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As in the two preceding volumes of this series, the 
memoirs are placed in the chronological sequence of the 
deaths of those who form their subjects. The second 
volume dealt with the Harvard participants in the war 
against Germany, fifty-one in number, who died within a 
year of the entrance of the United States into that war. In 
this volume another arbitrary period is fixed, and the 
seventy-five Harvard men who died between April 7 and 
August 4, 1918 — a memorable war anniversary — are 

This volume bears a further resemblance to its predeces- 
sors in that the memoirs vary considerably in length and 
fullness ; and again this is due solely to the wide variation 
in the extent and character of the material which, with an 
equal expenditure of effort in all instances, I have been 
able to secure. 

As the third volume comes to completion, and brings the 
total number of finished memoirs to one hundred and 
fifty-six I am confronted with the fact that nearly two 
hundred and twenty more remain to be written. I had 
hoped to carry the task single-handed to the end, for there 
is no work of commemoration in which one could engage 
with greater satisfaction. But in fairness both to Harvard 
and to its sons, the dead and the living, the work should be 
continued with more rapidity than a single biographer, 
with other demands upon his time, can possibly hope to 
achieve. Accordingly the authorities have sanctioned an 


arrangement under which I am to be responsible for the 
two remaining volumes, as general editor, reserving for 
myself the writing of certain memoirs and distributing 
among several collaborators of special competence for the 
undertaking the preparation of others. 

As Volumes I, II, and III have appeared, respectively, 
in 1920, 1921, and 1922, it is hoped that Volumes IV and V 
will appear, under this arrangement, in 1923 and 1924. 

M. A. DeW. H. 

Boston, October, 1922. 



Victor Raleigh Craigie Graduate School of Business 

Administration 1913-14 3 

Arthur Harold Webber Class of w 15 7 

Franklin Temple Ingraham Class of 1914 12 

GusTAv Hermann Kissel Class of 1917 16 

Ernest Edward Weibel Ph.D. 1916 20 

Arthur Broadfield Warren Class of 19 15 24 

William Wallace Thayer Class of 19 16 33 

Arthur Russell Gaylord Law 1915-17 36 

Frederick Arthur Keep Class of 1915 38 

William Key Bond Emerson, Jr. Class of 1916 42 

Roger Sherman Dix, Jr. Class of 1918 47 

James Palache Class of 1918 51 

William Noel Hewitt Class of 1914. 55 

William Dennison Lyon Class of 1916 60 

Paul Borda Kurtz Class of 1916 67 

Richard Mortimer, Jr. Class of I9ll 76 

Kenneth Pickens Culbert Class of 1917 82 

William St. Agnan Stearns Class of 1917 99 

Henry Ware Clarke Class of 1916 105 

George Guest Haydock Class of 1916 114 

George Buchanan Redwood Class of 1910 144 

Henry Corliss Shaw Class of 1901 167 

Livingston Low Baker Class of 1913 HI 

Ona Jefferson Myers Law 1912-13 170 

Philip Washburn Davis Class of 190S 1H4 

Guy Norman Class of 1890 ~<^^ 


Roland Jackson Class of 1916 212 

Gordon Kaemmerling Class of 1912 216 

John D wight Filley, Jr. Class of 1916 225 

EvERiT Albert Herter Class of 19U 229 

Ralph Henry Lasser Class of 1920 248 

Edward Ball Cole Class of 1902 271 

Alvah Crocker, Jr. Class of 1905 281 

Elliot Adams Chapin Class of 1918 293 

Goodwin Warner Class of 1909 297 

Frederic Percival Clement, Jr. Class of 1916 301 

Donald Fairfax Ray LL.B. wis 310 
Maxwell Oswald Parry Gradvate School 1911-12 314 

Dudley GiLMAN Tucker Class of 1907 318 

William Vernon Booth, Jr. Class of 1913 334 

Claudius Ralph Farnsworth Class' of 1917 344 

QuENTiN Roosevelt Class of 1919 348 

George Waite Goodwin Law 1916-17 374 

Homer Atherton Hunt Class of 1916 380 

George Francis McGillen Class of 1917 383 

Edmond David Stewart, Jr. Lato 1915-17 387 

Walton Kimball Smith Laiv 1914-15 390 

Hugh Charles Blanchard Class of 1909 394 

John Andrew Doherty Class of 1916 399 

Kenneth Eliot Fuller Class of 1916 402 

Proctor Calvin Gilson Laiv 1915-17 414 

Orville Parker Johnson Class of 1918 416 

Robert MoRss Lovett, Jr. Class of 1918 421 

Lester Clement Barton Laiv 1908-10 433 

Carleton Burr Class of 1913 444 

Philip Cunningham Class of 1918 471 

Clifford Barker Grayson Law 1916-17 478 


Charles Castner Lilly Class of 1909 480 

Allen Melancthon Sumner Class of 190^ 486 

David Morse Barry Class of 1915 490 

Howard Walter Beal M.D. 1898 504 

Donald Earl Dunbar Class of wis 507 

George William Ryley Class of 19 lo 513 
George Alexander McKiNLocK, Jr. Class of 191G 519 

Ralph Guye White Law 1913-16 545 

John Shaw Pfaffman Class of 191G 556 

Malcolm Cotton Brown Class of 1918 562 

Clark Richardson Lincoln Medical 1899-1901 569 

Philip Overton Mills Class of 1905 574 

James Augustin McKenna, Jr. Class of 1909 580 

Oliver Ames, Jr. Class of 1917 601 

Alan Campbell Clark Class of 1917 630 

Jason Solon Hunt Law 1915-17 634 

Richard Norton Class of 1892 640 

John Vincent Kelly Class of 1906 673 


Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strevm 

Even as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon. 

Alan Seeger 


Graduate School of Business Administration 


V ICTOR Raleigh Craigie was born in Canada, May 
22, 1892, the son of Captain Horace Walpole Craigie of 
the British Army and Ehzabeth Craigie, both deceased. 
When he was not quite three years of age he was adopted 
by Mr. and Mrs. James Brown, of Boston. He received 
his education in England, at the Mount Hermon Prepara- 
tory School in western Massachusetts, at tlie Boston 
Y. M. C. A., and, for the academic year of 1913-14, at 
the Harvard Graduate School of Business Administration, 
in which he was enrolled as a special student. 

He had entered business with the Berkshire Life In- 
surance Company when the war broke out in Europe, and 



abandoned his desire to enlist in the Canadian Army only 
in compliance with the wishes of his adoptive mother. 
WTien the United States joined in the war he was a mem- 
ber of Troop A, First Squadron of Cavalry, Massachusetts 
Volunteer Militia, trained for a year in the M. V. M. 
Training School, and sought admission to the first Platts- 
burg camp. For this he was found ineligible because he 
had not secured his final papers of American citizenship. 
In June, 1917, he enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps in 
Canada. His instruction in aviation followed at Toronto 
University, Camp Mohawk, Deseronto, Camp Borden, 
and later at Taliaferro Field, Fort Worth, Texas. Here 
he became the best machine gun shot in his division. Late 
in November, 1917, he was commissioned second lieu- 
tenant in Toronto, and on December 13 sailed for England. 
A few extracts from his letters reveal his satisfaction in 
his work and the spirit in which it was done. From Deser- 
onto he wrote, early in his training: 

Well, dear mother, I have flo\\Ti two hours and fifty minutes 
today, with ten landings. Quite a big day's work and a very 
tiring one. I have now concluded my elementary flying of five 
hours' solo and fifteen landings, without a break or repair to 
my machine — a good record. My commanding officer and 
instructors have expressed themselves proud of the results of 
their work. 

Cajmp Borden, 
October 11. 

Took a cross-coimtry run to Toronto today, but returning 
got lost in the clouds. On reaching the aerodrome, long after 

dark, was greeted by the O. C. vnth. "where the have you 

been? I shall put you under arrest for taking the machine off 
all day." "Sir, I was lost, but have brought the aeroplane back 



safe and sound, besides making seven landings outside of the 

aerodrome." "Craigie, you have done well, nine of the 

ten would have crashed five out of six times, if they had landed 
in open country as often as you have today, besides you have 
made one of the best landings ever pulled off in this aerodrome 
after dark. This will go dowTi in the reports to be sent to Eng- 
land." This ends forty hours and thirty minutes without a 

November 17. 
A few days ago the lieutenant with whom I did my first 
aerial gunnery, called me aside and placing both hands upon 
my shoulders and looking me straight in the face he said: 
"Craigie, I never realized what a good pilot you were until I 
had had several pilots up." 

November 23. 

At last our course is over. Brace yourself, dear mother, for 
the time for going overseas is near. I am only one of thousands 
that are on their way. We are no use here, let us keep the 
loathsome reptiles over there. I realize it will be hard for us 
both, but just think of the cause. I thank God that I have 
been accepted to take part in this damnable slaughter for 

future generations and the race. 

Jannary 18. 

Dearest mother, certainly I forgive you for not allowing me 

to go sooner. I felt in my heart that it was my duty, and it 

has grieved me much that I was not one of the first to put on 

the harness in this great war for freedom and right. However, 

may God spare me to reach the German lines. They are quite 

near and yet so, so far. I know well that you miss me, but you 

also must be a soldier, good and true. The world needs the 

brave women to help in this struggle. 

March 5. 

I am happy in my work and the mission I have to fulfill, 
although I am having terrible luck just now. The scouts are 
much harder to fly than any other machine, therefore I must 


expect some difficulty. I believe, however, that I am well 

placed in the scouts. I enjoy aerial fighting, and stunts are 

second nature to me now. 

March 11. 

Well, Nate, old boy, every pilot has to have his first crash. 
That goes without saying, and is as true as Newton's law of 
gravity. God only knows when or where the second is likely 
to take place, but I have no fear of it. 

His training in England took place at Stockbridge and 
at Langmere, near Chichester. There on April 7, 1918, 
he met his death through a collision of his machine, a 
one-man scout, with another machine bearing two lieu- 
tenants. All three were killed. Craigie was buried with 
full military honors at Chichester. 

About a week before his death he had written home, 
March 30: "I am likely to be fighting the Huns before 
this letter reaches you, in fact I expect the call daily. 
They need all the pilots in this big battle now raging. 
I am real keen to get into the scrap and wonder what my 
first impressions of it all will be." 

And to this he added: "May God bless and keep you 
safe, dear mother, and at the same time give you no fears 
for me." 



Class of 1915 

iV-RTHUR Harold Webber, son of the late Arthur 
Harrison Webber and Lucie Moore (Morrison) Webber, 
was born at Cadillac, Michigan, July 1, 1892. He was 
prepared for college at the Cadillac High School and Wor- 
cester Academy, Worcester, Massachusetts, and before 
coming to Harvard spent two years at Olivet College, 
Olivet, Michigan, where he acquitted himself well both in 
his studies and in student affairs. In 1912 he entered 
Harvard and three years later took his Bachelor of Arts 
degree with the Class of 1915. He was a member of the 
Theta Delta Chi fraternity, and in 1914 held the office of 
treasurer in the Harvard chapter. A letter from Cam- 
bridge to his mother, written in his junior year, is full of 



appreciation of what he was learning from Dean Briggs. 
A portion of it may well be quoted, if only for the light 
it throws upon Webber himself : 

For all his erudition he is never a positivist. I believe that 
I have learned something from that. When he deals with a 
subject that he feels someone might have had more experience 
with, he says what he believes, and then adds, "Now perhaps 
I am wrong. If so, I should like to be corrected." When he 
goes over your themes he takes the time to make witty, trench- 
ant remarks on what you have said, as, for instance, when I 
wrote, "Doctors were born to make the simple complex," he 
wrote under this, "I thought philosophers had a monopoly on 
this." To return to the particular morning I had my confer- 
ence with him — I shall try to sum up some of his comments. 
"Am I a black sheep?" I asked him, referring to my standing 
in the class. "Not at all," he answered. "You do your work. 
But you are not a clear, well-trained writer. At times, though, 
you write a line that is masterly, and then suddenly you plunge 
into writing that is evidently not the result of clear thinking. 
Apparently you have never been forced to write carefully. 
Your elemental work has been faulty. But your ideas are ex- 
cellent, fully as good as anyone's in the class; seldom do you 
express them properly. Many times you are ingenious. Your 
play has been the most encouraging thing you have done yet. 
It's not unusual, but shows signs of promise," "Do you think," 
I asked anxiously, "there is ever a chance for me to become, 
not a genius or remarkable writer — I don't hope for that — but 
a creditable one?" "Mr. Webber," he replied, "that's a hard 
question to answer. We don't know who may turn out the 
best. One can't tell, but you are by no means hopeless." 

I am not able to tell you the way he expressed what he said, 
and in these snatches of conversation there is n't anything that 
should make one optimistic. I don't think he wanted me to be. 
He said just enough to convince me that I had something to 
build on, knowing that what I had done up to the present time 



was not indicative of remarkable power. But he did arouse in 
me the fighting instinct and I went out of his oflSce with a light 

In view of the interests which this letter reveals, it is not 
surprising to find in the First Report of Webber's class, 
published in May, 1916, that his address was given at the 
publishing office of Moffat, Yard and Company, in New 
York. In order to be nearer home he afterwards entered 
the oflfice of H. W. Noble and Company, investment bank- 
ers in Detroit, and was associated with it when the United 
States entered the war. Within ten days of that time he 
enlisted at Detroit for training as an officer in the armj^ 
and in May was sent to the First Officers' Training Camp 
at Fort Sheridan, Illinois. A letter to his mother from 
that place speaks of the spirit in w^hich he took up his 
work as a soldier: 

I did n't tell you, but when I came to the camp here I re- 
solved that I would serve my country as I had never served 
myself, that I would not do anything that would stand in the 
way of my moral or physical well-being. I want you to know 
that I shall live just as clean and fine as I know how and fulfil 
your expectations of me. No nation bent on aggrandizement, 
proceeding without scruple and without justice can hope to 
whip a clean, noble-spirited United States, and I want my bit 
to be just as fine a "bit" as I can contribute. 

Before Webber had completed his course at Fort 
Sheridan, there w^as a call for men in the aviation service. 
To this he responded, and secured a transfer from the 
OflScers' Training Camp, enabling him to enlist at Colum- 
bus, Ohio, in the British Royal Air Force. After some 
training at Toronto with the 43d Wing of this force, he 



was sent to Fort Worth, Texas, where he quahfied as a 
pilot, received his commission as second Heutenant, and 
was assigned to the 84th Aero Squadron, in the training 
of which Vernon Castle of the Royal Flying Corps met 
his death on February 25. Flying alone at Fort Worth on 
April 10, 1918, Webber's machine suddenly got out of 
control, and he was instantly killed in the resulting fall. 

On the day before his death he had written his mother 
a letter which reached her the day after she received the 
telegram announcing his fatal accident. It contained the 
following passages : 

I have just concluded a day of very satisfactory flying. I 
have put in fifty landings now, which is the completion of ele- 
mentary solo work. My stunt consignment was forced land- 
ings. It often happens in flying that your engine gives out and 
you have to come down where you are. You have but a few 
minutes to choose your landing ground and must do some quick 
thinking and acting. I went up almost 2500 feet and shut off 
the throttle, beginning a spiral dive towards the earth. 

Friday we shall be out of here, like the circuses, in the early 
morning with our tents packed up and our entire outfit on the 
way to Toronto. I believe Fort Worth will miss us, for the 
cadets and officers and mechanics have been most cordially 
received here and have made a multitude of friends, as the 
reporter would say. 

After referring to recent losses among his comrades by 
death, he wrote: 

These happenings, however, are as nothing to the future with 
dark war clouds hovering over us. There 's only one philosophy 
to tide us over the fatalistic conclusion that God offers us the 
inevitable, and we must accept it graciously, though it clutches 
our hearts and robs us of that which we hold most dear. 



Webber's body was taken to Cadillac, Michigan, for 
burial. In evidence of the esteem in which he was held 
in his native place, fifty of the leading business men of 
the city met the train on which the body arrived at two 
o'clock in the morning, and accompanied it to his mother's 
house. On the day of his funeral the mayor issued the 
following proclamation : 

As an expression of the sorrow that has come to our city and 
in recognition of our loss in the death of Harold Webber, our 
city's first soldier to give up his life in the war now in progress, 
I would respectfully ask that all places of business be closed up 
Tuesday afternoon from two to four o'clock, the hours of the 
funeral. I hope this mark of sympathy for those who are be- 
reaved and this expression of our care for our country and its 
defenders will be generally observed. 



Class of 1914 

x! RANKLiN Temple Ingraham, born May 23, 1891, 
at Wellesley, Massachusetts, a son of Franklin Benton 
Ingraham and Elizabeth Temple (Webb) Ingraham of 
that town, a brother of Paul Webb Ingraham (Harvard, 
'17), "was one of those rare men" — in the words of a 
classmate — "who never made an enemy and whose 
friends were among the hundreds." Quite as much as the 
facts of his brief military record, the affection and respect 
that he won in all his relations, at school, in college, in 
business, in the army, should be chronicled in any account 
of his life. 

His preparation for college was made at the Wellesley 
High School. Entering Harvard with the Class of 1914, 



he became a member of the University Mandohn, Dra- 
matic, and Pi Eta Clubs. He greatly enjoyed his human 
contacts, and was expert and enthusiastic in the pursuit 
of many outdoor and indoor sports and games. While in 
college he joined Battery A, Massachusetts Volunteer 
Militia, though for social rather than military considera- 
tions, as the war in Europe was not yet to be taken into 
account by undergraduates. On his graduation from Har- 
vard he went to the Massachusetts Institute of Tech- 
nology, where, from 1914 to 1916, he was a student of 
civil engineering. 

It was at the end of this period that he had his first 
experience of military life, when Massachusetts troops 
were ordered to the Mexican border. His physique was 
always slender, and in his family it became a question 
whether this call to service in a subtropical climate was 
so imperative that he ought to respond to it. "I think I 
should go with the rest," he said, and adhered to this 
decision, with a clear recognition of its possible cost. He 
went and returned in good health — except for greatly 
reduced weight, which he never recovered — having 
greatly enjoyed his association with kindred spirits, and 
content that he had done his part. 

Ingraham then entered the employ of the Roebling 
wire works at Trenton, New Jersey. Here he had won 
both confidence and promotion when the United States 
entered the war. The Roebling mills were making war 
material, and he might well have regarded himself as 
playing a useful part in this enterprise. On the contrary, 
he determined to enter the army, though his weight, far 
below the required minimum, rendered him ineligible. 



He successively sought to enter the Engineer Corps, the 
Ordnance Department, expressly for service abroad, and 
the Coast Artillery Corps, in which he passed an examina- 
tion for a commission. Becoming impatient at the long 
delay in receiving a report upon this application, and 
heeding the appeal of aviation to his love of sports, he 
enlisted in September, 1917, as a private, first class, in 
the Aviation Section of the Signal Corps. Having passed 
successfully through the ground school training at the 
Massachusetts Institute of Technology, he was detailed 
to Mineola, Long Island, whence he expected to be sent 
immediately overseas with his section for final instruction 
in aviation. Instead he received, on October 26, the de- 
layed commission as provisional second lieutenant in the 
Coast Artillery Corps, U. S. Army. By this time he had 
gone so far in aviation that he would have preferred to 
remain in that branch of service, but on the advice of his 
commanding officer he accepted his commission and ap- 
plied for transfer to the flying squadron. This was re- 
fused, and reluctantly but cheerfully he went, December 
1, to Fortress Monroe, Virginia, for a new routine of mili- 
tary drill. 

Here he made a new group of devoted and most con- 
genial friends, and here he passed a trying winter in cold 
barracks — an experience which probably had a direct 
bearing upon his final illness. Near the end of his train- 
ing course, he applied, with forty others, for aerial obser- 
vation service in connection with the Coast Artillery, and 
was one of fifteen who passed the examination, the last of 
a series of hard physical tests in the army. On April 1, 
1918, he obtained a ten days' leave of absence to visit his 



family before entering on the special aerial training for the 
work to which he aspired. He came home sick, and on 
April 11 died at Wellesley of pneumonia, with a smile 
and a cheerful word on his lips. 

A multitude of friends and comrades in college, training 
camps, and business bore witness to their appreciation 
of his lovable characteristics and their gratitude for what 
his life had already achieved. 



Class of 1917 

Vjtustav Hermann Kissel was a son of Rudolph 
Hermann Ejssel, senior member of the New York banking 
firm of Kissel, Kinnicutt and Company, and Caroline 
(Morgan) Kissel. He was born at Washington, D. C, 
March 3, 1895. Until he entered Milton Academy in 1909, 
his boyhood was spent in Washington and Morristown, 
New Jersey. At Milton he learned easily and stood high 
in his studies. For two years he was a member of the school 
hockey team, and in his last year was one of the four moni- 
tors chosen by his schoolmates. Entering Harvard with 
the Class of 1917, he continued his interest in hockey as 
a member of the freshman team, and was for three years 
a member of the second University team. He belonged 



also to the Institute of 1770, D. K. E., Stylus, O. K., 
Hasty Pudding, and Spee Clubs, of the last of which he 
was vice-president. With many others of his class he 
left college in the spring of 1917, but his work as a student 
had been such that at the Commencement of 1918, shortly 
after his death, the degree of A.B. was awarded to him, 
cum laude. 

On May 17, 1917, he enlisted as a private in the Aviation 
Section of the Signal Corps in the United States Army. 
For eight weeks he studied aviation at the ground school 
of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and on 
July 17 sailed for France on the Orduna, with the first 
American aviation squadron to set out for the front. 
This was under the command of Kissel's brother-in-law. 
Captain James Ely Miller, who was killed in the following 
March in aerial combat. In the same squadron were 
Kissel's classmate, WiUiam Smith Ely, besides his younger 
Harvard contemporaries, Quentin Roosevelt, and Hamil- 
ton Coolidge, all to lose their lives as aviators. 

Kissel spent August and September in Paris as a cadet 
in aviation, attached to the American Expeditionary 
Forces but unassigned. On September 27 he received his 
commission as first lieutenant, and proceeded immediately 
to England for aviation training at the Central Flying 
Station of Upavon, Wiltshire, and at Ayr, in Scotland. 
On December 3 he received his British wings. On March 
18, 1918, he went to the front, attached to Squadron 43 
of the British Royal Air Forces. In a letter of March 30 
Kissel, after describing his life at Ayr, wrote: 

I was then ordered overseas in active service with a British 
squadron and here I am in the midst of the "big noise." This 



is a great squadron and I am enjoying myself immensely. I 
won't cross the lines as a war pilot for a week or so, because I 
must first fly around and learn the country. We are billeted 
in the town, and I have a most comfortable and "honest-to- 
God" bed in an old French woman's house. The other ofiicers 
seem to be fine fellows, and all in all, I could n't wish for a 
pleasanter way to meet the Hun, particularly as my work itself 
is bound to be most interesting and exciting. 

It was for a Harvard friend and classmate, George C. 

Whiting, who had been in training with him at Ayr and 

afterwards was attached to the same British squadron in 

,the field, to write after Kissel's death, of his qualities as 

an aviator: 

At Ayr he won for himself the respect and admiration of the 
staff as the most brilliant flyer — English or American — that 
had ever gone through the school. He was without exception 
the most perfect "camel" pilot I have ever seen, and when he 
came to "43" he at once took the position of the squadron's 
best flyer. As you doubtless know, a pilot upon reaching a 
squadron in the field has about two weeks to get acclimated 
and familiar with the country before starting war flying. Dur- 
ing this time your son had made a reputation for himself 
throughout the entire wing. It was generally predicted that 
he would surely be America's leading ace. 

Less than a month after Kissel reached the front he fell, 
April 12, 1918, near Merville, France, in combat. On 
the following day Major C. C. Miles, commanding the 
43d Squadron, wrote to Kissel's father: 

I am very sorry indeed to have to inform you that your son 
was missing on 12/4. I have every hope that he is a prisoner 
and unhurt, particularly as he was an exceptionally fine pilot 
and would not easily be shot down by any Hun. He was last 



seen fighting an Albatross and was "all over" the Hun for 
manoeuvre. I am afraid that after this he must have got 
separated from the patrol and lost himself and been compelled 
to land behind the lines. 

He is a very great loss to this squadron, as I am certain he 
would have done exceptionally fine work. He was a wonderful 
pilot — one of the finest natural pilots I have ever seen — and 
very keen indeed. 

In greater detail his friend, Whiting, wrote nearly a 
year later : 

I was with him on his first "show" and know as well as any- 
one how he was brought down, but I assure you that if Major 
Miles was vague in writing you he told you all we knew. 

In a dog fight such as we were engaged in, things happen so 
quickly that one scarcely knows what is going on. On this 
particular occasion we were attacked by greatly superior num- 
bers from above, and at the first burst two of our machines went 
down. One I saw falling past me in flames — the pilot evidently 
shot — and the other crashed on the ground. It was pure bad 
luck that your son was hit, as the Hun seldom makes a score on 
the first burst. Except at very close range an enemy machine 
is not generally regarded as dangerous. 

Your son was naturally put in the best flight in the squadron 
and under a flight commander who was regarded as one of the 
best and most experienced in the R. A. F. 

In the Triennial Report of the Class of 1917, Kissel's 
classmate, Laurence M. Lombard, has written: 

Those of us who knew Gustav well, who appreciated his 
steadfast character, and keen, alert intellect, are not surprised 
at his brilliant record in aviation. We knew his quiet, unasser- 
tive manner and cheerfulness would make friends for him 
wherever he went. To us these gratifying reports of his last 
few months are merely a confirmation of our belief. 



Ph.D. 1916 

JCiRNEST Edward WEiBEL,[the inventor of "Captain 
Weibel's method" for locating enemy batteries, was a 
student at the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences for a 
single year, 1915-16, at the end of which he received the 
Harvard degree of Ph.D. 

He was the son of Edward Albert Weibel and Annie 
Sabina (Holzapfel) Weibel, native Kansans, whose parents, 



respectively, were Swiss and German emigrants. He was 
born at Eudora, Kansas, August 5, 1889, and attended the 
grade and high schools at Colony, Kansas, graduating at 
the age of seventeen. He entered the University of Kan- 
sas in 1906, and graduated from its School of Engineer- 
ing, with the degree of B.S., in 1911. His quickness in 
mastering his studies enabled him while in college to de- 
vote almost all of his time to the physics laboratory and 
the power plant of the local Edison Company. Before his 
graduation he also held a position for some time in the 
Bureau of Standards at Washington. He became a mem- 
ber of the honorary scientific fraternity, Sigma Psi. 
Tennis and music were his recreations, and there was 
hardly an instrument on which he could not play. 

Immediately after leaving college he began his longer 
service at the National Bureau of Standards. This was 
interrupted by a year of study and teaching (1912-13) 
at Cornell and by that other year in Cambridge to which 
reference has been made. At Harvard he held a Whiting 
Fellowship in Physics, and on winning his Ph.D. degree 
returned again to the Bureau of Standards as assistant 
physicist. In this position he remained until, in Decem- 
ber, 1917, he was commissioned captain. Engineer Corps, 
United States Army. At the Bureau of Standards he per- 
fected several pieces of apparatus afterwards put into use, 
among them a device for detecting hydrogen gas in sub- 
marines. His work on the "range locator" began about 
July 15, 1917. Not until it was successfully tested did he 
receive his commission, and it was to put the apparatus 
into use as a protection of our troops from the enemy's 
gases that he was sent overseas. 



Early in February, 1918, he sailed for France, and was 
immediately attached to G-2 C, G.H.Q., A.E.F. Though 
technically and more specifically attached to Company B, 
29th Engineers, he was trained, with all the other officers 
of the "Sound and Flash Ranging Service" of the Ameri- 
can Army, with the British, and spent two weeks of in- 
struction near the G.H.Q., B.E.F. This was followed 
by four weeks at a front line station, known as U-Sound 
Ranging Section, First Field Survey Company, British 
Royal Engineers. 

On April 8, the section to which he was attached was 
heavily shelled, and all hands were forced to take refuge 
in a cellar. When they came up to clear away the damage 
a gas attack began, and so little was its severity realized 
that the whole section was seriously affected by it, and 
all the officers were casualties. Weibel was taken the 
next morning to the hospital. Number 6 Clearing Station, 
immediately contracted pneumonia, and died April 12. 
He was buried the next day in a British cemetery near 
Bethune, where, at the wishes of his parents, his body has 
remained. The Post of the American Legion at Colony, 
Kansas, bears his name. 

"He was such a happy personality," writes his friend 
Thomas Amory Lee (Harvard, LL.B. '13), "with such 
keenness of intellect and so much cordiality that he won 
friends wherever he happened to be. A letter from Major 
Augustus Trowbridge, who had had Captain Weibel in 
his command, expressed his great personal appreciation 
of Weibel's ability and added that he quickly mastered 
the technique of his temporary profession, won the esteem 



of the British officers — and his charming personality 
evidently quite won their friendship," 

Apart from all his personal qualities, it was Captain 
Weibel's peculiar good fortune to make, through his scien- 
tific attainments, a definite and valuable contribution to 
the conduct of the war from which his own service was so 
soon cut off. 



Class of 1915 

Arthur Broadfield Warren was born in Waban, 
Massachusetts, February 25, 1894, a son of Herbert Lang- 
ford Warren and Catharine Clark (Reed) Warren. His 
father, who died in 1917, was the first dean of the Harvard 
School of Architecture, a scholar and humanist educated in 
England and Germany, who for twenty-five years made an 



important contribution to the work of the University as 
an agency of liberal education. His mother, who died late 
in 1920, was a daughter of the Reverend James Reed 
(Harvard, '55), of Boston, President of the New Church 
(Swedenborgian) Theological School of Cambridge from 
1894 to 1908. His ancestry was American and English 
far back into the history both of his native land and of the 
mother country. 

When he was about two years old his family moved to 
Cambridge, which was thenceforth his home. But for 
one year in Munich, Germany, where he was a student at 
Dr. Coit's School, he received his preparation for college 
in the Cambridge public schools. In 1911 he graduated 
from the Cambridge Latin School and entered Harvard. 
At his graduation with the Class of 1915 he received the 
degree of A.B. magna cum laiide. In college he specialized 
in German, and in order to perfect himself in that language 
he spent the summer of 1914 in Germany as a special 
student at the University of Marburg. He returned to 
Harvard in the autumn after many interesting experiences 
in Germany during the first few weeks of the war. Govern- 
ment regulation had compelled him to leave the University, 
and he seized the opportunity to visit Frankfort and Berlin 
and other German cities before he was obliged to return 
to America. The atmosphere surrounding him through 
these early days of excitement made him temporarily pro- 
German; but his homeward journey was via England, and 
through what he learned there he became rather more 
rabidly anti-German than most of his countrymen. 

During the academic year of 1915-16 he taught French 
and German at the Hallock School in Great Barrington, 



Massachusetts. In the autumn of 1916 he returned to 
Harvard to study for a master's degree in Romance 
Languages. At the same time he was receiving military 
instruction in the Harvard R. O. T. C, and in May, 1917, 
he left college to enter the first Plattsburg camp. At the 
1917 Commencement the degree of A.M. was awarded to 
him. He meant to continue his studies after the war but 
was undecided whether to seek his Ph.D. at Harvard or 
abroad. His earlier wish had been to take it at a German 
university, but of course the war altered that. 

At the end of the Plattsburg course he received his 
commission a? second lieutenant in the infantry, and was 
assigned to Camp Devens. After a few days there he was 
ordered, September 10, 1917, to Company H, 167th U. S. 
Infantry, a regiment of the 42d ("Rainbow") Division. 
Formerly the 4th Alabama National Guard, it was now 
augmented to war strength by combination with portions 
of other regiments. With this company and regiment 
Warren served until his death. 

The company was in training at Camp Mills, Mineola, 
Long Island, until November 5, 1917, when it left for 
Montreal. Arriving there early in the morning of Novem- 
ber 6, it embarked on the Ascania, landed in Liverpool, 
and proceeded to W inchester, where it arrived December 1 . 
A week later it embarked at Southampton for Havre, 
reaching there December 8 and going to Rest Camp Num- 
ber 2. On December 11 it left the rest camp, in the famous 
"Hommes 40, Chevaux 8," arriving at St. Blin on the 13th. 
The men immediately began clearing mud from the streets 
and policing the untidy yards. Warren's knowledge of 
French made him particularly useful in that work and 



enabled him to obtain far better quarters for his platoon 
than the average. 

They left St. Blin the day after Christmas and made a 
three days' march through a heavy snowstorm to Leffonds. 
Here the drill was more practical, and within sound of big 
guns in Alsace the men practised the manoeuvres they 
were later to use in action. On February 16, 1918, they 
left Leffonds for a town nearer the lines, getting into the 
trenches in March. At this stage of his career, while the 
official interpreter was absent, Warren took his place. His 
first experience in the trenches w^as on March 6, 1918, in 
a quiet part of the Lorraine sector. It was really more in 
the nature of training than fighting, although some casual- 
ties resulted from shell fire. 

Early in April, while acting as officer in charge of the 
ammunition detail at night and in charge of his platoon 
during the daytime, Warren fell ill. After a few days of 
working in spite of his illness he was sent to the hospital 
at Baccarat where he died on April 15, 1918, of what 
proved to be an unusually malignant form of scarlet 

Such is the bare outline of his scholastic and military 
career. For the personal qualitj^ of the man himself the 
following passages from W^arren's letters written under 
arms may well speak: 

March 3, 19 IS. 

Here I am sitting hj a desk in a comfortable warm room with 
a nice cushy staff job. Yesterday I was appointed acting ])at- 
talion adjutant to take the place for a few days of the regular 
adjutant, who is visiting the front. I have been sitting in the 
office all morning, sending out messages and memoranda by the 



orderlies and very much enjoying life, which is enlivened now 
and then by a rumble and roar from the big guns, reminding one 
that the Boche is still alive and kicking. 

Another job has devolved upon me lately. The official inter- 
preter is away, and I have been called upon to do my best, 
which still is pretty poor, with French officers and civilians. The 
difficulty of language causes innumerable misunderstandings, 
some of which I have had to straighten out, as well as interpret- 
ing when French officers blow in to give our officers some dope, 
to explain plans, etc. Yesterday, while I was busy at battalion 
headquarters, a French private came in and asked for an inter- 
preter. No better man was available, so I stepped over to 
French headquarters (there is a French detachment in the same 
village) and found there an old French peasant, who claimed to 
have been maltreated by the American soldiers billeted in his 

It was only a misunderstanding arising out of the difference 
in language. The old Frenchman could not make them under- 
stand what he wanted, got violently excited apparently, as they 
always do, talked very fast and waved his arms about; and the 
Alabamans, a rough, quick-tempered lot, always spoiling for a 
fight, lost their tempers. It is hard enough for me to keep patient 
with these people when they get going, even though I under- 
stand them, for they would rather talk than eat, and never give 
you a chance to get in a word edgewise when you are doing your 
darnedest to help them. Of course, the soldiers had no business 
to rough him up the way they did, but that is the only way they 
know of settling difficulties. The French lieutenant with whom 
I talked is a prince of a fellow, and we succeeded in calming the 
old man with assurances that in the future the soldiers would 
show the proper respect due to his age, and observe his rights as 
a private citizen. We had no trouble between the French people 
and the soldiers in other towns, but these people are sick of hav- 
ing their barns and houses used as billets, and are harder to get 
on with. 




Just a hasty pencilled line in the wee small hours of the morn- 
ing. I am still very much alive, well and happy. I don't really 
think it is the happiness of self-sacrifice, as you say, but the hap- 
piness of human nature. 

I have settled down to regular hours again but they are just 
the reverse of those to which I am accustomed. I sleep all day 
and am up all night. By that arrangement I get very little ex- 
ercise, for most of the night I am sitting in a dugout. But for 
that matter, of course there is less opportunity for exercise in the 
trenches at all times than during the period of training: there 
is so little room to move about. I rather miss the bright sun- 
shine which those who work in the daytime are enjoying, but the 
stars are very friendly companions. It is comforting to look 
at them and find the same stars that I used to see from the roof 
piazza of "The Ledges." Stars have more personality and in- 
dividuality than the sun, anyway. 

I think people at home get the idea that the trenches are 
perpetually a blazing hell, reeking with blood and horrible with 
martial sounds. I did not realize myself, till I got here, how 
much one sits around and watches, without doing anything. 

We are sitting here, they are sitting there; we shell them once 
in a while, they shell us. We take a shot in the dark at a sus- 
picious sound, they spatter some harmless machine gun bullets 
over our heads. Neither side accomplishes anything. The men 
are getting impatient. They want to go over and get them, and 
some day they are going to do it. They are in excellent si)irits, 
absolutely without fear, and eager for action. 

In the Trenches, 
March 9, 19 IS. 

I was up all last night as officer of the guard and I 'm so sleepy 
now that I can scarcely hold my head up, but I think I can man- 
age to send you some sort of a letter. Mail has been hitting me 
heavily lately, after a long interval of no news from home. 

After a cold night we are having a beautiful spring day, with 



}>lue sky and bright sunshine, with just enough chill on the edge 
of the air to make it interesting and restful. The birds are 
tweeting away in the trees and but for the whirr of an aeroplane 
one would n't know there was a war going on. However, they 
are likely to throw a shell over here any moment; you never can 
tell when they'll start. Or perhaps a machine gun somewhere 
on the line will start its rat-tat-tat, like an automatic riveter on 
a New York skyscraper. Bam! there goes a solitary shell off to 
my right. I'll let the shrapnel punctuate this letter and write 
bam whenever one explodes. Bam! the blooming things are 
rather troublesome sometimes. Last night one destroyed 500 
cigarettes that one of the men had just received from home, and 
cigarettes, you know, are a priceless possession, being necessary 
to a soldier's comfort and welfare and difficult to obtain. 

One of the things that impresses me most about this trench 
warfare is the amount of ammunition they waste. Somebody 
gets tired of sitting around beside a lovely looking gun with 
nothing to do, hates to see the ammunition lying idle beside him, 
so he fires a few shots just for luck, without particularly seeing 
what he is shooting at. Bam! Of course they knock a little hole 
in the parapet once in a while — bam! — but it costs them a 
good deal to do it. I believe some one has figured it out that if 
one man had been killed by every grenade thrown in this war, 
there would be no one left alive in the world. From my experi- 
ence so far I should say that life in the trenches is rather — bam! 
— dull and monotonous. So far, I have not found it all uncom- 
fortable. The weather — bam! — conditions — bam! — have 
been good and my dugout is not a bad place to live, although it 
is rather crowded. Bam! 

The French people are awfully unconcerned — bam! bam! — 
about the war. In the villages close behind the lines, they go 
about their work and lead their perfectly humdrum lives just 
exactly as if nothing were going on. Wlien the French anti- 
aircraft guns begin — bam! — shelling a German plane, they 
rarely stop to look or perhaps merely glance up for a moment, 



shrug their shoulders, murmur "Boche," and go on piling ma- 
nurfe by the front doorway, which is a principal occupation in 
every French household in the small villages of this particular 
"somewhere," at least. 

