To know what war really is one must experience it. It is
something to be felt; it cannot be described. Although for days
I had seen the earth and air ploughed by shot and shell,
it was not until one Sunday late in the summer of 1918 that I
came to realize the heart-rending sadness of it all.
Our sector, that bright Sunday morning, was a quiet one.
Our horses, we had left over there at the edge of the woods.
They were about a half-mile from the Post of Command; they
were about the same distance from our guns. Every man in the
telephone section had his horse to use and care for. Usually,
we took turns in feeding them. But on that particular Sunday,
there was a lull in activities. All was quiet. Every man in the
section, except two who were on duty, turned out to care for
his horse, to wash his saddle, to clean his bridle. By half past
eight, we had finished our job. Most of the men had gone back.
John GALVIN and I were the last to go. Before we started, we
thought that we would give our horses some more hay. The horses
got the hay.
As we were about to leave, the German guns opened fire. Instantly,
there was a perfect fury unloosened. In that storm of
steel, we realized our danger. We had come to the edge of
that fateful woods through an unprotected open space. We had
no reason to stay; we had no desire to stay. There we had only
the shelter of the trees, and we realized that the Germans had
trained their guns on that shelter. So we started for a place
of safety.
We had not gone far before we heard a German shell come whistling
through the air. We knew that whistle. We ducked
behind a large tree. Side by side, we sprawled full length
upon the ground. That instant, the shell exploded. All about
us, its fragments struck. In another instant, I rose to my knees.
GALVIN too started up. We had escaped, I thought. But, just then,
GALVIN toppled over backward. Just below the ear, at the base
of the brain, he had a great ugly wound. I called to him. There
was no answer. A doctor was what he needed. I ran for aid.
A few hundred feet away, I found two Red Cross men. A few
minutes later, they were at his side, but all hope had gone.
His body was lifeless.
All that morning, the Germans kept that woods under fire.
Twenty of our horses that we had obtained with difficulty were
killed. All that morning, GALVIN's body lay at the edge of
the woods. The officers refused to allow the men to go to get
it. The risk was too great.
About noon the firing ceased. Then, we carried the body back
to our guns. Just back of the guns they dug a grave.
About it, that afternoon, the Regimental Chaplain conducted
a brief service. Then, into the earth, they lowered the lifeless
form of John GALVIN. He was the first man in the 121st Field
Artillery who gave his life to his country. There, on the side
of the hill which overlooks Death Valley, sleeps our comrade.
But, he is not alone. Before the war was over, Fate had chosen
a goodly company to share with him his resting place.