American Solider’s WWI Story

American Solider’s WWI Story

Snuggled in a makeshift camp, first lieutenant John Louis turned to his side, trying to fend off the mosquitoes that were making buzzing noises in his ear. On his right lay Sergeant Fred Smith his childhood friend who was snoring loudly despite the uncomfortable condition of the tent. Louis tried to get back to sleep, but he could not because of the cold, the temperature was 45 degrees below zero. The camp which hosted the 5th squadron of the United States army with eighty soldiers was set up in just outside a small Russian village of Kalach in Sverdlovsk Oblast. Their mission dubbed ‘operation wolf’ was a critical mission whose sole purpose was to rescue ten Russian soldiers who had been captured by the German army.  The date was 28^th July 1917 months after the United States President Woodrow Wilson declared war against Germany (Ferrell, 106).

As Louis assumed a sitting position, he scanned the tent, which he shared with ten soldiers under his command, and got overwhelmed with emotion thinking how he was responsible for these men’s’ lives. Most of his squad members he knew on a personal level as they had worked together at the base back home before World War 1. Private Sean Macgregor caught his eye he was sleeping holding his 0.303 British-Lee Enfield rifle with its ten-cartilage magazine capable for a 550-yard firing range releasing 20-30 shots per minute. Private Sean held his gun like he would hold a baby. Louis remembers when Private Sean, a father to anew born baby boy, got news of his wife’s successful delivery as they were en route to Russia he was overjoyed and shed tears. This war had made them absentee fathers who could not even be present at their children’s birthday. He took a moment to reflect on his children Mike a six-year-old and Wendy, a three-year-old. He thought of how proud his son was for him being a soldier and laughed when he remembers being called to the son’s kindergarten because Mike had told a classmate who had took his pencil that his father would come to the school and shoot him. All this made him nostalgic thinking of the families the soldiers had left back home with wives having to go through pregnancies and raising children on their own.

Sergeant Smith shifted to his right, and his snores became even louder, Louis remembered telling his friend that he was in the wrong profession because his loud snores could attract enemy attention and that would lead to their deaths. Louis kicked Smiths’ leg, and he did not budge. He kicked him harder in the calf this time Smith woke in a start pointing his 7.92 mm German Mauser towards the tent entrance. “Damn you J, on god I am going to shoot your head off one of these fine days.”  Smith nettled in his sleepy hoarse voice. J was the middle school nickname that my brother had given me and Smith since then picked it up, I could have sworn he did not remember my real name. Sergeant Smith was heavy built, like a brick shithouse with broad shoulders and thick arms. He stood at 6 foot 8 with his massive frame he looked like a trained boxer. Smith played as a quarterback in our school football team and most of our opponents would not dare head his way with the ball because a single tackle from him would leave your body aching for days. I remember this day when we were sophomores in college and had gone out drinking in a rival college neighborhood. I got interested in this gorgeous lady who was on the dance floor and approached her for a dance without knowing that the lady was girlfriend to one of the rival members. All of a sudden, I was surrounded by ten or so rough-looking guys who started roughing me up, Smith, who had stepped outside for a smoke, walked back in, attracted by the commotion that had ensued. When he saw one guy had held my sleeve and was shoving me, he ran to the scene and with a diving motion tackled the guy to the ground. A brawl ensued which had the two of us face twenty guys coming at us from different directions.

Despite their numbers, they were no match for Smiths’ size as he took them out one by one until they scampered for safety, that is Bear for you, the nickname that was coined for Smith after the bar incident.

As Smith struggled into a sitting position, the whole tent quivered. “What time is it, J?” He asked me. I did not understand why he would ask me the time, yet he was wearing a watch. I checked the time and told him it was a quarter to three. “Why would you wake me up at this ungodly hour, you bastard?” He asked, angry that I woke him that early. “Developing cold feet for these Heinies, hey J?” Heinie was a name that the Americans in the army called the Germans a diminutive word from the German common male name Heinrich. Often I got offended that Smith did not accord me the respect I deserved as his commanding officer. All the other members in my squad referred to me as Lieut, a short for Lieutenant. But not Smith, to him, I was always J, his friend. Smith crawled on his fours to head out of the tent either for smoke or answer the call of nature, and because of his size, he could not help but shake everybody on his way by the time he was outside all the other eight platoon members were fully awake.

