separate segments over a period of time between 1940 and 1942 by Nelson Douglass Jr. Copies of the originals are part of the literary legacy that Nelson Douglass, Jr. left behind. The title and byline are taken directly from the copies in the author's possession. There has been no editing of the material.

Paper clipped to the "No. 4" paper is a newspaper clipping Nelson Douglass, Jr. dated July 31, 1941. It is a column by one E. V. Durling titled "On the Side" and is undoubtedly the format he sought to mimic.

History of the 316th Engineers

This is a chapter in the book History of the 316th Engineers published in 1919. The copy in my possession, that of my grandfather's, contains notes and check marks beside the names of those men in his outfit. Presumably he made these notations at the reunion in 1921.

The History of Headquarters Detachment

By Lt. Nelson Douglass, Jr.

We're at the end of the trail now - we're on our way home. Back of us is a year and a half of life, life tempered by all sorts of new experiences, broadened by travel and association with all types of men, brightened by unnumbered friendships and shadowed by - well, we won't speak of the shadows.

In September, 1917, at Camp Lewis, Headquarters Detachment got its first assortment of Johns. From all over the West they came - long ones, short ones, fat ones and skinny ones - dressed in everything from blue serge to chaps. Time and work with an objective will do wonders, and in a few months we began to look and feel like soldiers. Bear in mind that soldiering was a new dish to all of us, but we were fortunate to have in the Regiment some old-timers from the 4th, who helped remove the bookkeeper's bend, the stable stoop and a few other habits that some of us had, and, after a while we began to get a kick out of the game. Men came to us and others left us, there was a general shifting round during our nine months at Lewis, our roster was changing constantly, as were the others, but some of the original gang still remains. OUr training-camp activities made an outfit out of us and when June 20, 1918, rolled round we were raring to go. Maybe more space should be devoted to Camp Lewis days but the big kicks and memories came after we left there. The trip across the continent did wonders for us; for one thing we were impressed by the enthusiasm of the people. All of us had given up one thing or another by getting into the service; each one had his own sacrifice, but when you see people all across the country wild with pep and that old American "go-get'em" stuff, it makes you mighty glad you're one of the Yanks going over. We remained at Camp Merritt several days. Most of us had the chance to give New York the up and down. Needless to say some of the boys found New York quite a watering place. You know you can't beat a nice pair of overalls, jumper and a big can, but I know of another plan that worked like a charm.

They picked out a cross between a cattle boat and a honey wagon for us to cross the big drink in. Some one had dubbed her the Armagh. She was manned by a Cockney crew and the boys mixed with them like oil does with water. After an argument or two over such trivial subjects as tripe, we managed to endure the thirteen days across. Right here it might be worth while to bring out the impression we apparently made on the English crew. Many remarks were heard such as "This is the toughest bunch we ever brought over." they couldn't understand the care-free Yank. This was well brought out by the remarks of one of the crew while we were in the middle of the submarine zone. The boys apparently were unaware of the real danger of being torpedoed or else they didn't care, for they continued their card games or whatever else they had been killing time with, while most of the crew took on an anxious and worried expression. This fellow said, while talking to Nick and some of the others, "You Yankees are a queer lot. All other troops we brought over stayed below like gentlemen, but you fellows are always storming around or else playing cards or shooting craps. I suppose if a sub shot one at us and missed you Yanks would rush to the rail and yell "Rasberry, you ----!"

We finally landed without mishap at Liverpool. While tied up to the dock before we disembarked, we got a big kick out of kidding the English bobbies about their big feet - something that didn't get over at all. We marched through Liverpool to Knotty Ash to the tune of a driving rain and the chorus of a thousand kids who pestered us with "Got any cents, Sammy?" All of us got a chance at a pass while at Knotty Ash. We sampled various "Stouts" and things. The British "Pub" was like an oasis in our desert of ten months.

From Knotty Ash to Southamption was without incident. From the latter place we boarded a channel boat and made Cherbourg, France, about 2:00 o'clock next morning. We were packed on that fool boat like dinnies in a can - no place to sit down, no place to lay down and hardly any place even to stand up. Only two member of the Detachment proved themselves really equal to circumstances. Big Boy and Cheesie found the suite of the boat's skipper. A little reconnaissance showed them a downy couch and a snowy bed. A few hours later the skippler found these leather-necks lost in the arms of Morpheus, occupying his lordship's feathers. Words can't describe the utter horror. To use his own words, "It was the first time a crime had been committed on his boat." A riot call was sounded but Big Boy's only comment was that nothing was too good for them.

