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HISTORY AND 
 RHYMES OF THE 
 LOST BATTALION; 
 
 The Author 
 'Buck Pnvcue'' ^icCdlum 
 
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 HISTORY AND 
 RHYMES OF THE 
 LOST BATTALION 
 
 ^%i«j!*s^^; 
 
U. 6. Ol-I i^lAL PHOTO 
 
 LIEUT.-C<^T,. CHARLES W. WHITTLESEY 
 Coir ^^^-of the "Lost Battalion" 
 
HISTORY AND 
 RHYMES OF THE 
 LOST BATTALION 
 
 DucU Private McCoUum 
 
 SketcliGS bij 
 
 Frankin Sltj 
 
 <I>RICE FIFTY CENTS 
 
U. S. Official Photograph of the "Lost Battalion", taken in France shortly after 
 the men were relieved, and near the famous "pocket" the men were trapped in. 
 
13 
 
 
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 Copyright, 19M 
 
 ty 
 L. C. McCOLLUM 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Two Hundredth Thousandth 
 
 AUG 19 72 
 
 ~,I,A677898 
 
A Tribute 
 
 Written Expressly for This Publication by Col. €. W. 
 Whittlesey, Commander of '*The Lost Battalion" 
 
 As one of the members of a regiment that fought in France, the 
 memories that are most vivid with me, now that two years have 
 gone since the war has ended, are the memories of the nights and 
 days when the simple unknown soldiers of the regiment showed 
 their fineness under trial. In a forest in northeastern France in a 
 cold and damp October, without rations, without surgical atten- 
 tion, cut off, as they supposed, from the notice of their fellow men, 
 they gave to the day's hardships and duties a courage and plain 
 human kindliness that will always make one proud of the record 
 of the American soldier. Such achievements are not attributable 
 to any officer or group of officers or leaders. They arise from 
 brave men working unselfishly together with faith in the cause 
 which they serve. When an individual shows courage under 
 stress, we feel a thrill at his achievement, but when a group of 
 men flash out in the splendor of manliness we feel a lasting glow 
 that is both pride and renewed faith in our fellow men. And as 
 a member of such a regiment, for which I feel deep affection, I 
 feel a bond of understanding and fellowship for the American 
 eoldier in every place and time, doing his job simply and finely, 
 asking neither sympathy nor praise. May the armistice be last- 
 ing, and these great qualities find their true place in Peace. 
 
 November 11, 1920. 
 
 ^'da^ 
 
Memorial Address 
 
 By COL. N. K. AVERILL 
 of the 308th Regiment 
 
 at Services of Lieut. Col. Charles W. Whittlesey 
 
 We of the 308th have come to pay a last tribute to the meraory 
 of our loved comrade and friend Charles Whittlesey. 
 
 I speak for the heart of the regiment when I say that we all 
 are mindful of his outstanding character — mindful first of that 
 attribute given to few men — the absolute lack of fear, seen and 
 known by many of us before that day when he sprang into world- 
 wide fame. Ordered to advance thru the densest part of the 
 thicket of the great forest of the Argonne to take a certain fixed 
 objective and hold it, he succeeded, and alone with his battalion 
 reached the designated point far in advance of the troops on his 
 right or left. The enemy soon surrounded his position, and then 
 began those numerous attacks lasting four days and nights, over 
 one hundred hours passed without food of any kind and with but 
 little water. With the majority of his command killed or wounded, 
 surrounded by the dead and dying, with no succor or help for the 
 wounded and yet when the call for the surrender came, how 
 instantly he refused it, and took in at once the only bit of white 
 showing — the white of the ground panel for signalling to the Air 
 Service; thus saying "They shall not pass" and no Hun passed 
 save from the Here to the Hereafter. No man as a soldier can 
 stand higher in the history of the republic and no man is more 
 entitled to the nation's gratitude. 
 
 Mindful too of the wonderful mind, we were more impressed 
 by that stern and strict conscience, the inheritance of those Puritan 
 ancestors, a conscience always sure of the right and from which 
 line of action no power could ever make him change. Coupled 
 with all this was the highest sense of duty I have ever seen. 
 
 Mindful too of that other side of his character, the gentle and 
 sympathetic nature which was so marked on all occasions, causing 
 him to be known as "Brother Charles", I know that I speak for 
 all of us when I say that it has been given to none to ever meet 
 a man who more closely approached that knightly Bayard of old 
 in that he was without fear and without reproach. 
 
 While at first we were stunned and could hardly credit the 
 news, yet the more I think his case over the more firmly I am 
 
convinced that his death was in reality a battle casualty and that 
 he met his end as much in the line of duty as if he had fallen 
 by a German bullet on the Vesle or in the Argonne. The scars 
 of conflict or the wounds of battle are not always of the flesh. 
 We, of the Regular Army have seen too often the results of mental 
 strain, even in the older soldiers. 
 
 Let us briefly review his war service. Answering at once his 
 country's call and coming from his quiet, scholastic life of a city 
 lawyer, he was thrown almost immediately into the fiercest fight- 
 ing the World has ever known. How heroically he arose to the 
 emergency suddenly thrust upon him history will always tell, but 
 what a mental strain it must have been on that shy, retiring, 
 kindly and lovable man when he could do nothing to relieve the 
 sufi"ering or the agony of those gallant men dying beside him — 
 and this after all had reached the last stages of physical exhaus- 
 tion due to a hundred-hours constant fighting and hunger; with 
 this were the unspeakable conditions and the horrors of the battle 
 field where it had been impossible to bury the dead, and the sole 
 responsibility rested on him. Whittlesey had that rare and moral 
 courage which makes men great, and in that emergency he held 
 on, to the everlasting credit of the American Army. 
 
 This occurred a little over three years ago, but he has never 
 been away from those scenes from that day on. Coming back to 
 this country, he found himself a popular hero much against his 
 wishes and inclination. Constantly called upon for aid and advice 
 by the mothers and widows of the dead and missing, he gave 
 everything he had, everything that was in him — not ordy to them 
 but to all the men of the regiment, wounded and in trouble — ^who 
 found in him a ready friend, counselor and aid. 
 
 His last answer to the call of duty was on November 11th, 1921, 
 when, with the other Medal of Honor Men of the regiment, McCur- 
 try. Miles and Kaufman, he attended the final ceremonies at Ar- 
 lington for the Unknown Soldier. I think we all can see him standing 
 there with these memories of the suffering and pain of war surging 
 through his mind. We know how he suffered until at last that 
 great heart broke, but the memory of Charles Whittlesey will 
 always be an inspiration to the officers and men who served with 
 him in France. 
 
 I can only add, speaking for the regiment, that from the heart 
 of each of us goes up the prayer that the God, who in His 
 Infinite Wisdom saw fit to take from our midst Charles Whittlesey, 
 may give to his soul that peace and quiet for which he so longed. 
 
'orewon 
 
 ll; 
 
 I've never had a fling at this thing, 
 
 That they call writin' an' such, 
 And haven't the art a genius owns. 
 
 To put over the masterly touch. 
 
 I can only tell in a Doughboy's way. 
 
 Things that we all lived thru, 
 And if perchance you were "Up There," 
 
 You'll know that they are true. 
 
 No artist, whether good or bad. 
 
 Can paint the sunset's glow, 
 Nor can any man who ever came back. 
 
 Describe that war and its woe. 
 
 So I'll lay no claim to the master's touch, 
 In the thots I've expressed herein, 
 
 But v/hen you've finished reading them. 
 You'll know what it cost to win. 
 
 You'll know hov/ a Doughboy feels when 
 he fights, 
 
 And also the joys of his play. 
 So may you accept them just as they are, 
 
 In a Doughboy's own crude way. 
 
Index 
 
 A Tribute 
 
 Page 
 3 
 
 Memorial Address 
 
 Foreword 
 
 . 4-5 
 
 7 
 
 Up There 
 
 . 11 
 
 Bully Beef 
 
 . 12 
 
 Killed in Action 
 
 Rain! Rain! Rain! 
 
 Gassed 
 
 . 13 
 14-15 
 . 16 
 
 Oh Boy! 
 
