Chapter 2
The Spring Offensive
If you order your men ... a hundred Li
in order to wrest an advantage, the leaders
of all your three divisions will fall
into the hands of the enemy.
- Sun Tzu
Present Day
The journal documented Andy’s experiences beginning with his enlistment, training, and eventual transport overseas as a part of the American Expeditionary Force (AEF) in 1917. I was surprised to read that after a brief station in Paris, where he experienced some enemy bombardments, Andy had spent most of the war in the central part of France, at the headquarters company in Tours. Like most of the soldiers in an army, he was a part of logistics and supply. These were the critical functions of an army in the field, even if not filled with drama.
The entries were fairly cryptic, short, and to the point.
Mar 26 (1918), Tue
Not much doing during day.
Made payroll.
Apr 24 (1918), Wed
Worked on colored maps
Jul 19 (1918), Fri
Fair. Letter from Smalley.
French lesson.
To put these into perspective, I created a timeline of activities associated with the Great War beginning in 1917 when America declared war on the Central Powers. Against these benchmarks I plotted out significant entries in the diary, such as when Andy arrived in certain cities, when he experienced bombardments, when he worked on certain projects, etc. Slowly a pattern began to emerge that helped expose the daily life of a soldier in a support detachment as war unfolded all around.
R
Paris, 1918
The Sainte-Anne Hotel was located on Rue Sainte-Anne a few blocks from the Paris Opera House - the heart of the old city. The major avenues spoked out from the Opera House and led to the Champs ƒlysŽes in one direction, the Eiffel Tower in another, and the Louvre and Notre Dame in yet another. Troops reported to the headquarters company at the Sainte-Anne when ordered to Paris, then transferred to locations throughout the city, usually hotels taken over by the AEF. Andy Anderson wrote, “Almost missed the train” on the day, he reported in. He ended up sleeping on the floor with a couple dozen others.
The next day he reported to Lieutenant Richardson at the Hotel MediterranŽe about a thirty minute walk from the Sainte-Anne. That night he slept in a real bed at the Alexandria Hotel.
Paris seemed a long way from the front, but the city was the target of air raids, mostly from Zeppelins. There was plenty of work to do, and between shifts Andy had a chance to sightsee. Over the next month there were intermittent air raid scares, and as February turned to March the death toll among civilians began to climb.
March 23 was a fair morning and Andy was at work early helping to create signs. The bombardment began at 7:20 am.
“Anderson, let’s get in the shelter. It’s another Zeppelin.”
The commanding officer was unconcerned. The Zeppelin was capable of only limited attacks, and they lacked the mobility to catch anyone off guard, especially once the first bombs fell. It was great sport watching them place their bombs, only to be shot at by the fighters. Drama in the sky, but not too much risk on the ground.
But the explosions continued, regularly.
“Every fifteen minutes, Captain,” came the report back from the spotter. “And there’s no Zeppelin in sight.” Where were these explosions coming from? A new high altitude Zeppelin? The Germans had used rail mounted mortars and cannon before, but the front was a long way out of range, some 70 miles, or 150 km.
Still the explosions came - 21 in all. They continued unabated the next day. A single shell hit the roof of the St-Gervais-et-St-Protais Church, collapsing the entire roof onto the congregation hearing the Good Friday services. A total of 88 people were killed and 68 were wounded. A shell had landed near the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Something new had entered the war, and the people of Paris were in a panic. The press fueled the hysteria with wild speculation about a new wonder weapon.
The military took little time once the continuous bombardment began in triangulating the location of the attacks, some 75 miles northeast of Paris. Examination of the fragments revealed the explosions were from shells, not bombs, which ruled out an air attack. It would be a few days before air reconnaissance was able to confirm the existence of a new cannon - called the Kaiser Wilhelm GeschŸtz - that could shoot a massive projectile over 75 miles, and rain death on Paris beyond the range of defensive artillery.
What later became known as the “Paris Gun” shot the very first man-made object into the stratosphere, some 25 miles high. While it created panic among the civilian population, the army quickly mobilized to attack the giant cannon. The Paris Gun took a crew of 80 to operate, and consumed so many resources it would prove to be valuable only as a weapon of terror. The gun had fired between 320 and 367 shells, but only killed 250 people, wounded over 600, and damaged property. However, it ushered in a new face of war - random civilian casualties from long-range weapons.
Andy contemplated his situation. He had joined the army with a waiver that, because of his religious beliefs, granted him the status of a non-belligerent. That is how he ended up in the headquarters company. Now the fighting could be taken anywhere, and his assignment in Paris grew increasingly dangerous.
What kind of people are these Germans? he thought. War between armies was confusing enough, but to wage a war of terror against helpless civilians? These Germans are less than human, he convinced himself.