We spent the next day at the rest camp at Cherbourg, where our stomachs were given a good rest, and that evening we marched back to the "eight and forties" that were to take us to our traning area.

After a couple days of jerking we got to Foulain, where we detrained. The narrow guage from there to Nogent was only able to handle us in installments and in the delay several illustrious members of our band reviewed the troops. Vin Blanc is a wonderful digestive but it has other qualities as well.

We did a "Dan O'Leary" from Nogent to Ageville, where we were billeted in real French style. Ageville is a queery little berg and well named. OUr six weeks there were sweetened by many memories. Bill Reis gained for us the hospitality of a certain rendezvous, where almost every evening you could find Hogue, Dennie, Hughes, Little, Inman, Nick, Shick and many others hanging forth. The battle of Ageville wasn't very hard to take after all. Lane, who was on duty in Esnourveaux, wasn't wasting his time, and Frosio and Hiemenz made a little history in the place. It was in Ageville that Hill did his high dive out of a second story.

From Ageville our wanderings took us into reserve at the St. Mihiel fracas. This trip was a curly wolf. The gang would get into some Frog town just about in time to meet itself coming out. Those long hikes in the night with not even a smoke to help were goat-getters, but as before the boys took things in good spirit and the nuts were always on the job with homespun philosophy. As we look back on the whole party it is easy to see that our morale was bolstered many a time by the caustic wit of such onions as Inman and Hogue, the metaphors of Little and Hughes and the mischief of Benedict and Pierce. The work of the latter team with old "goofy" at Ageville should go down in history, for it rivalled the antics of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn and made those two look like pikers.

We had to pull our of our woods back of St. Mihiel to make room for a mess of German prisoners and were packed into trucks driven by Chinks and taken to a new position in the vicinity of Verdun. Here we stayed until the night of September 25th, when we went up to the big job. They picked a nice, pretty black night for us to pull out in and after bucking several kilos of congested roads we got into the open and established a P.C. back of the Artillery. From the 26th of September until the 12th of October we remained in the Argonne drive. There is no need of reciting the events of those days, but needless to say they were full of excitement until the trip out. After a few days in we looked like so many "Nat Wills." No chance for a shave or wash, and we ate and slept when and however we could. Bill Reis and "Automatic Brown" were hit in the air raid of October 2nd. "Automatic" has since rejoined the outfit, but Bill didn't get back. We have heard since that he has been sent back to the States.

On the way out we stayed a couple nights at the old German Engineer dump and it was here that we got our first brace of square meals. Everybody was all in but the rest bucked us up and we did the rest of the hike back to Mogneville without trouble.

From Mogneville we jumped up into Belgium. We toured Belgium in the approved style of "lifing 'em up and putting 'em down." WE located at such places as Ypres, Ostnieuwkerke, Rhumbeke, Oostroosebeke, Olsene and Audenarde. At Olsene "P.C." was established in the old Chateau d'Olsene. The outfit was at Audenarde when the Armistice was signed. The news of this big event was received more calmly by the boys than was expected. I suppose that our senses have become blunted by our experience over here; anyway things that ordinarily would have caused wild excitement are usually received more as a matter of course. Don't think we were callous to the big meaning of the Armistice. It was really too good to be true, but we gave an "A.E.F." celebration that will linger in each man's memory according to the intensity of his own party.

It was while at Rhumbeke that Heffie left us. The sad news came later that he had passed away the next day. He is the only Buddy in the Detachment who made the supreme sacrifice. He had been with us from the early Camp Lewis days and his death took from our midst a real fellow, one whom we all thought the world of and miss so much now.

After the Armistice was signed out thoughts turned toward home and, after an eternity of waitig , we were headed for the Le Mans area to be one of a group of outfits scheduled for early transportation home. We started at last for Nogent-le-Rotrou. When we finally reached Nogent-le-Rotrou we were surprised to find we were to be billeted on the nearest thing to a real town we had yet hit in France. The P.C. was well-established her and the hounds that hung out there were established liaison with those things necessary to a good morale. Even Benny Hiemenz established a reputation in Nogent. He put on an awful barrage one day, he sorta' leaned on it, and when it lifted --! Ther was a certain crew that spent considerable time in a certain hostelry. I can't tell much about this, it wouldn't be understood in print. I'll allude to tone thing that happened, and if a certain pair of M.P.'s read this it will clear up a little mystery that has been bothering them, I know. It was from an upstairs windo in this place that an object was hurled one night at these two M.P.'s, and if they want to know who dit it, they can ask "Dete" in Nogent. I know that all this needs an explanation but details can't be dealt in here.