 . 17 
 
 Medal 
 
 Visions 
 
 18-19 
 20-21 
 
 The Pirate Gun 
 
 The Buck 
 
 Those Who Wait 
 
 My Pals 
 
 History of the Lost Battalion . 
 How THE Lost Battalion was Lost . 
 The Fight of the Lost Battalion . 
 Mother 
 
 22 
 23 
 24-25 
 26-27 
 28-33 
 34-45 
 46-52 
 . 53 
 
 The Flare 
 
 The Debt 
 
 54-56 
 
 . 57 
 
 Treasures 
 
 Old Detail Army 
 
 Cooties 
 
 58-61 
 . 62 
 . 63 
 
 The Bandolier 
 
 Thots! 
 
 Our Chaplain 
 
 64-65 
 66-67 
 . 68 
 
 Buddies 
 
 . 69 
 
 That Hike 
 
 We Are Coming Back 
 
 Homeward Bound 
 
 Let's Go' 
 
 70-72 
 . 73 
 
 . 74 
 . 75 
 
 The Price 
 
 . 76 
 
 The Returns 
 
 . 77 
 
 Phantoms 
 
 . 78 1 
 
 
Up TK 
 
 ere 
 
 Perhaps those two short words, 
 Don't sound like much to you; 
 
 But they are the entire volume 
 Of what we have heen thru. 
 
 '*Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'^ 
 
 They tell of Chateau-Thierry and the Vesle, 
 And many a brave and daring tale 
 
 Of the Argonne, that terrible hell; 
 
 Where so many of our brave comrades fell. 
 
 They fell for a cause that was just and true, 
 To them an undying tribute is due, 
 
 May God rest their souls is our silent prayer. 
 For those who gave their all — "Up There." 
 
 This volume is dedicated to the memory of 
 'My Buddies" who gave their all "Up There" ^t^ 
 
 
 11 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy** 
 
 Bully Beef 
 
 I love my Canned Bill, I never knew, 
 How good that stuff could taste in stew, 
 I love it hot, I love it cold, 
 Corn Willie never will grow old. 
 
 If you walk into the kitchen, 
 When thru your morning's drill, 
 You could bet your old "Tin Derby," 
 There you'd meet your friend "Corn Bill." 
 
 It's the thing that licked the Kaiser, 
 In that land across the sea. 
 And it drove away our troubles, 
 As we fought for Liberty. 
 
 They called it iron-rations. 
 And we packed the stuff for miles, 
 It was always worth the effort, 
 As it filled our face with smiles. 
 
 He fought thru all the battles. 
 
 The same as you and me, 
 
 And I don't see what ever keeps them. 
 
 From giving Bill a D. S. C. 
 
Killed in Action 
 
 "Killed in action," so they say. 
 Poor little fellow had lost his way. 
 In Argonne Woods and up on the Vesle, 
 He dug like fury and crawled like a snail. 
 
 My Lillet was small, but he didn't care, 
 He'd dig himself in, and stay right there, 
 Yet he'd make things snappy while "diggin' in," 
 For he was plumb full of hell and fought to win. 
 
 Tho small of stature, he was full of fight, 
 And went "Over the Top" most every night. 
 Now all the boys knew him, up on the line. 
 As he kept them company all the time. 
 
 He "fell in action," game to the last, 
 
 As thru our delouser the "wee fellow" passed, 
 
 "Good-bye little cootie," we must leave you in 
 
 France, 
 We "killed you in action" — and were glad of the 
 
 chance. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy'* 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 Rain! Rain! Rain! 
 
 Ever since I landed here, 
 Things have looked so dull and drear. 
 Wonder when I'll smile again, 
 Wonder why there's so much rain? 
 
 My face and hands are badly peeled, 
 Practicing "As Skirmishers" in sodden fieldsj 
 Body aches from chills and pains, 
 An' still it rains, and rains, and rains. 
 
 Tomorrow we'll be on our way. 
 To "The Front" I hear them say. 
 Tonight we load upon the trains, 
 Wonder why it rains and rains? 
 
 The guy who wrote 'bout Sunny France, 
 Must have heen in an awful trance, 
 Wish the ol' sun would come peepin' thru. 
 Perhaps things wouldn't look so blue. 
 
 Clouds a skootin' overhead, 
 I've hiked in the rain 'till I'm almost dead; 
 Damn — but I'm wet clear thru to the skin, 
 Wonder when we're "Goin' In"? 
 
Earth seems to be in a quivering fright, 
 Wonder how it'd seem to be home tonight? 
 Never thot Fd be "Over Here," 
 Gee, but this rain makes a fellow feel queer. 
 
 Been in the lines near thirty days. 
 Know I'm changed in lots of ways; 
 Now I knov7 why I had that trainin' 
 Wonder if it's ever gonna stop rainin'? 
 
 Got relieved from the lines last night, 
 Gee, but this beard of mine's a fright, 
 Must 'ave hiked a thousand kilos or more. 
 Damn this rain it's makin' me sore. 
 
 Been in the lines since early September, 
 An' here it is 'way up in November, 
 But now we got 'em on the run. 
 Wonder if this rain is rainin' for fun? 
 
 Boys ain't talkin' much today. 
 What they're thinkin' no one can say; 
 We just got the news that the war is done. 
 Must be right 'cause there's the sun. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'* 
 
'*Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 Gassed 
 
 I've gone all day in a sort of a daze, j 
 
 An' felt the horror of death, 
 I don't mind the fight 'cause I know I'm right, 
 
 But I'm worried about my breath. 
 
 It feels like a ball of red-hot fire, 
 Tmned loose from hell's own door. 
 
 An' there seems to be no ease for me. 
 It's hurting me more and more. 
 
 I can feel myself go crumbling, 
 
 And fall in a sudden heap, 
 Then slowly the truth dawns on me, 
 
 I v/as gassed last night in my sleep. 
 
 The doctor says I'll pull thru all right, 
 And am good for a few more years. 
 
 But I'm thinking of my dear old mother. 
 And I just can't keep back the tears. 
 
 I've paid the debt that manhood brings, 
 
 To make an ideal stand true. 
 And if, perhaps, I've forgot how to smile. 
 
 Remember, it was all for you. 
 
Oh, Boy! 
 
 Dressed again in your civies, 
 And strolling down the street. 
 
 Some day a former officer, 
 You will surely meet. 
 
 You will snap up to attention. 
 
 As you've always done before. 
 Only to find upon inspection 
 
 It's the officer you abhor. 
 
 Then your thots will quickly wander^ 
 'Way back to "Rainy France," 
 
 And you'll get the inspiration, 
 That at last here is your chance. 
 
 So you'll bring your hand up smartly, 
 'Till it's somewhere near your nose, 
 
 And your face lights up with a smile of joy. 
 As you say to yourself, "Here Goes!" — 
 Oh, Boy! 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'* 
 
''Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy** 
 
 nixe Medal 
 
 It is not a bit of bronze and metal. 
 That tells the time-worn tale. 
 
 Of some act of heroism, 
 
 Where the bullets whine and wail. 
 
 Nor is the colored ribbon. 
 
 Pinned on some strutting chest, 
 
 A truthful indicator, 
 
 Of the man who fought the best. 
 
 Nor do gold stripes upon the arm, 
 
 Always tell the story. 
 Of men who have seen action. 
 
 Or fought their way to glory. 
 
 Those are outward indications. 
 
 Made by the hand of man, 
 The way they're sometimes passed about. 
 
 Is quite hard to understand. 
 
 18 
 
They'll tarnisli with the weather, 
 
 In the plush or on the shelf, 
 For the real and lasting medal, 
 
 Is the soul within yourself. 
 
 If you did your best when called upon, 
 
 In the air or gutted shell-hole, 
 You've got some real satisfaction, 
 
 Buried deep within your soul. 
 
 No bit of bronze or ribbon bright, 
 Or words of praise high spoken, ' 
 
 Can change the thots that lie within, 
 As they are the real true token. 
 
 They'll tell the tale as long as you live. 
 And the truth of how you fought, 
 
 If you played the game like a man, my friend 
 You've the medal, that can't be bought. 
 
 **Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'* 
 
"Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy** 
 
 Visi 
 
 iSions 
 
 In early morn when day is born, 
 
 Night shadows start to fade, 
 I gaze upon a land shell-torn, 
 
 That war alone has made. 
 And as the inist begins to lift, 
 
 Dim lines of a home I see. 
 And by the fates' sardonic twist. 
 
 There comes a vision to me. 
 