The bombardment signaled the beginning of a new offensive. On March 21, 1918, the German army launched a series of attacks along the Western Front. The objective was to throw the weight of some fifty additional divisions freed up by the collapse of the Eastern Front at the British and French forces along the Somme before the overwhelming supply of men and material from the Americans could be brought to bear. German storm troopers advanced quickly, carrying few provisions and ammunition, scavenging off the enemy as they continued forward. They attempted to outflank the British and force an armistice on terms favorable to Germany. News from the front was carefully censored, but rumors circulated wildly.
He was relieved when he finally received orders to return to Tours. He boarded the train and bid farewell to an increasingly dangerous Paris on April 6.
That day a junior officer in the AEF communications headquarters in Brest read a memo from the American hospital administrator.
There has been a sudden increase in cases of influenza reported in hospital. We are currently experiencing a shortage of personnel to meet this unexpected outbreak. In the past three days, 120 patients have been admitted from bivouacs throughout the region, with 15 fatalities. The staff anticipates at least that many more fatalities within 36 hours. Requests for hospital transfers for influenza will be denied at this time due to a lack of beds. It is critical that field units take immediate steps to curtail exposure.
The officer stamped the memo CENSORED, and passed it to his company clerk for filing. The information about the spreading influenza outbreak would not spread to the front line units. The flu, however, would not be censored so easily.
R
Present Day
There were thirty-two letters. They were dated but not addressed, with many references to things that were cryptic, almost as if in code, that blurred the meaning. It was difficult to place these in context to help unravel their meaning and relevance to my grandfather.
Why had these been saved, presumably by Antoine, and buried - not mailed? What was the nature of the relationship between Andy and Antoine? It seemed clear from the first letter their relationship was intimate and robust - odd considering Andy was in the Pacific during the Second War. Who was Antoine and where did he and Andy create such a personal relationship?
And that last letter, the one that spoke of Antoine dying “this day.” The desperation and futility of those words - sent to my grandfather - had some meaning, some deeper sense behind them. This was no casual friendship. The letters created more questions than they answered.
I turned to the community college in town for help. The comptroller, Jim Anderson, is a business contact of mine, so I phoned and asked him to arrange a visit with the college’s French professor, Dr. Suzanne Tauscher. I needed to get an accurate translation of the letters from someone versed in the nuances of the language - something the computer translator was unable to do. She agreed to meet with me the following afternoon.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Hewitt,” she cheerfully stood and offered me her handshake as I entered her office.
“Bonjour, madame. Comment allez-vous?”
“Ah, je suis bien, monsieur. Your French pronunciation is very good. Have you been to France?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Just two years of French in high school, but that was a long time ago!”
“Perhaps you will have the opportunity someday. Now, I understand you have some interesting letters,” she responded. “And please, just call me Suzanne.”
I handed her the letters. She glanced quickly at them and raised her eyebrows inquisitively in my direction.
“Where did you get these?” she asked, her academic curiosity piqued.
“They were sent to me from a small village on the French coast by the mayor, intended for my grandfather originally when they were written in the period from 1922 - 1944.”
“Yes, through the German occupation. And you said these were interesting ... Mon Dieu, that is an understatement!”
“What do they say?”
“Well, your grandfather’s correspondence to Antoine is like hearing one side of a phone call. One has to read between the lines to try to discover the origin of the conversation. Was your grandfather fluent in French?”
“I have no idea. That’s something that never came up before, and I was surprised to say the least.”
“The letters from Antoine are more direct, but they lack a context. Especially a location. I am afraid some are very difficult to read. The letters are faded, and some are stained. They could be scanned and enhanced, and would be easier to translate.”
She continued to browse through them, then looked up with excitement on her face.
“I have an idea. This will take some time to scan, enhance, and translate, especially given that some of the language use is a little clumsy, as I might expect. Would you let me turn these into a class assignment? I could form teams to do the translations. Our graphics department could scan and enhance them as a part of a class project as well.”
I could sense a growing excitement over this, and decided it would be useful to bring in others to help in the daunting detective case before me.
“I would agree to that.”
“We would, of course, make an agreement protecting your copyright on these, and defining the terms of use, to protect your originals. I would like to have the history department look these over, too, once they are translated, if that is agreeable.”
“I’m game. I have a lot of work to do to track down just who this Antoine is, and being able to offload this part, and have other eyes look at them, will be a big help, I am sure.”
“OK. I will have to get approval from the department, but that is just a formality. The agreement will take some time - bureaucracy, you know. But in the meantime, I can simply give you a receipt for the letters to scan them. We will have no right to use them until our agreement is signed, but we can get started on the scanning right away.
“I’d like to arrange a meeting between you and Professor Douglas from the history department. I am certain he will be interested in partnering on this project. He may have some insight into helping you locate your elusive Antoine - which would be a big help to know before we tackle the letters in earnest. I could plan to have the letters delivered to him after they are scanned if that would be acceptable.
“Here, let me give you his contact information. I might suggest you email a copy of the translated ‘D-Day’ letter with a synopsis of what you know - and what you do not know - before your meeting.”