We hated to leave Nogent, but we were taken to the Belgian Camp from there and spent the rest of our time before going to the port in receiving andn spreading rumors about the prospective trip home. We were at the Belgian Camp about two months. It was a tiresome two months, but the evenings were killed in the same old manner. Most every Buddy had "his night," and it was ususally added to by some rapid-fire repartee between Yonkers and "Regimental Corporal" Postel, the barnyard stuff of Bill Williams or the outbursts of Don Marriott.

I don't suppose we'll ever forget those nights. Don never could put over his stuff without a chorus of blats from the gang. Then there was the swinging bucket over the stove, built to drop its load on Perry while in his socialistic tirades, by out hard-boiled top-soldier, Perce Inman. The latter, in order to preserve his dignity built this contraption on the sly and had Dean and Postel operate it by means of ropes and pulleys. I must not overlook the midnight barrages of condiment cans, tin-lizzies, etc., which usually brought out old "hard-boiled" in his army pajamas to tell us what a rotten bunch of johns we were.

The band by now had gotten into full swing and our periodical concerts did wonders for us. Manke deserves great praise for the work of the band, considering the obstacles that had to be overcome; their achievements were marvelous.

The regimental burlesque under the direction of Schumuck chased the glooms away many a night. Lewis, Taylor, McMahon, Bassett and Buchheister "Rolled a wicked eye" as show girls. Worden, who won fame in the Argonne with his pet German, Keaton and Burton and Baker with his harmony, made the show complete.

Finally we got our orders and entrained for St. Nazaire, and four days later we embarked on the U.S.S. Calamares and here we are with God's Country only two hundred miles away.

We have head a great experience and although we don't realize it right now, the final breaking up of the Regiment is going to be tough. We have trained, lived and gone through the mill together, and it has made a tie that will be hard to break. Surely these eighteen months will prove a good influence over our lives. We'll appreciate civil life more, our homes and all they hold for us, and we can go through life with the satisfaction of having served when our presence was needed.

Wartime Poems

This first one is not a poem, but a prayer. It was found in Nelson Douglass, Jr.'s records written out in his hand on a piece of paper. It was undoubtedly written not long after my grandmother Dorothy died, which was only nine months before my grandfather, Nelson Douglass, Jr. died in 1960.

Dear God,

Please ease the pounding of my heart by quieting my mind. Slow down my hurried pace with a better vision of the eternal reach of time - and replace the confusion of my day with the calmness of the everlasting hills.

May the tensions of my nerves and muscles be broken with the soothing memories of my wife and children in a happy home.

May I take the time to look at a flower and pat a little dog - enjoy communion with my friends and try to understand those who take advantage of me.

In the quiet of the night, may I meditate on my blessings, read good books, and make contact with the loved ones who have gone before me.

May I try better to understand the will of God and be a better disciple for Him. May I get my roots deeper in the soil of life's enduring values.

Below are poems written in a small brown student's notebook which my grandfather purchased - it's unclear when - but assumed by the title on the cover he purchased it after arriving in France. The cover contains the title Jeunesse Studieuse (studious youth).

Nelson Douglass, Jr. was also a cartoonist. This was drawn on the first page of the notebook

The Poster

I saw a guy so nice and neat,
Handing out posters on the street.
His uniform - it wouldn't be beat,
They said he was a soldier.

I took the poster an' give it a look,
An' he handed me out a pretty book,
That told of the trips a soldier took,
So I joined the bloomin' Army.

They sent me up to a great big camp,
An' I dreamed of the sights I soon would lamp,
Of all the places that I would tramp,
Now that I joined the Army.

They dressed me up and give me a gun
And the regulars started to have their fun
An' then I learned what an awful bum,
A rookie was in the Army.

But I stuck on the job an' worked like hell
An' in a few months you couldn't tell
That I was a rookie - drilled so well
An' now I'm rar'ing to go.

My uniform's dirty - can't get a change,
Seat o' my pants' like a dog with the mange
When the rag man comes I get out o' range,
Why Hooverize on me?

But I reckon its jake, an' a part of the plan,
An' they'll move me out as fast as they can,
And pretty me up like a regular man,
That's a soldier in the Army.

I'll see all the sights when I get over there
It's big adventure so I don't care
'Cause Uncle Sam is sure on the square
An' I'm glad I took the poster.

The Little Tot of Three

She stood on the side of the railroad track,
– A little tot of three

Right out in front of her home, she was -
– And she waves the flag at me.

Four hundred buckos were on the train,
– On our way across the sea,

And she gave us the reason straight and square -
– That little tot of three.

There was a home - a peaceful home,
– The kind we love to see,

Her Mother and Dad were standing there,
– They too waving at me.

