SECTION 3
1918 Correspondence
1918 LETTER #18:
LETTER SUMMARY:
Included with this letter is an original account of battlefield experiences -- or possibly just a battlefield "story."
This letter and enclosed account/story appear to have been "kept" and never mailed/passed through censorship.
-- Harold apparently wrote home on his Birthday and and enclosed a picture of himself (this picture is no longer extant, or at least no in this collection). In yet another BASEBALL REFERENCE, he refers to himself as the "Next President of the Stove league, tired looking, older looking and thinner but . . . notice the OLD BATTING EYE isn't dimmed much eh."
[NOTE: In baseball, "hot stove league" is the sport's off-season. The phrase does not denote an actual league, but instead called up images of baseball fans gathering around a hot stove during the cold winter months, discussing their favorite baseball teams and players]
-- He writes: "I HAVE PASSED THROUGH THE REAL HELL AND WAS IN IT FOR TEN MONTHS AND I'LL ADD I WANT NO MORE OF IT."
-- There are many gruesome descriptions in Harold's enclosed account/story of battlefield conditions, soldier's corpses, and of the War (transcribed below in full).
SOME EXCERPTS FROM THIS LETTER:
Original letter of 2 double-pages written in ink. Also there is an original account of battlefield experiences -- or quite possibly just a battlefield "story." It consists of 3 double-pages written in ink and has the same Y.M.C.A. letterhead as the letter.
Also, there are five (5) other typescript copies (detailed below) of the "battlefield account/story" on deteriorating paper of poor rag content.
Y.M.C.A. (A.E.F.) Letterhead
Priv. H.W. Chapman
Co. D, 101st Eng.
A.E.F.
Nov. 24, 1918
Dear Steve:
I am writing to you today for its the "Old Man's Day," all day . . . Am enclosing a photo of the next President (of the Stove league) tired looking, older looking and thinner but Steve notice the OLD BATTING EYE isn't dimmed much eh.
I am also enclosing an item I had written a few months ago but never thought to send it. I have lots of similar stuff written from time to time as the mood befit me.
[...]
Now that everything is over I don't mind telling you the facts. The Transcript said that I wrote along humorous lines and I'll say that my own idea was to cheer up you at home and those kind of letters were the only way I could think of. Its over now and I'll say I HAVE PASSED THROUGH THE REAL HELL AND WAS IN IT FOR TEN MONTHS AND I'LL ADD I WANT NO MORE OF IT. Even at that I'd be up there again at the drop of a hat.
[...]
We may have to stay over till spring cleaning.
Will write again soon.
Love
Bootus
There is an original copy on stationary with Y.M.C.A. letterhead and several typescript copies (detailed below) of a battlefield account/story that was apparently enclosed with the above letter.
One of the copies is transcribed in FULL as follows:
FOURTEEN MONTHS OVERSEAS OR FOURTEEN MONTHS OF WAITING!
To fight and to give ones life is the biggest sacrifice that anyone can make. Such was on my mind when I proudly enlisted. My mind has changed since but it took a strange experience to make me realize that facing death was a good deal easier than the waiting for the return of a fighter to his mother. Tis the mother who sacrifices all while I only give.
The signal came to go over the top. The skirmish line moved out at a very fast walk. Nothing happened until we were fifty yards out, when suddenly the machine guns opened up, while shells burst here and there among us. Every one pitched forward on his hands and knees, and started crawling. The machine guns let up a bit and we were on our feet again hurrying forward. Pup-pup-pup and sown again. The excitement and the exertion seemed to take all your strength and each time, some went down never to get up again.
We had reached our first objective and were well on our way to the second when I found myself alone. Glancing through the mist into a shell hole, I noticed a khaki object and slid in to team up with him and to get out of the rain of bullets which were falling just beyond me. After gazing through the mist for signs of the line, I glanced over to see who my pal was.
I could not recognize him for he had been dead some time and was turned completely black. His head seemed to move as millions of maggots swayed back and forth. A wizz-bang had got him, his head was nearly severed and his body was torn in many places.
His feet were buried in the mud and as I glanced that way I noticed a small notebook. Thinking to identify him I picked it up but there was nothing there except a clipping which fell to the ground. I picked it up and started out of the shell hole. Pup-pup-pup and down I came again. While wondering how I was going to get out, I opened the slip I held and saw it was a poem. I glanced over it, then slid to the bottom of the hole and read it carefully. It was titled,
"THE MOTHER ON THE SIDEWALK," and read:
"The Mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by,
Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky.
Men have fought to keep it splendid; Men have died to make it bright;
But that flag was born of women and her sufferings day and night.
'Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray
For the brave and loyal mother of the boy who went away.
There are days of grief before her; there are hours that she will weep;
There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep;
She has heard her Country's calling, and has risen to the test,
And has placed upon the alter of the Nation's need, her best.
And no Man shall ever suffer in the turmoil of the fray,
The anguish of the mother of the boy who went away.
You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great,
BUT TO DIE IS EASIER SERVICE THAN ALONE TO SIT AND WAIT.
And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave.
Who has give the flag a soldier -- she's the bravest of the brave
And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white,
Is the lasting tribute, holy, to all mother's love of right!"
I read it again and then gazed into the black, mud-stained, blood-stained face of maggots and I swear there was a smile there. Slowly it came to me, to die was not the greatest sacrifice. How easy it was to die, but to sit and wait, -- It was his mother who sacrificed all, while he only gave. I looked at the poem again and saw it was written by Edgar A. Guest, and to him I am thankful for the knowledge of the greater burden my mother bore during my fourteen months overseas.
"A Doughboy".
In addition to the original letter & battlefield account/story, this letter group includes:
--A one-page typescript copy of this original handwritten letter and a two-page typescript of enclosed account/story headed "South Boston Inquirer Jan 11-19."
--A second one-page typescript copy of this original handwritten letter and a two-page typescript of enclosed account/story.
--A third one-page typescript copy of this original handwritten letter alone.
--A fourth & fifth condensed two-page typescript copy of the original handwritten letter and a two-page typescript of the enclosed account/story.
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