 Instead of walls which barely stand, 
 
 Against skylines so drear. 
 Quaint cozy rooms I see instead, 
 
 And all that they hold dear. 
 As plainly tho 'tis painted there, 
 
 A happy family I see, 
 Gathered 'round the glowing fireside. 
 
 And a child's on a fond father's knee. 
 
 He's telling oft told tales of old. 
 
 Their childish love to endear, 
 'Tis some wondrous fairyland picture he paints. 
 
 With a master's stroke that is clear. 
 
 ^ 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 Then comes tlie end of this simple tale, 
 'Tis awarded with cries of delight, 
 
 Lovelight glows in their trusting eyes; 
 As in turn they kiss him good night. 
 
 Off to bed they go a-romping, 
 
 Then climb up some queer turning stairs, 
 By a crude old-fashioned home-made bed, 
 
 They kneel to say their prayers. 
 "Bless mama, and papa, and give 
 
 Peace on Earth, good will to men." 
 Then as the mother tucks them in. 
 
 One shyly whispers, "Amen." 
 
 But now the vision is fading, 
 
 And again by the will of fate, 
 From behind barren walls comes a war-dog, 
 
 And all thots of love go to hate. 
 From my right comes the pop of a "Browning," 
 
 Which makes my blood run chill; 
 My Vision's gone — I stand alone, 
 
 My business here is to kill. 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'* 
 
 OTKe Pirate Gun 
 
 Listen to the tale of the Pirate Gun, 
 That kept on firing when the war was done; 
 'Twas up near Stonney, back of Raucort, 
 Where battles were long and rations short. 
 
 'Twas Armistice night, and we'd hunted all day. 
 For a place to sleep in the "Frogs" dry hay. 
 When a Pirate Gun's shell screeched over the hill. 
 We hurriedly scattered and "dug in" with a will. 
 
 Through the cold wet night, 'neath a mud cressed 
 
 knoll, 
 We shivered and shook as we lay in our hole. 
 The Captain looked worried, things didn't seem 
 
 right, 
 And he cussed with the rest as we waited all night. 
 
 He was mad as a hornet when we started the hunt. 
 For the crazy gun that had pulled that stunt; 
 And after we'd hunted all day in vain. 
 Everyone was cussing that gun and the rain. 
 
 When "Bang!" came a shot from right under our 
 
 nose. 
 And there lay the "Pirate Gun" fully exposed. 
 With cries of rage we closed in on the Hun, 
 And that was the end of the "Pirate Gun." 
 
nixe Buck 
 
 I'm a lucky son-of-a-gun, 
 
 I'm the guy that had the fun, 
 
 My clothes were never spick and span, 
 
 I was just "Plain Buck"— -"The Fightin' Man." 
 
 I should worry if my feet were bare. 
 Or cooties made their nests in my hair. 
 Or the Captain cussed me every day, 
 I went right along in my own plain way, 
 
 I fought the battle of "Ole' Vin Roo"— 
 And was in on the drive on "Army Stew," 
 No hampered looeys ever broke my heart, 
 I just stalled along and did my part. 
 
 Whenever the boys felt homesick and blue. 
 They'd call on me for a story or two, 
 I made them laugh with my song and dance, 
 And helped put some sunshine in "Rainy Ole' 
 France." 
 
 *'Rhyme$ 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'* 
 
 a 
 
 c^ 
 
 I never craved for rank or fame, 
 I always took things just as they came. 
 And I earned a title that will always stick; 
 "Plain Ole' Buck,"--"Cham-pion Gold Brick." 
 
*'Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'* 
 
 OKose Who Wait 
 
 Who knows the thots of mothers who wait. 
 Whether in grandeur, or lowly state. 
 Who knows the sacrifice of those who give 
 Their all, their sons, that we might live? 
 
 The days are long as I sit here and knit. 
 Fashioning these socks for him — ^bit by bit; 
 My thots are ever one constant prayer. 
 For my boy, my all, v/ho's "Over There." 
 
 The long endless nights bring no rest, 
 My baby again nestles close to my breast, 
 The sense of his touch brings sweet poignant joy, 
 *'May God watch o'er him, my own — my boy." 
 
 He was only a lad, but then he would go, 
 I'm heartsick, dear Lord, but proud of him tho, 
 Our country needed him, he heard the call, 
 Light's gone from life, for he is my all. 
 
 ■1 / ' < 'kli t 
 
 24 
 
Watching the mail bos here by the gate. 
 For I know not what, I wait— and wait — 
 When the postman stops, my heart stands still, 
 My body's a-sweat with a fevered chill. 
 
 "Our boys have gained and advanced to the 
 
 Meuse, 
 And will advance beyond," so reads the news; 
 In glowing terms they praise our men, 
 But I'm gripped in the throes of that fear again. 
 
 i wait 'till the last, before I look at the list, 
 The words go blur, as my eyes grow mist, 
 I'm stifling and choked with that nameless dread. 
 Of seeing his name among the dead. 
 
 Who knows the thots of mothers who wait. 
 Whether in grandeur, or lowly state. 
 Who knows the sacrifice of those who give 
 Their all, their sons, that we might live? 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 
 #^>-^^----^[.. 
 
 !^' «# 
 
 25 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 My Pali 
 
 Of three Pals of mine I would tell, 
 And how they helped me live thru hell. 
 First, there's "Billy," my old gas mask. 
 And for a better Pal you could never ask. 
 
 The first time I used him (well, I remember), 
 Was up in the "Argonne," late in September; 
 Gas alarm had sounded, it brought a cold chill, 
 But with "Billy" on, it changed to a thrill. 
 
 I pictured myself laying there dead. 
 But grabbed and put on old "Billy" instead, 
 Three hours we lived thru that hellish gas. 
 Since then he's my pal, first and last. 
 
 Now, next comes "Jim," my old "diggin' in" 
 
 tool, 
 And he was more than a pal, except to a fool. 
 He'd helped me "dig in" both night and day. 
 And made me war wise in his own quiet way. 
 
 We dug thru rock and sometimes ground, 
 Then slept the sleep of a dog-tired hound. 
 And thru any battle of raging hell. 
 He was my Pal, and served me well. 
 
 ^s^^r^^^^sis 
 
 ^ 
 
 
Last, but not least, comes "Jack," that boy, 
 Who was my one comfort and eternal joy. 
 Only a "tin derby" he's often been called, 
 But never yet has old Jack stalled. 
 
 I've used him as a writing pad, 
 
 And as a seat he's not half bad; 
 
 Used him to pound those queer tent poles. 
 
 And for protection in many shell holes. 
 
 Battered and scarred, shelltorn and marred. 
 Beyond all recognition was he. 
 For turning the "Boches" shrapnel, 
 Had been his real specialty. 
 
 He nestled close to my kinky head. 
 
 And kept me from numbering amongst the dead. 
 
 That's "Jack's" story, and I'll own. 
 
 He was more to me than some king's throne. 
 
 So, if perhaps they seem a bit proud. 
 Remember they are one of my fighting crowd. 
 And now they're taking a well earned rest, 
 In the corner of the room that I love best. 
 
 **Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy" 
 
 A^ 
 
 ^. 
 
 27 
 
 '_v"_~~jr 
 
 
 
 s^^^ 
 ■^^^^c:^ 
 
 Im^ 
 
 
 <t5 
 
 
"Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy** 
 
 History of 4ie Lost Battalion 
 
 -^m^ HE "LOST BATTALION" consisted of 
 
 £ ^j Companies A, B, C, and a part of D 
 " Company of the 1st Battalion; Com- 
 panies E, F, G, and H of the 2nd Battalion, and 
 a few men of I Company of the 308th Regi- 
 ment; also some men from the 306th Machine 
 Gun and the 307th Infantry, all of the 77th 
 Division. The majority of this famous unit 
 consisted of two battalions instead of one as is 
 generally believed. 
 
 Originally the 77th Division was made up of 
 New York men, almost entirely from the East 
 Side or the "Melting Pot" of New York. This 
 Division was popularly known as "New York's 
 Own," and was organized at Camp Upton, Yap- 
 hank, L. I., during the early part of September, 
 1917. 
 
 Before taking over their sector of the Meuse- 
 Argonne offensive, the division was strengthened 
 by replacements from the 40th Division, which 
 was composed of men from all parts of the 
 West, and they were originally stationed at 
 Camp Kearney, California. 
 