I left her office with a renewed sense of purpose and optimism.
R
Northern France, 1918
“C’est le renŽgat.” The French private spat on the ground at the feet of a young soldier dressed in a tattered German infantry uniform. “This is the turncoat.”
The soldier stood in line with other German prisoners bound for a forestry work crew. Prisoners were collected at Abbeville on the channel coast before being sent to England for internment or assigned to forced labor. Captain Lejeune had received orders to provide French-speaking POWs for active service in various support depots behind the lines. The report of a young Frenchman in German uniform who had been beaten severely by his French captors and sent to hospital caught his attention.
“Bring him to my tent,” he commanded curtly, and strode off. The prisoner was jerked out of line and prodded at bayonet-point toward the commander’s tent. He prepared for another violent beating, so was surprised when the captain ordered him to take a seat. “Asseyez-vous.”
The young soldier sat uneasily on a simple wooden stool in the corner. Sitting in the presence of a French officer could mean a rifle butt across the side of the head, or worse, so he was decidedly nervous. The officer had a paper on his small desk, but the prisoner dared not look at it. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, a prisoner’s defensive stare.
“You speak French?” The captain demanded.
“Oui, Capitaine, I am French,” but he offered no further information. The captain prepared to take notes.
“You are in German uniform. I could have you shot. Explain yourself.” The captain did not look up from his paper.
“I am from a small village near ChŠteau-Salins in the Alsace.”
The French captain looked up. Germany had annexed the Alsace-Lorraine region of eastern France on the German border after the War of 1870. The French-speaking minority had been allowed to immigrate to France by German authorities, but a small population of French descent remained. By the start of the current war less than 20% of the region’s inhabitants were French. They spoke French as their mother language, a situation tolerated by the Imperial German government. Although some limited autonomy was granted the region in 1911, it was still considered a Reichsland, or Imperial Province, called Elsass-Lothringen by the German government.
At the outbreak of the Great War the able-bodied men throughout Germany were conscripted into the army, by force if necessary. He was sixteen when the local military authorities arrived in his small village and swept up all the young men, forcing them onto horse-drawn carts at gunpoint. The prisoner’s older brother, Lucien, age 19, had resisted. He was captured and shot in the village square as an example.
The French were escorted to staging areas where open boxcars were waiting to transport them to an army base for training. They were then shipped to the Eastern Front to fight against Russia. The collapse of Russia in late December 1917 freed 50 divisions for the fight in France.
He was captured in the Flanders sector in April 1918 when the so-called Ludendorf, or Spring Offensive, stalled. He had been knocked unconscious during an artillery barrage near the town of Arras and had awakened in a squalid prisoner encampment under the command of the French. As a Frenchman, a renŽgate, he was subjected to occasional beatings that were generally tolerated until he ended up in hospital.
The captain knew of the conscripts from the annexed territories, but had little sympathy for those fighting against their home country. Even if they had no choice. “They should have preferred to be shot,” he would say when confronting a prisoner of French descent. But he had his orders. The influenza was killing as many soldiers as the fighting, and manpower was short. POWs could do nonessential work, releasing able-bodied men for the front. He despised the renŽgates, but was ordered to put them to work.
It was with a mix of relief and anxiety the prisoner from the Alsace boarded a train along with a ragged mix of other prisoners bound for an undisclosed location in France. In the trenches the German commanders had spread rumors of unspeakable crimes and violence against prisoners in England to create a fear of surrender or capture.
The train rattled along at a maddeningly slow pace. The boxcar with prisoners spent more time on railroad sidings than on the main tracks. By nightfall the second day it was passing Paris, apparently heading south. The weather that spring had been cold and wet, and the prisoners huddled close together with no blankets to warm them.
“This is better than the trenches,” he told himself, shivering in the chill of the open train car. He had been fed a consistent diet of warm food, and had clean water to drink instead of the vile swill reclaimed from the bottom of the trenches. He was lucky to be alive.
The train finally jerked to a stop and the car doors were opened for the first time since boarding. The prisoners were ordered out of the rancid-smelling car, and forced to stand at attention in a sloppy rain. The prisoner looked up, surprised to see an American flag hanging on the flagpole next to the marshaling yard instead of the French Tricolor.
He knew they were near Tours in central France from the buildings he had seen through the slatted sides of the boxcar and the names of the train depots they passed through. Marched to a crude barracks, the prisoners were deloused, forced to take a cold shower, and dressed in rude woolen clothing of a POW. He ate a meal of oatmeal and bread and took his evening sleep on a hard wooden bunk with no ticking.
He was assigned to a work detail cleaning the mess at the depot headquarters in Tours. The day was long, the work dirty and hard, but he could steal bits of fat and uneaten bread from the officers’ mess with no recriminations. Soon he began to recover his strength and weight. Despite the hard working conditions, he was content to live out the rest of the war far from the trenches.
R