When the Armistice was signed, I was traveling in a box-car
in France, bound for the front lines. In another day, we
should have reached an active sector. The Armistice interrupted
our trip. It was a pleasant interruption, because our traveling
accommodations were very limited. To ride in, I prefer a Ford
to a French box-car.
We had landed at Le Havre. When the Armistice was signed,
we were stopped at Le Mans. Two months later, we
were sent into Germany as a part of the military police.
Police duty is guard duty. On the night shift, it means six hours
of monotonous service; on the day shift, it means a deadly vacancy
from breakfast to supper.
It was at Treves that I served with the military police.
We were quartered there at the German Artillery Barracks. Every
man had a cot and a goodly supply of cooties. Our attention
was otherwise occupied by 200 or 300 prisoner. Some of them were
prisoners of war who had escaped from the French and the English
and had been recaptured. Many of them were civilians who were
guilty of robbery or theft. Some had attacked and killed Americans.
A goodly number had violated the military rules imposed by the
army of occupation. Some were obstinate and malicious offenders;
others offended for pleasure or profit. As a result, our prisoners
were serving terms of various lengths. We were constantly getting
a new supply. And every week we were releasing some of the old
ones.
One day when I was on duty, I was ordered to take three prisoners
to the gate where they were to be released by the
Provost Sergeant. We reached the gate and waited. The Provost
Sergeant came a moment later. Somehow, I felt that something
was wrong. I didn't know, but I felt that one of those prisoners
ought not to be released.
"Haven't you made a mistake?" I asked the Provost
Sergeant.
"Why? What makes you think so?" he questioned in
return.
I pointed to the big surly fellow.
"I don't know, but I think that fellow only came here
the other day. He must have serveral months yet to serve."
The Provost Sergeant looked doubtful.
"Wait a minute," he said and he hurried into the
office of the Provost Marshall to inspect the record.
A moment later, he returned. On his face was a queer expression.
He was just a bit excited. He breathed unnaturally. In
his eye, there was a grateful look. In the friendliest tone,
he said, "Buddy, you saved me that time."
The fellow did have nearly six months yet to serve. The army
rules prescribe that if any soldier is given custody of a
prisoner and the prisoner escapes from him, the soldier must
serve the prisoner's unexpired term. I had saved the Provost
Sergeant six months, but it was by mere chance.
This incident is one of the few that I can recall that gave
me any relief from the burdensome monotony of guard duty.