The 1st Battalion was led by Major Charles 
 W. Whittlesey, and the 2nd Battalion by Cap- 
 tain George G. McMurtry, with Major Whittle- 
 sey in command. Both men were gallant leaders 
 and men that we would follow anywhere. Dur- 
 ing those trying days the thoughtfulness, cour- 
 age and leadership displayed by those two men 
 was something wonderful to see. It instilled 
 into the hearts of their men that undying faith 
 of purpose, the courage to go ahead against 
 overwhelming odds, and carried them through 
 six indescribable days and nights of suffering 
 after being completely cut off from their com- 
 rades with practically no food or water, and 
 were subsisting on the roots and leaves of trees, 
 at all times under the stress of heavy enemy fire, 
 and fighting off counter-attack after counter- 
 attack, with no relief in sight. 
 
 The members of this unit were never at any 
 time "Lost," as the name would seem to imply, 
 but they were "cut off" and placed in two sepa- 
 rate and distinct "traps" (officially referred to 
 as first and second "pockets") within a course 
 of ten days' time. 
 
 ** Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
^Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 The Argonne Forest was considered impreg- 
 nable and the Germans felt secure in their pos- 
 session of this strategic position. 
 
 During the four years of their possession they 
 had built concrete trenches, theaters, mammoth 
 dugouts and equipped them as well as our 
 "Twentieth Century" homes, including electric 
 lighting systems and in some cases even porce- 
 lain bath tubs and beautiful pianos. That they 
 never anticipated this stronghold ever being 
 taken from them is mutely proven to this day 
 by the wonder work that some of their sculptures 
 carved in great rocks which to this day stand 
 silent guard over German graves. 
 
 During those four years the Allied Armies 
 had failed to make a dent in this position, as it 
 was a natural stronghold and so dense with un- 
 derbrush that paths had to be cut through it 
 before travel was possible. The Germans or 
 their prisoners had cut mile upon mile of trails 
 through these woods, and had laid their larger 
 roads with young saplings in order to withstand 
 
the travel of their heavier vehicles and dogs 
 of war. These positions were fully covered by 
 machine guns from protected and well camou- 
 flaged points, some even in trees on tops of 
 hills, giving them a full sweep as far as they 
 could see. These trails were alive with machine 
 gun and sniper's fire and even after you had 
 taken an objective you would receive their fire 
 from all sides as well as back of you from 
 their concealed "nests." This natural strong- 
 hold was strengthened tenfold by their wonder- 
 ful line of trenches, and their mammoth dug- 
 outs that extended so far into the bowels of the 
 earth that even aerial bombardment could not 
 affect them. 
 
 The Germans had taken advantage of this 
 already natural stronghold by interlacing its 
 ravines, mountains and wooded slopes with 
 barbed wire entanglements and small trip-wires 
 in such a manner that every inch of that ground 
 was a hell-trap of its own. Every art known to 
 these past masters of "The Art of War" were 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
''Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 brought into play to make this one point in- 
 vulnerable. 
 
 The first "trap" in which we were caught came 
 about as the result of the 92nd Division (a negro 
 unit) retiring a distance of from two to three 
 kilometers after encountering stiff resistance 
 from the Germans on September 28th. This 
 left a large gap on our left flank, which they 
 had formerly occupied, and the Germans imme- 
 diately took advantage of this and closed in on 
 us, cutting U3 off before we realized that the 
 92nd had fallen back. 
 
 We were in that "trap" September 28th, 29th 
 and 30th, and were reunited with the rest of the 
 division on October 1st. On the night of Octo- 
 ber 2nd the battalion was again caught in an- 
 other "trap," which lasted for a period of six 
 days and nights. It is needless to say that the 
 men suffered greatly during these periods. 
 
 During the day of October 2nd, Company A 
 (of which I v/as a member) v/as badly cut up 
 
while taking a small hill, and during the attack 
 we lost 90 men in less than 30 minutes' fighting. 
 About 40 members of the company, including 
 myself, were sent back by Major Whittlesey to 
 establish posts of communication and to act as 
 stretcher bearers, as men v^ere being wounded 
 faster than they could be handled. Eighteen of 
 the company remained with the Major and were 
 caught in the second trap. 
 
 We fought desperately during those six days, 
 going "Over the Top" as often as three times 
 in one day. That you may have some idea of 
 the cost of the ground taken in those Argonne 
 Woods, can give you the facts of my own com- 
 pany of which I have an intimate knowledge. 
 We went "Over the Top" on the morning of 
 September 26th with 250 men, and on the night 
 of October 15th there v/ere only 44 of us fol- 
 lowing Major Whittlesey out of the front lines to 
 the second lines of support near Grand Pre. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy** 
 
 The following article is reprinted here by- 
 courtesy of The American Legion Weekly 
 and William E. Moore 
 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 How the Lost Battalion 
 Was Lost 
 
 The True Story of an Heroic Incident of the 
 World War in the Light of a Tragedy of Peace 
 
 By WILLIAM E. MOORE 
 
 Formerly Captain, S. C, Historical Branch, G. H. Q., A. E. F. 
 
 A LEADING New York newspaper that should 
 /A have known better, since a score of its pre- 
 war staff were officers in the 77th Division, 
 suggested the other day that Lieutenant Colonel 
 Whittlesey might have been driven to suicide 
 through a feeling of guilt for having led the 
 "Lost Battalion" into a trap in the Argonne ra- 
 vine since famous as "The Pocket." But since 
 all America is so fully misinformed not only 
 concerning Whittlesey, but as regards most 
 everything else that took place in the A. E. F., 
 
it would be unjust to single out one newspaper 
 for criticism. 
 
 Every overseas veteran knows that the folks 
 back home are crammed full of bunk about 
 things that happened in France. When we first 
 came back some of us tried to correct these er- 
 rors when first we heard them repeated, but it 
 didn't take long for us to realize that our fellow 
 citizens resented having the myths exploded. 
 They wanted to believe the foolish and improb- 
 able things they did believe. 
 
 So today probably a hundred million people 
 believe that the Lost Battalion was lost and that 
 when summoned by a German officer to surrender 
 the gentle, but heroic, WTiittlesey replied: "Go 
 to Hell." It may be that Cambronne uttered the 
 words at Waterloo that Hugo says he did. Per- 
 haps Farragut cried "Damn the torpedoes" at 
 Mobile, but we have Whittlesey's own word that 
 he never said "Go to Hell" in the Argonne. 
 
 'Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 What he actually did was so much finer, and 
 in character with the man, that it should not be 
 lost to the world in the musty files of the War 
 Department. 
 
 To understand what brought about the so- 
 called Lost Battalion's advance, and its resultant 
 pocketing by the Germans, one must realize that 
 after seven days' continuous fighting in the 
 Argonne the 77th Division on October 2, 1918, 
 found its advance checked before the heavily-en- 
 trenched German positions. The success of the 
 American operations depended upon breaking 
 through the enemy line. 
 
 In the face of this impasse the then Major 
 Whittlesey, commanding the First Battalion of 
 the 308th Infantry, received from his command- 
 ing officer. Colonel Stacey, an order to attack 
 which contained this sentence: "The general 
 says you are to advance behind the barrage re- 
 gardless of losses." How strictly the heroic 
 
major complied with his orders is testified to in 
 the undramatic language of his official Opera- 
 tions Report v/ritten October 9th, the day follow- 
 ing his relief. He writes: "The advance was 
 continued to the objective stated, which was 
 reached at 6 p. m. with about 90 casualties from 
 M. G. fire. Two German officers, 28 prisoners 
 and 3 machine guns were captured. His trench 
 system was crossed, one heavily wired." 
 
 Here then we have Whittlesey and his com- 
 posite battalion on their objective — ^the Pocket 
 — under competent and mandatory orders. This 
 answers the question raised by the New York 
 neivspaper quoted above as to whether the law- 
 yer-soldier might not have been driven to suicide 
 through a feeling of guilt for having led his men 
 into a trap. He led them there because he was 
 ordered to, and his later troubles resulted from 
 the inability of units on his right and left to 
 make advances equal to his. He and his com- 
 
 " Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy" 
 
 r^^^s^^^^^^ 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 mand, therefore, were left "up in the air." 
 