The sight spelled freedom - the right to live,
– T'was as plain as it could be,

So I'll make my fight for that little mite -
– The little tot of three.

Sad But True

Who is that man of haughty mien,
With ample chest and peanut brain,
And movement like a Ford machine?
Why, sonny, that's the sergeant.

Who's busy as a bumble bee,
To get you up at reveille,
And shouts your name in strident key?
Why bless you, that's the sergeant.

Who yells "Right dress" and "Right by fours,"
And gets as mad as all outdoors,
And sends you out to do the chores?
You're right - that's the sergeant.

Who carries all the world's disgrace,
Writ in furrows on his face,
And looks for trouble every place?
Why, that must be the sergeant!

Who cries "Fall in" and when you do,
Says "As you were," you rough-neck crew,
"Fours right about" - I'll run you thru?
Why, sure that's like the sergeant.

Why does the poor boy act this way,
Will he be a general some days?
No, sonny - quite the other way,
For hell is full of sergeants.

Here's the Wrinkle

Boy, its the stuff - to be in the game,
It might bring disaster - an' it might bring fame,
Or I might come back in just plain olive drab,
But if I helped put it over, I'll never crab...
'Cause even tho' I am just a cog in the wheel
That grinds out the victory, ... I'll never feel
That I shirked my duty, or turned a deaf ear
When the gents over there called the boys over here.
I'll know that I looked the thing square in the face,
And when I was picked, that I took my place
Willingly and gladly, and be the price what it may,
It's worth it all - when Peace comes to stay.

A Hymn of Hate

Count that day lost
When whose low descending sun,
Sees from thy gun
No bullet in a Hun.

Mufti

Take me back old Uncle Sam
To dear old sunny Cal.
Take me back to mother dear,
And a certain blue eyed gal.
I've had my fill of Cheppy woods
And the Argonne's nasty smell,
But if you say the word old top,
I'll stick with you thru hell –
But Fritz has signed his Waterloo,
And I'm no good round here.
So send me back to civil life,
And the folks I hold so dear.
I crave my mother's cooking,
And my Dad's slap on the back,
And just for fun I'd like to take
My derby from the rack.
So measure me for passage,
On any boat you've got,
'Cause mufti* has some charms for me –
That olive drab has not.

* Mufti: ordinary clothes worn by people who usually wear uniforms, especially soldiers (kd)

Apres le Guerre

I wonder what this hitch will do,
When we hit the peaceful days.
Will we all forget we're in long pants,
And continue our Army ways?
When we hear the whistle of the corner cop,
Above the traffic din,
Will we forget we're not in the Army,
And all proceed to "fall in"?
When we hear the rasp of a claxon,
On a car thats going too fast,
Will we think we're back in the trenches?
Will all of us holler "gas!"?
And when we're invited to dinner,
At some friend's home - well, I reckon,
We'll gulp it down as fast as we can,
And then line up for a "second."
The news kid's whistle - the burst of a tire,
And every noise that we hear,
We'll mistake for "pigs" and "G.I." cans,
That we got when Jerry was near.
The pinch of white collars will get our goats,
And the flap of civilian pants,
Will make us long for the duds we wore,
While soldiering in France.
But believe me Buddy, it's gonna be good,
And I anxiously wait for the day,
When I climb up the plank of some old tub,
And start for the U.S.A.

(note on the same page as the above poem:)

Name of a Yank in the A.E.F.

Konstanstinos Hontzapapatheodorcoumountoriociotopoulous

at Nayelis France - A casual.

October in the Argonne

A slogging bunch with a job to do,
A job in the main that was dripping red,
So swift advance, with a breaking thru,
To cheer them on to the goal ahead;
But a dreafy drive and a killing push
Into the sweep of a a deadly fire
From machine gun nests in the clotted brush,
Through bloody mud and a mass of wire.

A slogging bunch in a grip with Fate,
Where life was a span from breath to breath,
Where every foot meant a missing mate
And every yard held the smell of death;
No all out dash to an open goal,
But a sodden tramp the the crashing shell,
Thru dawns as stark as a broken soul,
Thru nights as black as the mouth of hell.

A slogging bunch thru the endless hail,
Where the line, iron-gutted, held its advance,
With its share of graves out the matted trail
That moved along thru the woods of France
With a moment's pause where a mate might kneel
By a fallen pal who has paid his debt,
Where the battered Boche knew the flash of steel
Was the glint of a Yankee bayonet.

A slogging bunch with a job to do;
No sudden leap with its cheering thrill
But a grimmer work with a redder hue.

This was glued to the last page of the notebook

The Christmas Postcards of Nelson Douglass, Jr.

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