I am very much interested in the newspapers that your 
mother occasionally sends me — ham! bam! ham! ham! — I read 
in one of them an article by Frank Simonds on the big German 
drive which all the military critics are expecting. Bam! bam! 
about nine times at an aeroplane! When you are on the line 
yourself, or close behind it, as I was when I received this par- 
ticular Herald it is — bam! — unusually interesting to see where 
they think the big spring Boche drive is going to come. Bam! 
The pictures in the Sunday Herald — bam! — I am mighty glad 
to get too. Bam! People at home seem to know more about the 
war than I do, and American newspapers are much more in- 
teresting than the French. I could — batn! — tell you what is 
going on right where I am, but I hear nothing of the rest of the 

March 19, 1918. 

I enjoyed my stretch in the trenches very much. Fortune 
favored us with beautiful weather, which still continues, and 
when the ground is dry and the air balmy, war is not bad at all, 
even if a few machine gun bullets do sing past your ear once in 
a while, or an H. E. shell comes hurtling through the tree tops. 
The Boche proved himself a very poor shot, so far as I was con- 
cerned, and, except for one solitary fragment from a shell that 
burst in the air, which struck the ground within a few feet of me, 
he did n't come anywhere near me. An incident like that is so 
trifling as not really to be worth mentioning; for no one regards 
it as a narrow escape. It is astonishing how many shells explode 
near one and how many bullets one hears without being hit by 

We are now billeted again in one of the typical French vil- 
lages of which I have now seen more than a few. The day we 
arrived was hot and glorious with blue sky and sunshine. The 



regimental band greeted us, as we marched into the village, with 
military marches and popular airs; and although we were all 
tired from our lack of sleep, and dirty from our stay in the dug- 
outs, we picked up our feet and held our heads erect when we 
heard the music. There is nothing like a good band, and we 
have a crackerjack, to restore our spirits and freshen exhausted 

I am now back at my old game of making friends with the 
French peasants, and have already captured the heart of one 
little old woman, crooked and dried up, homely as a board fence, 
but cheerful and open-hearted. She seized upon me as soon as 
she found I could speak French, bids me an effusive, "Bon jour, 
m'sieur," whenever I pass her house, and feeds me apples when 
no one else is looking. I imagine she does n't want it too gen- 
erally known that she has a cellar full of most delicious apples. 

The old "game of making friends" was to end all too 



Class of 1916 

William Wallace Thayer, a son of William Foote 
Thayer and Martha Horton (Sterns) Thayer, was born at 
Westfield, Massachusetts, June 25, 1895. When he was ten 
years old his parents moved to Somerville, Massachusetts, 
and there he graduated from the Latin High School in 1912. 
The minister of the church at Winter Hill with which his 



family became closely associated, the Rev. Charles L. 
Noyes, has written of him : 

He was the most promising youth of his generation among us 
— a very engaging, attractive, intelligent, capable personality, 
commanding respect as of one beyond his years. He was, 
though slight, promising to have the stature of a man above the 
average, and with a dignity of bearing which spoke a gift of 
leadership. This he showed among his contemporaries, always 
being the spokesman, initiator, leader in sports, organizations, 
debates, etc., among the young people. He early gave evidence 
of powers of expression, and public address. He was gaining in 
literary forms, and was thoughtful, serious, logical, and effective 
as a speaker. He was of a noble, generous, pure, and high- 
minded disposition and character, being an influence toward 
all that was honorable and excellent among his associates. 

He entered Harvard College with the Class of 1916, of 
which he remained a member for only two years. Through 
that time he lived at home, and except for playing lacrosse 
in his freshman year, took but little part in undergraduate 
life outside the classrooms. At the end of his sophomore 
year he left Harvard and entered the Massachusetts 
Agricultural College at Amherst, Massachusetts. Here he 
joined the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity, in which he was 
much beloved, and became a member of the college glee 
and mandolin clubs, an officer of his class, and the author 
of one of the college songs. The new conditions of his 
life provided opportunities, which he was quick to seize, 
for the exercise of leadership. 

His degree at Amherst was awarded to him in June, 
1917, though he had left the college in May of that year 
to enter the First Officers' Training Camp at Plattsburg. 
On August 15 he was commissioned second lieutenant of 



infantry, and ordered to Camp Devens, where he was 
assigned to Company B, 301st Infantry, 76th Division. 
The strain and exposure of mihtary duties proved too 
much for his physical endurance, and in December, 
stricken with tuberculosis, he left Devens for the home of 
his parents. Uncomplaining, cheerful, and courageous, 
he maintained a losing fight with his illness until April 19, 
1919, when he died at Somerville. He was buried at West- 
field, the place of his birth. 

At the Harvard Commencement of 1920 his name was 
enrolled among those to whom the war degree of A.B. was 
awarded, as of the Class of 1916. 



Law School 1915-17 

Arthur Russell Gaylord, born at Minneapolis, 
Minnesota, March 1, 1893, was a son of Edson S. Gaylord, 
a lawyer of that city, and Louise (March) Gaylord, and 
traced descent from William Gaylord, an early settler 
both of Dorchester, Massachusetts, and of Windsor, Con- 
necticut. He attended the grade schools and the North 



High School of MinneapoHs, from which he graduated 
in 1911. Four years later he took the degree of Bachelor 
of Arts at the University of Minnesota, and proceeded at 
once, in the autumn of 1915, to the Harvard Law School, 
Here he was nearing the end of his second year of legal 
study when war was declared. 

In May, 1917, he entered the Officers' Training Camp at 
Fort Snelling, Minnesota. On August 15 he was commis- 
sioned first lieutenant of infantry, and on September 12, 
ordered overseas as an observer, and for further instruc- 
tion sailed from New York for France. Arriving there 
about October 1, he received his first foreign training at 
the Franco-American Infantry School at La Valbonne. 
On November 12 he was assigned to the 18th Infantry, 
First Division, and with this regiment continued his train- 
ing at Houdelaincourt, Meuse. 

Early in January, 1918, the regiment was transferred to 
the front trenches northwest of Toul. Here Gay lord par- 
ticipated in repelling enemy attacks on January 26 and 
March 1. For the unit of which he was a member there 
was no lack of vital service. Late in March he joined the 
Fifth Army in front of Amiens at Cantigny, and early in 
April was transferred to the Picardy front, near Mont- 
didier. Here at Villers-Tournelle, on April 28, Gaylord 
was killed in action. 



Class of 1915 

Jb REDERiCK Arthur Keep, born at Wollaston, Mas- 
sachusetts, November 23, 1892, was the only son of 
Frederick Heber Keep and Alice Leavitt (Canney) Keep. 
He was prepared for college at the public schools of Mil- 
ton, Massachusetts, the home of his parents, and at 
Milton Academy. Entering Harvard with the Class of 
1915, he left college in January of his sophomore year, 



and became a reporter, first on the Springfield Unioji, 
then on the New Bedford Standard, and was afterwards 
a special correspondent of the Cleveland News. Return- 
ing to Cambridge in the autumn of 1916, he brought to 
his work the maturer point of view that resulted from his 
experience in journalism, and applied himself especially 
to studies in literature which might fortify his own equip- 
ment for writing. The death of his onh^ sister in Decem- 
ber of this year affected him deeply, and as war became 
more clearly inevitable the conflict of Keep's duties to 
his parents and to his country must have grown acute. 
Such college interests as his membership in the Kappa 
Gamma Chi fraternity were soon swallowed up, as with 
so many other students in 1916-17, in the problem of his 
personal relation to the war. By April his mind seems 
to have been c^uite made up, for immediately upon the 
declaration of war by the United States he went to Wash- 
ington and offered himself as a candidate for an aviator's 
commission. He was examined and told to hold himself 
in readiness for a call to be made as soon as the necessary 
equipment should be ready. 

As a member of the Harvard R. 0. T. C, he was one 
of the color-bearers at the review of the Harvard Regiment 
by Marshal Joffre in the Stadium in May, 1917. On May 
13, 1917, he went to the first R. O, T, C. camp at Platts- 
burg, and received his commission as a second lieutenant 
of infantry on August 13. For a few days in August he 
was attached to the 304th Infantry at Camp Devens. 
On August 31 he was sent to Camp Borden, Ontario, for 
instruction in machine gunnery and military aeronautics 
with the Royal Flying Corps — one of the first ten oflricers 



chosen from various camps for this purpose. After further 
instruction in aeronautics at Toronto University and at 
Cadet Wing, Royal Flying Corps, Long Branch, Toronto, 
Ontario, the aviation ground school connected with the 
School of Military Aeronautics, he was ordered Novem- 
ber 10, 1917, to TaHaferro Field, Fort Worth, Texas, 
where he was attached to the 28th Aero Squadron as a 
second lieutenant, S. R. C, A. S. 

Here he stood always among the first to volunteer for 
hazardous duty, and won the commendation of his su- 
perior officers for his tireless enthusiasm and devotion to 
duty during the trying times when there were few to carry 
on the organization of this camp. On November 23 he 
met with serious injury in an airplane crash, and was sent 
to the base hospital at Fort Worth, suffering from a com- 
pound fracture of one of his legs and a broken hip. He 
was later transferred to the Army and Navy Hospital at 
Hot Springs, Arkansas. After a short leave of absence 
to his home, he reported for duty again on March 21, 
1918, and was assigned to the 78th Aero Squadron at 
Taliaferro Field, the 28th, to which he was previously 
attached, having gone overseas in January. 

On May 3, while in the air with a fellow-officer, his plane 
got into a tail-spin at 2000 feet, and he was unable to right 
it before crashing. The severe injuries he received proved 
fatal three days later. His body was taken to his home, 
and on May 10 received burial in Milton Cemetery with 
full military honors. 

At the Harvard Commencement of 1920 the war degree 
of A.B. was awarded to Frederick Arthur Keep as a mem- 
ber of the Class of 1915. 



One of Keep's classmates speaks of him, in the Second 
Report of the Class of 1915, as "almost abnormally shy 
and sensitive," and armed, when in casual company, 
"with an aloof and half cynical manner." His friends 
recognized in him "high courage, dash, and fighting 
spirit"; but in the words of his class biographer, "only 
those who sat with him in his room in Wadsworth during 
some of the long spring evenings, or around the wood fire, 
in winter, really knew the man." 



Class of 1916 

xiiMERSON's unselfishness was as natural and as un- 
conscious as his breathing; to him it was the simplest 
thing in the world quietly to give his life that the world 
might be better." 

These are the terms in which Frederick Winsor (Har- 
vard, '93) spoke of William Key Bond Emerson, Jr., at a 
memorial service held at the Middlesex School, Concord, 
Massachusetts, immediately after his death. The young 
man who earned such praise was born in New York City, 
April 9, 1894, the eldest son of William Key Bond Emer- 
son and Maria Holmes (Furman) Emerson, At Middle- 
sex, from which he entered Harvard in the autumn of 
1912, he was for six years a prominent and popular figure 



in the life of the school. "During the first few years," 
it is recorded of him in " Middlesex School in the War," 
"he played on the lower football teams and rowed on the 
Sudbury crews, but in both his second and first class years 
he was a member of the first School team and crew. In- 
terested in everything that was going on. Bill was always 
among the leaders in the School, and earned for himself a 
reputation as a hard worker and true sportsman. What- 
ever he did, he gave his best to, and it was this quality in 
him, perhaps, more than anything else that brought him 
always to the front." 

In college he played on his sophomore and junior class 
football teams, and rowed on the victorious sophomore 
crew in 1914. In that year he was secretary of the 
Crimson. He belonged to the Institute of 1770, D. K. E., 
Stylus, Signet, Hasty Pudding, and Spee Clubs. "His 
interest in his studies," in the words of the Class of 1916's 
Memorial Report (1920), "was intense, particularly in 
French and in literature. It was in the latter that he de- 
veloped so strongly the ideals which led him to his long 
war record and to his glorious death." 

That record began in the summer of his junior year, 
1915, when he joined the American Field Service, went 
to France, and served with Section 9 of the ambulance 
corps in the Vosges. Of his work at that time the leader 
of the section afterwards wrote: "He was so straight- 
forward and so true and such a gentleman through and 
through. He had a great sense of duty and loyalty, and 
was morally as well as physically courageous. He was 
always so eager to do more than his share that he was an 
inspiration to those about him; and ever cheerful, kind, 



and thoughtful, he won the very deep affection and re- 
spect of everyone." 

In January, 1916, Emerson returned to Harvard, and 
in the following June graduated with his class. While 
abroad he determined to study aeronautics, and for this 
purpose entered the Massachusetts Institute of Technol- 
ogy in the autumn of 1916 after a term of special prepara- 
tion at the summer school of Columbia University. But 
the call of active service was too strong for him, and in 
January, 1917, he left the Tech, reenlisted in the Ameri- 
can Field Service, and returned to France. Here he was 
assigned at first to Section 13 attached to a French 
division taking part in the Champagne offensive; but 
he was soon transferred to his old section. Number 3, 
then engaged, as readers of the memoir of Henry Brewster 
Palmer, '10,^ will remember, in service of intense activity 
on the Salonika front. Here Emerson acquitted himself 
with such credit that he won a citation for the Croix de 
Guerre, bestowed for conspicuous bravery while evacuat- 
ing wounded under shell-fire near Monastir. 

The time for which Emerson had impatiently waited 
was now come, and after the United States entered the 
war he wrote from Serbia, "Many less able-bodied men 
than I could fill my place here, and I feel very strongly 
that I should be fighting with our troops in France." To 
this end he left the Balkans, and, without returning to 
the United States, succeeded in France in obtaining a 
commission as second lieutenant, field artillery, in the 
army of his country. Assigned to the French Officers' Ar- 
tillery School at Valdahon for instruction as an observer, 

1 See Vol. II, p. 171. 


he made an admirable record, described in "Middlesex 
School in the War" in the following terms: 

Thanks to his perseverance and to his mathematical knowl- 
edge he graduated at the head of his class and was for a time 
made instructor at the school. His letters describing this were 
very characteristic, as he emphasized not the pride of accom- 
plishment but his regret at the possibility of hurting other men 
who had gone through the class with him, and were now put 
under him for instruction. For the last week of his stay there, 
although he was one of the youngest men in the school, he was 
given entire charge of it, according to the report of one of his 

His training at Valdahon was completed in February, 
1918. He was then assigned, for a brief period, to the 
15th Field Artillery, U. S. A., afterwards to the 228th 
French Escadrille, for further aerial training, and finally, 
at the beginning of May, 1918, to the 12th Aero Squadron, 
U. S. A., then in the Toul sector. His work was that of 
an artillery observer. On one of his first flights over the 
lines, on May 14, the plane in which he and his pilot, 
Lieutenant C. M. Angell (Technology, '18), were flying 
was shot down, near Toul, and both men were killed. 
Another young Harvard officer, Kenneth Pickens Culbert, 
'17, attached to an aero squadron, and destined himself 
to fall just a week after Emerson, wrote to Professor 
Copeland on May 21st, two days before his own death: 
"Billy Emerson, '16, was the sixth [of a small club], but 
I regret to tell you that last taps were sounded for him 
last week. W'e do not know whether the antis got him, 
or whether it was a Boche plane. He went out on a 
reglage and was shot down in our lines. He was an honor 



to Harvard, a gentleman and a soldier, and the first of our 
little club to gain the one glorious epitaph." 

Emerson was buried in the American Cemetery at 
Vignot, in France. The aviation field at Camp Jackson, 
South Carolina, was named, in honor of this first American 
officer killed in action as an aerial observer, Emerson 
Field. With the final words about him in the Memorial 
Report of his class this memoir may most fitly end: 

Those of us who had met Bill socially liked him, those of us 
who called him friend loved him. He was always unselfish; 
always cheerful; always upright. We never knew him to do 
a selfish act; we never saw him without a cheery grin; we 
never knew him to betray a confidence. He was always the 
same Bill. He was never wanting when we needed a friend, 
and he was always solidly behind us when we needed support 
in a right course. 

We shall always hold his memory as a shining example of 
one who gave his all, unselfishly and willingly, to the glorious 
cause of liberty. 



Class of 1918 

JLVOGER Sherman Dix, Jr., a son of Roger Sherman 
Dix and Louise (Parish) Dix, of Boston and Greenbush, 
Massachusetts, was born in Boston, December 9, 1896. 
He was prepared for college at the Country Day School 
for Boys of Boston, Newton, Massachusetts, and entered 
Harvard with the class of 1918. There he was a member 
of the Country Day School Club and of Kappa Sigma. 
He also joined the Harvard Regiment, and attended two 
Plattsburg camps. At the end of his junior year he left 
college to enlist in the American Field Service and in July 
was attached to Section One near Verdun. This veteran 
section had seen hard service since January, 1915, and 
between July and October, 1917, the term of Dix's con- 



nection with it, won an army citation with pahn, "for its 
vahant conduct at Verdun in August, 1917, when every- 
body admired its audacity and zeal notwithstanding the 
continued bombardment of the roads by large asphyxiat- 
ing shells; nor was there any interruption of its service, 
though suffering severe losses." ^ Both the dangers and 
humors of the time are recalled in the pages of William 
Yorke Stevenson's diary, "From Poilu to Yank." ^ Here 
may be found an amusing glimpse of Dix: 

The latest method to rehabilitate blesses, particularly 
"couches," is to be stopped by a cut road or smashed-up "ravi- 
taillement " train while shells are coming in. Stout, Dix, Buell, 
and several others report remarkable resurrections. "Couches" 
get out and run like deer; while "assis" make regular Annette 
Kellerman dives into "abris."" Dix had to go up and down a 
line of dug-outs shouting: "Ousong mes blesses! Ousong mes 
blesses! " for half an hour the other night before he finally cor- 
ralled them and proceeded on his way. 

A little later, when the section was disbanded in October, 
Dix was among those named by Mr. Stevenson as under 
treatment at the Johns Hopkins Hospital nearby for 
injury from gassing. In November, however, he was 
ready to enlist in the United States Aviation Service, 
which he did. Through the lack of American planes he 
was obliged to remain inactive during the winter. In the 
spring, though wishing to be trained as a pilot, he was 
informed that he would be sent sooner to the front if he 
should take his training as an observer. Accordingly he 

^ History of the American Ambulance Field Service in France, Vol. I, 
p. 187. 

2 Houghton Mifflin Co. 1918. 



became one of twenty-five Americans to volunteer for 
instruction as bombing observers at the French Bombing 
School at Le Crotoy, Somme, in the expectation of reach- 
ing the front for the spring offensive. He received his 
commission as second lieutenant, May 12, 1918, 

Three days later, his instruction completed, with credit 
for the highest marks in his class, the prospect of going 
to the front within a week clearly in view, he was flying 
at Le Crotoy with a French pilot when their plane col- 
lapsed at the height of about six hundred feet, and both 
Dix and the pilot were killed. A French flyer at the school 
summed up the tragedy as the tongue of the mot juste 
could best express it: "Co7nme les autresfois, il etait parti 
confiant, joyeux, et plein d'entrain. Helas, la mort stwpide 
s'est troiive sur son cheynin." 

The twenty-four surviving members of Dix's class at 
the Bombing School signed their names on the day after 
his death to the following letter addressed to his father: 

None of the twenty-four flying cadets of this detachment, of 
which your son, Roger S. Dix, was a member, has words to 
express to you how deeply we feel his loss to you, to us, and to 
the American Expeditionary Force. Cadet Dix was easily the 
most popular member of this detachment. He was a loyal, 
gallant soldier, an assiduous student, an excellent airman and a 
splendid companion. Every man counted him his friend and 
he had never failed us. His fearlessness, his coolness and his 
intrepidity had made it a foregone conclusion that his career 
in his chosen service would have been brilliantly distinguished, 
and his tragic death is a double loss to us and to the Army, 
because he was the possessor of such splendid qualities. 

The undersigned, his comrades, feel, therefore, that it is no 
less than their duty to subscribe to this memorial and to express 



to you, sir, their heartfelt sympathy in your loss. We have lost 
a splendid comrade, the Expeditionary Force a fine soldier, and 
yourself a noble son. 

At the same time First Lieutenant John L. Glover, in 
command of these men, wrote: 

I wish also to sign my name to the above memorial and to 
tell you that, although your son had only been in my command 
for six weeks, in that short time I found him to be a most ex- 
cellent soldier both on the ground and in the air. He was on 
his last training flight, and was to have received the highest 
honors of any of my command for his work here. He died while 
doing work in the air and while holding the position of the first 
in his class. More glory than this no man can claim for his son. 



Class of 1918 

d AMES Palache was born in Berkeley, California, 
July 8, 1896. His father, Whitney Palache, a brother of 
Charles Palache, professor of mineralogy in Harvard Uni- 
versity, was manager of the Pacific branch of the Hartford 
Fire Insurance Company, and is now American manager 
of the Commercial Union Assurance Company of London. 



His grandfather, James Palache, a native of New York, 
sailed round the Horn in 1849, and lived thereafter in 
San Francisco and Berkeley. His mother, Belle White 
(Garber) Palache, was the eldest daughter of Judge John 
Garber, a native of Virginia, a judge of the Supreme Court 
of Nevada, a leading lawyer of San Francisco, appointed 
to the Canal Commission by President Roosevelt in 1904, 
but prevented by his health from accepting the appoint- 

James Palache attended the Randolph School in Berke- 
ley and the Thacher School in southern California; he 
entered Trinity College, Hartford, Connecticut, in 1913, 
and enrolled in the Class of 1918 at Harvard the following 
year. In childhood, in school, in college, in the Army, the 
affection of his friends always testified to the charm of his 
personality and character. At Harvard he was manager 
of the freshman baseball team, a member of the freshman 
and sophomore Finance Committee of his class and mem- 
ber of the Institute of 1770, D. K. E., Speakers', Western, 
Staplers, Phoenix, and Hasty Pudding Clubs. 

In the summer of 1916 he took military training at the 
camp at Plattsburg. In the spring of 1917 he joined the 
first R. O. T. C. at Harvard, and in May went to the first 
Plattsburg camp for officers. After finishing this course, 
he was commissioned a provisional second lieutenant in 
the Regular Army, and sailed for France January 15, 1918, 
where for two months he was under further training. 

In March, 1918, after a visit to the French lines, he was 
assigned to Company E, 18th Infantrj^ First Division, as 
second lieutenant, and first commanded his platoon in 
the Cantigny sector. The new trenches assigned to this 



platoon were quickly and efficiently prepared. He took 
an active part in many coups de main and won great 
confidence from his men, who were devoted to his leader- 
ship, exercised on many occasions when there was no 
necessity for his personal participation, and when, ordi- 
narily, a non-commissioned oflScer would have directed 
the men. Thus he was known as one of the most popular 
younger officers in the First Division. 

On April 12, 1918, he wrote to his father, "I have a 
wonderful platoon, and need all my sense of balance to 
keep from showing my pride too much. To-day we were 
highly complimented by the captain and the Frenchmen 
who watched it work out. However, I have found this 
out — the men in the ranks are the most important ones, 
and what they do, or do not do, counts. To get them be- 
hind you, and working with you, is an officer's only job — 
once that is obtained, the rest is easy." In a later letter, 
he spoke of being "occupied with taking care of fifty odd 
men, just like children, but the biggest, healthiest, most 
lovable, and altogether most fascinating set of young fire- 
eaters you ever saw. I'm really having the time of my 
life. ... I wrote about being in the trenches with the 
French. ... I think they are the most wonderful people 
in the world. You have to be right with them in the 
French Army to appreciate what they are like, are doing, 
have done." 

The 18th Infantry was relieved a few days before the 
American capture of Cantigny. Captain Campbell, of 
this regiment, has written in an official report : 

Lieutenant Pal ache was seriously wounded by a high explo- 
sive shell on the night of May 14-15, 1918, during the relief of 



our company from its sector; Lieutenant Palache was directing 
the relief of his platoon at the time, and seeing that the relieving 
platoon was properly in place before leaving. It was while thus 
engaged that a high explosive shell struck within ten feet of him, 
killing three of the relieving platoon, and wounding himself and 
two of his men. He was struck in the side of the head by a piece 
of the shell, and at first the wound was not considered serious, 
although it rendered him unconscious. Everything possible was 
done for him on the spot. He was carried by his men and the 
writer, who loved him dearly, to the first aid station, and from 
that point he was taken by ambulance to the hospital. Lieu- 
tenant Palache was loved and respected by his men and brother 
officers, and stood equally high in the esteem of his company 
commander. His attention to duty was an object-lesson to 
those about him, and his bravery was proved again and again, 
and recognized by his colonel, who substantiated his recom- 
mendation by his company commander for the Croix de Guerre. 
His death was keenly felt by the e;ntire command, as he was a 
splendid type of an American officer and gentleman. He was 
glorious in his death, as his last words before becoming un- 
conscious were, "Sergeant, I want to march out at the head of 
my platoon." 

His wound was received at Villers Tournelle, about a 
mile behind Cantigny, and he died in the hospital at 
Bonvillers on the evening of the day on which he was 
wounded, May 15, 1918. He was buried in the village 
churchyard at Bonvillers on May 16, 1918, in the ceme- 
tery for the American soldiers who fell at Cantigny. 



Class of 1914 

William Noel Hewitt, younger son of the Rev. 
George Ross Hewitt (Harvard, '83) and the late Helen 
Louise (Fairchild) Hewitt, was born in West Springfield, 
Massachusetts, December 25, 1891. In 1894 he moved 
with his parents to Fitchburg, in 1899 to Lowell, and in 
1902 to West Medwav, Massachusetts, where he attended 



grammar school and graduated from the Medway High 
School in 1910 as valedictorian of his class. To make a 
more thorough preparation for entering college it had been 
planned that he should spend a year at Phillips Andover 
Academy, which his father had attended, but when he 
passed the entrance examinations for Harvard with his 
Medway High School class the extra year at Andover was 
given up, and he entered Harvard in the autumn of 1910. 

As an undergraduate he specialized in music, and took 
his degree cum laude in 1914. He was an active member of 
the Musical Club of the University, to which he was elected 
in 1911. In his senior year he served as its librarian, and 
at the same time was business manager of the Harvard 
Musical Review. In February, 1914, he was elected an 
honorary member of the Pierian Sodality and became the 
conductor of its orchestra in the first of his two years of 
graduate study. He was also a member of the Kappa 
Gamma Chi fraternity, and from the time of his gradua- 
tion to the time of his enlistment occupied a room, when 
in Cambridge, in the house of the fraternity on Mount 
Auburn Street. 

In February, 1916, he received the Harvard degree of 
A.M., for which, in addition to other required work, he 
composed a symphony that won high praise from his 
musical instructors and gave promise, as they said, of 
unique and original work in musical composition. But 
for the outbreak of the war in August, 1914, he would have 
gone to Paris in that year to study under Widor, the 
famous French organist and composer. 

From the very beginning of the war he had taken a keen 
and absorbing interest in its progress. His sympathies 



were strongly with the Alhes, and as our relations with 
Germany became more and more strained he declared 
it to be his purpose to render active service to his country 
if war with that power should be declared. With this 
possibility in view he spent the month of July, 1916, at 
the Plattsburg Training Camp. In the autumn of 1916 
he accepted the position of organist and choirmaster in 
the Episcopal church of Wakefield, Massachusetts, where 
he remained until his enlistment. Immediately after the 
declaration of war he went to Mineola, Long Island, and, 
having passed the requisite tests for aviation, enlisted at 
Boston on June 2, 1917, in the Aviation Service. He was 
ordered at once to the State University at Columbus, 
Ohio, for ground training, and on August 1 to New York, 
whence he sailed overseas on August 18 with the "honor 
group" in which the high quality of his work at Columbus 
had given him a place. Arriving in England about Septem- 
ber 1, he passed six weeks more of study in the principles 
of aviation at Oxford. Then for instruction in flying he 
was sent to France and spent the next four months at the 
Aviation Instruction School at Tours. After a brief fur- 
lough in the spring of 1918, he was assigned to the Third 
Aviation Instruction Centre at Issoudun, France, where 
he received his commission as first lieutenant, April 1, 
1918. Just as his training was nearing completion, and 
he was ready and eager to be ordered to the front, he fell 
to his death in an airplane accident. May 18, 1918. 

The last sentence in his last letter, written the day be- 
fore his death, was this: "I am, as usual, healthily im- 
patient." His impatience was not that of one who loved 
war, for he hated it and went into it only from a high 



sense of duty, and he was only eager to be done with 
training and sent to the front. 

Of the manner of his death, and of the place he had made 
for himself, his commanding officer. Major Carl Spatz, 
wrote at once to Hewitt's father: 

Lieutenant Hewitt was doing very good work on advanced 
types of machines, and was developing into an excellent pilot. 
On the morning of the 18th of May, 1918, he was ordered to 
make a flight as a part of his training, and was doing well, when 
in some unaccountable manner his plane got into a nose dive, 
and, before he could regain control, crashed to the earth. The 
accident occurred at about 10.30 in the morning, and was im- 
mediately reported, with the result that medical and mechanical 
aid were rushed to the scene. Your son was severely and fatally 
injured and was unconscious when the ambulance reached him. 
He was taken to the hospital at once, and despite the fact that 
he received the best of medical attention and comfort, he died 
at 3.55 P.M. the same day. His death was practically without 
pain, for he did not regain consciousness after the smash. At 
three o'clock the next afternoon Lieutenant Hewitt was buried, 
with full military honors, in the United States x\rmy Cemetery 
at this Centre. . . . 

He was a young man of exceptional qualifications, and above 
all was a good officer and a gentleman. He was greatly ad- 
mired and loved by his brother officers, and his death came as 
a shock to all of us. You have every reason to be proud of your 
son and of his memory, for he was one of those heroes who cheer- 
fully gave his all in his nation's service. 

In October, 1920, the body of Lieutenant Hewitt was 
returned to the United States, and on Sunday, November 
7, a funeral service was held at the Congregational Church 
in West Medway, of which he had been not only a mem- 
ber but, for several years, organist. At the burial at West 



Medway full military honors were paid to Hewitt's mem- 
ory by the local post of the American Legion. 

His unusual gifts as a musician, which he turned to 
excellent account even on the crossing to England, gave 
great pleasure to his hearers. He was withal a modest, 
unassuming young man, full of promise in all the personal 
and artistic relations of the life on which he had entered. 



Class of 1916 

J. HROUGH the text and the many pictures in the small 
privately printed volume which commemorates William 
Dennison Lyon, a short and happy life that gave much 
happiness to others is tellingly portrayed. From that 
volume the substance of the present memoir is directly 



His father was the Rev. William Henry Lyon, a graduate 
of Brown University in 1868, and of the Harvard Divinity 
School in 1873, for nearly twenty years before his death 
in 1915 minister of the First Parish (Unitarian) Church 
in Brookline, Massachusetts. His mother, Louise (Denni- 
son) Lyon, is the youngest child of the late Elij)halet 
Whorf Dennison, founder of the Dennison Manufacturing 
Company. The only son of these parents, William Denni- 
son Lyon, was born in Boston, February 17, 1894. 

A love of the sea, first apparent in early childhood, led 
him through his young manhood to become an enthusiastic 
sailor of smaller and larger boats and afterwards to choose 
the Navy as the service in which he could most effectually 
do his part in the war. On the sea he found response to 
a poetic element in his own nature, an element expressing 
itself besides through the creation in his earliest years of 
imaginary playmates. When he grew a little older his 
imagination revealed itself in a form for which there are 
fewer precedents. Among the most private possessions of 
his boyhood was a manuscript "Book of Clubs." It ap- 
peared to be a list of many clubs, bearing such titles as 
"The Exactness Club," each with many members. On 
closer scrutiny the names of the members were found to 
be made up of the letters of his own name, so rearranged 
as, in one instance, to produce nineteen names in all. For 
this multiple personality he devised, and wrote, in the 
painstaking script of a boy, sets of rules for conduct. One 
of these codes read thus: — "No member of this club 
must do the following things: 1. No member must think 
of himself before he does any other person. 2. No mem- 
ber of this club must lose his. temper. . 3. No member shall 



in any way attempt to hurt another person's feelings. 
4. No member shall talk loud or be boisterous in public 
places or elsewhere. 5. No member shall do another per- 
son any bodily harm or injury. 6. No member shall waste 
monej' or anything else belonging to himself or any other 
person. 7. When you strike, strike hard, but do not strike 
more often than is necessary. Be very good-natured, 
and never strike or harm a lady." W^hen teaching and 
example can so affect a boy's voluntary, hidden plans for 
the ordering of his daily life, his education may be regarded 
as well begun. 

Outwardly it proceeded at Volkmann's School in Boston, 
and at Harvard College, which he entered in the autumn 
of 1911 with the Class of 1915. He was a member of this 
class for two years, after which he was enrolled with the 
Class of 1916. He joined the Institute of 1770, the 
D. K. E., and Hasty Pudding Clubs, and was one of those 
for whom the friendships of college life constituted an 
element of highest value. In his senior year the death of 
his father, with whom he stood in a relation of extraordi- 
nary sympathy, was followed by the necessity of his leav- 
ing college on account of the general impairment of his 
own health and strength. This was found due to a long- 
standing case of appendicitis, demanding an operation 
from which he did not recover in time to complete his col- 
lege studies. His devotion to his mother and younger 
sisters had now become more than ever the object of his 
chief concern, and he felt that the time to establish him- 
self in the world had arrived. 

Wishing to stand on his own feet in this regard, he did 
not seek employment, which he might readily have found, 



in the business established by his grandfather, but went 
to Worcester, without credentials of any kind to secure a 
beginner's job in one of the manufacturing plants of that 
city. After several rejections and an acceptance which led 
to three weeks of work in a screw factory, where his eyes 
were taxed beyond their power of endurance, he was em- 
ployed in a wire mill, first as a fellow laborer with a gang 
of Turks, then in charge of them. The young lover of 
nature, of music, of all beautiful things, and chiefly of his 
home, found no time or occasion for self-pity in these con- 
ditions, but worked hard, with unaffected enjoyment of 
his daily contacts and of that better understanding of the 
industrial worker which he was steadily acquiring. 

To what ends all this experience would have led, it is 
idle to conjecture, for it had lasted only a few months 
when April, 1917, brought its challenge to Lyon, as to all 
his contemporaries. He wrote a friend asking advice, and 
confessing, "Somehow I have never quite taken in the 
importance of the situation until now. ... I need a good 
hard shaking to wake me up, and the trouble is I realize 
I need it but cannot seem to get it or give it to myself." 
His duty to his mother, whose health was frail, entered 
gravely into his consideration. But it was not long before 
his course showed itself clear before him, and on May 1, 
1917, having left the wire mill with the assurance of a 
place awaiting his return, he enlisted at Newport, Rhode 
Island, as boatswain's mate, first class, U. S. Naval 
Reserve Force. 

Detailed at Newport first to shore duty and then to serv- 
ice on a little shore patrol boat, the Lady Betty, he not only 
made himself as useful as one with his amateur nautical 



training could, but applied himself hard to preparing him- 
self for the examinations leading to an ensign's commis- 
sion. There were times of discouragement, when his 
thoughts turned to aviation as a more active branch of 
service and at one of these times he wrote a friend: 
" Things look dead ahead here, and I and my friends would, 
I am sure, rather have me really dead doing a man's job 
than dead but alive." Nevertheless he stuck to his naval 
studies, and in September took his examinations with 
success. Early in October he visited home, placed his 
commission as provisional ensign in his mother's hands, 
and apropos of his new uniform, wrote to one of his sisters 
at Vassar : " Swelling with pride, the thrill of my life came 
while talking with Mrs. F. at the theatre, when two ladies 
rushed up to me with tickets and implored me several 
times to show them their seats." 

For a few weeks before the end of October, Lyon was 
put in command of a small patrol boat, the Doris B. Ill, 
at Newport, and before the end of the month received 
orders to proceed to the battleship Connecticut, at Norfolk, 
Virginia. From November 4 to March 7, 1918, he served 
on this vessel as a junior division officer, learning much, 
enjoying much. His letters home are filled with glimpses 
of the life — a Christmas carol trip about the harbor by 
a ship's boat met at most of the other ships "either with 
too much or not enough enthusiasm," a New Year's 
celebration, inspection on night watches, drill, and lec- 
tures. In March he received orders to report for duty as 
Executive Officer of the U. S. S. C. (Submarine Chaser) 
320, then about to go into commission at Newport. 
Much of the final work was still to be done, and into this 



Lyon threw himself with enthusiasm, all the greater for 
the cordial relations soon established between the com- 
manding officer and himself. His relations with the men 
soon became equally satisfactory, and this without their 
knowledge that it was he who provided the boat with a 
victrola for their entertainment after working hours. 

By the middle of May the boat was ready to proceed 
from Newport to New London for her final equipment and 
the completion of her crew. The surroundings were more 
congenial than those at Newport, orders for active duty 
were expected in the near future — when, on May 21, 
came the end. The circumstances of Lyon's death are 
thus described in his memorial biography: 

"His labors for this day were nearly over, the lectures 
to the crew, together with his other duties as executive 
officer. Finally, near the close, sitting quietly in the midst 
of his work in the magazine of the little sub-chaser, a gun 
which he was cleaning exploded, the bullet entering his 
forehead, his death being instantaneous." 

His commanding officer, a friend of only two months, 
wrote of Lyon a few days later: "I do not expect ever to 
meet again such a kind, gentle, manly nature as his. . . • 
I often looked upon him with admiration and wished that 
I were like him." 

A friend of longer standing, one of Lyon's own contem- 
poraries, wrote out of more intimate knowledge: 

You will never know what Denny was to me, both as my 
nearest friend and the most inspiring and live memory. "Over 
there" there were many things not easy to face, or to carry 
through, and I want you to know that I was trying to live up 
to Denny and his ideals. You know, I believe Denny is every 



bit as alive now as he ever was. He was my best friend, and to 
lose him is a loss that can never be filled, but he will be with me 
all the time, and his gentleness and unselfishness are going to 
be a wonderful source of comfort. 

In 1920 the L^niversity conferred upon him the war 
degree of A.B. as of the Class of 1916. 



Class of 1916 

J. HE roads that lead to Harvard are manv and various. 
Paul Kurtz's father, who is associated with the Phila- 
delphia banking house of E. W. Clark and Company, 
wrote soon after his son's death in France to Mr. Wil- 
liam C. Lane, Librarian of Harvard College, as follows: 
"It mav interest vou to know that awav back in 1900 
and 1901, I met a number of Harvard men at Marion 
and Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, and my contact with 
them determined me to send my son, William Fulton 
Kurtz [Class of 1908], to Harv-ard. Later Paul followed 
his brother, and I have always felt that the ideals of fair 
Harvard had a great influence on the point of view of 
both of my boys." 



A son of this father, WilHam Bunn Kurtz and his wife, 
Madge (Fulton) Kurtz, Paul Borda Kurtz, was born in 
Germantown, Pennsylvania, September 20, 1893. As a 
boy he attended the Friends' School in Germantown and 
the DeLaneey School in Philadelphia, from which, in 
1912, he entered Harvard. While in college he played on 
his freshman baseball team, and later on the second Uni- 
versity nine. He was a member of the Pennsylvania, 
Southern, D. K. E., Institute of 1770, Hasty Pudding, 
and Owl Clubs. 