 Having reached his objective there were two 
 good reasons why he could not have retired to 
 safer ground even had he wished to. In the first 
 place he had received orders to hold his position 
 until the other elements came abreast of him. 
 But they were unable to do so. In that situation 
 the Germans filtered through on either flank, 
 got in his rear, and strung wires across the path 
 through the ravine, thus linking up the tv/o sec- 
 tions of the German trench system, and placing 
 a closed German line behind Whittlesey. 
 
 It is of interest to know that the officer com- 
 manding the Germans in Whittlesey's rear was 
 from the United States. He was Lieut. Heinrich 
 Prinz, 76th Infantry Reserve Division, and he 
 had lived for six years in Seattle, Wash., prior 
 to the World War. While the Americans clung 
 to their hillside for five days, under constant 
 fire from rifles, machine guns, artillery, mortars 
 
and hand grenades, several false orders were 
 found to be passing down the American lines. 
 On one occasion at least some one was heard to 
 cry out in English, with a German accent: "Gaz 
 masks." It may well be that the former citizen 
 of Seattle was the one who was giving these 
 orders. 
 
 Lieutenant Prinz was the man who wrote the 
 note to Major Whittlesey demanding his sur- 
 render on the ground of humanity, in order to 
 save further casualties to the surrounded Ameri- 
 can forces. 
 
 There had been casualties, serious ones. Give 
 note to this significant sentence from the Opera- 
 tions Report of Captain Barclay McFadden, 
 Company A, 308th Infantry: "On the 8th of 
 October the Pocket was relieved and all that re- 
 mained of A Company which could walk back 
 were three men." 
 
 A great many word pictures, at the time and 
 
 ''Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 since, have been painted of tlie Gethsemane 
 through which the heroic battalion was passing 
 during those five days. Most of them were fanci- 
 ful, based on stories told by self-nominated 
 heroes or by artists in w^ords who were not there. 
 In this connection it is interesting to read what 
 the chief actor in the drama was writing him- 
 self, and sending back to headquarters by his 
 carrier pigeons, the only line of communication 
 left open. 
 
 Pigeon No. 1 — "We are being shelled by 
 German artillery. Can we not have artillery 
 support?" 
 
 Pigeon No. 2 — "Our posts are broken, one 
 runner captured. Germans in small numbers in 
 our left rear. Have located German mortar and 
 sent platoon to get it. E Company met heavy 
 resistance — at least 20 casualties." 
 
 Pigeon No. 3 — "Germans are on cliff north of 
 us and have had to evacuate both flanks. Situa- 
 
tion on left flank very serious. Broke through 
 two of our runner posts today. Casualties yes- 
 terday 8 killed, 80 wounded. In the same com- 
 panies today 1 killed, 60 wounded. Present 
 effective strength of companies here 245." 
 C\^^iittles8y v/ent in with 679 effectives.) 
 
 And so the story ran until his last pigeon was 
 released on October 4th. After that he went 
 militarily dumb. His last message read: "Men 
 are suffering from hunger and exposure and the 
 wounded are in very bad condition. Cannot sup- 
 port be sent at once?" 
 
 Four days were to elapse, however, before the 
 desired relief was able to battle its way to the 
 beleaguered forces lying in their funk holes on 
 the exposed hillside. They were days of hunger 
 as well as danger and death from bullets. The 
 men had gone in with only their iron rations. 
 Efforts w^ere being made by American airplanes 
 to drop packages of food for the men but in each 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 instance the food fell outside the lines. This 
 led indirectly to the written demand for surren- 
 der from Lieut. Heinrich Prinz. But before go- 
 ing into that it should be explained that, in order 
 to mark his position for the American aviators, 
 Major Whittlesey had placed in position the 
 white cloth panels employed in the Army for 
 such a purpose. These later were to play a part 
 in the drama. 
 
 It was tantalizing to the suffering, hungry men 
 to see the precious food meant for them falling 
 outside their position. Nine men, without ask- 
 ing permission, went out into No Man's Land to 
 search for some of the fallen parcels. They paid 
 a heavy penalty. Five were killed, four cap- 
 tured. Among the latter was Private Growell 
 R. Hollingshead. These men fell into the hands 
 of the German forces commanded by Lieutenant 
 Prinz. The latter already knew by observation 
 and reconnaissance what extremities the Ameri- 
 cans were in. With some difficulty he com- 
 
pelled Private Hollingshead, blindfolded, to 
 carry a note to Major Whittlesey demanding 
 surrender. 
 
 The note was couched in polite terms, praised 
 the bravery of the Americans, and wound up 
 with a demand for surrender in the name of 
 humanity. 
 
 We now approach the moment when in the 
 apocryphal histories of the event Whittlesey 
 cried: "Go to Hell." That would have been 
 what our French allies call a beau geste and 
 certainly no American soldier, or civilian, would 
 condemn the major had he indulged in some 
 profanity at the moment. Fortunately, we have 
 the major's own v/ords for what actually oc- 
 curred. Writing in his official Operations Report 
 he says: "At 4 p. m. a private from H Com- 
 pany reported that he had left without permis- 
 sion in the morning with eight others. They en- 
 countered a German outpost. Five of the nine 
 were killed, the rest were captured. This man 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 was given by the Germans a demand for our 
 surrender, a copy of which is hereto attached. 
 He was then blindfolded and returned to our 
 lines. NO REPLY TO THE DEMAND TO 
 SURRENDER SEEMED NECESSARY." 
 
 Undramatic you v/ill say, but then those of 
 you who were in it know the United States Army 
 doesn't go in for drama. But, to continue in the 
 language of the stage, there is restrained acting 
 that our better critics deem superior to the 
 fustian and claptrap which so wins the gallery. 
 That was the school of Whittlesey. In the mes- 
 sage sent to him by the German officer he had 
 been asked to display a white flag if he meant 
 to surrender. Whittlesey's answer to that was 
 an order to take up the white cloth panels that 
 marked his position to his own airplanes. In 
 doing that he cut his last connecting link with 
 the American army, knowing when he did it 
 that this action might delay, and perhaps pre- 
 vent, his rescue. 
 
The Demand for Surrender 
 
 TO the Commanding Officer — Infantry, 77th 
 Division. 
 
 "Sir: — The bearer of this present, Private 
 
 , has been taken prisoner by 
 
 us. He refused to give the German Intelligence 
 Officer any answer to his questions, and is quite 
 an honorable fellow, doing honor to his Father- 
 land in the strictest sense of the word. 
 
 "He has been charged against his will, be- 
 lieving that he is doing wrong to his country 
 to carry forward this present letter to the officer 
 in charge of the battalion of the 77th Division, 
 with the purpose to recommend this commander 
 to surrender with his forces, as it would be quite 
 useless to resist any more, in view of the present 
 conditions. 
 
 "The suffering of your wounded men can be 
 heard over here in the German lines, and we 
 are appealing to your humane sentiments to 
 stop. A white flag shown by one of your men 
 will tell us that you agree with these conditions. 
 
 Please treat Private as 
 
 an honorable man. He is quite a soldier. We 
 envy you. 
 
 The German Commanding Officer." 
 
 ^'Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
**Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 ^.rsXM 
 
 ■ niie FigKt of tKe Lost Battalion 
 
 Back of Florent, in the Argonne Forest, 
 
 Were gathered a handful of men, 
 Waiting the word to "go in" again; 
 
 To come out — ^God alone knew when. 
 
 East met West in those few short hours. 
 
 And were drawn together as one, 
 As brother to brother, and man to man. 
 
 They met to suppress the Hun. 
 
 And each of them were thinking thots, 
 
 That come to but very few men, 
 For on the 'morrow they'd go "Over the Top," 
 
 Some never to come back again. 
 
 The air and trees were full of sounds, 
 
 As we started "in" that night, 
 You could hear the dull thud of feet on tlie 
 ground, 
 
 As we went marching towards the fight. 
 
 To an open space in the road we came. 
 
 And God! what a sight to see; — 
 The skyline was one red flame, 
 
 'Twas our barrage for Democracy. 
 
Sh-h! Hush! Make no noise. 
 As we're "Going In" real soon. 
 
 And you could almost hear the heartbeats, 
 As we crept in platoon by platoon. 
 
 Soon we were in our places, 
 
 And we breathed a silent prayer, 
 
 As we waited, waited and waited — 
 Through an endless night "Up There.' 
 