The war had made people’s characters change tremendously; some people who were non-believers had become religious praying and reading the bible every chance they got. One such soldier was second lieutenant Fred Caprice. Fred was second in command in my platoon and was in charge of the radio communication equipment. Fred, before joining my team two years before served as a petty officer in the USS Mount Vernon ship, and as the story goes with seamen, Fred was a heavy drinker who got a reason to drink for every day of the week. The outstanding thing about him is his drinking habit. He was still an exceptional engineer who would revive a damaged engine within hours. After serving in the navy for a year and a half, Fred was transferred to our military base for disciplinary reasons, and when that happens in the army, the person being disciplined would be assigned the most mundane work. I met Fred on a Thursday morning while he was kitchen duty, our 4×4 tactical Mack armored vehicle had carburetor problems. The engineer who worked on them was out of the station, a member of my team who knew Fred asked me if it was possible to talk to his commanding officer to permit him to help us with the vehicle. Fred, within minutes under the vehicles’ hood, had it running, and that is how I submitted a written request to the disciplinary committee to have him transferred to my team. His drinking habits were not yet tamed, but they were manageable,  I tolerated him to stay in our group. After our first week deployment to France to help the soldiers on the ground, in one ambush attack, Fred was shot in the stomach. As luck would have it, the bullet left an exit wound that had Fred hospitalized for two weeks with two days lying unconscious in the hospital bed. Coming out of this experience, Fred was a changed man. He got saved and became a staunch Christian that walked with his pocket-sized bible everywhere we went. Fred even prayed for soldiers that were shot in the field, helping those in their last minutes of life offer a repentance prayer. I had seen countless times Fred kneel before an enemy soldier he had shot and pray for them. That is how much the war had changed him, and as he woke up from the commotion, he switched on his torch and started reading his bible.

The other interesting officer in my team was first sergeant Ben Ross. When he woke up in confusion and found me looking at him, he gave me a salute. “Sir,” he muttered as he steadied himself to sit up. Ben was the youngest member in my platoon, only 21 years old. He was amongst the first officers to be drafted by the Selective Service Act of 1917 authorized by the United States Federal Government. Ben was the marksman of the group despite the short time he trained in combat. He was among the top five sharpshooters to pass out of training school. Ben has saved the team countless times thanks to his unmatched skill in shooting. Just the day before setting camp in the forest, we were ambushed by a group of German soldiers. As a war tactic, the enemy always seeks to terminate the leader of a group to destabilize the team. As such, this day, as I was tackling an opponent to the ground, I had rifle fire go off just a few meters on my right. I turned to see a German soldier fall in a thud behind me with his musket pointed towards me. In a distance of over 700 yards away, Ben stood holding his M1 semi-automatic carbine, which I could not believe could shoot such a range. If you met Ben in without his army uniform, you would not think he was the best marksman company. He was the shy type that cannot maintain eye contact for long without looking away; he also had this habit of nibbling on his fingernails. Our company major, Brick Todd would always tease him by asking him who was the best sharpshooter on this side of the war, Ben would in a shy voice reply “Me, sir” while looking away.  Major Brick would then shout at the top of his lungs, “What was that? I could not hear your little girl’s voice. Can you speak up, Sergeant?”  Then Ben would answer a little louder, “Me, Sir!” The company then would burst out laughing. Give Ben his Winchester A5 scope rifle, then the man in him would come out, you would see him transform from the low-tone talking guy to a soldier that could shoot enemies over 1000 yards and take out two or more people in a single shoot.

We all step outside our tent and the officers in charge of transports start folding up the tents, by now, most of the company teams are up and preparing for departure at 0500 hours. The group assembles in a circle as we take hot coffee from the metallic cups as Captain Rudolf takes us through the mission briefing for the last time. After that, we regroup to or different troops as it is a tradition in our troop, second lieutenant Fred Caprice leads us in a word of prayer as we hold each other’s arms after the prayer is done, we cross-check our equipment especially the radio and rifles. Everyone has to check they have extra ammunition and that the gear is intact when this is confirmed private Sean throws soil into the area they had lit the fire. Then in a single line uniform, we head out of the camp, I am leading the way and behind me is Sergeant Fred Smith, who gently taps my shoulder to show he has my back.

References

Ferrell, R. H. (1985). Woodrow Wilson and World War I, 1917-1921. New York: Harper & Row.