At the end of his junior year — that year of 1914-15 in 
the course of which so many undergraduates began strain- 
ing at the leash — Kurtz sailed for France to join the 
American Ambulance Hospital Field Service. As an am- 
bulance driver in the first section of this service he worked, 
first in Paris, then in Flanders, from July until December, 
when he returned to America, reaching home on Christ- 
mas Eve. From January to June of 1916, he went back 
to his studies at Cambridge, and took his degree with his 
class. In July he rejoined the first section of the American 
Ambulance in France. From this time until the following 
April the section was stationed chiefly in the neighbor- 
hood of Verdun, where it rendered much perilous and 
valuable service. In November, 1916, it was cited by 
General Mangin for the "most brilliant courage and most 
complete devotion" of the officers and drivers. 

Two letters written by Kurtz to his mother just before 
and just after the United States entered the war illustrate 
well the state of mind in which many members of the 
Ambulance Service found themselves at this time, and 
clearly reveal the individual spirit of Paul Kurtz : 



April S, 1917. 

To-day's papers don't say anything of what Wilson and 
Congress have done or are going to do, but we are all hoping 
that tomorrow, or in a few days, war will be declared. It seems 
fairly certain that in this event we will send an Expedition 
Force of perhaps twenty thousand regulars as a starter, and 
that later more troops will be sent, provided the war lasts long 
enough to give us time to train and equip them. In this event 
I would feel more or less of an "embusque'' — a rather un- 
pleasant French word, meaning a man who takes a soft and 
comfortable, safe job when he is capable of doing more — if I 
were to stay in the Ambulance. We have been talking over 
what we could do in case of war, and there is hardly a man in 
this section —  and it is probably the same in other sections — 
who does not intend to leave and go into some more active 
service, — infantry, artillery, or aviation. Those men who are 
connected with some military organization at home will go 
back if possible to rejoin them, while others, whose enlistment 
here expires soon, are going back to enlist in one thing or another. 
Having seen what I have of the infantry, I have no desire to 
enlist in that, while I am afraid that I could not meet the ar- 
tillery requirements. Aviation, then, seems about the only 
thing left, and if you feel as I do, — that I ought to offer my 
services in case of war, — I would prefer to enlist in the French 
Air Service, to which the American Escadrille is attached. 

No doubt this will seem rather sudden and alarming to you 
at first, but just think for a minute what it means. I suppose 
you think of an aeroplane as a thing that means certain death 
sooner or later. If you had seen as much flying as I have you 
would realize that it has become as safe as driving a Ford am- 
bulance. The number of men who have been in it since the 
beginning and are still alive, and the fact that the mortality 
percentage is lower in this service than in any other branch, 
attest this fact. The careful flyer has all the chances in his favor. 
To be accepted I would have to be passed by Dr. Gros of the 



Ambulance, and as I am in good health and my eyesight — 
which is the main requirement — all right, I don't think there 
would be any trouble in this respect. Then, being passed, I 
would be sent to a training school to go through a course lasting 
from four to six months, depending on my aptitude and the 
kind of weather. This part of the work is the least attractive, 
according to the men to whom I have spoken, and of course 
there is always the chance that the war will be over before I 
could get my license. 

Once in the air, however, there is not much danger. All the 
Americans in the French service, — and there are over one 
hundred either flying or in training, — are put on fast, single- 
seated, fighting planes, the safest machine yet developed and 
the best in a fight. Machines are practically never shot down 
from the ground and the only danger is in being winged by a 

I don't want to go into this because I am tired of the Ambu- 
lance, or for the sport of the thing, but simply because I feel 
that we owe France a debt that mere "unlimited credit" can 
never repay. Just think what she has suffered in the past two 
years and a half, while we have been sitting by in safety. I 
know we have been generous enough in money and supplies, 
but what are they when France has lost and is losing the best of 
her men? I tell you, I did a little thinking during my two weeks 
in that hospital and I resolved that if the chance came I would 
show them that there were some Americans who were n't afraid 
to give their lives if necessary, as long as they knew that they 
were doing the right thing, and to me the only right thing is to 
get into the fight and do the duty that we have been shirking 
so long. I have seen enough death and suffering here not to be 
afraid of them, and if I could only get into active service (just 
once) I would n't care what happened to me. I know that the 
Ambulance is doing good work and that we are all "brave 
young men." I have seen so much bunk written about us that 
I am sick of reading it. If I were at home you would n't want 



me to stay at home and let somebody else go out and do the 

fighting for me, I am sure. Well, that is the position I feel 

myself in here and being able to do so much more I would feel 

myself an " embusque" were I to stay where I am. 

Of course I could, as some others have done, have gone into 

this without saying anything to you about it, but I think you 

know me well enough to know that if you say "No," this will 

be enough for me. In case you don't see things from my point 

of view, I will stay with the Ambulance until my enlistment 

expires the 29th of July, and then come home to try and do 

something useful there. If you want to cable for any reason, 

the cable address of the Field Service is "Amerifield-Paris." 

In the meanwhile don't worry about me, as I won't do anything 

without hearing from you. 

April 9, 1917. 

Our division is still "cti repos.'' . . . America's declaration of 
war has n't changed things much for us, though all the French- 
men with whom I have talked seem very much pleased. 

The day after war was declared I had a very pleasant experi- 
ence. As it was warm and clear, four of us decided to walk over 
to Verdun, which is fifteen kilometres away, to see the city and 
the changes that had taken place since we were last there in 
September. After walking around the town we decided to go 
through the citadel, if possible, and went to the office of the 
Commandant, who, after looking at our papers and finding out 
who we were, very kindly detailed a man to act as our guide. 
The first thing he suggested was that we have a drink in the 
Officers' Mess, a long, barrel-shaped tunnel in the heart of the 
citadel some hundred feet underground, perfectly secure from 
shells and detailed for the use of the officers and orderlies. At 
the next table were about twenty officers of a regiment who 
had come down from the trenches the day before and were 
celebrating the event. We had no sooner sat down than one of 
them jumped up and shouted " Vive les Etats-Unis." Naturally 
we stood up, much to their surprise, but when they saw who we 



were nothing would do but that we should join them and all 
sorts of toasts were drunk to the United States, France, and the 
Allies. It was a most cordial reception and coming as it did 
from men who had just been in the trenches and managed to 
come out alive, meant much more than something that had 
been pre-arranged. 

Yesterday, being Easter, was a holiday for the soldiers and 
in the afternoon we played a soccer game w ith a team of men 
and officers of the aviation squadron in w^iose barracks we are 
living, and although they had some professionals we managed to 
hold them down fairly w^ell and were only beaten 2-1. If the 
weather is propitious we are going to play them again tomorrow, 
though just now I am so stiff that I can scarcely walk and most 
of the rest of the team are in the same condition. 

Yorke Stevenson ^ came back yesterday entirely healed up 
from his accident. From his account of things at home people 
must be pretty busy getting ready, and it certainly is time they 
did something. If the war keeps up a year longer, they will 
realize that there is really a war going on over here. The Eng- 
lish are getting started at last, and the outlook for the Allies 
seems brighter all the time. The Huns are up to their old tricks 
again, and there is a notice in the village warning everyone 
against poisoned candy, which they have been dropping from 
aeroplanes. Two nights ago I was standing outside when a 
Boche plane flew overhead and then went off to the next village 
where it fired with a mitrailleuse into the houses, luckily doing 
no damage. Ten minutes later a French plane was off and as 
a reprisal flew over towns in the German lines and fired into 
houses where there were lights in the windows. The Boches 
have n't been over since. 

To the request for his parent's consent to his entering 
the aviation service, Kurtz's father cabled: "Permission 

1 William Yorke Stevenson, of Philadelphia, author of At the Front 
in a Flivver, and From Poilu to Yank, each containing many references 
to Paul Kurtz. 



to aviate lovingly given." On this he would have acted at 
once but that the head of the American Field Service 
wished him to retain his connection with it, as commander 
of a new section. Number 18, until the following August. 
Accepting this responsibility, Kurtz remained at his peril- 
ous post, in the neighborhood of Verdun, until the ap- 
pointed time. He then resigned, and succeeded in joining 
the United States Air Service. A friend who saw him 
the following winter in his aviator's uniform, noticing 
that he was not wearing the ribbon of the Croix de Guerre 
with star, which he had won as an ambulancier, exclaimed, 
"Why, Paul.?" and received the reply: "Oh, because I 
did n't win it in aviation, and with my uniform it looks 
as though I did." The citation accompanying this award 
of the Croix de Guerre read as follows : 

Volontavre Americain, a ete d'un devouement admirable pen- 
dant Vhiver 1916—17 tant en Argonne que dans le secteur de la 
cote SOJf.. A notamment fait preuve des plus belles qualites d' en- 
durance, de courage, de mepris du danger, en assurant, le jour et 
la nuit du 25 au 28 Janvier 1917, V evacuation des blesses par un 
temps effroyable sur une route particidiereinent bombardee. 

His training as an aviator, rewarded first by a French 
pilot's license, and then, November 20, 1917, by a com- 
mission as first lieutenant, American Aviation, Signal 
Corps, was carried on at flying schools at Pau, Tours, 
and Cazaux, at the Royal Flying Corps School at Hj^the, 
near Folkstone, England, and an aerial gunnery school 
at Turnberry in Scotland. As a result of all this prepara- 
tion he expected to become Head Instructor of Pilots in 
a new American Aerial Gunnery School in process of con- 
struction on the French coast. On April 25 he wrote 



home that since this school would not be finished for some 
time, he hoped to become attached at once to a flying 
squadron and sent to the front. This was indeed his 
heart's desire, and it was accomplished when, for the sake 
of gaining an actual war experience before himself be- 
coming an instructor, he was ordered to report to the 
94th Aero Squadron, First Pursuit Group, a fighting unit 
with which the names of Quentin Roosevelt, Hamilton 
Coolidge, Raoul Lufbery, James Norman Hall, and 
"Eddie" Rickenbacker are memorably associated. 

This unit, when Kurtz joined it in May, 1918, had been 
patrolling the front between St. Mihiel and Pont-a-Mous- 
son for about a month. For a few days, the flight com- 
mander, Captain Rickenbacker, gave him the practice 
of short flights and frequent landings in a "Baby Nieu- 
port" machine, with which he had not hitherto been 
familiar. By May 22 Kurtz felt himself ready for what 
Captain Rickenbacker, in his book, "Fighting the Flying 
Circus," calls "that greatest adventure of the young 
pilot: that first trip over the enemy's lines." 

In this book Kurtz's first and last flight as a fighting 
aviator is described. Captain Rickenbacker and Lieu- 
tenant Chambers agreed that Kurtz should accompany 
them on what was called a voluntary patrol. Kurtz was 
not to join in a fight unless the advantage was on the 
side of the Americans. They started early in the morning 
and encountered three German planes. Rickenbacker, 
shortly after nine o'clock, defeated one of them, which fell, 
near Thiaucourt, within the enemy's lines. The other two 
took to flight, pursued by Chambers and Kurtz. On his 
wav back to the American base Rickenbacker had a nar- 



row escape from firing upon Chambers, whom he mistook 
for a German. For a time he lost sight of Kurtz whom at 
last he saw circling over a field near their aerodrome, pre- 
paratory to landing. Suddenly his machine burst into 
flames, for no apparent reason, and crashed to the earth. 
Kurtz was instantly killed. 

Rickenbacker was told soon afterwards by an officer 
who had joined the squadron with Kurtz that in flying 
at high altitudes he was sometimes subject to fainting 
spells. Whether he was seized in this way, or fell a victim 
to an unexplainable accident, there is no positive means 
of knowing. His grave in American Cemetery, No. 108, 
near Toul, was next to that of Major Lufbery, who had 
fallen but a few days before. "I had got my Boche," 
wTote Rickenbacker, after a brief description of Kurtz's 
funeral, with the incongruous whine of shells overhead; 
"but I had lost my friend, and he had perished in the 
manner most dreaded of all aviators, for he had gone 
down in flames." 

Memorial services in Paul Kurtz's honor were held on 
July 7, 1918, in Calvary Church, Germantown, in which 
he had been confirmed, and on the Sunday before his 
second sailing for France, had received the Holy Com- 



Class of 1911 

rCiCHARD Mortimer, Jr., a son of the late Richard 
Mortimer of New York City, and Eleanor Jay (Chapman) 
Mortimer, a sister of John Jay Chapman, of the Harvard 
Class of 1884, was born in Bavaria, near Munich, July 28, 
1888. His preparation for Harvard was made at St. 
Mark's School, Southborough, Massachusetts. There he 
excelled in football, boxing, and track; and revealed an 
all-round capacity clearly indicated by the words, in the 
memorial volume "St. Mark's School in the War against 
Germany": "To a quick perception, ready intellect and 
quiet, keen wit, he brought the steady application and 
industry which assured him success in his undertakings." 
At Harvard, where he completed his college work in 



three years, he belonged to the Institute of 1770, D.K.E., 
Kalumet, and Hasty Pudding Clubs. A classmate and 
devoted friend at school and college, who watched him 
at St. Mark's, lightheartedly winning at games, saw that 
at college "he disliked the hurry, the crowds of the outer 
world," and also that he read, learned really to ride a horse, 
and made a host of friends. From the college he went in the 
autumn of 1910 to the Law School, began to collect books, 
went on with his riding, which made him and the horses he 
rode well known at such meetings as those of the United 
Hunts, the Country Club at Brookline, and the annual 
steeplechases at Myopia. On graduating from the Har- 
vard Law School in 1913, he entered the Boston law office 
of Warner, Stackpole, and Bradlee, and the observant 
friend already quoted "noticed that the older men were 
glad to stop and talk with him." One of their number, 
John T. Wheelwright of the Harvard Class of 1878, wrote, 
after Mortimer's death, of this young New Yorker who 
made his home and sought his career in Boston: 

To those of us of an older generation who had the privilege 
of association with him, he seemed the flower of American 
knighthood. I use this phrase advisedly, for there was in his 
fine courtesy and fearless courage that which justifies its use. 

He had a well-trained mind and was already making a name 
for himself at the bar when the rising storm clouds in 1916 led 
him to be one of the first to go to an aviation camp, not a 
Government one, and notwithstanding his defective eyesight 
and delicate constitution he persevered in this perilous branch 
of the service, which was one exactly suited to his dauntless 


In the pleasant days of old he shone in horseback riding and 
steeplechasing. One of the last pictures of him in the memory 



of his friends was his driving a scratch four-in-hand, with a gay 
party, to the race in the fall of 1916 at Topsfield and jumping 
off the coach and taking off his greatcoat, appearing in his rac- 
ing colors and taking the jumps in the steeplechase with skill 
and success. 

Wherever he went he brought the spirit of delight. But be- 
yond all this was his fine wit and his serious purpose to serve 
his profession and his country. 

Before Mortimer could establish himself firmly in his 
profession, Europe was plunged in war, and not much 
later the participation of the United States became an 
obvious possibility. In the winter before it became a fact, 
Mortimer, like the sportsman he was, began to prepare 
himself, by an elementary course in the Curtis School, at 
Newport News, Virginia, for the work of an aviator. When 
his country joined the belligerents, he offered himself for 
the aviation service, but was met at first with refusal on 
the score of defective eyesight. A later application was 
successful, and on May 31, 1917, he was accepted as a pri- 
vate, first class, in the Aviation Section of the Signal 
Corps, and began his training at the Massachusetts In- 
stitute of Technology Ground School. From this he gradu- 
ated, July 28, and in August sailed overseas to receive the 
more advanced instruction in flying at English training 

For this purpose Mortimer was stationed successively 
at Oxford, where he lived at Queen's College and re- 
sponded warmly to the old-world charm of his surround- 
ings, at Stamford in Lincolnshire, at Shoreham-by-Sea in 
Sussex, and at Ayr in Scotland. On March 27, 1918, 
while he was at Ayr he received his commission as first 



lieutenant. At almost the same time the news of his 
father's sudden death cast a heavy shadow across the life 
in which he was taking such pleasures as it might yield. 
These took the form of occasional visits to London, where 
there were friends and relatives to be seen, of companion- 
ship with congenial fellow-students of aviation, of reading, 
and of correspondence with his immediate circle at home. 
Fragments from his letters to friends and family are sig- 

From Oxford, for example, he writes that a fortune-teller 
predicted that all kinds of bad things would happen to 
him, and adds, "By the way, I am going to get through 
this war — he was certain of that." From Shoreham he 
writes, February 15, 1918: "I feel as if I might be a fairly 
decent aviator. I have come on very fast this week. It's 
all due to stunting and taking liberties with the machine 
in the air. You get up to a height of about 2500 feet so 
that you have plenty of room to recover in case anything 
happens, and then try loops, spins, steep turns, and all 
kinds of things. You've no idea how quickly it gives you 
confidence. You feel as if you could do anything you 
wanted. Yesterday I found myself flymg upside down. 
Nothing happens, of course. It's very easy to straighten 
a machine out of any position you find yourself in." In 
November he writes from Stamford, "I have been reading 
Shakespearian plays lately, and enjoy them a lot. I bought 
several small volumes which I carry about in my pockets." 
After a tiresome sojourn in Lincoln, in the following April, 
"I read an awful lot there— William James. I wish you 'd 
read him some time. Some of his books are perfectly 
great. They give one the freshest outlook and make you 



feel full of energy and cheerfulness." A few weeks later 
the need of such a stimulus appears, when he writes from 
Bristol, "I have had an occasional fit of spring fever, i.e. 
the dumps, but nothing serious. Luckily in this sort of 
work I can always manage to get away from the mob. 
How much easier army life is for those people who like a 
crowd!" Apart from such specific matters his letters 
were constantly revealing a lively concern in all his in- 
terests at home, his horses. Myopia Hunt affairs, his 
friends, and the readiness of a modest, competent, en- 
gaging young American to get what he could from the 
counterparts of these interests under new conditions. 

By the spring of 1918, his training was advanced to the 
point at which he could be assigned to a definite piece of 
work, namely that of "ferrying" new machines from the 
places of manufacture in England across the channel to 
France. On April 8 he wrote from London, "I am still 
'ferrying,' took a machine to France yesterday. It's very 
amusing, you get to know the whole of England. It's like 
travelling on a map, as the coast lines stand out so 
clearly." A fortnight later he tells of a mishap in landing 
due to the mistaking of one town for another of the same 

What he would naturally have much preferred from 
the first was an assignment to regular squadron duty on 
the front. At length it came. On May 21 he wrote 
from the front, under the heading, No. 83 Squadron, 9th 
Wing, R. A. F., B. E. F., "I am on the threshold of the real 
thing now. I have been assigned to 'flight.' On the very 
next day while he was practising war manoeuvres, Morti- 
mer's machine, by some unexplained accident, came into 



collision with another. The tailplane of his machine was 
cut oflF, and falling from a height of 4000 feet, he was in- 
stantly killed. This was near Hesdin Wood in the north 
of France, and there he was buried, his grave marked 
with a cross made from the propeller of an aeroplane. 

In September, 1920, a bridge inscribed with Mortimer's 
name w^as dedicated to his memory at the Myopia Hunt 

In the St. Mark's School volume from which a few words 
about Mortimer have already been quoted, his personal 
charm, his courage, and other high qualities, are set forth 
with sympathy and understanding. "And beneath every- 
thing," says the writer of the memoir, "unknowTi perhaps 
to those who saw him but casually, was a sweetness of 
disposition seldom found in either man or woman, a re- 
sponsive, eager sympathy and optimism which made his 
mere presence a privilege and a benediction. His school 
and his college and his country may honor him for his 
brave heart and his loyal devotion; but in the hearts of 
his friends alone lies the more precious gift and memory of 
all, the spirit of a love which can never fail." 



Class of 1917 

J. H E paternal ancestors of Kenneth Pickens Culbert were 
English and settled in Canada, where his grandfather and 
uncle held government posts and bore an active part in 
the development of the country. On his mother's side the 
descent was English, Scotch, and French, and withal so 
American that more than fifty representatives of his stock 
are counted among those who bore arms in the American 
Revolution. He was born at Bellevue, Pittsburgh, 
Pennsylvania, August 22, 1895, the son of William Henry 
Culbert and Emma Leonie (Pickens) Culbert. During his 
childhood his parents moved from Pittsburgh to East 
Orange, New Jersey, where Culbert attended a private 
school and then prepared for college at the East Orange 



High School and with private tutors. He graduated at 
the High School in 1913, valedictorian of his class. For 
four years he had played on the school football and base- 
ball teams, and in 1913 he was captain of the school track 

At Harvard, which he entered with the Class of 1917, he 
rowed on the freshman crew, became a member of the 
freshman football squad, of the University football squad 
in his sophomore year, and of the University crew squad 
in 1915, 1916, and 1917. He belonged to the Freshman 
Mandolin and University Musical Clubs, and served on 
the sophomore and junior entertainment committees of 
his class. His clubs were the D. K. E., Institute of 1770, 
Speakers', Phoenix, Stylus, Signet, and Hasty Pudding. 
In addition to these interests and activities, Culbert ap- 
plied himself so effectively to the task of "making" the 
Crimson that he led the competition for the paper in his 
sophomore year; in his junior year he was secretary of the 
Board of Editors. 

Culbert's direct connection with the war began with his 
enrollment in the R. O. T. C, in which he rose, before the 
end of his senior year, to the rank of captain. Before that 
year ended, he left college to enter the U. S. Marine Corps 
training school at Quantico, Virginia. Here he received 
his commission as second lieutenant (M. C), August 27, 
1917, and was assigned to the 74th Company, 6th Regi- 
ment, Marines, stationed at Quantico. On September 17, 
he sailed with his regiment from Philadelphia for France 
on a vessel that was forced to put in at New York, whence 
its final departure overseas was made September 22. In 
this brief interval Culbert was married, September 19, 



to Miriam Edith Towle of Cranford, New Jersey (Welles- 
ley, '18), to whom he had been engaged for nearly a year. 

Soon after reaching France, Culbert became so inter- 
ested in aviation that he secured a transfer, October 16, to 
the First Corps Aviation Schools at Gondrecourt, where 
he was commissioned Student Naval Aviator, November 
26. On February 5, 1918, he was assigned to Escadrille 
217 of the French Army, operating in the Champagne 
sector. "For two months," writes his friend and class- 
mate, R. T. Fry, in the Triennial Report of the Class of 
1917, "he flew with the French, but on April 1, 1918, was 
transferred back to the First Aero Squadron, then at 
Ourches in the Toul sector. During this time Culbert 
had become, as expressed by one of the majors of his 
former regiment, 'one of our most skilful and daring aerial 
observers,' a fact attested later by the award of the Croix 
de Guerre, made in recognition of his work during the 
battle of Seicheprey and other occasions." 

Three letters from Culbert to Professor C. T. Copeland 
show him in France at three stages of his experience, in 
the training school, with the French, and with the Ameri- 
can Army. They are quoted here with some fullness, both 
for what they tell about war-time conditions, and also for 
their revelation of Culbert as an observer, not from the 
aerial point of vantage only. 

November 21, 1917. 

. . . Perhaps a few words about myself will get me "ori- 
ented," and give me a bit of a framework to build upon. I got 
my commission in the United States Marines without any 
trouble, thanks to your and other letters, and a long lanky 
frame. Darrah Kelley, was under-weight, and no amount of 



argument and pleading could make up for the deficiency. I felt 
extremely sorry, but was powerless to do anything. After a few 
months with the Sixth Regiment at Quantico, Va., — a place 
selected for a cantonment by a process that eliminated all logic, 
and brought politics to the fore, — we got off in the early part 
of September. As I stood a regular turn in the submarine 
watch, — two on and six off, — I can assure you very sincerely 
that the transports take no end of precautions to evade the 
"fish," as conmianders call them. In thirteen days we sighted 
France, going slowly up a tiny river into a small port, just as 
dusk settled. Some women were waving American flags on the 
porches, or rather the doorsteps, of their tiny white houses, and 
I felt thrills leaping from my heart to my head that I shall never 
forget. The spirit of France, her sacrifices and hardships, her 
maltreatment and loyal fight — a lot of boyish emotions made 
m.e stand up straight as an arrow. And I noticed the sternness 
of the expressions on the faces of the officers about me. We were 
beginning to realize why we were there. 

Once on land we hustled to a camp and got shook doAvn. 
Then we began the work which a vanguard must always do in 
preparation for that which is to follow. Of course, some of 
the work did n't have much to do with the rifle and bullet, or the 
bayonet, but it was and is necessary; at present of vastly greater 
importance than the above. With the necessity of five men be- 
hind the lines for one at the front the adage about the acorn and 
the oak is reversed to a large extent as regards war. The gigan- 
tic proportions of the preparation that is necessary, — in ways 
of transportation, cantonments, supplies, etc., before we can 
really take care of the big armies which are to come in the next 
few years, — are almost inconceivable. My one constant hope is 
that the desire to enter the fight as soon as possible will not cause 
some of these preparations to be hustled or slighted. Every- 
thing up front depends on the efiiciency of the forces in the rear. 

I with many other ofiicers soon left the regiment for instruc- 
tion in the ways and means of playing the game. And we've 



been getting it for the past couple of months in a manner that 
makes one itch for the actual hunting grounds. Sir, I admire, 
sympathize with, and love the French, but it's the British to 
whom I give my respect. They've got the "spirit of the bayo- 
net"; they've changed their easy-going temperament and, 
taught by bitter experience, answer the cry "Kamerad" with 
a short sharp jab; they're fighting mad, playing the game for 
all that it's worth. System? They've got everything down to 
a fine point; a great part of the time the Tommies don't even 
realize that the games they are playing are developing just the 
traits of character and strength of muscle necessary to exter- 
minate the Boche. Oh, the Germans are afraid of them. They 
know what lies in store for them when the English, the Cana- 
dians, or especially the Australians are opposite them, and in the 
still small hours they come sneaking over singly and in pairs to 
give themselves up. Which is what every sensible Boche ought 
to do right now, — in my humble estimation. Unfortunately 
very few of them are sensible. 

So we're passing the time training and hardening up, occa- 
sionally getting actual experience where "make-believe" no 
longer holds. I personally am to be the aerial observer of an 
infantry contact machine, a duty that to me is as interesting 
as it is important in battle. Before I came over I had never 
heard of such a man, indeed it 's been a succession of hearing, 
learning, and putting into practice new things, new methods of 
killing the enemy. The old-fashioned all round infantryman is 
but the shade of past glories; today everyone is a specialist in 
some one particular thing, and informed in all things generally. 
Gas, with its terrifying results, trench mortars, automatic rifles, 
grenades; bayonets, wire entanglements; trenches; communi- 
cation systems; aeroplanes, — what not? All have men who 
speak of nothing save them. War is even more highly special- 
ized than modern industry in the heads of efficiency experts. 
And we 're going to keep on specializing until we 've won. Surely 
it will take a few years; casualty lists will be heavy; mistakes 



will be made, but the point is we will win. Furthermore the 
sacrifices necessitated at home and the new ideas derived there- 
from, are going to help the United States along considerably, in 
ways that will be more than subtle. Do you think I am mis- 
taken, sir? 

I heard of Billy Meeker's ^ death with sadness. He was the 
first of our class to go. To me though, there was something 
glorious in his death, for the motives that permitted the possi- 
bility of death were of the purest. Many more will follow, — all 
gladly, — content in knowing that they are doing their share. 

March 22, 1918. 

It's been long since I've written — almost four months 
now — so there 's much to say. For incursions or prolonged 
"Permissions" into the personal I hasten to apologize — yet 
after all, war can only be interesting through its reaction on 
every individual. Not that every one of the millions fighting — 
or helping those that fight — has a different reaction, but most 
Americans have, because we 're new at the thing, because we 've 
come far to express in work thoughts that stirred our minds in 
oddly different ways! Somewhere I suppose Mars is compla- 
cently thinking to himself "I am he! — I am the one who has 
revolutionized the thoughts of millions of men! I am he who 
saturated the minds of the Huns with lust for conquest; I am 
he who awakened the soul of America, and planted the seeds of 
nobility in her heart. I, I alone, have done all this!" Well, sir, 
from the mess some profit must come — and I believe that the 
individual as an individual is the recipient. Later the good will 
come to individuals bound together as a state — but not for 

Perhaps my opinion is boyish ! One thing is certain — the 
awakened desire to help is of inestimable benefit to a man; and 
the gradual changing of that eager desire for adventure and for 
glory to a pounding powerful determination to never relax until 
right is won is of even greater benefit. The slogan of the French 

1 See Vol. II, pp. 105-113. 



poilus exemplifies that; nothing but supreme respect exists in 
men when I hear them say ''lis ne passeront pas." War for 
them is so vastly different than it is for us — as yet. But enough 
of reflections; "the froth is out of the bottle," as Meredith says 
— so on to my story, 

I intensely wish that you were here tonight. You would see 
the newest phase of warfare at its very best ! The moon is high 
in a clear sky, stars are shining brilliantly and the intersecting 
rays of search-lights are restlessly shifting all over the heavens. 
I've just come in from watching it all. The roar of motors in 
the air is constant; the frequent bursts of our shells and the 
stray tak-tak of our machine guns is entirely drowned now and 
again by the terrific bursts of the bombs landing in the near dis- 
stance; — it's a game of give and take, with the odds in favor 
of bombing planes, for they are as needles in a mammoth hay- 
stack ! The night is ideal for their work — so ideal that women, 
children, and civilian non-combatants in the towns back from 
the front will suffer heavily. It 's a powerful weapon — it 's 
demoralizing effect must be tremendous. 

Frankly the first time our field was bombed — (or rather was 
the target for poorly placed bombs) — I was quite weak about the 
knees; now I have not even gone to the dugouts. You see when 
you figure it out : if the Powers that be decide that a mass of 
steel is going to fall so accurately from miles above that my 
little six by six semi-dugout is going to get hit — well, I guess 
I 'm scheduled then for fair. Rank fatalism — is n't it? Only 
truthfully, it's not, for I've never thought up such an argument 
until this instant. It's the coming thing in aviation. I believe 
that in another year twenty squadrons — not three — will 
bunch together and go miles and miles into Bocheland, seeking 
the most effective resting place for their burdens. Some of the 
larger, more destructive bombs are tremendous things, and, 
well-dropped, their capacity to make buildings look like nothing 
at all is remarkable. Certainly they detract a bit from the horror 
of the San Francisco earthquake! But so it goes. 



Of what Americans are doing I know nothing except that 
which I read in the French papers. Reports credit them with 
all the fighting spirit, bravery, and cool-headedness that the 
great majority of Uncle Sam's soldiers possess. I believe we're 
holding a part of the line in four or five different places — 
and holding it well. That's splendid — glorious — indicative 
of that which is to come. And only as the latter can we — 
must we — view it. It's like the delightful order of the roast 
which is to be eaten — the real thing is yet to come. I say 
"delightful" because years from now that is how every mem- 
ory of our part will be. There are millions on the other side, 
trained fighting machines, with as little of the milk of human 
kindness in their make-up as is allowed by the laws regulating 
the formation of mortals in God's workshop. One burst, or 
intermittent bursts, of American enthusiasm and patriotism will 
be worse, far worse, than nothing at all. Men, men, men, and 
more men must come; and to maintain them the necessary food, 
guns, material, gas equipment must be sent in ever increasing 
quantities. I know we have the older men at home who have 
the brains to arrange the extensive work required. It would be 
a sin if they could not profit from the early mistakes of our 
Allies — and simply get together to work for one end. But war 
has not touched home and, until it does, patriotic men with 
hearts and minds working normally, will constantly have to 
fight those smaller, meaner "things" whose hearts are sadly out 
of place, whose minds have degenerated from years of the com- 
mercial art of cutting throats. Yes, it's a figurative expression 
only, but how terribly near it comes to being the truth. For 
every single man who offers his service to the government for 
nothing, I imagine there are many who see the war as an op- 
portunity. Sir, if we can't get into it whole-heartedly, with 
every physically able man fighting and all others helping be- 
hind the lines (their work is quite as important), it's better that 
we get out of it at once. 

Tonight at dinner, for instance, we had a poilu as guest of 



honor. At the tables were the ten French officers of the esca- 
drille, Saunders (a southern chap of the finest character) , myself 
and the poilu. The latter was a man of forty-five; he has been 
in the war for two years and a half, serving at present with a 
battery of 155's in the woods north of here. The inspiring part 
of the incident was that he was the father of the first lieutenant 
commanding the escadrille. Yes, because the war is in France, 
and not in United States, it throws a different light on the 
question of personal contribution, but in that incident is food 
for thought for those at home not helping, even vicariously. 
We 've got a big, sober, horrible task before us as a nation. Only 
by realizing it as that alone can we hope for anything save weak 
memories. For those Americans who have died, countless 
thousands must come to die, and so on and on until that glori- 
ous time when America shall be synonymous with "honor," and 
the rights of man and woman, — in the eyes of all the world. 
Eventually — not now — we shall win, for we must win. We 
must!!!! We have no alternative, we want none. 

How I wish that everyone at home could see the front, could 
see ruins that once were peaceful country villages, shelled ground 
that once was productive fields, miles of stumpy lands that 
once were quiet forests, picnic places perhaps for the peasantry. 
How I wish they could see stalwart men huddled together, white 
bandages over their eyes, blinded from gas; or a few of the 
chaps reached by liquid fire ! You see it 's not the old-time war- 
fare of rifles and bullets, or even the later warfare of huge shells 
— but it 's the newest and most horrible warfare of a combina- 
tion of all things terrible. The worst part only comes in war of 
movement, it is true, such as has occurred in this sector for the 
last few days — but the rest of the time trench life is pretty 
much of a bore, I imagine. When I 'm not in the air (and a three 
hour turn finishes the day's flying) I often hop a truck to a spot 
a mile or so from the trenches (for we have a big mountain as 
part of the trench system, with our troops on the summit, which 
affords a fairly good approach) and wind my way through com- 



munication trenches to the front lines. It's a useless sort of 
warfare, three or six months waiting in caves and mud for a few 
days of attack, an attack which regardless of its outcome means 
a resumption of the dugout life. The men are comfortable, as 
that goes, in their dugouts, huge holes which shoot twenty to 
thirty feet underground in this particular sector — and the 
shells which fall ordinarily do nothing save cut up the ground 
a bit more, if such a thing is possible. Those men are the real 
heroes of this war, though. Theirs is the hardest task, theirs the 
greatest sacrifices, the greatest personal hardships. It makes 
you stop in supreme admiration when you think of men having 
lived that life for over three years and still cheerfully, grimly, 
sticking on and on — that the "bells" in the German village 
churches shall not ring in announcement of new victories. At 
such times America's duty shines most brightly before my eyes! 
We are late — unquestionably — but I trust not too late. 

You 've probably wondered — as many others have — when 
the proposed German drive is to come. Perhaps the rumblings 
from distant sectors, and the recrudescence of artillery fire that 
has occurred in this sector within the last few days are the be- 
ginnings. WTio knows? At all events the French are calmly, 
confidently awaiting the big test; and from what I've seen of 
them, I have gathered great confidence in their military system 
and their soldiers. They are better prepared at this moment, 
the morale of their army is better, and, all told, the entire situa- 
tion is brighter than it has been at any time since the beginning of 
hostilities. Of the British I have seen little — nothing — of late, 
but they are better soldiers than the Huns and the Huns know it. 

Myself, I finished training in January, and since then have 
been with Escadrille 217, in the Champagne sector. My work 
takes me over Rheims daily. You can imagine how beautiful 
the semi-ruined cathedral is as the oblique rays of the sun, 
striking it, make it loom up above the tiny houses cluttering 
about. It is a dream picture, — one which I would like to look 
down upon for hours, but I am generally otherwise occupied. 



Aviation is a comfortable, interesting life. There's none of 
the constant noise of shells, there's none of the blood and gore 
of things once men, there's none of the stationary cave life of 
the trenches. We have good bunks, good food, comfortable 
quarters. In a way it's a remarkable existence, mixing hours 
of idleness and moments of intense danger. Removed from war 
in its horror, it's still an integral part of it. Frequently our 
machines don't come back — but death has no disgusting nau- 
seating effects, for the plane falls far from here, and life goes on 
as before. I believe it 's the nicest part of the war, the life is very 
pleasant, and there's an element of sport in it. It's clean in life, 
and death. One could not ask for more than that in war times. 
^^^len my duty here will be over I don't know, however, as soon 
as the 1st, to which I am attached, has its machines, I reckon. 
Six months have gone by, with new experiences and varied life. 
My baptism of fire — in trench and in the air — is a thing of the 
past. First fears are gone, my real duty has gotten under way. 
Needless to say I am no end happy. One's part in the war is 
so small at best that you have to keep right at it in order to 
make a showing at all commensurate with your own hopes. 

It has been the sort of warm spring that brings thoughts of 
Cambridge, of a good paddle on the river, a cold shower and a 
chocolate milk (what I would give for one at the College Phar- 
macy right now) afterwards, and a quiet evening in my room, 
or at Wellesley, — the abode of my dear wife. Sounds funny, 
does n't it, sir, but I married the sweetest girl just before I left, 
and I 'm forced to write you of it in my great happiness thereof. 

How is Cambridge.'* Do chaps still seek the light in upper 
Hollis on Monday nights — or have you changed the evening? 
The regiment — is it flourishing in high and martial style? Oh ! 
there 's just one trouble with France — it 's too silly far from 
home and old times. The Tommy, the poilu, the Jock get home 
once in four months for a fortnight. Were that so with us, I'd 
be serenely happy. As it is I am anyway — which is not quite 
logical — but true withal. 



May 31, 1918 {at night). 

When last I wrote you the moon was almost translucent in a 
cold clear sky; tonight it seems tinged with the blood of men 
and mellowed with the endless succession of years. Api)le 
blossoms are on the trees, the air is soft and soothing, and below 
in the valley at our feet the Meuse is running quietly along; 
which means that winter has slipped by, and summer has come. 
Again I wish you could be here — not to be in the midst of an 
air-raid tonight, but to enjoy the beauty of this spot. Were 
it not for the faint rumbling of cannons in the distance you 
would imagine that ours was a hunting lodge in the Maine woods. 
For our huts are lost in a tiny batch of fir-trees on the upper 
slope of a hill; below is the river, and across the valley a typical 
tiny French village. 

It's hard to reconcile such peaceful rural scenes with war — 
somehow cows browsing by the side of a stream, the fragrance 
of apple blossoms in the air, and the clear notes of church-bells 
are in no way connected with the general notion of war. Yet one 
has but to tramp over the hill and see the tiny black crosses on 
the planes (which denote Hun bullet holes, or shrapnel from 
"Archies ") ; or amble along the country road and watch French 
and American troops resting from their turn in the trenches; 
or cut cross the field to the hospital to realize that war has left 
its marks here as in all places. 