 At eleven P. M. on that eventful night. 
 Our barrage opened up with a flare; 
 
 The earth it trembled and shook in fright, 
 And death just leaped through the air. 
 
 God! how the minutes dragged, 
 You'd think each one was a day, 
 
 As we lay there waiting in the cold, 
 For "Zero Hour" and break of day. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy" 
 
 -^■^y N 
 
 
 Finally five-thirty, the "Zero Hour" came, 
 And the word passed down the line. 
 
 Go "Over the Top," and "Play the Game," 
 And break their damn "Kremhilde lines.' 
 
**Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 r/t>^ 
 
 
 What did we find when finally "On Top" 
 In that waste called "No Man's Land"? 
 
 An ocean of wire in the mist and the fog, 
 Placed there by the devil's hand. 
 
 Ail day long we pushed them back, 
 
 By night we'd their second line trench, 
 
 Then we "dug in," and waited for him, 
 By morn, with the rain we were drenched. 
 
 The men were gaunt with hunger, 
 For what food we had was gone, 
 
 And there was the "Boche" ahead of us. 
 But we pushed on, and on and on! 
 
 Were you ever out on the battlefields, 
 With the dead just stacked all around. 
 
 The earth in a tremble from fear and fright. 
 Of the blood on its sacred ground? 
 
While comrades you loved as brothers and more, 
 Lay wounded, and moaning in pain. 
 
 In your heart a gnawing emptiness — 
 Was that costly price worth the gain? 
 
 W6ll, for three days we went, till our strength 
 was spent, 
 
 'Midst sights too terrible to tell, 
 By the time we landed in a trap that night, 
 
 I can tell you, we'd all seen hell. 
 
 Exhausted from fighting and dead for sleep. 
 We dug ourselves in for the night; 
 
 And as we lay there 'neath the shell-split air, 
 We felt 'twas the end of our fight. 
 
 At break of dawn the Boche closed in. 
 
 We met him face to face — 
 And many there were who fell that day, 
 
 But night found us still in our place. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy*' 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 For three long days we fought in that trap, 
 In mud clear up to our knees, 
 
 Sleepless, hungry, dying from thirst, 
 'Neath those splintered Argonne trees. 
 
 K^ 
 
 All hopes gone, our hearts in despair, 
 When a whisper came down the line, 
 
 At last the longed-for relief had arrived, 
 God knows it came just in time. 
 
 We went at the food like a pack of wolves, 
 That had starved the whole winter through. 
 
 And between the munching of bites you'd hear 
 Mumbled prayers, and curses, too. 
 
 No one could picture, try as they might, 
 
 The horror and hell of it all. 
 Our company lost ninety men before night, 
 
 It seemed to matter as nothing at ail. 
 
 1 
 
But on and on we carried the fight, 
 And we crushed the best they had, 
 
 We gained our objective, were trapped again, 
 Then we went mad — fighting mad. 
 
 On the side of a cliff two hundred feet high. 
 
 We dug in like so many moles, 
 And death was the penalty that you paid. 
 
 Should you stick your head from those holes. 
 
 Did you ever lay out in the cold all night, 
 When the frost just creeps through the air, 
 
 When death and misery stalks the night, 
 Like a giant bat of despair? 
 
 If you have, perhaps you can sense, 
 
 Of the things I'm trying to tell, 
 And why every man who came out alive. 
 
 Could say that he'd lived through hell. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy** 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy"' 
 
 Fighting all day, holding out by pure grit, 
 And fighting at night by the flare, 
 
 The suffering we bore can never be told, 
 Of those six days and nights spent there. 
 
 Death thinned our ranks, took tenfold her toll. 
 
 Of our buddies, your brothers and sons. 
 But before they went, tho their strength was 
 spent, 
 
 They took their share of Huns. 
 
 Relief came at last as it always does. 
 
 When you're backed by red-blooded men, 
 
 But we were so weak, so many were gone, 
 Nothing mattered at all by then. 
 
 We stumbled out more dead than alive, 
 
 To food, shelter and rest. 
 While tender hands cared for those. 
 
 Who had passed to eternal rest. 
 
 Countless questions you will ask, 
 
 About that terrible war, 
 "Our Company went in two-fifty strong — 
 
 And came out with but forty and four." 
 
Mo^K^ 
 
 er 
 
 At the close of a spring day in Sable, 
 
 I sat in my room alone. 
 The sun was slowly sinking 
 
 And my thots turned back to home. 
 
 Thots of my dear old mother, 
 And how much was hers to bear; 
 
 Then in fancy I could see her 
 In the old familiar chair. 
 
 Always thinking of me, 
 
 And always praying, too; 
 Slowly, the truth pawned on me. 
 
 Of how much she'd been thru. 
 
 Of the long, endless nights of waiting, 
 And those anxious days of pain; 
 
 Wishing, hoping, praying. 
 That I might return again. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy*' 
 
 rrKe Flare! 
 
 You who know electric lights, 
 In cities grand and fair, 
 
 Have never felt the fear of nighty 
 Unless you've seen the Flare! 
 
 You're all secure altho obscure, 
 And will never know the fright, 
 
 That can be brought upon you, 
 By the Flare when it's a-light. 
 
 Your heart is all a- jump 
 
 And your nerves are all a-chill, 
 When you start to go a-raidin', 
 
 On a night that's dark and still. 
 
 You daren't make a whisper, 
 And you daren't make a sound, 
 
 As you go a-sneakin', creep in', 
 O'er the cold wet ground. 
 
Crawling o'er the gutted earth. 
 In "No Man's Land" o'er there, 
 
 The thing you're most a-feared of, 
 Is Jerries' blue-white Flare! 
 
 For when he shoots the star-shells, 
 
 Into the dark drear night, 
 You're a mark for sniper's shooting, 
 
 And you're filled with fear and fright. 
 
 But just you lay stock-still, 
 As tho you're almost dead, 
 
 And he's apt to pass you up, 
 For some limb or tree instead. 
 
 Thesn you'll see him start a-shootin', 
 
 Rockets green and red. 
 They're his artillery signals. 
 
 For his guns which must be fed. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy'* 
 
''Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy** 
 
 You break into a cold wet sweat, 
 As you cut your way thru wire, 
 
 You want to even up a score, 
 And your heart is all a-fire. 
 
 So thru the night that's sometime dim, 
 
 And sometime lit by flare. 
 You crawl and creep as thru an age, 
 
 An' softly swear and swear! 
 
 And just as dawn is breaking. 
 
 In a fever tinted light, 
 You slowly come a-creepin' in, 
 
 With two you got that night. 
 
 You're bewildered and bemuddled, 
 To know that you learned out there, 
 
 That the thing that put fear into you. 
 Was the lieht of a blue-white Flare. 
 
TKe Debt 
 
 My Pals are all around me, 
 
 It seems like a horrible dream, 
 But there goes my "Buddie" damn bad hit, 
 
 And I go mad when I hear his scream. 
 
 My blood boils up in red, red rage. 
 
 And I lose the last of my will; 
 I'm turned to beast and mad man, 
 
 And my cry is to kill — to kill! 
 
 I rage and mutter all the night. 
 
 And wait for the break of day; 
 For my mind is mad with that one thot. 
 
 They must re-pay! — re-pay! 
 * * * * 
 
 You're gone, so why should I lie. 
 
 And say that life's worth while. 
 When gladly I'd join you where you are. 
 
 Just to see once again your smile. 
 
 I'll try my best to square the debt. 
 
 But, Pal, it can never be done. 
 So may you rest in peace o'er here, 
 
 'Neath the new-made cross that you've won. 
 
 ^'Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy* 
 
** Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy" 
 
 \\U\\llUi^-~~**^' 
 
 i reasures 
 
 Treasures in bits of papers, 
 
 Treasures in mines of gold, 
 Treasures in age seared relics, 
 
 And in paintings worn and old. 
 
 Each to his way of thinking, 
 
 Has a treasure in his grasp. 
 Mine came from the heart of a rough-neck, 
 
 And lay in a simple hand-clasp. 
 
 'Twas in the lines in the heat of a fight. 
 
 And the devil was our host, 
 He showed us all his tricks and stunts. 
 
 As we lay in a stranded outpost. 
 
 Without water, food or shelter. 
 
 We had lain there for days. 
 Exhausted and slowly dying. 
 
 And our eyes were beginning to glaze. 
 
 Our instructions were to hold that post. 
 Against any odds that might come, 
 
 And we were sticking it out alone, 
 I and my Dago chum. 
 
Just a bit of so-called Wop, 
 
 Was this boy along with me. 
 But fighting just as hard as I, 
 
 Who was born of Liberty. 
 
 It was, "Whata-da-hell, let 'em a-come, 
 We fight 'em-a hard, you and I, 
 
 Whatsa the diff'? It's-a all for da cause, 
 And somatime we moosta die. 
 
 "I got-a da sweet leetle wife, 
 
 That's-a wait at home for me, 
 Deesa a war she's a tough-a game, 
 
 But we gota have Liberty." 
 
 Then Tony told me his story, 
 As we lay in post number four. 
 
 And why he was so willing to die 
 
 For the country he loved and adored. 
 
 *'When-a I was just a leetle a-boy, 
 
 Back eena Sunny Italy, 
 I hear my father speek of thing, 
 
 That he call-a Liberty. 
 
 **In a country that's-a paved with gold. 
 Where every a-man is a-da same, 
 
 And-a I and evra a-boddy, 
 
 Has gota da chance for da fame. 
 
 **RhyTnes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy^* 
 
*'Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy^ 
 
 "Wher-a no King and Queen da tel-a you 
 Joosta what you got-a to do, 
 
 I'm a get-a thinkin' to myself. 
 How grand if datsa true. 
 
 *'So by-un-by I grow up, 
 
 Beega strong-a boy, 'bout seexteen, 
 And I come along in a steerage boat. 
 
 To the land of which I dream. 
 
 "And there I fmd-a joosta so true, 
 
 Evra-ting is a-right; 
 I'm-a live in-a great-a country, 
 
 My owR-a boss day and nighl-, 
 
 "Evra-a-boddy joosta so free, 
 
 Almost-a like da bird, 
 Joosta work so much-a evra day 
 
 No lik-a da sheep are you herd. 
 
 "An' den, I meet-a my sweet-a Marie, 
 So we get-a marry one nic-a day. 
 
 And we mak-a nic-a home. 
 By time, leetla babee cum our way. 
 
 "An' evra thing joosta so nice, 
 I'm a cum along joosta fine, 
 
 Until-a da Kaiz, he get so fresh, 
 Right about deesa time. 
 
 "M 
 
"Evra thing he want ta take, 
 An' mak-a do joost what he said, 
 
 Fm-a no like data stoff, 
 
 I'd much-a rather be dead. 
 
 "So I grab-a da gun and cum along, 
 Joosta like all da rest who're here, 
 
 'Cause Fm-a fight for what is right, 
 And-a my leetl-a home so dear. 
 
 "I don't-a mind-a dees now, 
 
 'Cause we here all alone, 
 Evra teeng she cum out all-a right, 
 
 An' by-time we soon go home. 
 
 *'So joosta you lie quiet. 
 While I look-a 'round a-bit. 
 
 But don't-a forget to tell-a Marie, 
 In case Fm-a mabbe get hit." 
 
 He took and shook me by the hand, 
 
 And started out alone. 
 To me it brought an awakening, 
 
 And the treasure now I own. 
 
 So I'm done with material treasures. 
 
 Relics, mines, and things, 
 And treasure instead the memories. 
 
 Of love that sacrifice brings. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy'* 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 Old Detail Army 
 
 Doggone this Detail Army, 
 
 Is all I've got to say, 
 Ever since the Armistice, 
 
 We've been laboring night and day. 
 
 When the fighting was all over, 
 
 And we thot the job was done, 
 They handed us a shovel. 
 
 And took away our gun. 
 
 The French Folks only laughed at us, 
 
 (They did it on the sly), 
 When our bold and noble white-winged squad 
 
 Went sadly marching by. 
 
 I never thot that I would be, 
 
 A street-cleaner brave and bold. 
 Until I started cleaning up France, 
 
 In the sleet, the rain and the cold. 
 
 From K. P. to loading box cars, 
 They worked you night and day, 
 doggone this "Old Detail Army," 
 all I have to say. 
 
Cooties 
 
 When you're standing at attention, 
 And the cooties duck below; 
 
 Just the way they come for seconds, 
 Ain't it hell?— Well, I'll say sol 
 
 In the lines the boys were diggin' 
 With their shovels to get in; 
 
 While the "cootie" rigged his digger 
 With his rig for digging in. 
 
 At the front the Majors had 'em, 
 Every Captain raised his share; 
 
 But there sure was Hell a-poppin' 
 When a "Buck" had one to spare. 
 
 Now every nation has them, 
 The great ones and the small; 
 
 But for "tame" and "naughty" cooties, 
 Rainy France, she leads them all. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
**Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 nite Bandol 
 
 ler 
 
 Perhaps in the mud you've seen me laying, 
 
 Or perhaps in the Q. M. den; 
 But still and all I'm one of you, 
 
 No matter where or when. 
 
 I fill a want that is a need, 
 
 As across your shoulder I'm slung, 
 
 And done my bit as well perhaps. 
 As some highly touted gun. 
 
 Just a bit of woven cloth, 
 
 Thrown slightingly about, 
 But when in the midst of a tough hot fight. 
 
 Pray tell, for whom did you shout? 
 
 I'm the one for whom you cried. 
 
 And gladly did I respond, 
 I knew your hour of need would come. 
 
 That's why I was easily found. 
 
I flung myself around your neck, 
 
 When you started in the fight, 
 Stop a moment and reflect, 
 
 You'll see where I was right. 
 
 Just a lowly bit of patch cloth. 
 
 Humble carrier of the shell, 
 I served my purpose just as true. 
 
 As you who did so well. 
 
 So if again some day we meet, 
 
 Don't start and cuss and jeer, 
 Just remember I'm your "right hand bower," 
 
 Your humble bandolier. 
 
 The bandolier was used as a carrier of our 
 extra rifle ammunition, and they would hold 60 
 shells each. When going in the lines we would 
 oftentimes pack from four to six of these slung 
 across our shoulder, and we would heartily tell 
 the world that they were heavy, etc., but it wasn't 
 long before we were more than willing to pack 
 them as we soon learned that in time of need 
 they were our one best bet. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy** 
 
''Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 TKots! 
 
 Oh! to get away from it all, 
 
 Those war-ridden thots, that come, 
 
 To blind forever those memories, 
 And the sound of the bullets' hum. 
 
 To live once more, as I did before, 
 
 In peace and quiet and rest; 
 To just forget for a little while, 
 
 That it took from my life the best. 
 
 At night, when all is quiet, 
 
 And I'm lying alone in bed. 
 There comes a vision of battlefields. 
 
 The fight, the maimed and the dead. 
 
 Will I never forget that hell "Over There," 
 
 And the tales the battlefields tell, 
 Of the price my "Buddies" paid with "their all," 
 
 And the place in which they fell? 
 
And there's my two best "Buddies" 
 I can see them plain as can be, 
 
 A layin' "Out There" crumpled heaps, 
 And seems like they're calling to me. 
 
 I can hear the big 'uns screech and scream, 
 As they go flying o'er my head, 
 
 They seem to say, both night and day, 
 "Remember the dead — the dead." 
 
 And sometimes I think, as I sit alone, 
 Perhaps it might have been best. 
 
 If I too, had paid that great price. 
 And were out there now with the rest. 
 
 Oh! those war cursed thots, 
 
 That haunt me night and day; 
 Dear God, be merciful, 
 
 And take them forever away. 
 
 **Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy** 
 
 i^''*<^ 
 
"Rhymes 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 Doughboy" 
 
 Our CKaplain 
 
 He came and went amongst our midst, 
 
 With never a sign of a gun, 
 His mind unseared or war-crazed, 
 
 With thots of taming the Hun. 
 
 His mission was one of kindness, 
 And no matter what his creed, 
 
 You'd always find him near us. 
 Whene'er we were in need. 
 
 I've seen him go amongst the maimed, 
 To bind and dress their wounds, 
 
 Then pray o'er loved ones laid to rest. 
 While shells played shrieking tunes. 
 
 When "Going In," to do our spell, 
 
 He'd grasp us by the hand, 
 And tell us in this simple way. 
 
 That God did understand. 
 