That is the one big thing Great Britain and the United States 
will never have to contend with — simply because Germany will 
never be able to reach their lands — and because France has had 
to put up with that for so long a man's heart very readily goes 
out in sympathy for the country people of France. How hard 
it must have been for them to see the places they were born in, 
and had lived in and loved, shattered and destroyed. Why ! the 
civilians of France, the peasant women in the countless little 
towns are nothing short of heroes. There's only one solution, 
one remedy, one sedative. Regardless of all errors we may make, 
regardless of the quickly passing time, regardless of all political 



and industrial obstacles, we mvst gather together the men and 
material with which to carry the war into German territory. For 
just as British and American civilians are in a comparatively 
safe position, so are the civilians of hated Germany. And it is 
a regrettable fact that the temper of the people at home is the 
biggest influence on that of those at the front. United States 
has the resources — and for once we must tap them without 
mourning over the cost; seeing only the results that are to 

Copey, there are so many things that seem queer and inex- 
plicable — but it's neither loyal nor opportune to criticize! I 
only hope the men in whose hands the industries and prepara- 
tions lie realize that the lives of the men at the front are de- 
pendent directly upon them, that red tape and petty differences 
back home are identical to the stabs of the Hun bayonets and 
the burst of Hun shells to the man at the front — in the trenches, 
at the batteries, or in the air. Men with imagination realize 
that — here 's hoping those chaps who work and act solely by 
precedent are soon gotten rid of! 

This old war is the most gigantic business proposition that 
ever came along. And obviously the more efiiciently it's run 
the less human sorrow will come from it ; and greatly fewer will 
be the broken hearts. Coordination and cooperation — com- 
plete and to the fullest extent sincere and persistent — are what 
we need. Until we get that France will continue to see her 
towns crumpled to stark walls, men of the Allies will die in 
agony — and the Hun will ring his damned '" Austerglochen" 
in token of supposed victories. The Hun may have made some 
strategical and tactical gains, but he's never won a victory, for 
victories don't come until hearts and wills are broken and the 
last drop of blood has been drained. That he has never ac- 
complished in any way. The French, soldier and peasant alike, 
are undaunted. The British are hurling the Huns back and 
dying in their tracks like the men they are — and thank God 
we've come at last, with all the ardor of youth and faith in the 



right of our cause to put our links into the chain that must never 
be broken, 

I wish I knew of much to write you — of the progress of the 
war, of our troops, or of many failures. But, unfortunately, as 
the French say, when you are in the country far from anyone 
save your brother officers "on ne sait pas grande chose de la 
guerre" You 've probably heard that Doug Campbell has gotten 
two Boches already. From every indication he's going to be 
one of the best men we '11 ever have in that end of flying — just 
as he was one of the most genuine men who ever went through 
Cambridge. Harvard has its "sons" all over France — indeed 
six of us (officers in my squadron) have started a Harvard Club 

of O . You can imagine how greatly the village is honored 

when you consider that it has just about thirty closely packed 
stone shacks, and two rather common cafes — where you can 
buy very good champagne, and very poor beer. 

Perhaps you know some of the men. First and foremost is 
Steve Noyes — (he 's an old-timer and a prince of a chap) who 
is a pilot; a youngster named Hughes, of '18; another compara- 
tively old-timer named Hopkins; and Jocelyn of '16, and my- 
self. Billy Emerson, '16, was the sixth — but I regret to tell 
you that last taps were sounded for him last week. We do not 
know whether the "antis" got him, or whether it was a Boche 
plane. He went out on a reglage and was shot down in our lines. 
He was an honor to Harvard, a gentleman and a soldier, — the 
first of our little club to gain the one glorious epitaph. 

Perhaps you 'd like to hear of Major Luf bery 's funeral — you 
doubtless know that he was shot down, and fell from his burning 
plane into a courtyard. He had done a great deal in uniting 
the French and Americans, — he was the greatest of our air- 
men and seventh on the list of French aces, — he had all the 
qualities of a soldier, audacity, utter fearlessness, persistency, 
and tremendous skill, — in every way, sir, he was a valuable man. 

As we marched to his interment the sun was just sinking be- 
hind the mountain that rises so abruptly in front of T ; the 



sky was a faultless blue, and the air was heavy with the scent 
of the blossoms on the trees in the surrounding fields. An Ameri- 
can and French general led the procession, following close on 
to a band which played the funeral march and "Nearer, my God, 
to Thee" in so beautiful a way that I for one could hardly keep 
my eyes dry. Then followed the officers of his squadron and of 
my own — and after us an assorted group of Frenchmen famous 
in the stories of this war, American officers of high rank, and 
two American companies of infantry, separated by a French one. 

How slowly we seemed to march as we went to his grave, 
passing before crowds of American nurses in their clean white 
uniforms, and a throng of patients and French civilians! He 
was given a full military burial; with the salutes of the firing 
squad, and the two repetitions of taps, one answering the other 

from the west. General E made a brief address, one of the 

finest talks I have ever heard any man give — while throughout 
all the ceremony French and American planes circled the field. 
In all my life I have never heard taps blown so beautifully as on 
that afternoon — even some of the officers joined the women 
there in quietly dabbing at their eyes with white handkerchiefs. 
France and United States had truly assembled to pay a last 
tribute to one of their soldiers. My only prayer is that somehow 
through some means I can do as much as he for my country be- 
fore I too wander west — if in that direction I am to travel. 

As for myself, sir — I left the French front about six weeks 
ago and joined the First Aero — going with it to the so-called 
American front. Our sector is comparatively quiet, and life goes 
on as usual. My squadron is an observation one — we direct 
our artillery fire (and I 'm glad to tell you that our artillery has 
knocked the stuffings out of several Boche batteries) ; we work 
with the infantry, and photograph the enemy positions. It's 
useful work and quite interesting. Every man in the outfit is 
praying that the morrow will bring orders sending us up to the 
Somme for work in the new offensive which the Huns will doubt- 
less begin in short order. But there's no place on earth like the 



army for rumors and unexpected happenings — so in the mean- 
time we 're doing our best here. 

When important things begin to happen I shall write to you 
at once, and not feel then that perhaps my notes are not overly 
interesting^ — and if you don't mind I would like to let my 
thoughts smear themselves on paper quite often — so please 
bear up under the threat of my intentions. Just now my lantern 
is warning me to blow her (or "him" as the English say) out 
so I reckon it '11 have to be good night, sir — for this time. 

On the day after that letter was written, on the very 
day that its envelope containing Ciilbert's prophetic allu- 
sion to "travelling west," was postmarked, he met the 
death awaiting an aviator. The words of his friend, Russell 
Fry, may best be used again, this time to relate the cir- 
cumstances of Culbert's death, and to suggest the im- 
pression stamped by his character upon those who knew it 

. . . About five o'clock on the afternoon of May 22, 1918, 
while flying over the lines near St. Mihiel, the plane, apparently 
struck by a German anti-aircraft shell, became immanageable 
and crashed just behind our lines, the pilot being killed in- 
stantaneously and Culbert rendered unconscious. 

He was taken at once to the American hospital at Sebastopol 
Farm, just north of Toul, where he died at midnight without 
having regained consciousness. And there he was buried, his 
body being moved later to the American cemetery at Thiau- 

His life had been spent in the great out-door world, leaving 
him as free from the affectations of conventionalized man as the 
great seas which shattered themselves against that jMaine island, 
his summer home. His was an essentially elemental character, 
— honest, upright, unafraid; quick to applaud another's ac- 



complishments, equally quick to condemn his shortcomings. 
And as his life was fearless, vigorous, unselfish, — so, too, was 
his death. 

The posthumous award of the Croix de Guerre mentioned 
in the earlier quotation from the 1917 Triennial Report 
was made, in a General Order of the Army, in the follow- 
ing terms: 

Jeune officier d'un grand cceur, animS du plus pur sentiment du 
devoir, ay ant fait preuve au cours de plusieurs reconnaissances sur 
Vennemi de sang-froid, de courage, et de decision. Blesse mor- 
tellement le 22 Mai, 1918. 



Class of 1917 

W ILLIAM St. Agnan Stearns bore the name of his 
grandfather, a member of the Harvard Class of 1841, a 
resident of Salem, where he lived in the house built by 
his grandfather, Joseph Sprague, in the eighteenth century. 
His son, the late Richard Sprague Stearns, and Carrie 
(Gill) Stearns, now of Boston, were the parents of William 



St. Agnan Stearns, who was born in Eastbourne, England, 
September 12, 1895. An older brother was George Gill 
Stearns, '09, who enlisted, September, 1914, in the Cana- 
dian Army; a younger, Richard Sprague Stearns, Jr., '20. 

William Stearns made his preparation for college at 
Noble and Greenough's School in Boston, and entered 
Harvard with the Class of 1917. He joined the Institute 
of 1770, D. K. E., Hasty Pudding, and Fox Clubs. In 
his sophomore year he was a member of the LTniversity 
Rifle Team, of which he was captain in his junior and 
senior years. In the summer vacation of his sophomore 
year, 1915, he attended the Plattsburg camp. 

Promptly upon the entrance of the LTnited States into 
the war, he enlisted as a private, first class, in the Aviation 
Section of the Signal Corps, and in May, 1917, began his 
training in the ground school at the Massachusetts In- 
stitute of Technology. On July 10, he was transferred to 
Mineola, New York; on August 11, he qualified as a 
Reserve Military Aviator, and was detailed to the ground 
school at Kelly Field, Texas. He sailed for France, No- 
vember 1, and was detailed first to the Third Aviation 
Instruction Centre at Issoudun, and later to the Bombing 
School, Seventh Aviation Instruction Centre, at Clermont- 
Ferrand. In January he received his commission as first 
lieutenant. Aviation Section, Signal Corps, and was ap- 
pointed instructor at the Clermont-Ferrand school. Here 
he met his death in an airplane accident, May 25, 1918. 

Such are the bare facts of Stearns's military record. The 
following passage from a letter written by a f ellow-av iator. 
Captain W^alker M. Ellis, of the Princeton Class of 1915, 
who spent the academic years of 1915-17 at the Harvard 



Law School, and took the Harvard degree of LL.B. in 
1919, provides the personal detail which will recall the 
man himself, and relates the manner of his untimely 

I knew him first at Ground School, where we were both in the 
first Squadron at Boston Tech, and was immediately attracted 
to him by his quiet reserve, his evident breeding, and the fact, 
which his every action indicated, of his being an altogether 
charming gentleman. . . . 

He, as you know, went to Mineola, and I to France. Some- 
time near the end of November he passed through Tours, where 
I was still under training, but he stayed only a day and proceeded 
to Issoudun for his advanced training on Nieuports. December 
found me at Clermont as officer in charge of training, and I be- 
lieve it was about the end of February that Bill arrived to take 
the bombing course. He went through the course in about six 
weeks, and did exceptionally well. Everyone liked him — how 
could they help it? I remember him so well in his flying clothes. 
The helmet accentuated his naturally fine profile, and he really 
was a stunning thing to look at. His shapely, curly head — I 
can see it now. 

Coming home from a cross-country trip one day, his motor 
stopped just a short distance from the field, and he made a most 
difficult and most beautiful forced landing in a tiny field. The 
ship was entirely unhurt, and after the wrecking crew had rolled 
it into another field whence it was possible to take ofi", he insisted 
on flying it back to the home aerodrome himself, which he did. 
The whole episode showed such ability, judgment, and spirit 
that I determined to hold him at Clermont as an instructor, 
though much against his personal wishes. He was, as were all 
of us, mad to get to the front. I remember thinking at the time 
how pleased his mother would be, for while there is bound to be 
a certain amount of danger in flying, one is generally considered 
disgustingly safe in school work compared to the front. 



Though he did n't like it, he accepted his assignment cheer- 
fully and did splendidly as an instructor. Almost all of the 
students we received were boys with lots of flying time, but who 
had never flown the Breguet machine which was used at Cler- 
mont; and a part of his job was as double-control instructor on 
this machine. I can promise you that he had a very happy 
time with us. We had a small but awfully congenial crowd of 
twelve or fourteen boys on the instruction staff. All of us knew 
all phases of the work, and no one had any fixed job. We worked 
in any capacity in which we were needed. Bill would be doing 
double-control one day, and the next might be in charge of a 
cross-country class, assigning ships to the various crews, seeing 
that they got off all right, and checking them on their return. 
We soon grew to have absolute confidence in him. He was above 
all things reliable. He never did any spectacular flying, but 
every movement in the air was perfect, and he knew what he 
was doing every instant of the time. 

Meanwhile, there were little dinner parties in Clermont once 
or twice a week, and sometimes a more pretentious week-end 
staged at Royat, a little watering-town in the mountains nearby 
— or at Vichy, perhaps, some twenty miles distant. Bill had 
his share of the good times, but always with that same quiet 
reserve — even in hilarity. . . . 

Then Spencer Brainard, who was our chief pilot, went to 
Tours for a week or ten days. He had charge of testing all 
planes which had been repaired and of reassigning them for 
flying. It was the most important position in the school, and 
Bill was put in to fill his place during his absence. There are 
two types of Breguet machines — one with a Renault motor, 
of which we had only ten, and which are much more powerful 
than those mounted with a Fiat motor, which were what we 
used in training. Bill went up on Friday in one of the Renault 
machines, and, delighted with the excess power, he did some 
beautiful but rather hazardous flying. I think it made him just 
a bit overconfident. The next day there were two or three 



Fiats which had just come from the repair shop and were ready 
for testing. Regular school flying stopped between ten in the 
morning and three in the afternoon. I went to town for lunch 
with a visiting officer. On our way out we saw a bad wreck 
lying in one of the fields just about half a mile from the school. 
I knew it could only be Bill, as he alone was in a position au- 
thorizing him to fly between ten and three. We ran over, hoping 
against hope that nothing fatal had happened, but got there 
just as they were lifting him from the wreckage. He was killed 
instantly, — a broken piece of the fuselage penetrated the brain 
just behind his right ear. It is just as well that it happened so, 
for his other injuries were so universal and serious that he could 
not possibly have lived more than an hour or two — - as was the 
case of the poor mechanic with him. 

It seems that he had taken up one of the Fiats for testing, 
and had flown much as he did the day before in the Renault. 
I think he over judged its power to pull itself out of awkward 
positions. The immediate cause of the trouble was a vertical 
bank at about 2,000 feet, during which the nose of the machine 
fell, which resulted in a tail-spin, or vrille, as the French call 
them. No one had ever spun one of these ships, and the only 
conclusion we could arrive at was that once in a tail-spin, it was 
impossible to get them out, for he had plenty of altitude and 
from an inspection of the plane it was evident that he had not 
lost his head for an instant. He had cut his switch, turned off 
his gasoline, and closed his throttle — exactly the proper things 
to have done in such an emergency. Those who saw the fall 
say that the ship made several turns in the spin, but at no time 
gave any evidence of coming out of it. It struck the ground 
head on and at terrific speed. 

No other accident ever did or will affect me as that one did 
— and I have seen a great many. He was such a dear boy! 
and he represented the very best in young American manhood. 
One does n't realize until one gets into the army how few charm- 
ing people there are in the world. I had made it a rule after 



any accident to fly immediately myself just for the moral effect 
on the students, and the hardest thing I have ever had to do was 
that flight after leaving him at the little camp hospital. 

We draped his casket in American flags, and an oflficers' guard 
of honor was with him from the moment of his death until he 
was buried Sunday afternoon at four o'clock on the side of an 
old hill some five miles from camp. There were many beautiful 
flowers, but the ones that pleased me most were innumerable 
little posies of spring blossoms, gathered and brought by the 
kind old peasants of the neighborhood. The services were ab- 
solutely simple, and for that reason beautiful. The six ofiicers 
most intimate with him, including myself, carried him, and the 
whole personnel of the school did him honor. . . . 

He has become part of the greatest tradition the world has 
known since Christ, of the highest, most glorious comradeship 
of spirits that ever foregathered in youth. I am reminded of a 
question of Stevenson's — "Does not life go down with better 
grace in full foam over the cataract, than straggling to an end 
in sandy deltas? " Bill went down just that way. He gave his 
life with a fine, free gesture in the hot flush of youthful idealism 
— whence spring all noble thoughts and pregnant visions. 

I have known so many, many boys who have gone that way. 
Do you know that of the ten from that flrst Squadron who went 
immediately to France only three of us are left, and only ten 
of the original twenty-three who were at Tech together? 



Class of 1916 

J. HERE is an anecdote of Henry Clarke's boyhood which 
has a bearing upon his adult character. It is told that his 
mother, in the interest of the bodily safety of the small 
boys of the neighborhood, once forbade their sliding down 
the front steps of the Clarkes' house. Her son came in and 

told her that the boys had been calling her names. 




hope you stood up for me, Henry," she said. "Yes," he 
repHed, "I stood up for you, but I did n't say anything." 
Carrying the spirit of this speech into the war, he repre- 
sented the best type of American soldier. 

He was born in Chicago, November 19, 1893, the son of 
Charles Atherton Clarke and Georgiana (Whiting) Clarke, 
who have lived in Newton, Massachusetts, since this son 
was two years old. The grandfather, Henry W^are Clarke, 
for whom he was named, was the son of the Rev. Robert 
Clarke, a Unitarian minister of Princeton and Uxbridge, 
Massachusetts, who named his only son for his friend and 
colleague, Henry Ware (Harvard, 1812). The first Ameri- 
can Clarke of his family, Robert Clarke, settled in Lon- 
donderry, New Hampshire, in 1725. His mother's first 
American ancestor, the Rev. Samuel W^hiting, came in 
1636 to the Massachusetts town which in 1630 was incor- 
porated as Saugus, but in 1687, in compliment to the new 
minister, from Lynn in England, was re-named Lynn. 
Through many later generations, the Whiting family lived 
in Charlestown, Massachusetts. 

Henry Clarke attended the grammar and high schools 
of Newton, and, for one term, the Stone School, in Boston. 
He entered college with the Class of 1916, and in due 
course, though showing a special interest in the study of 
literature and theology, took the degree of Bachelor of 
Science. In the Memorial Report of his class one of his 
friends has written of him: "His quiet, frank, and pleas- 
ant manner with his quaint humor made him a charming 
friend and companion. These traits that made him a 
favorite among his circle of college friends, together with 
a strong sense of duty, high ideals, and steadfast courage, 



made him a leader who won the respect and affection of 
the men and officers of his command." Again the youth 
foretold the man. 

In the summer of his graduation he attended the Busi- 
ness Men's Training Camp at Piatt sburg, and in the au- 
tumn went into business with his father in the Universal 
Boring Machine Company at Hudson, Massachusetts. 
Here he showed ability and aptitude, but when the United 
States entered the war, he volunteered for the First Officers' 
Training Camp at Plattsburg, where he was attached to 
the New England Regiment, first in the 11th, then in the 
2d Company. On August 15 he received his commission 
as second lieutenant, O. R. C, infantry. Volunteering 
immediately for service overseas, he was one of the first 
nineteen Reserve Officers chosen for this duty, and, sail- 
ing early in September, reached France before the month 
was out. 

On October 10, Clarke was assigned to the British Army 
for a few weeks of training at a bayonet school, where he 
also received instruction in Swedish gymnastics. This 
took him into the forward area near Lens. In one of his 
letters home he wrote: 

Have been here a week now and am having a fine time. The 
food is very good and the work is interesting. The only thing 
wrong is the cold, and you get used to that. We work all day 
in running suits, shoes, and puttees. When it is very cold, we 
wear sweaters, but that does n't help your knees. We have had 
visits from a lot of generals, among them one of our own. One 
English general gave us a talk which was very interesting. He 
started in the war as a company commander and he told us some 
fimny stories of his experiences. One time his company was 
doing some hard fighting in the vicinity of a canal. He got a 



telegram from Brigade Headquarters asking if he could assign 
any reason for the sudden fall in the level of the canal. As he 
was busy thinking of other things, he replied that he could only 
attribute it to the extraordinary thirst of the fishes. 

When this experience was ended he wrote, November 4 : 

The British gave us a trip up to the front line. I was in the 
front line five days, and in all that time got only ten hours' 
sleep. When we all reassembled, everybody told all the exciting 
things that had happened. The fellow who could tell the biggest 
lie was the best man. I did my best, but was soon out-classed. 

In November he was assigned to the 16th Infantry, 
First Division, A. E. F., and to this unit of the Regular 
Army he belonged until he was killed. Early in November 
he served in the first line trenches at Luneville. On No- 
vember '28, at Joire, he was appointed assistant judge 
advocate by Major General Sibert, and in March and 
April of 1918 took a course in machine gunnery at an 
American machine gun school in France. His letters 
through all this period, broken by a seven-days leave at 
Evian-les-Bains, where his sister was serving as nurses' 
aide in the children's hospital, picture a happy, hard- 
working existence, in a manner c^uite innocent of heroics. 
In February he wrote: "The censor has at last allowed 
us to write home that we are in the line, which you prob- 
ably knew long ago. It is not half so bad as it is cracked 
up to be. Sometimes, if you have an ambitious striker and 
get a good dug-out, you live like a prince. The only 
trouble is they do all their fighting at night. This is one 
place where I find my college education a blessing. Please 
keep on sending magazines, also cigarettes. Don't worry 



about mail — any I don't get somebody else will." And 
on February 26: "Have read all the books Helen sent 
with much interest. She wanted to know what kind to 
send. Sentimental novels are the best; the more senti- 
mental the better. This is not only my opinion, but every- 
body's else." From the gunnery school he writes of a 
"fellow from Yale" in whose company he took much 
pleasure. Passages from three letters in the last month of 

his life are illuminating: 

May 12, 1918. 

Spring is certainly with us now, in France. The trees are out, 
the country is green, and it is warm. Everybody is much hap- 
pier now, even with the German offensive. We have baseball 
games, play quoits, etc., and have a pretty good time — that is, 
we do now, for we are back. We had a pretty interesting time 
today. A French bombing plane came over the towm we were 
in, and it showed signs of having engine trouble. That was all 
right, but all of a sudden it dropped a bomb which landed fairly 
close. That rather made us doubt its identity, and so when it 
landed in a nearby field, we hot-footed it over, half expecting 
to capture a couple of Bodies. The aviators were French, how- 
ever, and had dropped the bombs because they did n't want 
them hanging on the machine in case they made a poor landing. 
We had a good look at the plane and the machine guns, which, 
of course, were interesting to us. Did I tell you that I had two 
days in Paris on the way back from school? Paris one day and 
the trenches the next was what really happened to us; and they 
were some trenches, but we are out of them now. 

The Germans are taking a lot of punishment now. Some of 
of them are feeling pretty sick. The Americans have n't had a 
picnic in this sector, but it's not as bad as we expected. You 
don't read about us in the newspapers, but we are in the real 
sector where there is action. Others get the notoriety, but the 
Regular Army is still on the job. 



May 16, 1918. 

Today is Mother's Day, and I celebrated by collecting beau- 
coup mail that has accumulated for me. At present, I am in a 
large woodcutting detail. We are cutting stakes for wire en- 
tanglements. It is pretty interesting because we are located 
back in a wood that is filled with artillery. Living here for a 
few days shows you what is going on behind the lines. The most 
interesting part of the war in many ways is the work of transpor- 
tation. And it is dangerous. At night the German artillery 
opens up on the roads leading to the front and to the dumps. 
Over these roads the ration and ammunition wagons have to go, 
and it's no fun. You can't blame mule drivers for swearing 
when you see what they have to go through. We had some fun 
today with a couple of officers we had down to see us. There 
is an ammunition dump a couple of hundred yards from our 
camp, and the German howitzers are working on it pretty 
steady. You can hear the shells coming, and they make a 
frightful noise. After the first one came over, we had to send 
a searching party out to find our friends. We are used to it — 
and have great confidence in the accuracy of the Boche gunners. 

There is a persistent rumor around that the 1st Division is 

going home soon. They even say that there is a sign on the 

Statue of Liberty saying, "Welcome home, 1st Division." I 

am used to rumors now, however. 

May 26, 1918. 

The weather is hot over here now, and we have had no rain 
for ten days. This is such a remarkable drought that some of 
the wells are drying up. I got a whole sack full of mail yester- 
day, some of which was meant to have reached me on Christmas. 

We are billeted in the smallest town I have every been in. It 
is composed of three farms. Nevertheless, it has a name, and 
is on the map. It is a good place to be because the German 
bombing planes pass it up and go after the more pretentious 
burgs. We lie in our tent at night, and hear them going by, and 
pretty soon the bombs begin to drop on all sides. The place is 



shy of good billets, but we don't complain, although lately we 
have been disturbed by having bullets intended for the planes 
dropping around us. We moved our tent under a brick wall so 
now all is well. 

On May 28, two days after writing the letter just quoted, 
he was killed during the first counter attack of the Germans 
after the American capture of Cantigny. An eye-witness 
of his death, Lieutenant Joseph Connor, reported: "He 
was commanding a platoon of machine guns, and putting 
on indirect fire during the attack, and he had not been 
firing more than three minutes when a Boche 155 shell 
exploded near him. The shrapnel shattered his knee, 
and one piece went through his head just above the eye. 
He was killed instantly, and there was a smile on his face 
when we carried him out." 

Clarke w^as buried at Bonvilliers, near Cantigny. On 
December 23, 1921, his body was reinterred at Mt. 
Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge. The official recognition 
of his valor was expressed in the following citation: 

Headquarters First Division 

General Orders No. 1. January 1, 1920. 

The Division Commander 

cites for gallantry in action 

and especially meritorious services 

2d Lieutenant Henry W. Clarke, M. G. Co., 16th Inf. 

who was killed in action 

near Cantigny, France, May 28, 1918. 

By command of 
Major General Suivevierall. 

His fellow-officers wrote of him to his father as their 
"beloved friend and comrade." One of them, the "fellow 



from Yale" to whom allusion has already been made, was 
himself killed in action on October 9, 1918. Three months 
before his death he wrote to Clarke's sister: 

July 9, 1918. 
My dear Miss Clarke: 

Your brother was the first officer whom I met when I joined 
the Company last December. I was assigned to his billet, and 
well remember that night. I had spent two sleepless nights on 
a train that barely crept along, and it was very cold, as the win- 
dows in the compartments had all been broken. 

When I arrived at the little village where the Company was 
billeted, I was pretty tired and despondent, but I was surely 
lucky in having your brother for a room-mate. He did every- 
thing that he could possibly do to make me comfortable and at 
home. Since then, we were together almost constantly, and I 
cannot begin to tell you how many good times we had together. 
He was the very best kind of a friend a man could have. Many 
a night we sat before an open fire, smoking our pipes and talk- 
ing until it was far into the night. And what discussions and 
arguments we used to have. One night it would be religion, 
and on another literature, or we would argue mightily on so- 
ciology. It used to be a regular Harvard-Yale debate; and 
Harvard would generally win, though, of course, Yale seldom 
acknowledged it. 

Late in April, we received orders to go to a machine gun 
school, and there had bunks opposite each other. The machine 
gun work came very easily to Henry, but I was always in trouble, 
and if it had not been for him, I would never have gotten through 
the course. He was always only too ready and willing to help 
me out, though I was forever pestering him with questions. In 
the afternoons, just after school had finished for the day, we 
used to walk down to a village where we often had supper. We 
were both very fond of omelet, jelly, and chocolate, and that 
became an institution with us, though when we had but recently 
cashed our pay vouchers we had more elaborate repasts. When 



the more than welcome boxes came from home, we always shared 
each other's, whether it was cigars, magazines, or candy. 

Never have I met with a more even, frank, and generous 
disposition than your brother's. He never became ruffled or 
impatient, and was at all times kind and considerate of others. 
Officers and men loved and respected him alike. Perhaps I 
knew him as well if not better than anyone in the Company, 
and so I know how very fortunate I was to have been his 
friend. . . . 

Most sincerely, 

Stanley Young. 



Class of 1916 

When Haydock had been less than two months in 
France he wrote home to his mother: "I am afraid thee 
may think from this letter that I am trying to pretend 
that I am a fire-eater, but as a matter of fact I am just 
as peace-loving as ever and will be more than thankful to 
get home at the first opportunity. It is rotten business, 
but I hope before this you have gotten into the same 
frame of mind I have, and let nothing worry you." These 
are typical words of the "fighting Quaker" — one who, 
having conquered an inborn repugnance to war, through 
coming to see that by its means evil worse than itself must 
be destroyed, can throw himself into it with all the greater 
force. Such a soldier was George Guest Haydock. 



He was born, of Quaker ancestry, in Germantown, 
Pennsylvania, September 15, 1894, the son of Robert 
Roger Haydock and Annie Louise (Heywood) Haydock, 
now of Milton, Massachusetts. He received his earlier 
schooling at the Friends' School in Germantown, and in 
the autumn of 1909 entered Middlesex School, Concord, 
Massachusetts, from which he graduated in 1912. There, 
besides playing on the football and baseball teams, he 
entered heartily into the various interests of the place, 
and greatly endeared himself both to masters and to boys. 

At Harvard, from which he graduated with the Class 
of 1916, he devoted himself with special interest to studies 
in English. In athletics he made an excellent record as 
a member of his freshman track team, and of the Varsity 
track team in his junior and senior years. At the Yale- 
Harvard meet of 1916, he tied for first place in the pole 
vault at 12 feet, 6 inches — a fitting achievement for the 
boy of whom a Philadelphia friend wrote in reminiscence, 
after his death, to his parents: "I can't think of your 
house without George practising pole-vaults in front of 
the stable for hours at a time, very patiently and very 
determinedly, and all by himself." In his senior year 
also he entered a four-months' competition in field events, 
and at the end of it came out the winner of three cups, 
for broad jump, high jump, and pole-vault, the largest 
number awarded to any individual. He was a member 
of the Institute of 1770, D. K. E., Varsity, Hasty Pud- 
ding, Iroquois, and Fly Clubs, of the last of which he was 
president in 1915-16. 

Through the Harvard Regiment he received his first 
military training. In the summer of his graduation, 1916, 



he attended the Cth Training Camp at Phittsburg, and in 
the autumn entered Sutton's Mills, a woollen factory 
of The Russell Company, at North Andover, Massachu- 
setts. Beginning as a "picker" he worked through several 
departments of the mills, until there was need of him in 
the office. Of the impression he made upon his associates 
during this brief experience there is a record in The Russell 
Company Bulletin for August, 1918: "Throughout the 
Mill, he was well-known, and much liked by the employees 
with whom he came in contact, and in the office, where his 
training and ability were especially appreciated, he was 
looked upon as a hard worker and a student of the business, 
and was loved as a true friend. He was a man of reserved 
and quiet nature, and one whom we looked forward to 
having with us again at the termination of the war." 

When the United States joined the Allies, he resigned his 
position with The Russell Company and enlisted in the 
Army at Boston, April 28, 1917, and on May 11 went to 
the First Officers' Training Camp at Plattsburg. Here 
he was enrolled in Company 6 of the First Provisional 
Training Regiment, and on August 15 received his com- 
mission as first lieutenant, infantry, O. R. C. On August 
29 he reported at Hoboken, New Jersey, for overseas serv- 
ice, and on September 8 sailed, unattached, for England 
on the Orduna. Landing at Liverpool, proceeding to 
Southampton, he reached Havre, September 26, and after 
a few days at a rest camp was ordered to the Infantry 
School of the Fifth British Army at Toutencourt, near 
Amiens, for a month's training, at the end of which he had 
a brief tour in the first-line trenches at the British front 
north of Quesnoy and east of Peronne. On November 14 



he reported at Treveray, in the Gondrecoiirt training area 
of the A. E. F., and was assigned as first lieutenant to L 
Company, 28th Infantry, 2d Brigade, 1st Division. With 
this unit he remained until his death. 

Haydock's many letters to his family mingled the serious 
and the light-hearted in characteristic fashion. As he 
neared England he wrote, September 22: "The coast of 
Ireland is splendid, all covered with harps and shamrocks, 
just as I always thought it would be." In a letter from a 
Harvard comrade (W. O. P. Morgan, '18) there is a 
typical glimpse of him on his way to the British training 
school at Toutencourt. ''I remember in particular," 
wrote this friend, "one large switch-yard where we stopped 
for the afternoon and had our first game of soccer with 
the English officers. I remember so well standing on the 
platform with George and seeing a battalion of ' Tommies ' 
leave for 'the front,' the mysterious place which neither 
of us could imagine in vaguest detail; to hear them sing- 
ing and joking was beyond us. I thought of our rather 
shocked sensations at that time when the following May 
I heard George's regiment hilariously singing on their way 
up to Cantigny, the first Americans to attack." With the 
British, Haydock learned, among other things, to accus- 
tom himself to the personal ministrations of a servant. 
"I now have a very sporty cane," he wrote, October 10, 
"and a long, white cigarette holder, so when I wear my 
'Sam Browne,' which is now beautifully polished by my 
'fellow,' I am some candy kid. Think of me with a serv- 
ant!" Again on October 21 he wrote: 

It is queer how everything here seems perfectly natural, 
when as a matter of fact it is totally different from anything I 



have ever done before : we just follow along with the crowd and 
think nothing about it. I live in a school room, and sleep on a 
bed with chicken wire for a spring; the only hot water I get is 
a mugful for shaving, which my servant heats up for me, I am 
afraid he will spoil me. He gets everything ready for me in the 
morning and then wakes me up; he always knows just what 
clothes I will need and tells me just how cold it is, but I think 
I can judge that better than he can. When I come out from 
breakfast, Thorpe is waiting with my equipment, and helps 
me put it on; quite a change from working in the picker room 
in the mill at Andover. I pay him twenty francs a month, about 
$3.50 now, and he thinks it is a "cushy" job. Every British 
officer has a servant as part of his equipment, and they follow 
him wherever he goes; when he goes over his servant goes with 
him and acts as runner. They claim a servant is indispensable, 
and I am beginning to think they are right, though it does n't 
seem to fit exactly with American ideas. 

But the hard work he was doing interested him as much 
as the social customs of the British Army — including tea 
and dinners graphically described — and when his course 
was over, he wrote, November 16, two days after joining 
the 28th Infantry: 

From the time I left the school until I arrived here I had 
several new and rather thrilling experiences. We were sent for 
four days to the English front and enjoyed a few new sensations 
which I think made quite an impression on our young and un- 
initiated brains. To get to the lines we passed through miles 
and miles of war- wasted country that is like nothing on earth; 
it looks as though there had been an earthquake there. We saw 
towns where there was not a single building with a roof or more 
than two walls, and in many cases not even that : they had been 
the battle-ground of some of the hardest fighting in history, 
and only the main streets had been cleaned up. When we got 



to the lines, we were received with open arms, and I think the 
English were really glad to see us, because, as they said, it must 
have been a relief to them to see someone to whom the war was 
new. I spent three nights in the front lines, and although it 
was in what they call a quiet sector, there were quite enough 
shells, etc., flying around to suit one, considering that it was my 
first time under fire. It was a strange sensation, but did not 
frighten me in the least; but it was a bit hard to realize what 
it all meant. It is a most peculiar sort of life, really two days 
in each twenty-four hours. It was pretty quiet through the 
day, unless the Hun had a mind to do a little strafing, which he 
usually did in the morning. The Major would find out where the 
show was going on, and then we would go a different way. We 
would go the rounds in the morning, sleep in the afternoon, go 
in again after dark, and to bed at two or three. The lines are 
a wonderful sight at night, as there are veri lights going up 
about once a minute, and they make a blinding light. If you 
are in an exposed position when one goes up, you simply stand 
motionless until it burns out; otherwise you thank him for keep- 
ing you from going through a hole in the duck-boards and up to 
your knees in mud. At one place we were only seventy yards 
from the Boche line, and it was damned exciting trying to find 
a patrol that they thought was out. I did not have my clothes 
off for five days, all but one of which were rainy, and had only 
my slicker and a borrowed blanket to sleep in forty feet under- 
ground, with rats and cooties providing the entertainment; so 
it felt very good to get back to a bath and my bed-roll. 

From November to March, Haydock's regiment had 
the training of intensive drill and manoeuvres at Treveray, 
St. Amand, Gondrecourt, and other places. Early in 
March, under the tactical command of the French, it 
entered the front line of the Toul sector, for defensive 
work at Seicheprey, and served, in support and reserve. 



for a month. In Haydock's letters the various aspects 
of his life at this time are clearly reflected. The following 

passages are typical : 

December 7. 

I don't remember just when I wrote last, but I will try and 
tell you some of the things we have been doing in the last 
rather strenuous week. On Monday we spent the day hiking 
around the country, but did not prove very much except to get 
pretty tired. Just as I was getting into bed an orderly came 
around with an order saying that first call would be at 3.30 a.m., 
and that at 4.30 the regiment would move out to receive Gen- 
eral Pershing at a place [Gondrecourt] a good, healthy fifteen 
miles away; that we would wear overcoats, packs, tin hats, 
etc., and otherwise disguise ourselves as Christmas trees. My 
opinion of the General immediately dropped considerably, but 
there was nothing for it but to climb out and hike. It was a 
very cold morning and snowing pretty hard, but we made 
almost ten miles before daylight, and then had to stand around 
an hour and freeze; we then polished off the other five miles and 
waited an hour and a half more, during which time we were 
informed that it was the first time since General Sheridan's 
time that an American regiment at full war strength had been 
reviewed by a sure-enough general, and that on the whole the 
28th was pretty hot stuff; but we were sure that 3.30 in the 
morning was pretty cold stuff to make up for it. When we got 
there, we lined up on either side of the street, and pretty soon 
along came Generals Pershing and Bliss, Lord Northcliffe, 
Colonel House and several other dignitaries; the regiment 
stood at present arms and the officers at salute for at least 
fifteen minutes, while they walked through and gave us the 
"once-over": by the time they got down to me I was far more 
interested in the weight in tons of my right arm than in the ap- 
pearance of the reviewing party, although I did look at them out 
of the corner of my eye. The best thing about the whole party 
was they brought us home in trucks. 



Wednesday I had to lecture to my platoon for four hours and 
keep them interested and warm on a very cold day; it was a 
good deal of a strain, but I lived through it and kept them fairly 
interested by getting off every wild tale I had ever heard. Again 
we got orders for 3.30 a.m. and started on manoeuvres for three 
days, each day beginning at three-thirty and ending about 
three in the afternoon. Of course our Company got the most 
work to do. Each day we would hike from ten to fifteen miles 
and take up a position; we had to run up and down every hill 
in sight, and they are numerous and steep. It was the first time 
I had to handle the men alone, and, after being liberally cussed 
out, learned a great deal. I am afraid I am naturally too polite 
to be a soldier; it is not in me to bawl men out the way it should 
be done; but I learned a lot through rather bitter experience, 
and am getting a little more brass. I am glad tomorrow is a 
holiday because they did their best to walk the legs off us and 
keep us working most of the night and day, but we are all good 
and tough now. 

I had a party arranged for Lou [his sister] for the loth, but 
I hear now that all leaves are cancelled, so I shall have to call 
it off for a while: we seem to work in bad luck in getting to- 
gether. My mail is coming through better now. It is a bonne 
war. Love and Happy New Year. 