 You proved yourselves God's noblemen, 
 And played the game clear thru; 
 
 Where'er your station is today, 
 My hat is off to you. 
 
 To Father Halligan, Chaplain of the 308th Infantry 
 
Budd 
 
 les 
 
 From the North, the East, South or West, 
 \^Tien called upon, we sent our best. 
 And thru that "Melting Pot" o'er there, 
 Hearts were moulded, souls laid bare. 
 
 A simple greeting known as "Buddy," 
 Is worthy of a philosopher's study, 
 No matter whether man or lad. 
 That's the one greeting we all had. 
 
 From as small a thing, as — "Gimme a light 
 To laying down his life in a fight. 
 There was no color, nor was there creed, 
 Whenever a "Buddy" was in need. 
 
 A man may have been of the Gospel bred. 
 Or so low, that even his name was dead. 
 Yet when he grasped a "Buddy's" hand, 
 There passed a love they alone understand. 
 
 Country, color, creed or station. 
 Were moulded as one, in War's Devastation, 
 When "Buddies" went on to that unknown goal 
 Shoulder to shoulder, soul to soul. 
 
 **Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy^* 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 TKat Hike 
 
 Hey, Fellows! — 
 
 Remember the time 
 The Kaiz got wise, 
 
 And took to the Rhine? 
 
 Well, we were at Raucort, 
 
 Waitin' returns, 
 When on November eleventh 
 
 The war adjourns. 
 
 So gladly we mounted 
 Our packs on our back, 
 
 With a song in our hearts. 
 We started back. 
 
Then came a rush order, 
 "Roll packs right away," 
 
 As we'd parade in New York 
 On Christmas day. 
 
 So for six days we hiked, 
 'Till we came to Floren', 
 
 I guess you remember — 
 We were damn near all in. 
 
 But we were headed home. 
 
 So didn't care a rap. 
 As we'd been to the Front, 
 
 And were used to that. 
 
 But when they deloused us, 
 Oh, boy! How we swore — 
 
 For they'd hiked us to Les Isalets, 
 Which was twelve kilos or more. 
 
 Then early and bright 
 
 The very next day. 
 We continued "That Hike," 
 
 "On to Broadway." 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 t^m. 
 
 % 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 Nine more weary clays, 
 
 We hiked up and dov/n hills, 
 
 Until finally we landed 
 In Pointlaville. 
 
 Why grumble nov/ — 
 
 You know it's all over, 
 No doubt you're back home 
 
 In the land of clover. 
 
 But if ever you think 
 
 Things are breaking tough, 
 Just remember "THAT HIKE"— 
 
 "THAT'S ENOUGH." 
 
 "THAT HIKE," is a true and accurate descrip- 
 tion of a forced march made by the entire 77th 
 Division at the close of the war. We covered 
 a distance of about 155 miles on that hike and 
 it took us fifteen days in all. While our kitchens 
 followed us they had practically no food at 
 all, and for Thanksgiving breakfast they handed 
 us out from four to five stewed prunes each, 
 and a hard luck story, and we hiked twelve miles 
 that day in the rain. 
 
We Are Coining Back 
 
 It's the coming back, I hate worst of all, 
 It grates on my nerves worse than gall, 
 A wreck, they'll say, when I land today, 
 And with sighs of pity they'll turn away. 
 
 With empty sleeve and face a mess, 
 I'm no more than half a man, I guess. 
 And it's tearing my heart slowly apart. 
 And I wonder how I'll make a new start. 
 
 I left these shores not so long ago. 
 As fit as any man who'd go, 
 I held my head high as could be. 
 And was proud to fight for our Liberty. 
 
 For it isn't so hard to go in and fight. 
 When you know your cause is more than right, 
 And it isn't so hard for men to die. 
 The hardest of all is to hear folks sigh. 
 
 So help me forget, don't sympathize, 
 I can't get cheery on long drawn sighs, 
 Just take and shake my one good hand, 
 Then I'll know you understand. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 l\U 
 
 \p^ 
 
 "Ifil 
 
"Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 Homev^ard Bound 
 
 As I stand on this transport here by the rail, 
 Watching her plow thru the foam; 
 
 There's just one thing I can think about, 
 And that is, we're "Going Home." 
 
 Many is the time while at the front, 
 
 In some battle of raging hell; 
 I'd lift my voice to the One above, 
 
 That He guide me home safe and well. 
 
 All the sweetness and joys of life, 
 Are embodied in these two words, 
 
 "Homeward Bound," my, don't they sound nice; 
 When your heart's just as light as a bird's? 
 
 And I, for one, as I stand here alone. 
 
 Thank my Maker above, 
 That I'm permitted to be "Homeward Bound," 
 
 To the ones I so dearly love. 
 
Let's Go! 
 
 'Twas Uncle Sammy's doughboys 
 That put the kibosh on the Hun; 
 
 Now we're waiting for "That Transport" 
 And we'll take her on the run. 
 
 Oh, why do you wait, Mr. Baker? 
 
 Just send us a ship or a raft; 
 For the U. S. A. and our freedom, 
 
 We'd sail on any old craft. 
 
 At first we were going home Christmas, 
 And then on New Year's Day; 
 
 But now it's the fifteenth of April, 
 Unless they change it to May. 
 
 Now General Pershing's motto 
 
 Is a good one, we all know; 
 **Let's get where we're going today, boys," 
 
 And you bet, we're ready to go. 
 
 The Statue of Liberty beckons 
 To her soldiers across the sea; 
 
 "Let's go!" and get where we're going, 
 Back home, to the land of the free. 
 
 "Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy** 
 
**Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy" 
 
 TheP 
 
 nee 
 
 Now listen here, old Pal of mine, 
 I've fought from the Vesle clear up to the Rhine, 
 At Chateau-Thierry and in the Argonne Wood, 
 I did my bit as best I could. 
 
 Why, I've cut my way through an ocean of wire. 
 And stood the test when under fire, 
 I've lain in the cold and the rain all night. 
 Fought like hell for what I thot was right. 
 
 I've marched to the band and felt mighty proud, 
 Because I was one of that fighting crowd, 
 Now I'm back in this land of ours. 
 And will be in my civies in a few short hours. 
 
 But, somehow or other it all seems bare, 
 And I feel like hell when people stare. 
 For some are thinking of loved ones lost, 
 And others of how much we're going to cost. 
 
 And that's the bunch I'm sore about, 
 The patriot who was so willing to shout, 
 Then turn us out when we came home. 
 On two months' pay in the world to roam. 
 
TKe Returns 
 
 Buddy of mine, you're wrong, all wrong, 
 You'll soon again be one of the throng, 
 Not as you were when you went away, 
 But a proved man now, the man of the day. 
 
 Why, boy, just think of what you've been thru, 
 And the glory of knowin' that you've been true. 
 Think of the "Buddies" whom you gave a hand. 
 Why, you gained the love of your fellow man. 
 
 Think of the knowledge you did gain. 
 
 When you pushed clear thru to Alsace-Lorraine, 
 
 Think for a moment of some homely French 
 
 folk, 
 That you helped release from the Hun's terrible 
 
 yoke. 
 
 Why, they expressed to you in their attitude, 
 An ocean of love and real gratitude. 
 And in one small second of that war, 
 You've lived a thousand lives or more. 
 
 Tho you may not have your share of gold. 
 What you learned "Up There" is wealth untold; 
 And the big thing you gained from what you've 
 
 been thru; 
 Is that high ideal of being true. 
 
 '^Rhymes 
 
 of a 
 
 Lost Battalion 
 
 Doughboy"' 
 
 
 ^mc-^B^ 
 
 '^-:22s-/ 
 
 iW 
 
Thru the night winds wet and dreary, 
 The word goes on to Chateau-Thierry, 
 Ghostly Phantoms hear the call. 
 Then gather those who gave their "all. 
 
 Phantom heroes gather there, 
 In shell-torn land, so bleak and bare, 
 And there beneath the sighing tree. 
 They are judging you and me. 
 
 By the flitting shadow light. 
 By the mystic shades of night. 
 In the one-time shell-split air. 
 Phantom Souls are judging there. 
 
 So listen well unto that call 
 Of Phantom souls who gave their all, 
 And may you never droop your head. 
 In answer to our own — our dead. 
 
CB 1.1 ft- 
 
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