December 23. 

Here it has gotten around to Sunday again without my having 
a chance to write. We have, as usual, had a very busy week, 
ending up with divisional manoeuvres in open warfare. The 
first part of the week was taken up with the usual routine drill 
and two pretty long hikes on slippery roads. The plan was to 
have us go out Friday, Saturday, and Sunday on the big ma- 
noeuvre, but it worked out slightly differently. To begin with 
I might mention that the climate is much the same as that of 
New England; at present everything is frozen up tight, and 
we have had enough snow in the last week to make the ground 
white. Friday we packed up our bed-rolls and packs, and i)re- 



pared for what might come. Not desiring to lug any more than 
necessary, I put most of the things I thought I would want in 
my bed-roll, which goes on the wagon. Our battalion was held 
in reserve to defend this town, and the result was that we stood 
from nine in the morning until six at night, ready to move at a 
moment's notice. It was very cold standing in the wind and 
doing nothing, beside which we got very little to eat save for a 
little bouillon. At six our Company was informed that we 
would out-guard our brigade (two regiments) for the night. 
That came as a blow, as I had visions of sleeping in my billet. 
We had a few minutes to get an egg and piece of ham for supper, 
and were then shown what part of the world we had to cover. 
I was given about fifty men to cover approximately three miles 
on the extreme right flank, and we were told that a brigade of 
the enemy had been advancing on us and were occupying the 
next town ; so we had to keep our eyes open, and at about seven 
o'clock I started out over the hills with my men. We had four 
outposts about half a mile apart and connected by visiting 
patrols : the ones on either end were near enough shacks to take 
advantage of them and build fires that could not be seen; the 
other two, however, were in the open and could not have fires. 
I had to have my headquarters in the centre, as we were cover- 
ing such a large area, and so was out of luck. By about nine 
we were established, and I began to think of how I was to spend 
the night. We were on a high ridge with the coldest wind I 
have ever known blowing about thirty miles an hour straight 
on us. 

As I had expected to get my bed-roll, my pack contained 
one blanket, a towel, a shelter half and my iron ration. The 
thermometer must have been about 20°, but it felt much colder. 
I found a place where some grass was sticking up through the 
snow, and told the men with me (about fifteen) they could settle 
there or in a clump of woods near by. I chose the grass, opened 
up my pack, and to start with was fairly warm, as I had walked 
about five miles to get the sentries posted. It was a beautiful, 



clear, moonlight night, and I smoked my pipe to try to kid my- 
self to sleep; and just as I was dozing off the Captain came 
around to see my disposition of the troops, and after he left 
I slept for about an hour and woke up half frozen; so did the 
rounds to inspect the outposts and sat by a fire until I was 
thawed out. I did this all night at about two-hour intervals, 
and managed to sleep a little between times. At eight-thirty 
in the morning, having had no breakfast, I was told to prepare 
to act as rear-guard for the brigade when they came through 
and in the meantime to cook what we could from our iron ration. 
A few minutes later the head of the column started to come 
through, so we had to hurry to get anything to eat. We man- 
aged to fry a few pieces of bacon and eat some hard-tack, and 
were ready to join on the tail, which came through at nine- 
thirty. During the night we captured eight enemy cavalry 
patrols, but aside from that all was quiet. We formed the rear 
point and marched till noon, when the main body halted and 
had a few minutes to get a bite to eat before they went into 
action. We were just far enough behind to close in on them 
in time to take our position in the line and move forward with 
the attack which went nearly five miles through woods, over 
hills and streams and anything that happened to be in the way. 
It developed into a pursuit, so we had to keep going ahead just 
as fast as we could hike, till about four, when in all we had gone 
about ten miles. The General then decided we had won a 
decisive victory (I never saw the enemy), and that we could go 
home and have today off. We came straight back in, arriving 
here about seven-thirty, not having halted long enough to take 
our packs off since nine-thirty in the morning, having been up 
most of the night before, and with nothing inside us but three 
slices of bacon and one box of hard-tack. I sure was glad to see 
my bed, and rolled into it as soon as I got some beans to line 
my stomach with. The men went through it all without growl- 
ing as much as they do during an ordinary drill, and I think in 
all we made a pretty creditable showing. I have been eating 



and sleeping ever since we got back and feel fine, but am mighty 
glad we did not have another day of it. Our Company had the 
hardest jobs to do, and were the only ones to spend the night 
in the open ; they always seem to pick on us. 

It is very hard to believe that Christmas is so near, and I 
have n't had a chance to get the spirit yet. It makes me 
mighty homesick to think of the carols in Boston. Thee said 
thee guessed a quiet life would never appeal to me, but as soon 
as I strike home it will take more than dynamite to move me, 
and that is no joke: a quiet life never seemed so attractive as 
it does to all of us here now. We all feel the same way, and 
when I come home I am coming to stay, and not even the 
charms of North Andover will drag me away. 

We are going to have a Christmas party for the orphan kids, 
and that with a big dinner (without beans), combined with the 
fact that we have no drill, makes it seem like Christmas. 

Christmas Day, 1917. 

This is indeed a unique Christmas for me, the first one I have 
not been with you, but in spite of everything we have managed 
to make it seem quite different from the routine days. Yester- 
day one of the other officers and I got talking of where we were 
a year ago, etc., and decided that it would not be Christmas 
without stockings, so we agreed to fill each other's, and after 
supper started out to do our shopping. We went around to the 
different little stores in the town and bought some sticks of bad 
candy, nuts, mandarins, and such little things, and managed to 
get quite excited doing it. The bells rang last night, but of 
course there were no chimes, and no singing that I could hear; 
this little towTi is very poor, not even having an organ in the 
church. I slept late this morning, and woke to find that it had 
snowed some more and was a real, white Christmas. In my 
stocking I found some smoking tobacco, tooth-powder, nuts, 
chocolate, chewing gum, cigarette papers, and in the toe as 
always, a mandarin. . . , 



I have just been up to the Christmas party given for the kids 
at the Y. M. C. A., where all less than twelve years old were 
invited, and they all turned up with their families. The hut 
was very nicely fixed up, a great big Christmas tree filling one 
end, and the rest decorated with streamers, paper flags, and 
anything that could be gotten to add an air of festivity. The 
tree was covered with toys and lit up with candles, and there 
was a great pile of things under it. M. le Maire was present, 
all dressed up like an Easter egg, and as he read the name each 
child stepped forward and was given a toy, some candy, and 
nuts. The kids' eyes were fairly popping out of their heads, and 
they were very cute as they retired laden down with rocking 
horses, dolls, or some kind of game. The men enjoyed it as much 
as anyone, and I guess it was a better Christmas party than most 
of the youngsters had ever seen before. There was also a little 
entertainment chiefly provided by a one-lunged piano. 

Our eighty year old landlord has just been in, dressed in his 
Sunday best, and was much pleased to find our room a little 
warm and cheered up by the fact that if he lived long enough 
he might inherit the stove for which we paid the large sum of 
forty francs. 

January 10, 1018. 

And still the war goes on. There is not much to write about 
unless I tell you of the funeral I managed yesterday. There was 
a man of our Company who died on the last manoeuvres from 
too much drink, we think, and I was elected to bury him. I was 
given a large motor truck, a fatigue squad, and a firing squad, 
and told to bury him in some indefinitely located cemetery. 
I started out with what paraphernalia I could get together, and 
our first stop was for the Chaplain — whom I found, nmch to 
my relief, as I fully expected to have to deliver the funeral ora- 
tion myself. We then proceeded on our way and found the 
cemetery, where it was very cold and snowing hard, and of course 
the ground was frozen and difficult to dig; but after about four 
hours we were ready, and the Chaplain read the service while 



we all nearly froze and the firing squad were so cold that I 
was afraid they would shoot me by mistake. But we finally 
did get through without any mishap, though it took all day to 
do it. 

Today I spent four hours in the morning and two in the 
afternoon lecturing to my platoon in a cold, dark billet, and 
believe me it was a strain both for the men and for me. If I 
have to do it again tomorrow, I think I shall have to read the 
Bible to them. 

I have had several [Christmas] boxes, also a big bunch of 
October and November letters and some pictures, which are 
quite the best things I have gotten. It is the most wonderful 
thing in the world to get letters, and I have been reading and 
re-reading them ever since they came. Do keep it up. Well, 
*'bon soir," it is almost seven-thirty, and I must get to bed be- 
fore my candle burns out; it is my last. Lots and lots of love. 

February 3. 

I have just gotten a new job, and am now assistant fire-chief 
of the town, and we had a fire drill the other day that was a 
perfect scream. L Company is billeted near the fire station, so 
we are the company to man the engine in case of fire. The 
building in which the engine is quartered has three doors, one 
marked "Mairie," the next "Ecole," and the third "Pompe et 
Incendie"; and it is the last we are chiefly interested in. We 
decided to have a drill, so after some difficulty managed to get 
into the fire-house, which was inhabited by a large number of 
rabbits, making added complications because their boxes were 
arranged so as to make it almost impossible to get the engine 
out; also we realized that if any of them got away we would 
have to pay huge sums of money, so when I put my section 
through drill I detailed one man to fix bayonets and allow no 
rabbit to escape, and that was his entire job. The next thing 
was to get the engine out. It is an old hand pump made in 
1852, mounted on a two-wheeled cart to be pulled by six men 



whom I got, together with one man for each bucket to form 
behind, push, and be generally useful. 

After getting organized, we decided there was a fire down the 
street, so we started lickety-split, everyone yelling and the men 
waving the buckets over their heads. It was a regular picnic 
for them, and the entire French population turned out to watch. 
The hose is made of leather, riveted together, and about one 
hundred feet long; the piece that runs from the pump to the 
water is about twenty feet long and provided with a basket to 
prevent its sucking up mud, etc. When we got to the place we 
slid the pump off the truck, and simulated putting it into the 
water. At this moment M. le Maire arrived on the scene in a 
state of great excitement, saying that it was no fair having fires 
in the winter because the engine would freeze; and in fact we 
found when we started to work the pump that it was already 
frozen. There is no doubt that the department is efficient and 
up to date; but there are several drawbacks, one of which is 
that there is only one stream running through the town, beside 
which there is no other water; so if there is a fire, the building 
must be moved without delay to a point within one hundred 
feet of the stream. The sentinel guarding the rabbits was the 
cause of some priceless remarks by the men. 

February 4. 

We have been doing some camouflaging, and my platoon 
won the "brown derby," so I have decided I am some landscape 
gardener. An Irishman who used to be a gardener did most of 
the work, and then borrowed twenty francs from me. They are 
a funny crowd; I have loaned out over three hundred francs to 
men in the Company and none of them have more than twenty. 
As soon as pay-day comes around, they pay it back, and then 
about a week later borrow some more. 

I will write again as soon as I can, so don't fret. It's a queer 
game, but we all must play it and pretend we like it. Take 
things as they come, and they usually come much better. 



That's what is going to win for us, and the better we do our 
own little jobs, the sooner the whole business will be over. 

In February there were happy meetings, with his sister 
on leave from her Y, M. C. A. work in France, and with 
friends. Before the end of the month he wrote: 

[St. Am and] 
February 28. 

Last night I received three Sunday Heralds, which took me 
home for a while; it seemed very natural to read about what 
everybody was doing, how the war was going on, and all that 
sort of thing, though there seems to be an awful lot of talk about 
the way they are running things. It is a very nice sensation to 
see a paper you are familiar with, after the various assortments 
of one sheet half-English, half-French affairs we get here. From 
all accounts you must be having a very hard winter, and are 
not much better off than we are. We have plenty of food, even 
though some of it might not appeal to an epicure. Some of the 
articles in the paper hit the dope pretty straight as to what we 
are doing, while others are of course perfectly fantastic. 

Just after I started this letter I was informed that I had to 
go on as Officer of the Day, which is rather a bore, for it is now 
part of the O. D.'s job to verify prisoners every two hours 
during the night. The O. D. can do with them as he sees fit, so 
their lives are not worth much; I have just had them out dig- 
ging trenches in the rain for two hours, and they are getting 
off easier than usual at that. I have just finished reading 
"Victory" in spare time; it is a great story and a pleasant 
change for one's imagination. 

The old lady in whose house we are now living is a lonely soul 
if ever I saw one. She is very tidy and thrifty, and tonight I 
was sitting by her fire and noticed something on either side of 
the chimney. Investigation showed that she had hung hams 
up there to dry and smoke; rather different from Swift's way 
of doing, but it seems to get good results. She has a hard life 



these days, for she lives in a room between ours and the street. 
She goes to bed (after putting on a night-cap and taking off 
her sHppers) under two large feather beds at about eight, and 
from that time on there is a continuous tramp back and forth, 
until about eleven and starting again about five-thirty, order- 
lies, strikers, and ourselves. It never seems to worry her in the 
slightest, though, and she sleeps until about nine. The sand- 
man is on the job for fair. Cheerio. 

Alarch 17.^ 

It has been some time since I have had a chance to write, but 
we are taking life pretty easy now. My experiences recently 
have been of a very new and interesting sort, but it is perfectly 
true that even were I allowed it would be almost impossible to 
describe them. Our men were splendid, and always kept keen 
and cheerful even under somewhat trying conditions. It is 
pretty hard to ask a man to be on the alert for fourteen hours, 
standing in mud, and then get him to do any work in the day- 
time. It is a good deal of a strain being on the job twenty-four 
hours out of the day, but that is all made up for now, when we 
can sleep to our heart's content. We had some bombardments, 
which are indeed very noisy things and make you move around 
with a crook in your back, or else hang on to the front of the 
trench as if you expected it to get away from you. One very 
nasty one lasted about two hours, and then stopped very sud- 
denly; there was a few minutes of silence that seemed noisier 
than when the guns were going, and then, just as the sun 
started to come up, the birds began to sing as though nothing 
had happened, and it made you feel that everything was all 
right. The weather has been wonderful, and it makes me want 
to get out and play golf. 

This afternoon I was standing out in front of my billet enjoy- 
ing the sunshine, when a big whale of a private came up to me, 

^ Written at Mandres when the Company came back into reserve 
after its first tour in the front line before Seicheprey, with Haydock's 
platoon in the Bois de Carre. 



and said, "Sir, may I have permission to speak to the Lieu- 
tenant? " It was WalHe Trumbull, ^ who had enlisted in an artil- 
lery outfit near here! It was fine to see him, and we had a good 

There were lots of rats up where we were, and their moving 
around got a rise out of me. There had been a rumor that 
someone was in our line, and I had gone to investigate. My 
runner was right behind me, and we were pussyfooting down a 
communicating trench when we heard a splash which made us 
stop and listen. I had my gun cocked, and started to snoop 
around a corner when I heard another splash, and then a little 
one, like a person putting his foot back to catch his balance. 
We crouched down and waited for about five minutes for another 
move; we both felt pretty sure it was a rat, but were not taking 
chances. It turned out that the first noise was a rat, and also 
the second; the third was made by my stepping on a long- 
handled shovel, which had made the noise several feet away. 
We were on the edge of what had once been a wood; but shell 
fire had left nothing but stumps, and in the early hours of the 
morning these said stumps had a habit of walking around and 
forming up in line in a most astonishing way; in fact, we even 
had to go so far as to shoot a couple of them. 

Well, keep the good spirit up and write often. 

March 31.^ 

Three letters arrived this Easter morning, and did much to 
make the day seem a little different from the others. The bless- 
ing of this war is the amount of work; it does not give you a 
chance to think about much else, and there is a good deal of 
satisfaction to seeing things done and in knowing you are hold- 
ing a part of the line, small and unimportant as it may be. 

One's ideas of luxury do change: today, for instance, instead 
of getting dressed up in top-hat and cutaway and going to 

' Walter H. Trumbull, Jr., a schoolmate at Middlesex, a college 
mate at Harvard ('15), and business mate with The Russell Company. 

* Written from the support position in front of Beaumont and be- 
hind Seicheprey. 



church as I did a year ago, I washed my face in rainwater, 
slopped out through the rain, and bossed a working party. I 
think I shall see some of that part of the world that I got familiar 
with last fall, only under a little different circumstances this 
time. I have just slept twenty-one hours and had a swell turkey 
dinner that made me want to sleep twenty-one more. It might 
interest you to know that this month I have had my clothes 
off twice long enough to take a bath, and can see no prospect 
of ever getting them off again. The other night, during a little 
excitement, some M. G.'s were on the job, and for the first 
time I had the experience of hitting the dirt by reflex action; 
the first thing I knew I was flat on my face in a mud puddle, 
which in itself is proof that I did not do it consciously, for I was 
wet the rest of the night. 

April 4-* 
We have been having a rather strenuous but interesting time, 
something like what you see pictures of and read about, only 
the magazines have cut a good deal of the stuff that is the chief 
cause of comment for all of us here; our chief questions are: — 
How much further? — when do we eat? — will we get a chance 
to sleep? 

This is a wonderful country when the sun shines, especially 
at this time of year when things are just beginning to come out 
a little. We live on what we carry, so you can imagine what that 
is. I have to smile when I think of the kicking I have done about 
loads carried in the past, yet there is a fascination to the whole 
thing that I have never experienced before, and yet it is sur- 
prising how much it all seems like manoeuvres. I wish I could 
describe the doings of the last week to you, as they have been 
most enlightening, but I shall have to depend on my memory 
after I get home. It is a big time, but thank God it has started, 
for it may end sometime now. By the time this reaches you, 
you will probably have read of our doings, as only the American 
papers can describe them. We have the regimental band and 

1 Written from Bois I'Eveque, a cantonment near Toul. 



colors for the first time in a good many weeks, and both seem 
to help put us on our toes. The esprit in our company has 
always been very good, and now it is noticeable both for regi- 
ment and division; the men are certainly a splendid lot, and 
get better with time. 

Speaking of time, when this letter reaches thee I will have 
about finished my first year in the army and be entitled to wear 
a gold chevron on my lower left sleeve for six months' service 
in the advanced zone; does n't that seem queer? me with a 
service stripe and still a rookie? At present scraping mud off 
clothes with a tin French pen-knife takes more of our thought 
than what kind of gold braid we wull wear. We Americans 
cannot compete with either the French or English on the 
clothes question: we dress just about the same as the men, 
carry the same and more junk on our backs, and are just as 
dirty; we sometimes try to be the other way, but cannot stand 
it for long. All hands are optimistic and think there is a chance 
of getting home before 1950; last winter we thought it was a 
permanent state over here. 

At the beginning of April, the regiment was withdrawn 
to Toul for rest. On the 13th the whole First Division was 
mobilized for offensive action in Picardy, and gradually 
went forward to the trenches before Cantigny. It was 
during this march, according to a friend and fellows-officer 
of Haydock's, Lieutenant R. A. Newhall/ that "General 
Pershing [on April 16, at Chaumont-en-Vexin] assembled 
all the officers of the First Division, and told them that 
they were about to enter a campaign of real fighting, and 
that it was up to them to set the pace for the American 

1 Richard Ager Newhall, A.M. '14, Ph.D. '17; Instructor and Tutor 
in the Department of History, Government, and Economics, 1915-17, 
1918-19; wounded at Cantigny, and for forty-eight hours left helpless 
in a shell-hole during the heavy bombardment of the attack and 



Army." After eight daj^s in the front Hne, the 28th In- 
fantry, which had been picked to open the attack in this 
first American offensive of the war was retired to Maison- 
celle-Tuilerie for practice of the assault and a brief rest. 
During these weeks Haydock, as he found opportunity, 
wrote letters, from which the following passages are 
taken : 

April 24.1 

It has been a long time since I last wrote, but the mails have 
not been going out, and there is not much that I can say. The 
weather has continued to be fine, and we are all feeling fit and 
full of "pep" as a result. Today has been one to be marked in 
history for me, — • I had a bath! not just the kind I would have 
taken at home, to be sure, but it answered the purpose very 
well. I have not been inhabited, but the men are having a bad 
time, and are using this opportunity to boil their clothes. 

I had a chance not long ago to get into a fairly good-sized 
towTi [Beauvais], and of course took advantage of it, getting a 
ride on a "Y" truck. I went with my intellectual friend,- and 
he really is doing a good bit to educate me; history is his 
specialty, and as he has been to many of these places before 
he knows all about them and what has happened there as well 
as the date. It has made all the difference to me to have some- 
one to play around with. We saw all of the sights and then 
decided to go in quest of tea. On inquiring, we were informed 
that the "Smith College Unit" would not only feed us, but that 
we would be entertained by charming American girls; so around 
we went, and were smoked and fed and talked at a mile a 
minute. They are a Red Cross unit and had a red-hot story to 
tell. They gave us a lot of news we were glad to get, and we 
even went so far as to take two of them out to dinner; and alto- 
gether we had a most enjoyable time. You can say what you 

1 Written from Velennes, where the Company stopped for about a 
week in the course of the march northward to Cantiguy. 

2 Lieutenant Newhall. 



like about this being no place for women; perhaps in many- 
ways it is not, but I know one thing for sure, and that is that 
we are all darn glad to see them, and seldom pass up a chance to 
talk to them, even if it is only to say hello. There is a noticeable 
"camaraderie'' among all the people in this country who can 
speak English; it goes all the way from a British Tommy to a 
cross red nurse, and is one of the things I should like to see 
survive the war, but of course it won't. When you are continu- 
ally surrounded by French, anyone who can "parler" so you 
can understand them is a long-lost friend. 

I wish thee could see some of the things I have been seeing, 
not all, to be sure, but there are some wonderful old houses and 
gardens, and landscapes that make me feel as though I were in 
a dream. It's a queer world and a crazy war, but everybody 
seems to have a pretty good time in spite of it, so cheerio. 

April 28. 

Here it is Sunday again; I would not have known it, but 
somebody told me, and the church-bells are ringing. It is a 
gloomy sort of a day, the kind that makes one want to stay in 
bed; if at home, I should be wondering whether to take a chance 
on getting wet and play golf, or just to loaf around and do noth- 
ing. One advantage of being in the Army is that you do not 
have to decide which fifteen you will play with, as they nearly 
always decide for you that you will be with the other fifteen. 
You can't stop to argue, all you can do is to cuss. The Army is 
certainly a funny animal. We breeze along the road, come to a 
perfectly innocent little town where we are to stay, and then 
a mighty interesting metamorphosis takes place. For instance: 
I locate my non-com who has gone ahead, and he shows me 
where my platoon is to be billeted. It is a typical farm-yard 
in the town; that is, you go in from the street through a large 
door and find yourself in a quadrangle which is the barnyard; 
the front side is the house, the back the barn, and to the right 
and left chicken-houses, rabbit-pens, hay in sheds, etc., while in 



the centre is a charming pool of green slime, and next to this 
the well. The platoon halts while I investigate; on the door 
is written "40 men" and I find a pile of straw in the barn, so all 
is "jake." The men come in with a rush and scatter to the 
four winds to get the best bunk; ten minutes later they are all 
settled and looking the place over as if they owned it. They 
have to chase the ducks and chickens out of their billets, and 
sometimes said poultry gets in the way and there is a casualty; 
result: claim, interpreter, much talking with the hands and 
loud cries, ending up by my having to get 20,000 francs from 
the platoon to pay for one old hen. Soon after the men get 
settled, it is decided to have the rolling kitchen there; so in it 
comes, looking like a primitive fire-engine, with its various 
wagons. They are pushed into place, and line begins to form 
for chow, and if all goes well they are getting it in an hour after 
we arrive. As a rule it is stew or slum, and what the men call 
"deep sea," which if thee saw thee would know why, but we 
sure do put it away. We have all learned a lot of things and 
the result is a very marked improvement and more comfort for 
all concerned. 

I have had a chance to read some magazines, and note with 
interest the appearance of stories of the "American front"; 
they are very amusing, but not nearly as funny as the news- 
paper accounts of our doings. I am beginning to believe that 
Professor Channing, of Cambridge, has the right idea when he 
puts a not before all things recorded in history. I am afraid 
I lack the imagination necessary to make a real story out of 

some of the things I have seen. 

May 5. 

Sunday again, and rest this time. Passage of time means 
nothing now; a week goes by before it starts. I have just been 
looking over a Literary Digest of March 23d and saw in it a 
soldier defined as a man who has an "insatiable desire to go 
anywhere else," and if this is true, I think most of us are pretty 
good soldiers. It's funny, no matter where we are, we wish we 



were somewhere else; if at the front, we want to get back to 
rest, and vice versa, but I have been less restless here than in most 
places, perhaps because I have a bed to sleep on. 

I am now in charge of our officers' mess, which consists in try- 
ing to find something to eat besides the issue, which is not often 
possible, though now and then we are able to get a few eggs 
and vegetables, but the place is pretty well cleaned out of every- 
body but soldiers. We were to have late breakfast today, and 
Newhall and I on going to bed decided that they would surely 
pull an "alert" or something else, just to get us out. Sure 
enough, soon after we were in bed we heard a scurry in the 
street, the call to arms, and then the usual rustle to get things 
right quickly. It is a form of drill that always amuses me, and 
is something like what my old idea of war was like, — running 
around in the dark, getting out ammunition, rations, etc., and 
then dropping into place. It adds to the interest not to know 
whether it is drill or not. 

May 12. 

Yesterday I celebrated my first anniversary in the Army by 
going into a good-sized town and taking a bath, and the trip 
was a little variety and most enjoyable. I started out with the 
captain, and walked a mile or so to a nearby town on the main 
road, and lay in wait for a ride; of course all traffic was going 
the wrong way, and it began to look as though we might get 
fooled; but presently a real car came steaming along with a 
couple of Frenchmen in it and looking as though there was 

room for two more, so I shouted "B ?" at them, much as 

the little muckers shout "Extra ticket, mister?" outside the 
Stadium. The car hauled up though, so we got in and rode to 
our destination in real style, a most enjoyable ride, though it 
made me a bit dizzy to see the landscape go by so fast. On 
arrival, my first objective was a dry-goods store, and I found 
one about like Jimmy Jones', and then tried to convey the idea 
to an old woman that I wanted some underclothes. It did n't 



get by at all, however, and the words were not in my little 
dictionary; but then I found Jimmy himself, who after a little 
scouting found some in a box, and we got along splendidly. 

The next, or second, objective (in terms of French warfare) 
was the bath-house. I crashed around and told the old woman 
I desired a bath. She gave me a look, and said "om"" — very 
intelligent at times, these French. She then gave me a card 
with "12" on it, and told me to sit down; after waiting awhile 
I grew a bit restless, so she showed me into the courtyard, and 
told me to look at the fountain and the pretty flowers. Finally 
my turn came, and I bought towels and soap, and was shown 
to my compartment in which was a large tin bath-tub full of 
hot water. I got aboard, and afterwards, in my newly-purchased 
clothes, felt like a prince. 

It is a wonderful feeling to get where there are other people 
than those in the Army. I had tea at a nice hotel, and amused 
myself by watching the crowd. Then, after a good dinner, came 
the problem of getting back some thirty odd kilos, before our 
passes ran out. We got a flivver ambulance, A. R. C, with 
donor's name on outside, and started back. Of course it had to 
get running on one lung, and we stopped several times for re- 
pairs; but it carried us more than half way, after which we 
picked up with a R. C. truck that took us almost in. 

The April number of the Atlantic came yesterday, and was 
most welcome. We haven't yet gotten over the idea that 
because we are at war we must always be just as uncomfortable 
as we can, do things in the least sensible way, and never act 
naturally. I think we are beginning to get nearer rock bottom, 
though, and do what has to be done in the quickest and best 
way, and then rest when we get through. They give us gold 
service stripes, as if the wearing of them proved that we were 
soldiers. I enclose mine, but will not wear one until I have done 
a little more than chase Indians. 

This is "Mother's Day," and I am writing "Mother's Letter" 
on the envelope because they say it will go faster, but don't 



think that I have to have a special day set aside to think of 

Two days before Haydock's death, when his regiment 
had completed its practice for the attack at Cantigny, 
he wrote: 

May m.^ 
Everything " jake " and back for a bit of a rest away from the 
everlasting racket. Things are very different this time. These 
long days and short nights make a big difference in the war. We 
had wonderful, clear days, but very hot about noon; the nights 
were cool and also very bright, which, I may state, added con- 
siderable interest. All the time it was light we would crawl 
into our holes, sleep and try not to be bored; I was reduced to 
reading Shakespeare and racing beetles for amusement. At 
night we were, of course, very busy with so many things to be 
done and so few hours to do them in; also Fritz got very rude 
at times and would interrupt us. 

I think the most exciting thing I have done so far was getting 
the chow in. It was brought to a certain place at a certain time, 
and we carried it in. The first night I was shown a spot on the 
map and told to take the carrying party there; I had never been 
over the route, but took a compass bearing and went to it. The 
country was much the same as that around Middlesex, and we 
had to go about as far as from the School to Concord, across 
country and avoiding certain shelled areas such as corners of 
woods, little valleys, etc. If we got lost or did n't get through, 
we were out of luck for twenty -four hours, and so were many 
others; but we did get through, and got the chow in every time, 
although the returning party was on several occasions smaller. 
I was pretty lucky every time I went. We would be going along 
perfectly peacefully, listening to the nightingales, when all of 
a sudden there would be a whizz and a bang (we were usually 

* Written from Maisoncelle after the return of the battalion from 
the trenches before Cantigny to practise the attack which took place 
on May 28. 



on our stomachs by the time the bang came), and we would see 
flashes all along a certain place, and would thereupon decide 
that that was an unhealthy spot and carefully avoid it. It's a 
great game, trying to outguess Fritz. He tries to get our habits 
and routes, and we try to get his; we find he shells a certain 
place at a certain time pretty regularly, so we avoid that place. 
We went slightly different routes and at slightly different times, 
trying to keep one jump ahead of him. You get up out of the 
shelled area and then you have the M. G.'s to dodge; they are 
nasty, because you have no warning. It's a long pull to the 
front line, and, as the communicating trench is being worked on, 
you must go over the top all the way. You break up into small 
parties, and use all the cover you can find, and have no trouble 
making the men keep quiet or do what you tell them; you get 
down, come back, check up on your party, and heave a sigh of 
relief. I thought at first we would all come back hump-backs, 
but we soon learned the different noises and got over wasting 
energy; but as divers all my platoon go in Class A. It is aston- 
ishing how quickly one can discover and get into a small hole 
or ditch when occasion demands. I have seen my entire platoon, 
self included, disappear off the face of the earth in a plowed 
field, and in less time than it takes to tell. We also had some 
practical experience in food conservation, and I washed, shaved, 
and drank quite comfortably out of one canteen of water in 
twenty-four hours. It is encouraging, for I think we may learn 
to be soldiers in spite of ourselves. 

Lots of funny things happen, for instance: When we were 
making a relief at rather a ticklish time, we were moving along 
the edge of a very pretty little wood on a wonderful, clear, 
moonlight night, and just as we were getting where we could 
breathe more freely, a nightingale, the first one I had ever 
heard, began to sing for all he was worth, as if to tell us there 
was nothing to worry about. I used to pass that place nearly 
every night and hear him, and it made me feel as though we 
were sure enough a bunch of fools. 



We got here after a long, hard, all-night pull, and were 
greeted by a hot meal, which is a luxury in itself, and a big 
batch of mail with letters from all the family and Aunt Sally. 
I read them all, and then turned in for a wonderful all-day 
sleep, then hot supper and an all-night sleep; so things are not 
nearly as bad as they might be. The last hitch taught me a lot 
about human nature, and my conclusions are that the average 
mortal is a pretty good umbrie, and that the bad eggs are not 
as numerous as I had often supposed. 

This is an awful lot of talk, but never mind, I had a good 
time writing it. Don't take it seriously; 'tis n't worth while, 
and it's much more fun not to. 

On the night of May 27-28, the 28th Infantry took its 
place in the trenches for the attack on Cantigny; and 
at 6.4o in the morning of the 28th went over the top. 
Haydock was in command of the 1st platoon, which had 
reached the first line of the German position and was clear- 
ing out a trench when he was shot and instantly killed 
w^hile trying to place and silence a machine gun that w^as 
interrupting the progress of the operation. To Haydock's 
regiment alone the cost of the demonstration at Cantigny 
that the American Army had entered the fight to good 
purpose was a loss of 17 officers and 304 men killed, 33 
officers and 728 men wounded, and 12 men missing. For 
its behavior in that engagement it was cited in Orders 
November 24, 1918, by Marshal Petain and decorated 
with the green shoulder loop of "Za Fourragere." 

Haydock was buried w^here he fell. At a later day his 
body was found and removed to the American cemetery 
at Villers-Tournelle, near Cantigny. The official recog- 
nition of his service took the following form: 




Headquarters First Division, 

American Expeditionary Forces, 
June 15, 1918. 
General Order No. 26. 

The Division Commander cites the following officers and men 
of the 28th Infantry for conspicuous gallantry in connection with 
the capture and defense of Cantigny, May 27-31st, 1918: 

First Lieutenant George G. Haydock, U. S. R., 28th Infantry, 
displayed qualities of coolness and gallantry which inspired his 
whole platoon; he was killed while attempting, almost single- 
handed, to take a machine gun. 

By Command of Major General Bullard 


Major, F. A., N. A. 

Division Adjutant. 

From soldiers under his command came many expres- 
sions of the admiration and affection in which he was held. 
"Lieutenant Haydock," wrote one of them, "was the 
most popular officer in our company. The men in our 
platoon would do anything in the world for him. Many 
times while in the trenches he has shared his tobacco with 
enlisted men who were not quite as lucky in getting a 
supply. I have even known of his taking off his last pair 
of dry socks and giving them to one of the men who had 
gotten his feet wet." Another member of his platoon has 
written : 

Lieutenant Haydock was assigned to Co. L, 28th Infantry, 
after our landing in France. At St. Amand he joined us. He 
was an excellent drillmaster, and also an excellent man. He 
was considered one of the best bayonet experts in the A. E. F. 
I was in his platoon from the time he joined the company until 



his death. I went into the trenches with him, March 7, in the 
Toul sector. It was at this place that he won the highest re- 
spect of every man in the platoon which he commanded, it 
being the first. In this sector it was very trying, owing to the 
winter and the severe weather and the long nights, almost 

Lieutenant Haydock never asked a man to do a thing or take 
a chance that he would n't do or take himself. But when the 
machine guns were in action against us, he would hold his hand 
above the parapet, and if they were not near enough to hit his 
hand, he would rise up and look into "No Man's Land." He 
never became excited, but was always calm. After five days 
and nights of this hardship we were relieved with less casualties 
than the other three platoons. He became popular throughout 
the entire company, and from that time on was looked upon as 
a fearless man. 

From this sector we went to Cantigny, took the town and 
held it. As we were advancing on the morning of May 28th, 
we came to a halt. The lieutenant walked from one end of the 
platoon to the other, cautioning repeatedly, "Men, keep lower 
for your own sakes." They replied, "Lieutenant, you keep low. 
They will get you." The last words he spoke were, "They can't 
kill me." He was hit by a machine-gun bullet, and died in- 
stantly. He was buried that night close to where he fell. 

The friends he made in school, college, business, and 
the Army spoke, in a cloud of witnesses, for the deep im- 
pression his life had made upon them. 

One of them, Henry Oilman Nichols, a classmate in 
college, endowed in his memory a bed in the American 
Hospital at Neuilly for the duration of the war. A brief 
passage from a letter written by another friend at Har- 
vard, who was also a comrade overseas, provides the words 
which may speak for them all: 



Never in all my experiences with officers have I met such a 
wonderful personality and disposition as George had; no matter 
what the conditions were, he was everlastingly cheerful, always 
the most congenial, and always the most appreciated man we 
ever had. No situation ever got the best of him, and there was 
never a situation that he would n't laugh at; this last is the 
greatest thing I can say in the life we led. His remarkable 
sense of humor not only pulled him through all those weeks but 
pulled everyone else through who came in contact with him. 
A sense of humor under those conditions is far more than a 
literal translation of the words; it means the greatest possible 
amount of perseverance, nerve, loyalty, and ability. It means 
a big mind with a broad outlook. 



Class of 1910 

Dn Armistice Sunday, November 9, 1919, in the 
Cathedral of the Incarnation at Baltimore, Maryland, a 
tablet was dedicated to the memory of Lieutenant George 
Buchanan Redwood. The final words of its inscription, 
"A Crusader Blameless and Without Fear," may well be 
placed at the forefront of any attempt to present the 



character and record of the man it commemorates. With 
these words should be joined a few others, from an editorial 
that appeared in the Baltimore Sun, when the news of his 
death was received: "At thirty he has passed away with 
a record which few men twice his age can equal. And the 
record is peculiarlj^ beautiful, inspiring, and touching, even 
to this day when heroism has become a commonplace of 
daily life. It appeals to us especially not merely because 
he died in battle, not merely because he showed a courage 
that never flinched, but because there was behind and in 
it all the rare spirit of knighthood at its best, of a loving 
and lofty self-sacrifice that made this war to him almost 
a sacrament, and made peril in a great cause almost a 
religious rite." 

George Redwood was born in Baltimore, September 30, 
1888, the elder of the two sons of the late Francis Tazewell 
Redwood, a stock broker of that city, and Mary Buchanan 
(Coale) Redwood. He was prepared for college at the 
Baltimore Country School for Boys. One of his school- 
mates there, a friend from childhood, and afterwards a 
classmate at Harvard, has recalled, to Redwood's mother, 
the interchange of nursery visits between the two boys: 
"I preferred visiting at your house, because George had 
such wonderful soldiers, forts, etc. How striking to look 
back and realize that all his early interest was in soldiers! 
He was the only boy I ever knew whose main interest was 
almost exclusively warfare." Commenting upon Red- 
wood's military interest, his friend, J. G. D. Paul (Har- 
vard, '08), has more recently written: 

This preoccupation was, to be sure, only a manifestation of 
the fundamental elements of Redwood's character, which, in 



their blending, seemed to so many of his friends a fitter expres- 
sion of the spirit of the crusading Middle Ages than of the day 
in which we live. Unflinching moral and physical courage were 
his; a truthfulness knowing no compromise; an indifference to 
the material standards of school, college, and the larger world 
verging on asceticism; a completely democratic nature which 
unlocked to him the freedom of unconventionality. Taking 
into account the intensity of his nature, this last might have led 
him far afield had it not been for the ever-present restraint of 
his religion and his high sense of honor. 

A classmate in college, the Rev. Floyd W. Tomkins, Jr., 
wrote, after Redwood's death, a letter in which the fol- 
lowing paragraphs show him quite manifestly as he was in 
his undergraduate days: 

George was as fine and noble a man as it has been my privilege 
to know. Not in the conventional and proper way, the negative 
way, the way in which so many of us succeed because we know 
it is expected of us, but in the bottom-of-the-soul, "because I 
will" kind of way. He was scared of nothing, neither the devil 
or God; and he served God because he chose to. . . . He just 
simply preferred what was decent and noble. . . . His natural 
and instinctive tastes were for chivalry, and honor and right. 
Some of us acquire such tastes, but he must have been born with 

For a few months in the autumn of 1910, after graduat- 
ing from Harvard, spending the summer abroad, studying 
German and attending the Passion Play at Oberammergau, 
Redwood worked in a broker's office in Baltimore. He 
then became a reporter on the Baltimore News, with 
which he remained until November, 1912. Ill health 
forced him to give up this position, and to spend the 
winter of 1912-13 at Asheville, North Carolina. While 



there he was confirmed a member of the Protestant 
Episcopal church. This step was not a matter of mere 
outward form, but sealed and testified to a spirit of devo- 
tion which characterized, to a degree quite remarkable, his 
intrinsic relation to life. After passing the following sum- 
mer abroad and the winter of 1913-14 in study at Balti- 
more, he became connected, in the spring of 1914, with 
an advertising firm of that city. Early in 1917 he rejoined 
the staff of the Baltimore News, and took up a work 
which gave abundant nourishment to his keen sense of 
humor and to his fondness for eccentric types of human 

In his work as a newspaper man he displayed unusual 
qualities of intelligence and energy. "Those who were 
associated with him when he was on the reportorial staff 
of the News,'' wrote a city editor of that journal, "know 
that there was nothing too hard for him to tackle; no 
duty he was too proud to perform; no hours too long for 
him to work; no personal pleasure or consideration he 
would not sacrifice to his business, and nothing at which 
he aimed that he did not attain, and attain in the shortest 
possible time, with the greatest thoroughness and success." 

Through all these years Redwood was a close student 
of warfare. In the summer of 1910 he had learned all 
that he could about the German army and military system. 
Through the Balkan wars he had shown a keen interest 
in the strategy and tactics employed against the Turks. 
When the general war came to Europe it was only out of 
deference to his obligations at home that he abandoned his 
own desire to enlist in the Canadian Army or join the 
French Foreign Legion. Feeling that the United States 



must one day bear its part in the struggle, he attended 
the Plattsburg camp in 1915, after having thrown him- 
self heartily into the local movement which resulted in the 
contribution of eighty Maryland men to the membership 
of that encampment. Again in 1916 he went to Platts- 
burg, and, when the camp of that summer ended, received 
the commission of second lieutenant in the Officers' Re- 
serve Corps of the Army. Thus he was already a reserve 
officer when April, 1917, came, and as such was ordered, 
early in May, to the training camp at Fort Myer. On 
the completion of his term of instruction there, he was 
commissioned, August 15, first lieutenant of infantry in 
the Regular Army, and ordered overseas. He sailed from 
New York, September 7. The opportunity for service and 
heroic action, which he had restlessly sought, had come 
to him at last. 

Before leaving the United States, Redwood knew that 
he was to be assigned to the British Fourth Army School 
for Scouting, Sniping, and Observation. Twenty officers 
from the various training camps in the United States were 
chosen to receive the instruction of this school. Redwood 
kept a diary while he was there, and at the end of the 
course made the characteristically modest entry, "Exams 
today, mark loo." The next highest mark was 93. In 
February, 1918, he was assigned to Company I, 28th In- 
fantry, and appointed an intelligence officer. In this 
capacity there was abundant opportunity for him to con- 
tribute to the successful work of his regiment and of the 
First Division, of which it formed a part. Early in 1918 
the Division took over a sector of the battle line northeast 
of Toul, and the 28th Infantry was in active combat with 



the enemy until the Division was reheved on April 4. A 
week before this time Redwood distinguished himself by 
the special act of valor soon to be related. Before and 
after March 28, he wrote, chiefly to his mother, many 
letters — terse and non-committal even beyond the re- 
quirements of military censorship. The following pas- 
sages contrive to suggest something of his experiences 
and of the spirit in which he met them: 

Saturday, October 6, 1917. 

This afternoon, when our lessons were over, I walked to 
another town near here to get a haircut, and I was an object of 
great curiosity wherever I passed. If a full grown hippopotamus 
had walked down the street, it would hardly have caused more 
excitement. There was always a shout of "American," and 
heads popped out of doors and windows right and left. They 
always recognize us by our felt hats, which are different from 
anything in either the French or British armies, with the excep- 
tion of the hats worn by some of the British Colonials, and they 
are creased fore and aft instead of peaked. 

Saturday, October 13. 

I attended a service in a little French country church when a 
number of children were receiving their first communion. The 
ceremony was quaint and picturesque, though I could under- 
stand not so very much more than at the Russian service in New 
York. The choir was composed of three elderly peasants who 
sat in the rear of the church and just behind my pew. They 
wore knee-length smocks, startlingly like nightshirts, over their 
ordinary clothes, and one had a queer yellow cope as well. Two 
sang and the third played a prodigious brass horn and spat on 
the floor with noisy fervor by turns. I should n't make fun 
of them, though : the little church was well filled and the con- 
gregation devout and attentive. After the service the children 
marched forth. Two white-clad girls led, carrying staffs, one 



decked with gold and white, the other with gold and red tinsel. 
The acolytes bore lighted candles. Then came the rank and file 
of the newly confirmed children, six peasant lads of different 
ages, wearing wreaths of white flowers about their close-cropped, 
bullet heads, and an equal number of girls in white dresses and 
veils. In the rear marched a portly priest in robes and behind 
him the three weather-beaten sons of Orpheus in their robes (de 
nuit) also. 

Sunday, October 1^. 

I omitted to mention a wonderful major domo who kept order 
during the service and marched at the head of the procession. 
He wore a much bedizened coat, epaulettes, cocked hat, wide 
shoulder belt with a little sword and carried a big staff. 

This morning I have read the gospel and epistle and the les- 
sons, took a walk, and have been putting into shape some of my 

December 2, 1917. 

I was very much amused indeed at the first page display of 
the News regarding the American troops going up to the 
trenches. I read that florid piece of literature aloud to my room- 
mate. Lieutenant Morrison, and we almost laughed ourselves 
speechless. The copy reader who wrote the headlines was cer- 
tainly imaginative, particularly in writing of the "Big 75" 
which sent a "great shell" ! ! ! A 75 is only a 75, and can't 
be big, nor can its shell be possibly more than 75 millimetres in 
diameter. It is the French equivalent of our old, common or 
field variety of 3-inch gun; the usual one that you always used 
to see in our mobile artillery. After reading that I feel like 
telling you how I went to the target range some time ago, "drew 
my enormous automatic pistol and sent its colossal bullet 
hurtling through atmosphere to make a prodigious gaping hole 
in the target!" 

Sunday, December 16. 

You really must n't trouble to send along any more "eats" 
after you get this. I don't mean that I don't enjoy them, but 



from various causes I judge it is hardly a good proposition. I 
believe I mentioned in my last letter (which will probably 
reach you about Christmas) that we get all the sugar we want 
here, while I understand that you are on an allowance back in 
the States. Also we can buy extras in the way of canned goods, 
block sweet chocolate of various makes, malted milk, Oxo 
bouillon tablets, etc., at the Y. M. C. A. and at the Commissary. 
We can and do get more than is good for us, I suppose, and I 
have several times made unkept resolutions (and one week ac- 
tually made one I kept) to limit myself for various periods to 
what was provided in our company mess. . . . 

OflBcers must certify their letters also and go over the men's. 
I have read some very amusing ones from enlisted men to people 
at home, a few pathetic and many intensely human. One forms 
a good opinion of the stamp of men we have from what they 
write, be their grammar and spelling never so crude. They are 
earnest, steady fellows for the most part, and they have been 
making allotments to mothers, wives, and sweethearts, insuring 
their lives and buying Liberty bonds in a way that ought to 
make civilians in the States sit up and take notice. 

These comments on the enlisted man, sympathetic as 
they are, give little idea of the remarkable understanding 
and affection existing between Redwood and his subordi- 
nates. In a democratic army like the American Expedi- 
tionary Forces, the problem of winning the personal loyalty 
of the men in the ranks without doing violence to the 
canons of military etiquette and discipline was one which 
many officers found difficult in the extreme. To Red- 
wood's complete success in solving it many of his soldiers 
have testified in words that are as touching as they are 
sincere. A young American woman, serving in France 
with the Red Cross, wrote to his mother shortly after the 
attack at Cantigny where Redwood met his death: 



I find we have men here in the hospital who knew George well 
and who say such beautiful things of him that I thought you 
might like to hear them. 

Private Schlossen, who was in his company, said he saw him 
continually in the last action and heard him spoken of in the 
highest praise by the men in his section. . . . You should 
have seen his face light up when he spoke of George. He said 
he was the bravest man and the finest officer they had ever 
known. From first to last he had been the most wonderful 
example to his men, and they all adored him. 

My other patient, Samuel Ervin, said he knew George well, 
as he had been in the same company and had gone over the top 
with him. He also said he was one of the finest men he had ever 
known, and that his men would do anything for him. He said 
before going into action he always knelt down to pray; he was 
like a person inspired; he did not know what fear was. 

Another Red Cross nurse, working in the barracks at 
Pontanezen, was talking with some members of a casual 
company made up of men from nearly every branch of 
the service. "A private, Gailband of the 28th Infantry," 
she wrote her brother in Baltimore, "had been giving me 
information about four or five men of his company when 
suddenly his eye lit up at the name of Lieutenant Red- 
wood. He grew quite excited and began talking so fast 
about him that I had to stop him in order to get what he 
had said written down. ... It was really fine to hear 
him talk. Often the men, in giving details, will say 'He 
was a good officer,' but they don't often show much 

Enthusiasm is certainly not lacking in Gailband's long 
eulogy, which he concludes, in his own picturesque way, 
with as handsome a tribute as an American private could 



well pay his officer: "He had an awful fine reputation in 
that outfit, the best reputation I ever heard a man get. 
He was never one of these sporty guys, — he stuck around 
with his men. You never would have known the differ- 
ence between us, except he wore the Sam BrowTie belt. I 
would like to have his mother's address." 

If any further explanation of this devoted admiration 
were needed, it might be found in a letter written from 
France by Private Lee Thompson to his mother in Balti- 

"There is a boy here named Ballou," he says, "from 
Gloversville, N. Y., who knew George Redwood well. 
. . . Every man had a good word for him, and he was 
not like an oflScer but more like a friend to them all. He 
would give away everything he had to make the men more 
comfortable, and actually was walking around in old 
shoes that no one else would wear, having given his owti 
to some soldier." 

Of all this quiet self-sacrifice, there is not a hint in Red- 
wood's own letters. On Christmas Day, 1917, he wrote his 
mother : 

You are possibly at the morning service now, for I think it is 
about noon at home. There must be an elaborate service at 
Mount Calvary, and they are carrying in the procession the 
cross and three or four banners including that with the picture 
of my friend, Saint George, on it. I went to a service in the 
French church here. The church was n't heated, of course, so 
all the congregation kept on their wraps. There was a mixture 
of French women in black cloaks, men in various clothes and 
soldiers in horizon blue, — and our own men in olive drab. A 
nice looking French captain of infantry sat in the pew in front 
of me, a middle-aged man with an intelligent, though rather 



lined and brown, face and a touch of gray in his black moustache. 
Beside me sat three old peasant women, wrinkled, weather- 
beaten and devout. I saw in the prayerbook of the one nearest 
me "A21 commencement etait la Verbe," the same as our own 
Gospel for Christmas Day: "In the beginning was the Word," 
which I was reading in the little Prayerbook you gave me. 

As for Christmas Dinner, Uncle Sam remembered us as well, 
if not better than he did on Thanksgiving. We had hot turkey 
and stuffing, corn, potatoes, string beans and peas, with apple 
pie, chocolate-iced cake, apples and walnuts for dessert, with 
coffee to drink. All in our officers' mess ate as much as they 
could, and we are going to have the debris with another apple 
pie for supper. 

After dinner we sat around a little while, then at three o'clock 
went to the Y. M. C. A. cantonment, where there was a Christ- 
mas tree. There was a movement made some time ago to get 
all the soldiers to give one franc each and the officers five francs 
each to provide for the little French children living in the locali- 
ties where our troops are quartered. It was a splendid success. 
I don't know just how it was managed in the different organiza- 
tions, but our battalion gave as a unit and the affair was run 
by a Lieutenant Naibert of our company. The whole front of 
the Y. M. C. A. hall was crowded with the children and their 
escorts, all grinning from ear to ear, and behind them was a 
solid mass of American soldiers. Lieutenant Naibert did the 
talking in English, and the local M. le Maire explained and ad- 
dressed in French. All the needy children got shoes, and be- 
sides that all got toys, nuts, candy, etc. M. le Maire had a list 
duly numbered, and each present was marked with the name of 
the recipient. 

"38, Marie Celestine YvetteLeclerc," would read M. le Maire, 
and M. C. Y. L. would go up and get a doll or a box of paints. 

"39, Jean Joseph Martin Leclerc." And Marie's small 
brother would receive a large dapple-gray wooden horse, or 
perhaps a trumpet. There was a great number of these trum- 



pets given out, and I expect we shall hear some weird bugle calls 
at times other than prescribed during the next few days. 

The ceremony concluded with three '"Vives" given by M. le 
Maire: one for "if. le Lieutenant Naihert,'' one for "Les Etats- 
Unis," and one for the ''troisieme hataillon, vingt-huitieme regi- 
ment d'infanterie." 

The children were all pleased to death. It was pleasant, and 
and in a way touching, too, to see them. One realized that such 
events did not happen often in their lives. ^ 

January 15, 1918. 
I wish I could tell you more of our life here than the facts that 
we are well and weather (usually) is bad. We have had hardly 
anything but rain — that is, until it changed to snow, and today 
it has switched back to rain. It is amusing how savagely the 
enlisted men write home what they would do if they "could only 
get that guy who called this country Sunny France." Poor 
fellows ! If they came expecting perennial blue skies and a semi- 
tropical atmosphere, they have been rudely enough undeceived 
by the last few months. They're always cheerful, however, and 
in the main are a fine steady lot of young fellows. 

January 20, 1918. 
I have been reading "A Student in Arms," 2d, in short in- 
stallments each evening before I go to sleep, and was amused 
to see the markings in the chapter "Don't Worry." Strange 
to say I have been feeling utterly careless and irresponsible for 
some time, and it was just as I was beginning to be smitten with 
the fact that I ought to take things more seriously that I struck 
the "Don't Worry." I think Hankey's idea is the right one so 
long as one is conscious of trying to do one's best and sticking 
at one's work. I regret to say, however, that I have not put in 
the time that I should in studying my profession of late, and I 
must get busy. The weather is much better now, the sun out, 

^ See ante, p. 125, for an account of the same celebration by Red- 
wood's fellow-officer of the 28th, Haydock. 



the snow gone, and the mud fast drying. Everyone is beginning 
to feel more industrious and energetic now that less time is put 
in in keeping warm. 

February 3. 

Manoeuvring, exercises, drills, and work of one kind and 
another, as well as censoring letters and making inspections keep 
us pretty well occupied. It was certainly nice of you to want to 
send me something, but really 1 hardly know of anything I need. 
Books and papers are, of course, very welcome by the Y. M. C. A 
etc., which runs small circulating libraries where officers and 
enlisted men can get books for occasional reading. In the kit 
of an individual there is little room, usually, for reading matter, 
which tends to be either mislaid or destroyed. Hence those who 
have time for reading are in a bad way if they can't get some- 
thing from a Y. M. C. A. hut. I was amused to hear one officer 
who had had a school assignment at a town "somewhere else 
in France " say with great emphasis when he came back to our 
command, "And you know the Y. M. C. A. there had real books 
to read, and they were nt war books either!" It made me think 
of the old sailor who told the clergyman that was to preach at 
a Seaman's Mission "Please sir, for the love o' Heaven don't 
talk about ships!" 

Those little libraries mean a great deal, I think. For some 
time our "Y" was without one, but now we have quite a fair 
collection. There are few things, I suppose, that recall home 
to a man much more than the books and papers of the United 
States. It is difficult to advise you just how to help directly, 
but from what I see I think anything you do for or send to the 
"Y" won't be amiss. It and our regimental chaplains are the 
greatest helps I believe we have. 

In a letter of March 7, Redwood sent his mother specific 
instructions for the application of tithes from his income 
to religious and beneficent purposes. On St. Patrick's Day 
he wrote to a warlike cousin : 



My, but you are blood-thirsty! Is that the way the suffrage 
affects you? Please note, ma'am, that I am not in the habit of 
toting a bayonet about, but am armed only with an automatic 
pistol for self-defense. I have never yet had occasion to shoot 
even that in earnest, and for all I know, I never may. Well, 
since you have such feelings, here is a scrap of German uniform 
on which I think by careful scrutiny I have detected German 
Blood ! (but sh ! suppose it were only vin rouge or red ink !) You 
had best spill on more to get the proper effect, and possibly a 
little white enamel judiciously worked in might be palmed off 
on the unsuspecting as German Brains!!! 

Love to all at home, 

Your now plump cousin, 

George B. Redwood. 

Two days later he wrote to his friend, Stephen B. Luce 
(Harvard, '09) : 

I wish I could write more about what we see and do over here, 
but, as you know, that is forbidden. Of course we every now 
and then have comical meetings with people we knew before, 
at training camps, etc., or those who know those that we know. 
You're out of luck indeed if you can't find some acquaintance in 
common or bond of union with almost everyone you meet. This 
life is a remarkable one, what I have seen of it, and if narrowing 
intellectually is certainly broadening humanly. That is, in 
many ways, for it has an unfortunate tendency (at least I feel 
it) of making anyone inclined to be selfish, three times more so 
than ever before. This seems rather hard to explain with what 
I said above, but it is so. It brings out what is in people so that 
everything is abominably visible to all. But enough — Pereat 
Borussia et Philosophia I 

Well, pax vobiscum, or rather bellum vobiscum, if you 
wish it. 

There is little or nothing in these letters to indicate the 
importance of the work Redwood was doing through all 



this period. In one exploit, on the night of March 28-29, 
he brought into notable play the qualities which gave him 
his special value as an intelligence officer. On Easter 
Sunday, March 31, he writes to his mother: 

I am going to enclose another shoulder strap of the 259th 
German Reserve Infantry Regiment. It came from the blouse 
of a prisoner. Keep it and if I can, later on, I will tell you some- 
thing rather amusing in connection with it. By the way, too, 
if you ever happen to see in the New York Times, or any other 
illustrated paper, a picture showing four Germans guarded by 
four American soldiers, the latter looking most amazingly tough 
with clubs in their hands and their faces blackened like negro 
minstrels, please cut it out and keep it. Don't spend any time 
looking for it, but if you should see such a picture anywhere 
about the same time you get this letter, save it. 

With this casual mention. Redwood dismisses the 
episode. Two years later, however. Private Edward V. 
Armstrong, one of the thirty-two men under Redwood's 
leadership in the Intelligence Department, gives a clearer 
idea of what happened that black night at Seicheprey, and 
at the same time brings out, with all the force of simple 
words, the dominant part played in the critical moments 
of Redwood's life by his religion. Writing to Redwood's 
mother on Easter Sunday, 1919, Armstrong says: 

Today brings to my mind a little incident that happened in 
the Toul sector, when we took our first prisoners. The order 
had just come in for Lieutenant Redwood to take some men on 
patrol — that prisoners were wanted at once. It was just a few 
days before Easter. The order came about one o'clock in the 
morning, the Lieutenant asked for volunteers to go, and of 
course all of us wanted to go with him. Well, he picked four 
of us to go, and then prayed that we might be successful and 



promised us that if we took prisoners he would read us the 
Gospel on Easter Sunday. The five of us started out and got 
into "No Man's Land" about 2 a.m. It was very dark, and 
raining a great deal. We had a very hard time finding our way 
and crawling around shell holes and through barbed wire. We 
finally got over and into the German trenches and took our 
prisoners and got back all right, because it was getting daylight. 
Lieutenant Redwood had a very bad cold, and with the wet 
and damp of that morning it rapidly became worse, so that on 
Sunday he could not speak; but he had Lieutenant Birmingham 
read the Gospel for him, 

I am very sorry to say that out of those five men I am the 
only one alive. 

For this achievement Redwood was immediatelv cited 
in the General Orders both of the First Division and of the 
32d French Army Corps,^ received a special commendation 
by order of General Pershing, and the posthumous award 
of the Distinguished Service Cross. His letters went on as 
if little out of the ordinary course of events had happened : 

April 18. 
The things were (and are, for we have n't finished them all 
yet) splendid. The same day, too, I get your cablegram and it 
was just like having a pressure of your hand. I thought at first 
it was for Easter, then I concluded that you must have learned 
through the papers or otherwise of our little adventure, which 
in several ways was one of the quaintest bits of comic opera 
(considering that it was really supposed to be war) that I have 
run into. I was going to write, but suddenly got orders that 
sent me off for a day on a special detail. 

1 With the French Army citation tlie Croix de Guerre was awarded 
to Redwood. Of him and his corporal it was declared: Ontfait preiive 
des plus belles qualites militaires en penetram dans un paste d' observation 
dont Us capturerent la garnison. AttaquSs par un parti ennemi, Vont 
repousse en lui infligant des pertes et ont ramene quatre prisonmers. 



April 28. 

I was so pleased to hear from you again, and appreciated your 
sending the news, which was the first ( and is so far the only) one 
to reach me, though I judged some sort of account of our little 
patrol had got out from a cable message I got from the mater. 
The newspaper versions varied from facts at sundry points, but 
here and there hit points quite correctly. One of the Boches 
actually did say he wished his brother could be brought over, 
too, when he found how well he was to be treated and that he 
got white bread and real instead of substitute coffee. 

One of them asked one of our men in an awestruck whisper, 
"When are they going to shoot us?" {Wann werden sie uns 
shiessen), and was relieved when told that we were not in the 
habit of shooting our prisoners. Another, after they had been 
safely brought behind the rear of our line, asked permission to 
smoke; when it was granted he jauntily pulled forth a well-filled 
cigarette case and offered it courteously to me before helping 

Well, I had best close now and get this in. I should n't won- 
der if I were in danger of exceeding censorship regulations by 
going any further, though so far I think I am safe. It is strange 
how much more the papers can publish than we can write. 

May 3. 

Well, being a suffragist, I suppose has to do some savage 

hating or something of the sort. I hope she liked the piece of 
uniform I sent her even if it was n't quite gory enough to suit 
her fancy. 

Honestly, I don't believe in this business of hating your 
enemy. Robert W. Service's "Song of the Sandbags" (in 
"Rhymes of a Red Cross Man") strikes a very true note. It is 
pitiful when a Boche prisoner, clean cut and apparently a good, 
intelligent little fellow, asks one of his captors in an awestruck 
whisper, "When are they going to shoot us?" and after being 
reassured says, "They told me 'Woe to you if the Americans 
ever take you,' " and then adds, "We thought you were all going 



to be Indians ! " It 's pleasant to see them, too, if scared, regain 
confidence when they find that they are going to be well treated. 
Some are frankly glad to have been captured, and all that I have 
seen ploughing in the fields of France appeared quite contented 
with their lot. En masse, of course, they are formidable, but 
individually they don't seem to be so eager for a scrap from all 
that I have heard and seen. 

May 10. 

Associated Press to the contrary notwithstanding, I am noth- 
ing so exalted as a "Regimental Intelligence Officer." Battalion 
Scout Officer is all I can lay claim to. That was how I happened 
to get that job you have mentioned put upon my most unwilling 
shoulders. Do not imagine for a moment that I was one bit 
anxious to do it or anything of the kind. "Orders is orders," 
that is all. 

Just at present I have the job of "Acting Battalion Adjutant," 
which is not my rightful one and which I hope — fervently — 
soon to be rid of. It was through an unfortunate combination 
of circumstances that I had that "greatness thrust upon me." 
I should say "pettiness," for it seems to be nothing but the 
remembering of countless details involving an extensive knowl- 
edge of the battalion itself, of Army regulations, military eti- 
quette, customs of the Service, Manual of Court Martial, etc., 
etc., etc., all of which my C. O. amiably presupposes I have — 
and I have n't ! 

In the first week of April the first Division had been 
withdrawn from the front line, to which it returned be- 
fore the end of May, when the 28th Infantry performed its 
important part in the action at Cantigny. In this engage- 
ment, on May 28, Redwood was killed. For twelve suc- 
cessive nights before the fight he made his way into the 
German lines, and into the village of Cantigny, and 
brought back not only the information which his good 



knowledge of French and German enabled him to secure, 
but also maps and plans of attack which contributed 
directly to the capture of the place. "He would come in 
about daylight," said a fellow-soldier, "covered with mud 
from crawling around the trenches and under the barbed 
wire, and looking like anything but an officer — change 
his clothes, get a bite to eat and turn in for some sleep, 
and do the same thing the following night until the entire 
situation was clearly developed." 

In the fight itself he displayed a bravery which any 
soldier might envy as marking the last of his days. 
Wounded in the battle, he returned to the fight after his 
injury had been dressed in the shelter of a shell hole. 
Wounded a second time, and more severelj^ he saved the 
life of a corporal of his regiment, also gravely injured, by 
helping him to the aid station, and insisted, when his own 
wound was dressed, on returning a second time to the 
fight, in spite of the fact that he had been tagged for the 
hospital. It was then that he received the wounds that 
caused his death. A French liaison officer attached to the 
First Division said, when the war was over, "I would 
rather have that man Redwood alive than to have taken 

The posthumous reward of the Distinguished Service 
Cross, with the oak-leaf cluster which is bestowed for a 
succeeding act justifying a similar award, was made in 
the following terms: 

George B. Redwood, first lieutenant, 28th Infantry. For 
extraordinary heroism in action at Seicheprey, France, March 
28th, 1918. With great daring he led a patrol of our men into 
a dangerous portion of the enemy trenches, where the patrol 



surrounded a party nearly double their own strength, captured 
a greater number than themselves, drove off an enemy rescuing 
party, and made their way back to our lines with four prisoners, 
from whom valuable information was taken. 

He is awarded an oak-leaf cluster, to be worn with the Dis- 
tinguished Service Cross, for the following act of extraordinary 
heroism: At Cantigny, France, May 29th, ^ 1918, he conducted 
himself fearlessly to obtain information of the enemy's action. 
Although wounded, he volunteered to reconnoitre the enemy's 
line, which was reported to be under consolidation. While mak- 
ing a sketch of the German position on this mission he was 
under heavy fire, and continued his work after being fatally 
wounded until it was completed. The injuries sustained at this 
time caused his death. 

In his own city of Baltimore Redwood's memory was 
honored by the organization of the "George B. Redwood 
Post, Veterans of Foreign Wars," and, even more notably, 
by the change in the name of an important business 
thoroughfare from German Street to Redwood Street. 

In connection with this last tribute, Brigadier-General 
Frank Parker, commanding the First Division of the 
American Expeditionary Forces, sent the following mes- 
sage to the Mayor of Baltimore on October 23, 1918: 

News has reached this division that the City of Baltimore, 
Maryland, has named one of its streets in memory of First 
Lieutenant George B. Redwood, Intelligence Officer, 28th 
United States Infantry, killed in action at Cantigny on the 28th 
of May, 1918. 

The First Division of the American Expeditionary Forces 
desires to express to the City of Baltimore its profound satis- 
faction in knowing of this tribute to one of its members — an 

1 Actually May 28. 



officer whose high example of all that is best in American man- 
hood is a heritage of honor and pride which this Division shares 
with his native city. 

To Redwood's mother, General Parker wrote the fol- 
lowing letter: 

This command sends to you, through me, this expression of 
pride, shared with you, in the record of your son. 

No finer example of our nation has given his life for the Great 
Cause. In our memory he marches in the van of the bravest and 
best — those who sought the posts of the highest honor — 
nearest the enemy. 

The commemorative tablet in the Baltimore Cathedral, 
mentioned on a previous page, was erected by the Lay 
Council of the Cathedral, of which Redwood was a de- 
voted member. His religion was so natural and essential 
a part of his life that a fellow-officer wrote, with no ap- 
parent surprise, after his death: "Men who went on 
patrols with him have told me that after leaving the trench 
and entering No Man's Land, he alwaj^s knelt in a shell- 
hole and prayed, and that he was ever careful not to ex- 
pose them needlessly in dangerous positions. He always 
regarded his men. As to himself, he sought the place 
of greatest danger, and fear was a word with which he 
had no acquaintance. . . . To me Lieutenant Redwood 
seems to have been the incarnation of the Christian 

Another friend, Stephen B. Luce, '09, has written, more 

I think all who knew George Redwood would say that the 
striking thing about his character was his deeply religious nature. 



I have never known a man to whom Christianity meant more. 
Unselfish service in every relationship in life was the keynote of 
his life, and this unselfishness was founded on a firm belief in 
the mercy of Christ, and His infinite love and wisdom. His 
devotion to his mother and brother, and willingness to sacrifice 
his own pleasure to give them and others pleasure were beauti- 
ful things to look back upon. To him, more than to any man I 
have ever known, the chance to serve his country in the war 
and to rescue from utter darkness the principles of right, justice 
and humanity, seemed a sacrament almost as sacred as the Holy 
Communion. He was the true Crusader, who went to war for 
an ideal, and to give his life, if need be, that the faith of his 
fathers and the things of the spirit might be saved to the world. 

Let no one suppose from this that George Redwood was a 
prig. I think his decorations for heroism in action prove the 
reverse. His sense of humor was original and charming. His 
conversation and letters sparkled with wit, when with those he 
knew well and to whom he had given his friendship. He had in 
many ways the mind and tastes of the true scholar, in his de- 
light in things of the intellect, and his fondness for digging into 
old books. No one, however, was quicker to detect a sham than 
he, and his wit in exposing it was never caustic or bitter, but 
always kindly and charming. 

One of the things that I have always thought of in connection 
with George Redwood was the way he had been unconsciously 
preparing himself for the great event of his life, so that when it 
came, he was ready. In College he had been especially interested 
in the German language and literature, and, while abroad in 
1910, he learned to speak German like a native. His very good 
natural talent at sketching and drawing he developed by attend- 
ing classes in Baltimore after graduation from Harvard. His 
lifelong, intelligent interest in military affairs made him an apt 
student at the training camps. Above all, his deep faith in 
Christ, and his unselfish nature made him an ideal officer, — 
one who thought of the comfort and well-being of his men before 



he gave a thought to himself, and who, as a result, commanded 
their unquestioning obedience and devotion. 

What would George have done had he lived? I often wonder. 
I feel that he would either have remained in the Army, or gone 
into the Church. In the Army, he would have won promotion, 
more decorations, probably the Congressional Medal ultimately. 
Whatever course he would have taken, he would have been a 
fighter, — battling for ideals and the souls of men, armed with 
the faith that sets men free, and the devotion of a zealot, wear- 
ing either the khaki of an officer or the black cloth of a clergy- 
man, but in either case a true soldier of Christ. 



Class of 1901 

1 N the Harvard Roll of Honor, which includes the names 
of members of the auxiliary services who died while en- 
gaged in their duties overseas, there are two Y. M. C. A. 
secretaries and Henrv Corliss Shaw was one of them. 

He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, November 
2, 1877, the only son of the late Charles Russell Shaw and 
Ella Hattie (Davis) Shaw. Cambridge was his home 



throughout his Hfe. His earlier schooling was in the public 
schools of that city and the Waltham (Massachusetts) 
New Church — Swedenborgian — School for Boys. His 
immediate preparation for college was made at the Browne 
and Nichols School of Cambridge. He entered and grad- 
uated from Harvard College with the Class of 1901, and 
in 1904 graduated from the Harvard Law School. As an 
undergraduate he was a member of the Pi Eta Society and 
the Cercle Frangais. His social qualities found expres- 
sion after his graduation in a small lunch club of friends 
who supplemented their weekly meeting by "celebrations " 
at odd times through the year. For these Shaw was a 
moving spirit in the arrangement of entertainments, in 
which he was wont to take an important part. He greatly 
enjoyed "dramatics," and was in frequent demand by 
his class and by charitable organizations to give mono- 
logues. A lively sense of humor entered into both the 
delivery and the invention of amusing stories. He was 
fond of children, who in turn were eager to listen to him. It 
was no unusual thing to see him with a child on his knee 
telling a story which held the attention of the child and at 
the same time kept a room full of its elders in laughter. 

Shaw was a constant attendant at the Church of the 
New Jerusalem (Swedenborgian) in Cambridge and took 
a lively interest in its activities, both as president of its 
Young People's League and as president of the Lynn 
Neighborhood House conducted by the Church Society. 
He was fond of outdoor sports and devoted much time 
to tennis. 

In Cambridge he practised law at one time as a member 
of the firm of Shaw and Brooks; in Boston he began his 



practice in the office of Myer and Brooks, and afterwards 
opened an office of his own, sharing chambers, though not 
in partnership, with three other young members of his 
profession. There he was gradually building up a com- 
fortable practice. 

His first activities in connection with the war were 
devoted to various "drives," Red Cross, Y. M. C. A., 
and the like. Not satisfied with this work he felt that, 
although too old to enlist as a fighting man, he must do 
something overseas and offered his services to the 
Y. M. C. A. On March 30, 1918, in his forty-first year, 
he sailed from New York on the Rochambeau as a "Y" 

His diary on the voyage and in France, his letters from 
the stations in the neighborhood of towns at which he 
served, are filled with happiness and satisfaction. At 
St. Aignan, Mareuil, and other places he made himself 
useful in a variety of ways, arranging cinema and musical 
entertainments for the men about him, helping an Ameri- 
can soldier to write to a French girl in her own language, 
lending a hand at all manner of odd jobs. Urging a friend 
in America to follow him into the overseas "Y" work, he 
wrote, April 28: "You'll be glad as long as you live that 
you came. It 's trulj^ the big adventure even for those of 
us in this work." The humors of his surroundings were 
not lost upon him. Witness an entry in his diary on May 
5th: "The other evening before going to bed I asked 
Madame D — — for a drink of water. She was quite willing 
to get it but suggested that I have white wine instead. I 
said no, water would be sufficient. Then she suggested 
syrup in the water but I said no, only water. Then she 



asked me if I had understood what she said and I told 
her yes. Whereupon she brought me some water. By 
that time I was a Httle nervous about the water myself, 
but I had to see it through. So grasping it firmly and 
thinking of Socrates and his cup of hemlock, I drank it 
while IMadame and her mother watched me in horror. 
The French, I think, consider water and air far more 
dangerous elements than fire." 

Shaw had been in active service little more than a month 
when an army friend asked him, on May 28, to drive to 
Tours in a inotor from a station not far bevond Mont- 
richard. They crossed the Cher at that place, and soon 
afterwards, when they were obliged to pass a vehicle at 
one side and attempted to take the road again, their car 
was overturned and Shaw was instantlv killed. 

He was buried at Montrichard, May 30, Memorial Day, 
1918. A service in his memory, attended by many mem- 
bers of his class, was held in the Church of the New Jeru- 
salem in Cambridge on June 13, and in October, 1920, his 
body was brought to the United States and interred at the 
Mount Auburn Cemetery. 

Many letters to his family froin friends both at home 
and abroad testified to the fact that in everything he 
undertook he was conscientious to the last degree, full 
of sympathy for others, finding nothing too trivial to 
interest him if it concerned another's comfort, and never 
permitting a word of praise for himself. 



Class of 1913 

JJORN at Sausalito, California, March 6, 1891, Livingston 
Low Baker was a son of the late Wakefield Baker, of the 
Harvard Class of 1887, and Coralie (Thomas) Baker. He 
made his preparation for college at Phillips-Exeter Acad- 
emy, entered Harvard with the Class of 1913, and took 
his degree of Bachelor of Arts in regular course. In his 
junior year he played on the class football team and was 
leader of the University Banjo Club. He belonged also 
to the Mandolin, Phillips, and Western Clubs. 

Immediately upon his graduation he sailed for Europe 
and spent the remainder of the year in travelling about 
Germany, France, Switzerland, and England. Returning 
with his brother via the West Indies and Panama Canal, 



sailing from Balboa to San Francisco, he reached home 
before Christmas, and on January 2, 1914, entered the 
employ of the San Francisco firm of Baker and Hamilton 
— of which his father had been president — wholesale 
dealers in light and heavy hardware, sporting goods, agri- 
cultural implements, and creamery machinery. In the 
following year he was elected a director of the company, 
which, on consolidation with the Pacific Hardware and 
Steel Company, became known as the Baker, Hamilton, 
and Pacific Company. The considerable interest of his 
family in the Baker and Hamilton Company gave him 
the opportunity to shift from one department of the busi- 
ness to another, and to master its principles. He also de- 
voted some attention to the California Building Material 
Company, of which he became a director and treasurer. 
In the Second Report of his class, he wrote of himself: 
"Together with my duties of business, to which I devote 
about eight hours a day, I have been putting in a couple 
of hours on the study of corporation finance, investments, 
and banking. That fills up the days. In the evenings I 
accept all invitations offered." 

In the same Report his military interest is first revealed : 
"Last summer I spent the month of July at the Military 
Training Camp at Monterey, and expect to attend the one 
to be held at Santa Barbara this summer. In case of war 
with Germany I shall enlist. P.S. My nickname is still 

From what was obviously the beginning of a business 
career of much promise, Baker turned promptly when the 
United States entered the war. On July 3, 1917, he en- 
listed as private, first class, Aviation Section, Signal Corps, 



and was immediately detailed to the School of Military 
Aeronautics in Berkeley, California. Here he graduated 
with honors on September 1. On September 7 he started 
East, and on September 24, after a brief stay at Fort 
Wood, New York, sailed for Europe. From Southampton 
he proceeded, about October 15, to Paris, whence he was 
ordered to Foggia, Italy. There he arrived October 27. 
In March, 1918, still at Foggia, he received his commission 
as first lieutenant, and there, on June 1, he was killed in 
an airplane accident. 

The circumstances are fully related, and the young 
officer's personal characteristics are shown forth, in two 
letters, the first from an American lieutenant of aviation 
to Baker's mother, the second, in translation, from an 
Italian pilot instructor to his commanding officer: 

June 3, 1918. 

Livingston was in charge of the second brevet line. On this 
morning he had taken up a machine to test the air for his men; 
this is always done before the pupils are allowed to go up them- 
selves. He had made a short tour around camp, and was coming 
in over the barracks, about one hundred metres high, when he 
made a sharp turn to come into the field. The machine was 
banked up quite steeply, and instead of coming down in an easy 
glide, it slid off on one wing and went into a slow spinning nose 
dive. A second or so later it struck the roof of one of the han- 
gars and then fell to the ground. Livingston was killed instantly. 
The doctor said his neck was broken at the moment of impact. 
The accident happened at about six o'clock, on the morning of 
June 1. 

The funeral was held at nine o'clock the next morning. He 
was buried with full military honors, every officer and man in 
camp attending. Planes circled over the cemetery all during the 



I do not believe there was a more popular fellow in camp than 
Livingston His absence is felt very deeply by the whole com- 
mand. We, his roommates, feel his cheery comradeship will 
never be replaced. 

FoGGiA, Italy, 
June 1, 1918. 
Commanding Officer: 

Today the undersigned, an officer in the Italian Army, bows 
before the bier of the American Lieutenant L. L. Baker, with 
admiration and affection. Today America and Italy jointly 
lose one of their best officers, one of the best pilots of the allied 
aviation services. I am prompted to make this statement by 
a feeling of esprit-de-corps; but further, if a simple and earnest 
word dictated by the heart can assuage the grief and add to the 
pride of remembrance of those who within a few days shall 
mourn for him over there, I crave your permission to do so. 

It was my pleasure to have Livingston L. Baker as my pupil 
from first to second class. He showed himself to be an excellent 
pilot and a fine boy ; I asked that he be detailed as instructor in 
my district, and whenever I was called away by other duties it 
was with a feeling of entire confidence that I left him in charge. 
As an instructor he was first class and did excellent work until 
his transfer to the bombing squadron compelled him to leave 
the lines. While under instruction in the latter squadron I was 
obliged to call him back to his first work as he was the only 
one in whom I could place full and unlimited confidence. This 
pleased him very much, as he was very fond of hard work, and 
until this morning at six o'clock Livingston L. Baker has turned 
out tens upon tens of pilots, and his teaching has been marked 
by constant attention and conscientious activity During the 
last few weeks I have had special opportunities of becoming 
acquainted with him; I appreciated his companionship and I 
have become attached to him with the strongest bonds of friend- 
ship. He reported to me daily, three or four times. He was a 
strict disciplinarian and always showed the utmost respect and 



consideration to his superior, his chief pilot. I, on the other 
hand, each time that he left me, shook his hand with a strong 
grip and considered him as my friend, my best friend. 

I do not know, sir, that I can add to the foregoing. I wish to 
say, however, that the manly figure of L. L. Baker is indelibly 
impressed on my heart and mind, and that if at some future 
date I shall have the good fortune of meeting his parents I shall 
feel proud to be able to say to them: "I was your son's friend; 
he died a noble death for his country and for mine; I have ad- 
mired him and I have loved him; you may well feel proud of 
his memory." 

Very respectfully, 

L. Hermann di Targiana, 
Chief Pilot Instructor, Foggia, South. 



Law School 1912-13 

Always do my best, always have the best, and always 
be of the best." As a school-boy Ona Jefferson Myers 
adopted this motto, and made up his mind to become a 
lawyer — a course which could be accomplished only with 
a large expenditure of effort. The event proved that the 
standard he set for himself was not beyond his reach. 

He was born near Elnora, Daviess County, Indiana, 
December 14, 1888, the only son of Oliver Perry Myers 
and Nora E. (Mize) Myers. When he was ten years old 
his parents moved to southeast Missouri, and at Freder- 
icktown, Missouri, he received his elementary and high 
school education. In his junior year at the high school 
he won the scholarship medal for making the best grades 



during the year, and in his senior year again led the school, 
but, because no student could receive a second medal, 
was awarded a scholarship in a Presbyterian college. He 
finished high school in May, 1906, and spent the summer 
months of that year driving a mule in the North American 
lead mines near by, earning something less than one hun- 
dred and fifty dollars and spending nearly all of it for an 
encyclopaedia. Knowing that he must provide in part for 
his own legal education, he entered the Gem City Business 
College at Quincy, Illinois, in September, 1906, and grad- 
uated with such high grades that he was employed to 
teach advanced bookkeeping in the school. When he had 
taught for eleven months, the principal of the institution 
offered him a ten-year contract to teach shorthand, but, 
fearing that the acceptance of this position would turn 
him from his chosen purpose, he resigned altogether and 
in September, 1908, entered the Arts and Science Division 
of the University of Missouri. 

After three years at Missouri he went to the University 
of Chicago (October, 1911), beginning his study of law 
and accomplishing his work for the degree of Ph.B., cum 
lande, in the summer of 1912. The next academic year 
he spent at the Harvard Law School. In October, 1913, 
he returned to Chicago, completed his studies, and was 
graduated in August, 1914, with the degree of J.D. cum 

The following winter (February, 1915) he entered the 
law offices of Messrs. Story and Story, at Ouray, Colorado. 
His parents possess only one letter written home at that 
time. Thus, in part, it read: 



Ouray, Colorado, 
Sunday, February 28, 1915. 

I will soon have been here a month. While this is not a good 
place to stay permanently, because it is too small, yet I feel it 
is a very good place for me for a few years. There is an oppor- 
tunity here for me to work into a pretty good place in Salt Lake 
City. Whether I shall take advantage of that opportunity de- 
pends on whether I can give up some ideals of mine. It means 
that I would have to become a corporation lawyer. Although 
that is the most profitable kind of work, I have always had the 
feeling that it was not the best kind of work to do. I have 
always thought I would rather be a help to, and the lawyer of, 
the laborer and the farmer. I realize, however, that there is an 
opportunity for a corporation lawyer to help the laborers much. 
. . . But this a question I shall have to fight out for myself. 

Whatever the decision, I do not believe I shall need to call 
on you for help any more. You have stuck by me through thick 
and thin. I realize that it has meant many sacrifices by you; 
it has meant your denying yourself many things that you longed 
for and often needed. Your faith in me and my abilities — 
proved in the one way that is beyond question, by your personal 
sacrifices — the memory of your faith in me and the realization 
of the sacrifices you were making that I might make something 
worth while out of myself have spurred me on whenever I have 
felt like "chucking" education aside and getting a job as a 
stenographer or what not, with no chance for doing things 
worth while. Your faith in me has made me ashamed of myself 
whenever I have felt like quitting, and has given me renewed 
confidence in myself. 

I know that with the means you had no parents ever did more 
for their son, and none ever did it more unselfishly. I can never 
even up the obligation which you thereby have placed me 
under. I cannot write or speak all that I feel and would like 
to say on such a subject; but I am sure you will understand; I 
know you would understand even though I said nothing. My 



obligation is very great and I only hope that I may do enough 
good in the world so that your sacrifices will not have been in 
vain and so that your hopes and faith in me will not have been 
disappointed dreams. 

Your sacrifices, your faith in me, my knowledge of your 
simple, honest lives have made me so honor you and feel so 
proud of you that I have been enabled to refrain from doing 
many things that young fellows are tempted to do. I was so 
proud of you that I had strength of will enough not to do things 
which would make you ashamed of me. 

Two fellow-students of law with Mvers at the Uni- 
versity of Chicago, one of them also a fellow-student at 
Harvard, have written letters in which the impression he 
made upon his contemporaries during his years of prepara- 
tion for the law is clearlv indicated. Mr. C. M. Ozias 
wrote from Fresno, California : 

It was in June of 1911 that Jeff, with another companion 
whose name I have now forgotten, came up from the University 
of Missouri and occupied an adjoining room in the apartment 
house in which I was staying, out near the site of the University 
of Chicago. I was then a student in the Law School. Jeff had 
no difficulty in securing an excellent position down town in 
Chicago as a stenographer during that summer and in the 
autumn he began the study of law at the University. We be- 
came friends — friends upon the tennis court — friends at our 
daily meals and in the library — friends for strolls through the 
parks and by the lake — friends in that intimate, social inter- 
course wherein our hopes, our aspirations, our plans and dreams 
for the future were the absorbing topic of our conversation. 

When the University opened in the autumn, I had some 
opportunity of seeing him in action. He was passionately am- 
bitious. He was an indomitable worker. Work was his re- 
ligion, although he could play like a truant. His brilliant record 



as a scholar and orator at Missouri, Chicago, and Harvard 
speaks for itself. I can safely say, without fear of exaggeration, 
that he had one of the most brilliant minds of any person I have 
ever known. After I graduated from the University in June of 
1912, we corresponded at irregular intervals. How fine, how 
full of his irrepressible enthusiasm and determination, how 
marked with manifestations of his high ideals, and yet how im- 
mensely human, were those letters he wrote to me! At the close 
of one of them which was rather long (but not too long) and 
which I have preserved and treasure, he said in his winsome, 
apologetic style, "Goodness, how much I have written and I 
started out only to write a page. Ozias, I certainly have a 
deep-seated friendliness towards you." I could ask for no 
higher tribute. 

From the Ohio State University Law School, Mr. J. W. 
Madden wrote: 

When I went to the Law School at Chicago in 1912, Jeff was 
there and I immediately recognized in him an unusual man and 
student. That autumn I decided to go to Harvard for a year 
and it was a happy surprise to find that Jeff had taken the same 
notion. We were intimate there, went to New Haven together 
for the Yale-Harvard game, and worked together in a club 
court competition in which he was the principal factor in win- 
ning the prize for our club, and a little cash for six of us, most 
of whom needed it badly. We were back at Chicago the next 
summer and year, and his splendid work enabled him to do me 
many favors. He took up golf for recreation and interested 
me in it, and we often went out at four o'clock in the morning 
to play a round. 

Everyone marveled at the ease with which he supported him- 
self and still Nept in the front rank in his studies, while the rest 
of us had as much as we could do to keep the pace set by our 
teachers. I remember how he told me, in the summer of 1914, 
that he was doing free work for the Legal Aid Society and I 



wondered how he could find the time, but he did find it and time 
for everything else too. 

His degree was conferred "with honor" as was fitting, for 
he did everything with honor. 

As war approached Myers began to make ready for his 
part in it. As early as November, 1916, he answered a 
notice printed in The Saturday Evening Post by an aero- 
plane company which offered training for reserve avi- 
ators. Failing at first to get the desired information, he 
communicated wdth the War Department, the three univer- 
sities with which he had been connected, and the federal 
recruiting office at Denver. In April, 1917, one of his 
letters to Washington was answered and late in May he 
received instructions to report for examination at Fort 
Omaha, Nebraska, on June 5. "I wanted so much to get 
into aviation service," he wrote in a diary he was keeping 
at this time, "because it seemed to me that the one 
life I had would be able to render a service there many 
times greater than anywhere else." 

Having passed his examinations for the aviation service 
he was detailed after settling his affairs at Ouray, to 
Austin, Texas, for ground training. From August, 1917, 
until he met his death June 1, 1918, in an aeroplane acci- 
dent near Chateau-roux in France, where he was flying 
for his last half-hour of training, having received his com- 
mission as second lieutenant in the Air Service, May 18, 
his experiences were largely those of the routine of prepa- 
ration for the aviator's work at the front. A comrade 
through all this period has related its circumstances in the 
following letter : 



Dallas, Texas, 
August 2,1919. 

Jeff and I were classmates in the ground school at Austin. 
I remember the day he entered, as we had adjoining bunks. 
We studied at the same table and ate adjoining each other at 
the mess, so I probably knew him better than any other cadet 
in the school, with one exception. At ground school Jeff was 
the best student in his class; he was a model pupil and held 
the respect of all his teachers and classmates. On our gradua- 
tion, October 21, 1917, we were allowed two days at home and 
on or about October 24 we, the class, were sent in a private car 
to Garden City, New York. There we waited until November 
23, all anxious and eager to get over in France to do our part 
against the Huns. 

We landed in Liverpool December 7, having a pleasant trip 
across on the good ship Baltic. From Liverpool we were sent 
to Winchester, a big rest camp a few miles southwest from 
London. There we first tasted the privation of war, there being 
little fuel, lights, or pleasure to hasten or make pleasant those 
bitterly cold, gloomy days of December. The British were low 
in spirit on account of the Cambrai failure and then and there 
we realized that we were up against a strong, powerful enemy. 
From Southampton we sailed to Le Havre, crossing the rough 
channel on a cattle boat, cold and crowded. We slept eleven 
men to the tent in Le Havre and there we first learned that we 
were classed as enlisted men and went through all the hard work, 
discipline, and drill of any other enlisted man. At last we were 
sent to St. Maixent, a charming little town in between Poitiers 
and Niort. W^e had hopes there was a flying school there, but 
we soon realized that we were in the most inefficient branch of 
the Army and it would be months before we began our training. 
We did guard duty, fatigue, drilled, and unloaded provisions, 
cooked, etc., from December to April. 

In April about ten of us were sent to Chateau-roux to be 
attached to the French Army for our flying. Jeff was put in 



charge of the detachment, although I was a sergeant and out- 
ranked him. This shows how capable and responsible he was. 
He conducted us to Chateau-roux and remained in charge of us 
until his death. Jeff was a good pilot. He finished his brevet 
ahead of time and had to do some extra flying to make up the 
required twenty-five hours of actual time in the air. On the 
day of his death he was out taking pictures with his kodak. He 
evidently flew too low, for he slid over a wing and, not having 
altitude, crashed into the ground before he could regain con- 
trol of his airplane. His airplane was a Caudron, a machine 
tried and tested and a good one. No one tampered with his 
machine, and he had absolutely not an enemy in France as far 
as I know. His death was due, no doubt, to over-confidence, 
for little did we know then in our enthusiasm the necessity, so 
well drilled in, but to no effect, of the danger of flying low. Jeff 
in his enthusiasm for taking pictures forgot his altitude and 
crashed into the ground. 

He was buried with full military honors, and cadets and the 
French officers and the French people covered his coffin with 
floral wreaths. His grave is well marked, and along with the 
other cadets killed at Chateau-roux he sleeps. 

In September, 1920, his body was returned to the 
United States and funeral services were held on October 
10, at the home of his parents in Boonville, Indiana. "He 
was a Christian that lived up to his faith," wrote the 
friend who has just been quoted, " and a soldier that knew 
no fear." 



Class of 1908 

X HiLip Washburn Davis, born at West Newton, 
Massachusetts, March 10, 1888, was a son of Samuel War- 
ren Davis, of the Harvard Class of 1877, a teacher in the 
Newton High School for most of his life, and for many 
years head of its Department of Latin. Mary Elizabeth 
(Washburn) Davis, his wife, died in 1896. Philip Wash- 
burn Davis's older sister, Amelia Washburn Davis, a 



Y. M. C. A. canteen and library worker in France during 
the greater part of her brother's service as an aviator over- 
seas, has written a personal letter about him, portions of 
which may well be repeated here, though some of the facts 
to which she refers anticipate the story still to be told. 

My brother was a boy of strong affections and enthusiasms, 
but restrained, as the best New Englanders are. He had a 
burning passion for justice and an adventurous spirit which was 
masked to some extent b^^ nonchalant humor and argumentative 
contrasts. He quite casually mentioned to me that he had ap- 
plied for service in the United States Aviation as soon as we de- 
clared war, and never referred to it again to anybody, as far as 
I can learn. He received no reply, and the next I knew of his 
plans, he was signing up with the Norton-Harjes Ambulance 
Unit. If the French Aviation was in his mind before he started, 
he never told; but he certainly signed up with them as soon 
as he could on arrival. He told us that he had found the need 
greater than was understood over here, the Ambulance Service 
not the best he could give, and ambulance men talking of going 
over for a good time! That settled it for him. 

As a little boy, my brother was very sensitive and responsive 
to fine things, fond of stories, but especially fond of games, and 
how hard and well he did play ! He kept right on being a good 
sport, and college and business developed social qualities which 
overcame his extreme shyness, but left him with a pleasant dif- 
fidence in meeting people. His combination of gentleness with 
high spirits made him generally attractive. Life was very much 
of a game to him, and because he possessed a good mixture of 
caution and dash, victory often came to him. It was character- 
istic of him to want to get to the top, not to beat other people 
but to do whatever he did as well as it could be done. . . . 

He was faithful not only to the big loyalties and duties, but 
to the little things which so many men neglect. He had a tre- 
mendous sense of justice, and I should not give the right im- 



pression of him if I suppressed his vehement expression of 
opinion. If, on further evidence, he changed his opinion, he 
recorded the fact. He did not complain about personal hard- 
ships, and they were pretty severe, at Plessis-Belleville, for in- 
stance. Clean and healthy, and appreciating the good things 
of life, he nevertheless prided himself on being able to adapt him- 
self to changed conditions. 

So he appeared in retrospect to one who knew him most 
completely. The outward circumstances of his life before 
the war may be briefly summarized. Like his father be- 
fore him, he made his preparation for college at the New- 
ton High School. Entering Harvard in 1904, he graduated 
cum laude, in 1908. In his junior and senior years, re- 
spectively, he won the benefits of the John Appleton 
Haven and C. L. Jones Scholarships. In his senior year, 
besides, he was named for a Disquisition. His athletic 
interests were those of track (hurdling) and tennis, in each 
of which he was proficient; nor did his tennis playing 
cease with college. On his graduation he entered the Boston 
office of Lee, Higginson and Company, with which he re- 
mained for two years. After this experience, and an as- 
sociation with a smaller house, he became a partner in the 
investment firm of Chamberlain and Davis, with which 
he was associated when the United States joined the bel- 
ligerent nations. 

Of Davis's activities and characteristics during this 
period, and with special reference to his business partner- 
ship, it is written in the Decennial Report of the Class of 

The certain and rapid success of that business is shown not 
so much by the financial good standing which he fairly won as 



by the confidence and respect of his clients. That their inter- 
ests were his own, and that his sound judgment and prompt 
decision were always at their service, is attested by the many 
letters received by members of his family. They express not 
only regret for the loss of a man of sterling character and fine 
personality, but a very personal bereavement on the part of 
those who had come to depend upon his advice. These letters 
surely prove the usefulness of the honorable business man. Giv- 
ing himself whole-heartedly to business, and working early and 
late when its needs required, he nevertheless found time for a 
surprising number of avocations. He was keenly alive to all 
interests of the day, without losing his love of poetry, plays, and 
economic theory. He could enjoy a game of chess at breakfast 
and still not neglect the morning paper, and would dash off to 
business just as merry and eager at one pursuit as at another. 
His athletic activities never flagged. He belonged to several 
tennis clubs and won some local tournaments. He was a mem- 
ber of the First Corps, Cadets. 

Davis made his first attempt to enter the aviation serv- 
ice on the very day after the United States declared war. 
His next step has already been mentioned. In "Har- 
vard's Military Record in the World War" the essential 
facts of his military record are given as follows: "En- 
listed private Foreign Legion, June 9, 1917; transferred to 
Aviation Service and detailed to Schools of Military Avia- 
tion, Avord and Pan, June 15 to October 28; breveted 
pilot October 26 and promoted corporal; detailed to Aerial 
Gunnery School, Cazaux; honorably discharged February 
1918. Commissioned 2d Lieutenant Aviation Section, 
Signal Corps, February 23, 1918, in France; assigned to 
94th Pursuit Squadron April 1; killed in action June 2, 
1918, in Toul Sector." His training at Cazaux was fol- 
lowed by a brief period at G. D. E. (Le Plessis-Belleville). 



In "The Lafayette Flying Corps" the following character- 
ization of him, embodying the impression he made upon 
his aviation comrades, is found: 

Davis was older than most of those who went through the 
schools with him, less boisterous and less given to dissertation 
on his flying prowess. Quiet and pleasant in manner, he was one 
of the coolest and steadiest of pilots, completing with honor the 
difficult Bleriot training and leaving an excellent record at Pau. 
He was one of those men who have little to say, but may be 
counted on in any emergency. After his transfer to the United 
States Air Service, Davis went to the front with the 94th Pur- 
suit Squadron, then operating in the Toul Sector. On June 2, 
1918, while protecting an English bombing flight, he attacked 
six German single-seaters and was shot down in Hames within 
the enemy lines. 

Philip Davis is mourned by the many friends to whom his 
fine qualities had endeared him. At his death the Service lost 
a very gallant officer, under whose serene and quizzical exterior 
lay a true devotion to duty and the steadfast courage which 
asks no odds of Fate. 

There is, besides, in the Decennial Report of the Class 
of 1908, a letter from Major Douglas Campbell (Harvard, 
'17), American ace, a portion of which serves well to place 
Davis among his filing comrades : 

The 94th Aero Squadron, later famous as Eddie Ricken- 
backer's outfit, was organized and sent to the front in March, 
1918, as the first really American air unit to get into action. There 
were eighteen pilots in the squadron who had just finished their 
schooling and were anxious to learn the game of knocking Huns 
out of the sky, and Phil Davis and myself were two of them. We 
were assigned to the 3d flight, or subdivision, of the squadron, 
with the result that we generally went on the same patrols; 
consequently I knew Phil pretty well There is something about 



flying over the lines with a man which draws you to him, in spite 
of the fact that you are not in speaking contact with him at the 
time. Quiet and unobtrusive, but a hard, conscientious worker, 
Phil soon made a warm place for himself in my heart and in 
those of the other members of our eager and enthusiastic family 
of prospective Boche-getters. 

With passages from a journal which Davis kept in 
France, and from his letters, it is possible and profitable 
to clothe these external records and impressions with some- 
thing of his personality. The following quotations speak 
for themselves : 

Saturday I went up to Dr. Gros' again and after trying my 
eyes again, he said, no, it was too bad, but I could n't get by. 
I talked with him a while, told him I was good at tennis and 
seemed to be able to see perfectly. Finally he said, "Well, 
stand up near and read it with both eyes," which I naturally 
did, as I could read it way back with my left eye. And so I got 
by and signed up with the Lafayette Flying Corps, Now I am 
waiting to hear from the French Government in regard to my 
application. I think there is no danger of not being accepted 
after Dr. Gros' approval. 

June 8, 1917. 

I sometimes wonder what kind of a mess things will be in 
when the war is over. Will the soldiers go back to work, for when 
one thinks of it, they have been leading a lazy, easy life of it, 
and not so much excitement as one might think either. And, too, 
will the women go back to the homes? They have found out 
that they can run things just as well as men. 

On the other hand, will the war ever be over or will it end in 
a compromise and break out again? The plight of the Allies ap- 
pears to be much worse than I had imagined. An old ambulance 
driver who is now going into the aviation told me that he thought 
that the morale of the Germans is better than that of the Allies, 



They have stopped everything that the Allies have started, they 
are relying on their submarine campaign with the greatest con- 
fidence, and lastly they are held better in hand — they are not 
such independent thinkers. He says that he thinks the Allies 
would have quit if the United States had not come into the fight. 
France does seem to have great confidence in what we are go- 
ing to be able to do to help them. 

June 2^. 
The people at home simply cannot sympathize fully in this 
great struggle, separated from the conflict by the expanse of the 
Atlantic Ocean. When the Army gets over here and friends and 
relatives begin to get killed, things will be different. This is the 
way I understood the situation : — My position in the reserves 
was uncertain. Nobody knew what was going to be or could be 
done with them. The only reason I was glad to get away was 
so that I would not have the uncertainty hanging over me all 
the time with the chance of doing guard duty at the East Boston 

Gas Works during the whole war. You remember M did 

not know whether he was going to be allowed to go to Plattsburg 

or not. I have just received a letter from E saying that I 

was right in what I said about the federal oath last summer and 
bewailing his fate that the red tape stopped him from going to 
Plattsburg until it was too late Now he expects to go to war 

as a private under the command of D or W — — or some of 

the other boys who did not take the oath. Of course if they 
want me back I will come, but I do not think there is any likeli- 
hood of it now, inasmuch as there is no possibility of getting any 
such training for war aviation in the United States as here. 
When I came over here I was to enlist for six months' service. 
As things have come out I have felt called upon to enlist for 
the duration of the war. I do not like to be a pessimist, but if 
the war lasts long, in this aviation game, — well, they have to 
keep training a bunch of new pilots for service at the front. 
What new rulings they have made in regard to the Guard Re- 
serve I don't know. Mr. C. is doubtless right in what he says. 



It is no more than I expected, that we would be called out just 
like ordinary citizens, regardless of our training. 

July 34. 
Instead of having too much time on my hands, I have too 
little now. You see I have learned just enough about avion 
motors and compliances and mitrailleuses so that I know where 
to go to get more information and what books to read. The 
evolution of the airplane is marvellous. A machine is out of 
date in two months. First the Germans have one that the 
French can't touch, and then the French have one that the Ger- 
mans can't get near. When I first came down here they had 
just got out a new machine that was supposed to beat every- 
thing up to that time. Now a new model of another machine 
is about to displace that. The way they keep cutting down the 
wings I think soon they will have nothing but a box and motor. 
The tremendous speed that is necessary to keep these almost 
wingless fellows in the air makes landing difficult. One has to 
leave and approach the ground at seventy miles an hour. A 
less speed means pancaking, and, of course, a smash. 

Juhj 28. 
The machine we are driving now is somewhat different from 
the penguin. It will fly all right. I went off the ground five or 
six feet, much to the monitor's disgust this morning. I told 
you how one of the fellows smashed on his first sortie. It was 
most artistic too. The oldest men even claimed it was the most 
complete wreck they had ever seen. Nothing was left intact. 
You see he went into the ground with full motor on, an unpar- 
donable offense. I saw a lieutenant turn upside down today. 
He made a very poor attervisage, as they call it, and bounced up 
about thirty feet. He had presence of mind enough to put on 
his motor and save himself, but he smashed one wheel all to 
pieces the first time, so we watched to see what would happen 
on the second landing. The result was just what might be ex- 
pected, he came down perfectly and redressed all right. But 



when he settled on to the ground, naturally there was a sort of 
one sided flop, and over she went. When he crawled out from 
under, he looked just as crestfallen as I felt after my experience 
with the penguin. 

Camp Avord, Cher. 

September 26, 1917. 

Two or three weeks ago I read in the Outlook a fragment 
entitled "The Diary of a Coward." As the editor suggested, it 
struck me that the man was not a coward at all. I have since 
wondered whether I judged him leniently because my own sen- 
sations are not dissimilar to his. 

I did not have the same choice that he did. I was called upon 
to enter the fray from a sense of duty. The question with me 
was whether to go into this, as it appears to me, the most dan- 
gerous branch of the service, aviation. I chose it partly be- 
cause it seemed the most valuable thing to do and one for which 
I was rather well suited, partly because it was a very interesting 
pursuit, in which I should not fret with inaction as I should in 
other branches of the service, as I very well know from my ex- 
perience in the militia. 

I feel that I have gone into something which will probably 
cause my death in a longer or shorter space of time, if I continue 
in it, and that I intend to do. If the war lasts a year, a mighty 
small number of aviators now in training for the front are going 
to go back home, I 'm thinking. Now the prospect of death gives 
me a disagreeable feeling. I don't want to die. I avoid taking 
chances of getting killed. I feel confident, however, that my 
sense of duty, or is it horror of the shame of being thought the 
coward? — I can scarcely discriminate sometimes — will always 
overweight this fear and keep me on my course. 

For all this, I do not mean to say that there is forever a sword 
above my head. On the contrary, with easy lack of foresight, I 
forget the danger that I face, I put it aside, I refuse to admit its 
presence. I have accustomed myself to more dangerous con- 
ditions than I had previously lived under and I expect to ac- 



custom myself to still more dangerous ones so that I can live 
in comfort even then. We have that to see. 

When I step into the machine for my tour I am less nervous 
I think than the average student pilote here. I am no more 
nervous than when I line up on the cinder track to hear the 
starter's pistol. Once away in the air I am just as eager and 
interested as ever I was to run a foot race or to play a tennis 
match. Yet if I thought of my chances of breaking my neck, 
I wonder how I should feel. Sometimes I say — now I will say 
to myself "Suppose this wire should break or the machine 
should catch fire." Still I refuse, in the bottom of my heart, 
to harbor the possibility of such events. 

If I live through this experience, it will perhaps be as much 
pleasure to me to read these lines as it would have been to the 
"Coward" to have read what he had written, had he lived. If 
I meet his fate somebody else may read this, with I hope a little 
respect. An expression of honest feeling, however crudely ex- 
pressed, should be valuable by its rarity. 

The Germans, in my opinion are fundamentally wrong in 
their impression of the relation between the state and the in- 
dividual, but I am not sure that that people is not better off that 
worships the state as a god than a race that is so enamoured of 
individual freedom that it cannot make sacrifices to preserve it. 

BouRGES, November 21, 1917. 

Ely and I were to fly together and were to meet 1000 metres 
above Latlas, or however the little town is spelled. We had 
arranged to go to Lourdes. We went all right; but as we had 
different ideas of where the town lay we did n't stay together 
long. I went down the river but did n't find Lourdes, as the 
town was the other way. However, I found another town off 
across the country which I have since found out was Daz. It 
lies on each side of a little river. There seems to be a trolley 
connecting the two parts of the town. After leaving Daz I 
headed for the Pyrenees and let the machine climb. When I 
got up to '2000 metres I noticed over toward the mountains an 



edge of white which proved to be clouds. Below was a dull haze, 
through which it was impossible to see clearly, in fact the moun- 
tains were not visible. Above, however, the peaks showed forth 
as distinctly as could be through a clear atmosphere. As I 
climbed and looked down on the field of clouds which extended 
away from the peaks for some miles I was more and more happy 
to think that I was having the opportunity of seeing such a sight. 
I let the machine get up to 5000 metres and then slid back home 
in one steady pique. Ely and I had been out two and one-half 
hours, but we put down our time as an hour and a half so as to 
get as much flying as possible. 

The next day Ely and I met again but did n't stay together 
as he wanted to go to the Pyrenees and I to Lourdes. I took in 
all the little towns up the valley above Pau to Lourdes and 
cruised in among the foot-hills of the Pyrenees at a low altitude. 
Here again I put in over two hours but counted it as an hour 
and a half. In the afternoon we were to do another hour but 
put in about two hours practising spirales over all the towns in 
the valley. 

The next day we had vol de groupe in the 15 metres 110 H. P. 
I was chef de groupe and had two Frenchmen with me. We all 
wanted to go to Biarritz and for once did our work right, meet- 
ing as agreed and flying in perfect formation the whole way. It 
was a fine trip and a great sight to see the old sea once more. 
Biarritz looks pretty from the air, the light-house, the beach, 
and cliffs. Bayonne too shows out clearly at the mouth of the 
river. One of the others and I flew out well over the ocean and 
spiraled down to see the town. A walk down the cliff shows out 
like a big S. On the way back I slowed down and waved to the 
other fellow to go ahead so that I could have some practice fol- 
lowing. At the end I stopped to practise spiraling. I made a 
continuous left and then immediate right without stopping and 
did n't lose my stick as the fellows all claimed I would. I also 
slowed it down to all but a standstill and then piqued sharply 
and speeded it up again. 



In the afternoon Ely and I were to fly together again but he 
said he was not going to do any more foohsh tricks and I wanted 
to go over to the Pyrenees again. It is wonderful over among 
those mountains. I went over past the range of mountains be- 
yond the Pic du Midi d'Ossau, over Spain and looked down the 
valleys on the other side. What a long time it seems to take to 
come to that peak, but how you do tear by when you get there ! 
One would n't have much luck landing en panne up in those 
snowy mountains. You can see a lot of country from an aero- 
plane. It is interesting to see the little French settlements way 
up on the mountain slopes, ten or twelve houses and a group of 
cultivated fields. Then there is the road and railroad way down 
in the valley leading up to the Pic du Midi with little villages 
here and there. I flew most at 3600 to 3800 metres just under 
the clouds where it was very rough, I will say. It seemed as 
though I would hit the ranges as I came to them although as a 
matter of fact Midi is only 2885 and is the highest right there. 

Pau, Basses Pyrenees, 

December 1, 1917. 

Since living with the French here at Pau I have experienced 
another change in my feelings toward them, finding them not 
such bad sports after all. We meet a much better type down 
here, fellows who have much more ability in aviation and also 
what is best of all, a mighty good sense of humor. 

What leads to a great deal of misunderstanding is our lack of 
knowledge of the French language. I learned more French in 
the first two days here than in the preceding five months, being 
in a barrack with about thirty Frenchmen and only six Ameri- 
cans. I would have been sorry to have had to move into this 
barrack of Americans only, had it not been for the fact that we 
were imposing on the Frenchmen every night when we opened 
up the windows. How those boys do hate fresh cold air! 

My feeling towards the Germans has changed a great deal 
too. I am getting sick of all this propaganda against them. Bet- 
ter give them their due. They started a lot of things which the 



Allies have since adopted, and this propaganda is one of them. 
The Allies have seen its effectiveness and have been forced to 
employ the same tactics themselves. Most of these stories about 
the cruelty of the Germans are talk or find parallels on the side 
of the Allies. The Allies tell about the Boche dropping bombs 
on a hospital; but they don't say that there was a big munition 
station which was placed right beside the hospital and in its 
shelter, which was the Germans' real objective. I am just as 
much opposed to the German idea and its system and just as 
much determined to do my share to help overthrow the system, 
even while I admire its effectiveness; but that the Germans are 
fiends, or any different from the men who are fighting on the 
side of the Allies, I cannot see. 

January 20, 1918. 

Pick Chapman and I are still looking for jail though we may 
have escaped. We landed in Le Plessis-Belleville on the ap- 
pointed day, the 13th, and signed up but as our baggage had 
not come from Cazaux we refused to go out to Verrines. The 
next day we decided to go back to Paris and see if we could sign 
up in the naval aviation rather than continue in this uncertainty. 

Of course we had no tickets or 'permissions. We had no 
trouble getting on the train at Plessis, just walking around a 
barn to the track as the train came in. We did, however, have 
a narrow escape getting out at Paris. We intended to get out 
at the station before Paris, but finding that it was way up above 
the street and enclosed by a high iron fence we decided to take 
our chances in the big station. 

We walked down the platform with the rest of the people 
until we got near the gate where they were taking tickets. Then 
we began cutting across the tracks which were depressed a bit 
and made us an object of more or less suspicion. Pick dove 
through another gate, which by the best of luck was open, with 
me about four yards in back of him. Then I heard the guard 
calling ''Billets, billets.'' Pick looked around and increased 



his pace and I did n't lose any distance to him, I can say. Then 
the guard took to crying "Teekets, teekets," but I never looked 
to right or left, although all the people in front of me looked 
around. So Pick and I kept irresistibly on and shooting be- 
tween two gendarmes, who had no time to ask us for our 'per- 
missions, were shortly in the streets of Paris. 

They were taking no more pilotes in the naval aviation, how- 
ever, so in a way we had our trip for nothing, except a good meal 
at Drouant's and a good bed and bath at the Hotel Madison. 

The Americans are not in high favor here. Our treatment is 
very different from that which we enjoyed at Cazaux, where we 
were treated like guests and ate at the sous-qfficiers^ mess. 

Gengoult, just outside of Toul, 
April 12, 1918. 

When I read these newspapers I certainly get hot. I don't 
see where we can give ourselves any particular credit over the 
Germans. As far as the Government deceiving the people is con- 
cerned, we are in as bad a case as they are. Whenever we hear 
of "the enemy suffering heavy losses," we know that they have 
advanced ten or fifteen kilometres. Strategic retreat and 
strategic out-salients always produce a smile. If we could be- 
lieve accounts every German on the face of the earth would be 
dead by now. Yet they tell us that there are three Boches for 
every two of the Allies on the W^estern Front. Can you beat it? 

On the same page of the paper one reads "Huns bomb Paris. 
Sixty women and children victims of barbarous attacks." "Our 
airmen do fine work. Two hundred kilos of explosives dropped 
on German towns." 

After this war is over I hope the people will cook this deceit 
on the part of their governors. I hope they will insist on getting 
the truth, good news and bad impartially. 

Sometime I am going to take time to write some of the stories 
I have heard in this aviation game. 



Gengoult, Toul, 
April 28, 1918. 

I sometimes think that the Germans will win this war even if 
they lose. We pretend to be fighting for democracy but we are 
adopting all the methods of the so hated Prussian aristocracy. 

The worst of all is the way our war lords are deceiving the 
people. I do not complain that each one of us is in entire igno- 
rance of what is going on around us. I will even submit to the 
senseless eccentricities of the censorship. But news at least can 
be truthful. Events past and over with can be told whether 
good or bad. 

Are we a race of babies, of quitters, that we must have our 
courage buoyed up by false assertions of success? Would we 
not fight the harder and the more determinedly if we hear of 
failures and misfortunes? These things are but to be overcome. 
Many a sluggard back home perhaps would be aroused from 
his indolence to turn back the tide sweeping in upon us. 

Yet on our bulletin board is a notice: "Never criticize your 
superiors or express your opinion on the conduct of the war. 
Avoid giving the impression of pessimism by your words and 

The attitude of our leaders is shown in the newspapers. De- 
feats are smothered up as long as possible. Reports of victories 
are allowed to be published no matter how unfounded on fact. 
We know little except what happens near us ; yet how different 
are the newspaper stories from the actual facts. 

The censorship finds it impossible to stop the publication of 
the rumor that the Americans captured 200,000 Germans, in- 
cluding the Crown Prince, but succeeded in preventing the 
publication of the fact that the Germans went through to the 
American third line trenches and that the French were called 
in to save the situation. 

No wonder the people back home think our boys are a 
race of demi-gods and that a handful of them are enough to 
throw back the invading Huns. No wonder they lie back 



and say, "This thing will be finished up soon without effort on 
our part." 

The worst sort of pessimism is fear of pessimism. There is 
something the matter with leaders whose actions cannot be 
talked about. 

I thought I was fighting for personal liberty, for individual- 
ism. Where is our victory if this is gone? 

The French have not given up their personal rights and yet 
have shown themselves the best fighters. May we imitate them 
rather than the Prussians. 

The old Lafayette Flying Corps is sufl^ering its losses these 
days. Chuck Kerwood got his a little while ago. Woodward is 
missing and now Stanley writes that Herm Whitmore is missing. 
Hitchcock has been missing some time after getting two Bodies. 
Collins was brought down after getting three Boches. Collins, 
Hitchcock, and Whitmore were great pilots too. 

Dinsmore Ely has just been killed in an accident at Villa- 
coublay. Some of the finest fellows in the bunch have gone. 

Dave Putnam has certainly made up for some. He has 
brought down about eight Boches now. According to the pa- 
pers. Rat Booth has brought down his second Boche and is get- 
ting married to celebrate. Duke Sinclair was over on the piste 
the other day. He has a Boche, a croix de guerre at any rate. 
He refuses to accept an immediate sous-lieutenancy because he 
wants to get three Boches first and a medaille militaire. 

Gengoult, Toul, 
May 5, 1918. 

The war is claiming victims near at home now. Pick Chap- 
man was brought down in the German lines two days ago. He 
was the one fellow I was most intimate with, a fine boy, too, and 
most pleasing companion. 

We came over on the Chicago at the same time. We were 
together at Avord and roomed together in the old stable bar- 
racks in the artillery camp. We were at Pau together and at 
Cazaux. Of our seven at Cazaux, three have gone, Pick, Dins- 



more Ely, and Herm Whitmore, three of the best too. Then we 
were at Plessis-Belleville together and left to join the American 
Army. We were at Issoudun and roomed together at Villeneuve 
and here. My other room-mate, Cunningham, is going to leave 
soon on account of his eyes so that I shall be quite lonely. 

This squadron certainly has its hands full in good weather 
and when they want us to furnish a patrol down to the east of 
Luneville also, they surely can figure that we are earning our pay 
even with the flying premium which we are not getting. Before 
the good weather started, everybody wanted to go up on all the 
alerts that came in. Now some of us, of whom I admit I am 
one, are not too sorry to see a little rain so that we can rest up 
a bit. 

The way the squadron works is as follows: it is divided into 
three flights of six men each, a captain and five lieutenants; 
one flight is on duty from daylight till 10 a.m., that means get- 
ting up at 4.30 A.M.; one flight from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., and one 
flight from 3 p.m. until dark, a little after 8 p.m. These hours 
are getting longer every day. Each flight changes its hours of 
duty each day, so that each has the daylight patrol one day in 
three. Every day that we are on it is just good enough weather 
so that we have to get up but bad enough so that we can't do 

Our duty consists of waiting around to answer alerts — re- 
ports of Bodies inside our lines — most of which are erroneous 
or fruitless. Sometimes we make patrols. Just as the good 
weather started they demanded a patrol from us for the Ameri- 
can sector east of Luneville. So one flight took that, one was 
on from daylight to noon and one from noon to dark. 

Our flight has only four men now, as Pick has been brought 
down and Cunningham has n't done any flying for some time. 

The day before Pick was brought down I had a peculiar ex- 
perience. Jim Meissner, Bill Loomis, and I were working for 
another flight as their machines were out of commission. We 
were to go up twenty minutes after two Salmsons and fly a little 



way into Germany to lend them a bit of moral support. Bill 
had to come back on account of motor trouble. Jim and I went 
up and crossed the lines around Pont-a-Mousson. We were 
flying west and a bit north when I saw two planes flying towards 
us but a little south. I thought they were the Salmsons as we 
were a little above 5000 metres, the height at which they were 
supposed to be flying, but to make sure I dove down under Jim 
to attract his attention and then flew off in the direction of the 
two planes. 

I got in back of the second plane and pulled up near and saw 
the French cocardes on the wings, so flew over it and to the right 
to join Jim who was way out in front. What was my surprise 
to see him attacking the other machine. "The darn fool is 
attacking a French plane, " I said to myself. Just then the plane 
went into a vrille, a very slow one too, which gave me time to 
pull up on him, and sure enough I saw the German insignia on 
the black wings, not even crosses but a white diamond with per- 
haps a little cross in the middle. As the Boche came out of the 
vrille, Jim shot again. The Boche piqued, smoke came out at 
the left and then flames. As Jim dove under I piqued on the 
Boche but did n't fire, as I figured he was finished anyway 
and I did n't want to hone in on Jim's credit. I pulled up and 
saw Jim come around and give the Boche another round. He 
was taking no chances on his first Boche. After that the Boche 
was falling pretty fast. I went through a lot of burned wing 
cloth and leveled out at about 3000 metres. I saw Jim going 
off toward France but stayed around a little while to see the 
Boche crash in a wood in the German lines. 

When I landed, the Boche had already been confirmed, but 
Jim was not back. We were quite worried for a time because 
the machine seemed like a biplane and Jim's second attack was 
from above. However we heard from him shortly that he was 
en panne with a broken wing. It seems that on his last dive he 
passed under the Boche so close that their wings hit and his 
lower wing was torn and loosened a little. 



Gengoult, Toul, 
May 17, 1918. 

Eddie Rickenbacker had his fill of excitement this morning. 
He attacked three Bodies. As he was piquing, one of them 
pulled up in front of him and there was a collision in which the 
Boche lost his tail and the leading edge of Ed's upper wing was 
smashed all to pieces as far back as the struts. He fell in a 
vrille 1600 metres, but finally pulled out of it. He had to keep 
his motor on full so as to keep his machine right side up. We 
were all surprised to see him coming in with full motor only 
couping a couple of feet off the ground. I guess the Boche 
got his all right. 

You can't beat Doug Campbell much for recklessness. He had 
a fight with two Albatross biplanes yesterday, over Thiaucourt, 
without casualties on either side. He said "I guess they sent 
them up to fight. I waited there about half an hour." 

May 21, 1918. 

This stretch of good weather has kept us busy enough. We 
could stand a little bad weather very well too. Some events 
have taken place too, the most important was Major Lufbery's 
death. A German biplane came down between 1500 and 1000 
metres right over Toul. He certainly had plenty of nerve. One 
of the anti-aircraft bursts must have worried him a little though. 
It turned him right up on end and he fell 50 or 100 metres be- 
fore he righted himself. Jay Gude attacked him unsuccessfully 
and then Major Lufbery attacked him twice and was brought 
down in flames. He jumped out of the machine at about 600 
metres. The German went on over Nancy where he was brought 
down by a Frenchman who had four Bodies to his credit 

A little later Doug Campbell went out and brought down a 
biplane on the French side of the lines. His brother was out 
here visiting him and they both went out in a machine and got 



some fine souvenirs, including the oflScer's pilot's badge and two 
ribbons, iron cross and something else. 

A Rumpler came down in a vrille from 5000 metres and the 
pilot was n't hurt. We learned from him that Captain Hall is 
all right, only a slight wound in the foot. So we had a pretty 
busy Sunday. 

Our flight was on yesterday morning so we figured of course 
we could go to Lufbery's funeral, which was to be at 4. p.m. But 
at 2.30 P.M. we received orders from the Group Headquarters 
that we were to be on the alerte in addition to the other flight. 
What soft brains those fellows are! They were afraid that going 
to the funeral would be bad for our morale. At 3.45 they re- 
lieved us from duty with instructions that only one flight was 
to assist at the funeral. However, we jumped into an auto and 
went to the funeral. We fellows of the 94th appreciate him 
anyway. He was a wonderful pilot and a fine fellow^ to be with. 
He kept rather to himself but he was pleasant to be with. He 
never said much and was very modest. It was always very 
difficult to get him to tell about his experiences which really 
were worth listening to. He started on a biplane Voisin. His 
first flight was in this machine over Metz. He used to have a 
machine gunner whose eyes were so bad that he could n't tell 
Allied planes from Boches and he used to ask Lufbery whether 

to shoot or not. 

May 25, 1918. 

Elsie Janis was out to lunch here again today. Later she was 
out on the field and climbed into my machine (putting her foot 
through the cloth of the wing in the process). I was not present 
but they tell me that the mechanos gathered from far and near. 

I should like to have a moving picture of an aviator flying 
over the lines, doubling back and forth and always looking back 
over his shoulder. If Darwin is worth anything the race of 
aviators will develop the necks of owls. 



Ju7ie 1, 1918. 

Doug Campbell brought down another biplane yesterday. 
He said it was the first one he ever felt sorry for. After the ma- 
chine gunner had shot all his cartridges, he stood up straight 
in the pit with one hand on his hip and the other resting on the 
gun rail while he watched calmly as Doug poured the bullets 
into the machine. The machine fell in the French lines finally. 
The machine gunner was an oher lieutenant. 

Joe Eastman had a fight with the other biplane (which was 
with the one that Doug brought down). He got rather the 
worst of the encounter, though we did n't find any holes in his 
plane. My motor quit just about five minutes before the fight 
and I was staggering home when it took place. If I had been 
with Joe on the biplane, we might have had him worried be- 
tween us. 

On the very day after writing these words, Davis, 
smitten again and again by the death of his friends in the 
94th Squadron, met his own. Of the circumstances at- 
tending it, and of Davis himself, a surviving comrade, 
Lieutenant Arthur Lawrence Cunningham, (Harvard, '18) 
has written: 

I had the good fortune to know Davis more or less intimately 
during our mutual training period in the Lafayette Flying Corps, 
and later became quite intimate with him in the 94th American 
Pursuit Squadron. 

On the Toul front where the 94th first went into action, Davis 
and Chapman, who was killed a month later, and I were room 
mates. We played bridge a good deal together, and Davis 
carried on quite an extensive correspondence. He was a little 
older than Chapman and I, and took the war a great deal more 
seriously. A business man and over thirty years of age, studi- 
ous in his habits and matured in thought and speech, he had 



volunteered in the French Army and entered the most hazard- 
ous branch of the service, while others of his age and in his posi- 
tion contented themselves with smugly asserting in no weak 
whisper that they were doing their bit in tending assiduously 
to business, living "Christian" and patriotic lives, and contrib- 
uting their tithe in interest paying bonds. But Davis thought 
and acted differently. His quiet physical courage was equalled 
only by his conception of duty to his country. He believed 
religiously in the cause for which he was fighting, and I some- 
times think that he would have asked no better death than to 
die as he did high in the air, his glorious ideals of humankind 
and its purposes still intact. 

I remember the day of his death. One Sunday afternoon, 
the first of June, Davis and 1 were dozing in our room. The 
flight to which we belonged had been on "alert" from dawn till 
nearly noon, and had made two patrols. Just before noon we 
were relieved and returned to the barracks thinking our day's 
work done. In mid-afternoon, however, our flight leader, Doug- 
las Campbell, aroused us. A special call had come in for a 
flight to escort a British bombing squadron across the lines, 
and our flight was the only one available. 

Davis and I walked across the field to the hangars. The 
weather was beautiful, the air tranquil; the field through which 
we were passing was bright with flowers and alive with the hum 
of insects. The peasants of the neighborhood in Sunday best 
had gathered around the planes in curious groups. So peaceful 
and removed from all traces of war was the atmosphere that 
Davis contrasted, in what were to be his last words to me, the 
scene about us with the front a few miles to the north, and 
characteristically remarked how lucky we were to be in the air 
service instead of among those poor devils in the trenches. 

A few minutes later four of us, Campbell, Eastman, Davis, 
and I, were in the air and on our way to the lines. These we 
crossed at an altitude of 18,000 feet, and cruised into German 
territory. A few kilometres farther and before we had yet 



sighted the British bombers, Campbell spied a flight of Boche 
machines at a considerable distance below us, and immediately 
dove to attack, the three of us after him. In the melee that 
followed, I lost sight of Davis. We were nothing but a whirl of 
machines diving, firing, and zooming up again. After a few min- 
utes of this the enemy, six in number, turned tail and scudded 
back into Germany. I pulled up, and looked around for the 
rest of the flight. A plane, which I found out afterwards was 
Campbell's, was above me and at a considerable distance to the 
east; I could not locate Eastman, while Davis, recognizable by 
the large number on the fuselage of his machine, was quite near 
me and on the same level. We drew together until about fifty 
feet separated us, then started to join Campbell. Suddenly a 
tiny flame spurted out of Davis's machine just behind the pilot's 
seat, and began to lick its way around the fuselage. Instantly 
he dove towards the earth. Powerless and horrified I followed. 
A few hundred feet further down his machine burst into a mass 
of flames and then and there I think Davis's brave soul sped 
forth; for the machine, out of all control, dropped into a vrille 
or nose spin; righted itself, slid off on what was left of its wings, 
and dropped again into a vrille. It continued to fall tumbling 
from vrille to wing slide, then back again to vrille until it crashed 
in a little meadow a few miles back of the German lines and at 
the edge of a wood. I saw some human figures running towards 
it, but could distinguish nothing else. I circled overhead for 
the next ten or fifteen minutes while the machine smoked and 
smouldered on the ground. 

Weeks later we learned from the Germans that Davis had 
been taken from his machine and buried. During the fight he 
had been wounded in the leg, and an incendiary bullet, lodged 
somewhere in his plane, had finally set it afire. 

Another fellow-oflBcer of the Lafayette Escadrille, Lieu- 
tenant William F. Loomis, wrote to Davis's sister: "This 
brother of yours was the best friend I had here in France, 



and I can in a measure realize what his loss means to vou. 
In response to a thorough belief which I have in the in- 
evitable verity of things, I know that his supreme sacrifice 
has not been in vain. He has covered himself with a glory 
far beyond our comprehension." 

Davis fell between St. Mihiel and Pont-a-Mousson, and 
is buried at Richecourt, Meuse, near the Bois de Burly, 
called Burlywald in the German notification of his death. 
The ground containing his grave, purchased by his sister, 
is under the care of the mayor of Richecourt. 



Class of 1890 

VTUY Norman had the uncommon distinction among 
Harvard men of serving as an ofRcer of the United States 
Navy on active duty in two wars. He belonged to the 
Harvard generation of young men to whom the Spanish 
War gave its opportunity, and it is a notable fact that five 
Norman brothers, all Harvard men, of whom he was one. 



took part in that war. Twenty years later he was ready 
to serve again. 

He was born at Newport, Rhode Island, July 7, 1868, a 
son of the late George H. Norman, a conspicuous figure in 
Rhode Island affairs, and Abbie Durfee (Kinsley) Norman. 
After attending various schools in Germany and the United 
States, including the John P. Hopkinson School in Boston, 
he entered Harvard with the Class of 1890, with which he 
graduated. In college he belonged to the Institute of 1770 
and D. K. E., the Deutscher Verein, the Polo, Shooting, 
Art, Hasty Pudding, and Porcellian Clubs. 

Entering the business of a broker and banker on leaving 
Harvard, he became a member of the Boston and New 
York Stock Exchanges, a director of corporations, and a 
trustee, with Boston as his place of business. On Septem- 
ber 9, 1893, he was married at Beverly Farms, Massachu- 
setts, to Louisa Palfrey. Their only child is the wife of 
Elliot C. Bacon, '10. 

At the outbreak of the war with Spain, Norman, always 
an enthusiastic yachtsman, passed the examinations which 
secured him the commission of ensign in the United States 
Navy, and was assigned to duty on the battleship loiva, 
commanded by Captain Robley D. Evans. On this vessel 
he served throughout the war in various capacities, includ- 
ing watch and division officer, and took part in the Battle 
of Santiago. Honorably discharged from active duty at the 
end of the war, he remained an ensign of the U. S. Naval 
Reserve Force. Though his business interests centered in 
Boston, he lived chiefly in Newport and Washington. 

When the United States entered the World War, Nor- 
man was a member of the Rhode Island Senate, not witli- 



out expectations of becoming a member of the national 
House of Representatives from the Newport district. He 
had entered pohtics late, but his friends had good reason 
to believe that his matured capacities would enable him to 
serve the public to excellent purpose. Called from the re- 
serve to the active force of the Navy in May, 1917, he re- 
signed his seat in the state Senate, and eagerly took up his 
new duties. His constituents declined to choose another 
senator in his place, and his colleagues expressed their 
appreciation of his course by passing an appropriate reso- 
lution and draping his desk in the Senate Chamber with a 
service flag. Apropos of his brief career in politics the 
Providence Journal described him, after his death, as "a 
refreshing figure in the public life of Rhode Island," and 
proceeded : 

He entered the Legislature from no motive of self-seeking, 
but for the sole purpose of contributing whatever of strength or 
talent he had to the common welfare. Elected to the Senate as 
a Republican, he refused to take orders from the party mana- 
gers, and to the close of his service at the State House retained his 
personal independence and self-respect. He had no enemies out- 
side of politics, and in politics only such as were affected by his 
vigorous opposition to dangerous and improper methods. The 
sincerity of his aims was never questioned. 

Reentering the Navy with the rank of ensign, Norman 
was promoted lieutenant, junior grade, in October, 1917, 
and lieutenant, February, 1918. His first service, on the 
cruiser North Carolina, lasted from May, 1917, to March, 
1918, and involved five trips to the danger zone on escort 
duty. From the North Carolina he was transferred to the 
battleship Oklahoma of the Atlantic Fleet. Norman was 



thus in the way of seeing more and important service in the 
convoying of troop-ships across the Atlantic when the 
state of his health, which for two years past had not been 
good, obliged him to ask for sick leave in the hope that an 
operation would restore his physical condition. The leave 
was granted May 15, and the operation was soon per- 
formed in Boston. There, on June 3, 1918, he died at the 
Massachusetts General Hospital. Two days later the offi- 
cers of the Ward Room Mess of the North Carolina testified 
to their feeling about Norman by writing to his widow: 
"We are proud to have known him. There was a self- 
forgetful devotion in his service, and a genial friendliness 
in his nature, which will keep us from forgetting him. He 
was always anxious to be doing more than his share, never 
careful for his own strength. Our lives must always be 
more true when we remember that here in our midst, he 
gave his life, in very truth, for the country he loved." 



Class of 1916 

A SON of William Sharpless Jackson and Helen Fisk 
(Banfield) Jackson, a brother of William Sharpless Jack- 
son, Jr. (Harvard, '11), Roland Jackson was born at Colo- 
rado Springs, Colorado, January 4, 1893. He prepared 
himself for college at the Cutter School, Colorado Springs, 
where he was an excellent student and popular among his 
classmates. For two years, 1910-12, he attended Colo- 
rado College. In the autumn of 191'2 he entered Harvard 
with the Class of 1916. He took his degree of A.B., magna 
cum laude, at the end of three years, in the first of which 
he won a John Harvard Scholarship and a Detur, in the 
second a Harvard College Scholarship, in the third his 
election to Phi Beta Kappa. In his freshman year he was 



a member of the rowing squad of his class, served as ac- 
companist for the Glee Club, and joined in the work of 
Phillips Brooks House. He belonged to the Western, 
Musical, and Signet Clubs. He devoted his summer va- 
cations to tutoring. His scholastic attainments were high. 
Yet it is written of him in the Memorial Report of his 
class that his interests "were anything but confined to 
studies. He was very much of a musician at heart, and 
spent many hours a day at the piano. . . . His greatest 
pleasure was perhaps in the social side of college life. He 
was very much interested in getting the different points of 
view of the many diverse types of personalities about 
college, and was a most sympathetic and delightful com- 
panion at all times." 

In the same Memorial Report from which these words 
are taken, the following passage is found: 

After graduating from college at the end of junior year, he 
taught school for one winter at Pinehurst, North Carolina. He 
had become much interested in Spanish while at college, and 
was anxious to have a first-hand acquaintance with the country 
as well as the language, so in the fall of 1916 he sailed for Spain. 
He spent some eight months in that country, studying the 
language and living for the greater part of his stay with a 
Spanish family in Madrid. He was immensely interested in 
the life of the people and their temperament, with its freedom 
from care and its complete abandon. He worked in a Spanish 
business house for a while, and in June, 1917, was appointed 
a secretary to the American Embassy. The life of the Embassy, 
however, with its many intrigues and insincerities, did not ap- 
peal to him, and he resigned his position shortly afterwards and 
returned to this country. 



It was a country at war in which he found himself, 
and in August, 1917, he entered the Second Officers' 
Training Camp at Fort Sheridan, IlHnois. On November 
30 he was commissioned second heutenant of infantry. 
His fondness for outdoor Hfe and exercise, and the spirit 
of adventure that was in him, made the training of a mih- 
tary camp a congenial experience, and his own wish was 
gratified when he was ordered to France almost immedi- 
ately upon receiving his commission. 

He sailed in January, 1918, as a casual, and was detailed 
to a British gun school, "His letters from France" — to 
quote again from the 1916 Memorial Report — "are full 
of his joy in the army life, his pleasure and interest in his 
fellow soldiers, and his delight in France and the French 
people. He read many French books in his hours off duty, 
in order to understand better their point of view. In May 
he wrote to his sister : ' I am gradually carving out a phi- 
losophy which will include everything.'" 

It was in May also that he was assigned to Company G, 
30th Infantry, 3d Division. On June 4, his regiment was 
ordered to the front at Chateau-Thierry. There, two days 
later, he met his death, the circumstances of which were 
related as follows in a letter signed by a captain and three 
lieutenants of his company: 

In the morning of June 6, at about 1 o'clock, the Germans 
began a fierce bombardment of the town in which the company 
was billeted for the night. Lieutenant Jackson and the other 
officers had just returned from duty in the first sector of the 
fight, and were preparing to go to bed for the night when a 
number of men were brought in to us for first aid treatment. 
The number steadily increased, and Lieutenant Jackson left 



the room to attend the wounded in the street. As he emerged 
from the doorway a high explosive shell burst within ten 
feet of him, causing his instant death along with three other 
officers. . . . 

Lieutenant Jackson was a young officer who was held in the 
highest esteem by all with whom he was associated and all 
cherished him for his noble and manly character, as well as for 
his professional ability and strict attention to duty. 

His death occurred near Chateau-Thierry. On the 
next day he and the three officers killed with him were 
buried in a little orchard near by. In accordance with 
Jackson's own desire, no funeral services were held over his 
grave. It was marked with a wooden cross, to which his 
identification tag was attached. His essential vitality is 
suggested in a few words from a letter written by one of 
his brothers: "I have just finished probating his will to- 
day. The words 'Roland Jackson, deceased,' seem so 
antithetical that I feel as if I was lying every time I write 



Class of 1912 

(jTORDON Kaemmerling was born August 29, 1891, 
at Erie, Pennsylvania, the second son of Gustav and 
Effie (Barnhurst) Kaemmerling. His father, now Rear- 
Admiral Kaemmerling, U. S. N., who served during the 
war as chief inspector for the Navy Department in the 
New York Shipbuilding Corporation yards at Camden, 
New Jersey, was then a junior engineer officer in the Navy, 
the son of Colonel Gustav and Gertrude Kaemmerling, 
of Tell City, Indiana. Colonel Kaemmerling commanded 
the 9th Ohio Volunteers throughout most of the Civil 
War, and was of German birth, having come to this coun- 
try in the exodus following the revolt of 1848 in Germany. 
His wife was of Swiss parentage. In the ancestry of 



EflSe (Barnhurst) Kaemmerling there was a blending of 
English, Dutch, Scotch, and Welsh blood. Gordon Kaem- 
merling's slightly older brother is Gustav Henry Kaem- 
merling, also of the Harvard Class of 1912, who entered 
the Marine Corps early in the war, and attained the rank 
of captain. 

But for a year in Milwaukee, Gordon Kaemmerling's 
boyhood was spent chiefly in Erie, Pennsylvania, the 
home of his mother's parents. In the summer he and 
his brother joined their father on the Massachusetts coast, 
or travelled in Canada or the West, or attended a boy's 
camp in New Hampshire. He gave early evidences of 
marked capacity. Learning to read and write at home, 
he entered the third grade of the Erie schools at seven, 
together with his brother, and thenceforth usually stood 
at or near the head of his classes. When he was twelve, 
he passed the entrance examinations for the Erie High 
School, standing second in a list of some three hundred 
and fifty. Several years earlier he and his brother had 
begun studying the piano. After a year or two Gordon 
forged ahead rapidly, and as time went on became so fond 
of music that he would have adopted it as a profession 
had not the more practical judgment of his father over- 
ruled this impulse. Through this time he was a member 
of the boy choir and Sunday School of St. Paul's (Episco- 
pal) Church at Erie, of which the Rev. Franklin S. Spald- 
ing, afterwards Bishop of Utah, was then the rector. But 
it was not only in studies and music that he excelled. At 
Camp Marienfeld, near Mount Monadnock, where he 
passed three summers, he showed unusual athletic ability, 
outclassing the juniors of his own age, whom he surpassed 



in size and strength, and holding his own with boys much 
older than himself — and this not in any one sport, but 
in all. 

After the summer of 1906, he entered the Morristown 
School, Morristown, New Jersey, where he rapidly made 
himself respected both as student and as athlete. He 
made the football team at once, playing, as his brother 
has expressed it, "like a small thunderbolt," and enjoying 
the physical conflict to the full. In the spring he made 
both the baseball and track teams, and finished the school 
year by passing his preliminary examinations for Har- 
vard with high marks. At the end of the ensuing summer 
at Camp Marienfeld, a physical examination revealed a 
slight heart-strain, and further participation in athletics 
was forbidden him. Perhaps he was thus the freer for 
his final year of school work at Morristown, where he un- 
dertook an unusual number of studies and mastered them 
so thoroughly that he won both the School prize for the 
highest average scholarship and the prize offered by the 
Harvard Club of New Jersey for the highest mark in en- 
trance examinations for Harvard attained by a candidate 
from that state. The committee that awarded the prize 
defined him as "a remarkably well-rounded boy of excel- 
lent parts and sterling character," and in recognition of 
the standing of both Gordon and Gustav Kaemmerling, 
said: "It is a rather remarkable coincidence that two 
brothers, fitted in the same school, applying for admission 
to the same class at Harvard should take first and second 
places in the entrance examination of all applicants from 
this State, and that the younger, who was only sixteen 
years and ten months old last June, should be first." 



It has been said of Gordon Kaemmerling at this time 
that "during these years his individuahty was crystallizing. 
He always showed a high sense of honor, and a modesty 
the more remarkable in view of his unusual variety of 
attainments. He was an uncompromising idealist, simple 
in his tastes, and absolutely without the affectations 
which are usually normal with boys of his age. Prob- 
ably it was for this reason that he was popular with the 
quieter souls, and especially beloved of the younger boys." 

In the autumn of 1908 he entered Harvard, having just 
passed his seventeenth birthday. He and his brother 
roomed together, and soon began to collect friends and 
acquaintances, old and new. The prohibition against 
strenuous athletics still being in effect, Gordon was not 
allowed to take up football or track work, but entered 
competition for the freshman basketball team, and soon 
won a position as forward, where he played in all the 
games that year, winding up by participating in the de- 
feat of the Yale freshmen. 

His years in college were quiet, with little incident for 
chronicling. At the end of the first year the brothers went 
to the Harvard Engineering Camp, and spent most of 
the summer there taking surveying courses. In their 
sophomore year basketball was removed from the list of 
college sports, and Gordon spent much of his time out of 
doors, tramping about the country in the neighborhood 
of Cambridge. He had no difficulty in keeping up with 
his studies, but did not strive to attain unusually good 
marks. He had a remarkable ability to untangle the 
intricacies of mathematics, and in his second summer at 
the Engineering Camp took up a mathematical course in 



kinetics, generally considered difficult, and made a per- 
fect mark in daily work, tests, and examinations, to the 
astonishment of his instructor. Oddly enough, he had 
no fondness for mathematics, which he regarded as merely 
a means to an end. 

In his junior year, through which the brothers decided 
to room apart, he joined the Alpha Phi Sigma Club, and 
later the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity. Toward the 
end of the year he went out for track, and won the run- 
ning broad jump in a handicap meet. A slight strain, how- 
ever, prevented his winning the jump in the Dartmouth 
meet, shortly afterwards, and ended his collegiate athletic 

At the end of this year, he had completed enough courses 
to secure his A.B. degree, and after spending a month or 
two at Cambridge, returned to Erie, where he was em- 
ployed first by the Hayes Manufacturing Company, and 
after several months by the General Electric Company. 
In 1915 he went to the Alberger Pump and Condenser 
Company, spending several months at their plant in New- 
burgh, New York, and then entering their New York 
office. It was characteristic of him that in this period he 
took a room with a Colombian family, in order to increase 
his facility in Spanish, which he had been studying for 
some time. 

In the summer of 1916 he attended the Plattsburg 
camp, and after war was declared, made application for 
the first 1917 camp. A physical disability which could 
be corrected by an operation led to his rejection. The 
hospital at which he applied for admission was full, but 
his unremitting insistence opened its doors to him and he 



underwent the operation at once. Fearful lest he might 
be too late for the first camp, which was just beginning, 
he left the hospital when just about able to walk, and re- 
ported immediately at Plattsburg. The doctors there 
wanted to send him back to the hospital, but gave way in 
the face of his firm determination to stay. His vigor re- 
turned rapidly, and he devoted himself to his militarv 
studies with such zeal that he was one of five men in his 
company to whom commissions in the Regular Army were 
offered. He accepted this opportunity as affording the 
quickest path to the front, received his commission as 
provisional second lieutenant, and was ordered to the 
23d Infantry Regiment then at Syracuse, New York. 
Joining this command September 1, he was assigned to 
the machine gun company. Overseas orders came almost 
at once, and on September 8 the regiment sailed from 
Hoboken on the U. S. S. Pocahontas, which arrived at St. 
Nazaire, September 20. 

From St. Nazaire, Kaemmerling proceeded with his 
comrades in arms, to Bourmont, Haute Marne, where 
they arrived October 1. Early in the period of intensive 
training which then began, Kaemmerling's commission 
as provisional second lieutenant, infantry, in the Regular 
Army was issued. On January 2, 1918, he was sent to 
the British Physical Training and Bayonet School at St. 
Pol, Pas-de-Calais, where he remained until January 27. 
Returning to his command at Goncourt, he was assigned 
to Company M, and put in charge of bayonet instruction 
for the 3d Battalion, with which he presently went into 
the trenches in the Verdun sector. There he remained 
from April 3 until about May 10, 1918. During this 



period and thereafter he was in command of the one- 
pound platoon, having previously taken a course in the 
operation of the one-pounder, and was consequently as- 
signed to Headquarters Company. On April 1 he was 
promoted temporary first lieutenant, to date from October 
26, 1917. 

About May 10 the regiment was taken out of the line 
for rest, and the Headquarters Company went to Robert- 
Espagne. On May 20 it went by train to Chaumont-en- 
Vexin, northwest of Paris. On May 31 it was rushed 
toward Chateau-Thierry with the rest of the 2d Divi- 
sion, reaching its position in support late in the day of 
June 1. Before it could settle down, the 23d was rushed 
north to a point near Germigny early on June 2. Being 
relieved on June 4-5, it returned to support position near 
Montreuil-aux-Lions, and the 1st and 3d Battalions went 
into the line almost immediately. 

On the evening of June 6 an attack was ordered. Dur- 
ing the course of this attack Kaemmerling was called into 
a conference with the battalion commander. His guns 
were stationed in advanced positions, and, while returning 
to them across a field covered by shell-fire and machine- 
gun bullets, he was struck by a splinter of shell and killed 
instantly. A captain of the 23d Regiment afterwards 
described the circumstances as follows: 

I last saw Gordon at 10.15 on the night of June 6. As he 
passed my position on his way to meet the battalion com- 
mander, he stopped and talked to me. He laughingly told me 
that he was in a hurry to get back to his gun in No Man's 
Land, as he did not like to be away from his men long. 

After the conference he started back through a field literally 



covered by bursting shell and machine-gun fire. From the 
direction in which he was going and the location of the wound, 
it was very apparent that his death was caused by a high ex- 
plosive shell, bursting either directly overhead or just in the 
rear, as I know that he was headed for his guns further forward, 
and was struck in the back just below the shoulder-blade. 

From all appearances he evidently died instantly, for when 
I saw the body the next morning it was nearly cut in two and 
riddled with machine-gun bullets. 

He was buried at Le Thiolet, a small town near Chateau- 

Kaemmerling's letters from France were always cheer- 
ful, and such hardships as he mentioned were described 
with a humorous touch. He fell in love with France at 
once, and wrote, "I've been seeing Parrish seas (also 
Sorolla), Corot trees, and Dore skies. This is a dream 
country that I'd love to play in in peace times." There 
are many more paragraphs, expressing his delight in the 
quaintness and attractiveness of French ways and people. 
He also enjoyed his contact with the English, of whom he 
says, "The more I saw of the British, the more I liked 
them. . . . All we want to get to appreciate the British 
is to know them better." He often spoke of the men under 
his command with unbounded enthusiasm, describing one 
after another to point his remarks. How he enjoyed it all 
was revealed in such declarations as, "I wouldn't give 
up my experiences so far for two or three dull-gray 

The affection and admiration in which he was held by 
the officers and men of his command found many expres- 
sions. A single incident related by David Loring, Jr. 
(Harvard, '16), commanding officer of the Headquarters 



Company of the 23d Regiment while KaemmerHng was 
attached to it, is characteristic. RecalHng a certain march, 
this fellow-officer wrote : 

There occurred a little incident which I always think of when 
I think of Gordon. It was a very hot day. The previous day 
the men had been paid, and were now suffering from the results 
of the inevitable pay-day celebration. Discipline was low, and 
the men inclined to straggle. . . . One man who was really 
all in showed signs of weakening, and Gordon relieved him of 
his pack and rifle and carried them for several miles in addition 
to his own equipment. At the next halt I overheard some men 
discussing it. One commented on it, saying, "That's a damn 
fine lieutenant. There ain't many would do that." ... It 
was typical of Gordon's way with the men, and their attitude 
with him. 

His clean enthusiasm, his love of beauty, his open-hearted 
friendship, and, above all, his utter devotion to his country and 
the things for which it stood, are the qualities which Kaem- 
merling's friends most warmly remember. 



Class of 1916 

-L H E only son of John Dwight Filley and Fannie (Doug- 
lass) Filley, John Dwight Filley, Jr., was born July 15, 
1893, at Ferguson, a suburb of St. Louis, Missouri, the 
home of his parents throughout his life. He had his early 
schooling at a kindergarten and the Smith Academy, a 
St . Louis school named for the family that gave the Smith 
Freshman Halls to Harvard. At twelve he went to Ham- 



let Lodge, at Pomfret, Connecticut, and afterwards at- 
tended the Pomfret School for two years. When these 
were drawing to an end he began to plan for entering 
Harvard two instead of three years later, and finding that 
his studies at Pomfret could not be arranged to this end, 
wrote of his own motion, and without the approval of his 
parents, to the Lake Placid School in the Adirondacks, 
with the result that by spending a summer and two winters 
there he was ready to begin his work at Harvard in 1912, 
with the Class of 1916. 

In college Filley became assistant manager of the fresh- 
man baseball team and a member of the Institute of 1770j 
D. K. E., Southern, Hasty Pudding, and Fox Clubs. 
He also joined Troop B of the Massachusetts Cavalry, 
and greatly enjoyed the summer encampments of that 
body. In the summer of 1915 he was one of the under- 
graduates who sailed with a company of four hundred 
Harvard men from New York on the Finland to attend 
the meeting of the Associated Harvard Clubs in San 
Francisco, and shared the discomforts and pleasures of 
the delay caused by a landslide in the Panama Canal. 
After the San Francisco meeting and a riding trip through 
the Y^ellowstone Park, in which he took much pleasure, 
he joined his parents at Y^ork Harbor, Maine — and few 
parents, it should be said, have ever enjoyed a more satis- 
fying relationship with a son, affectionate, cheerful, and 
bent upon meeting the expectations of his father. 

Graduating at Harvard in 1916, he attended the Platts- 
burg Training Camp of that summer, and in the autumn 
entered the Brooklvn works of the American Manufac- 
turing Company, of which his father is president. Be- 



ginning at the bottom of this business of making cordage, 
bagging, and kindred products, Filley was promoted three 
times in the ten months that passed before his entering 
the first Plattsburg camp for the training of officers that 
was held after the United States associated itself with the 
Allies in the war. At the conclusion of this camp he re- 
ceived, August 15, 1917, his commission as second lieu- 
tenant of infantry, and, assigned to Company M, 23d 
Infantry Regiment, sailed for France, September 8, 1917. 
On October 26 his Regular Army commission of provi- 
sional second lieutenant of infantry was issued, and on 
the same day he was promoted temporary first lieutenant. 
From the time of his landing in France until his death 
from wounds in the fight at Chateau-Thierry, Filley's 
personal record was but a part of the history of the 23d 
Infantry, which became one of the units in the 2d Division 
of the American Expeditionary Forces upon its organiza- 
tion late in 1917. His letters home touched on the outer 
aspects of the life he was leading, with allusions to the 
mud of Flanders — "without exaggeration it is up to our 
knees" — to paying $36 for a pair of boots, to his tempo- 
rary service as judge advocate, to the superiority of French 
over British gas masks, to looking forward to the trenches 
as a place of rest after wearisome marches, and to finding 
them anything but that. In March he wrote: "Things 
are very lively now. One man got forty Germans yester- 
day and should get all kinds of decorations. There are 
rumors that I'm to be made a captain, but I'm perfectly 
satisfied with my present responsibility." In April came 
this observation: "Life is queer. We go to a French 
movie and sit laughing while things are blown to pieces 



outside. The most exciting thing I have seen was an aerial 
fight. The French brought down three Boches in our sec- 
tor, and seventy-two in one day in a radius of ten miles." 

With the 23d Infantry, Filley was rushed, June 1, 1918, 
to Chateau-Thierry for the fight which in its results proved 
so momentous to the fortunes of the Allies. He was placed 
in command of Company M, and on June 6 led it in a 
charge that gained its objective. When this was done he 
returned to Headquarters for further instructions and was 
going back to his men, at 9.30 p.m., when he was severely 
wounded in the chest and both legs by fragments of a 
shell. In the hospital at Juilly, to which an ambulance 
bore him, he underwent, on the following day, an oper- 
ation on his chest, but it was impossible to save him, and 
on June 8, nine months from the day of his sailing for 
France, he died, "unafraid of death," as he told the 
chaplain who attended him, but ready for it if it must come. 
He was buried near by, with full military ceremonial. 

He was an officer of high promise, as of notable achieve- 
ment. In his home city of St. Louis, the 1st Regiment of 
Infantry, Missouri Home Guards, paid him honor by 
giving his name, in 1920, to their summer encampment. 
His college roommate, in more intimate testimony, has 
described him as "always generous, almost to a fault, 
considerate, bright, manly, and upright, and the best 
friend a man could hope for." From a friend in Paris, 
with whom he spent a few hours on his way to the front, 
came the report, "I never talked to a more exalted soul; 
he was like the crusaders of old, fired with their spirit, 
to fight for the highest ideals, to bring back to earth 
purity, love, and freedom." 



Class of 1914 

IJne theory of biography is that it should begin in the 
middle. That method may well be applied in the present 
instance by quoting a letter from Frederick L. Allen 
(Harvard, '12), Secretary to the Corporation of Harvard 
College : 

The main thing that I shall always remember about Ev 
Herter was the amount of sheer enjoyment that he got out of 



life, and the amount that he gave to any company of which he 
was a member. He Hved abundantly, in the best sense of the 
term; he did everything with gusto; his humor was contagious; 
he was one of the most genial companions I have ever known. 

Herter was unusually tall, I should say six feet two or three, 
and of fine physique, although he stooped slightly. He had a 
laugh all of his own, a sort of internal chuckle, almost soundless; 
his head would duck forward and his shoulders jerk upward as 
if he were inwardly convulsed. The mere sight of one of his 
intimates approaching was enough to start one of these con- 
vulsions. He seemed to be inexpressibly amused even before 
you had a chance to say anything; and the result was that the 
minute you saw his broad shoulders and blond head across the 
living room of the Harvard Club of New York, you found your- 
self in good humor. You wanted to tell him the best story you 
had heard that day, just to watch him relish it. He was hugely 
appreciative, and put you at your best. If you were going any- 
where you wanted him to come along, because no party could 
be dull if Ev Herter was there. 

Whenever I think of him I think of a certain October week- 
end that Boughton Cobb and I spent with him at Easthampton. 
That weekend was a regular pentathlon; we played golf all day, 
and whenever we were n't playing golf we were competing at 
pool or some other game. When the time came for me to rush 
for my train to New York, I came out of the house, where I had 
been packing furiously, to find Herter and Cobb in the midst of 
a game of croquet, playing in the glare of the automobile head- 
lights. It was nearly dark; but they had backed the car round 
so that the headlights played on the croquet lawn, and they were 
hard at it. That was characteristic of Ev, He had played 
everything else, he had ten minutes to spare while I was packing, 
and he must cram one more game into those ten minutes. The 
only thing that would be comparable in enjoyment to playing 
any such game with him would be hearing him tell about it 



His friends still tell about his imitation of a motion-picture 
operator at a Crimson-Lampoon hockey game, when he was an 
undergraduate. He could n't skate well enough to take part 
in the game, but he rigged up something that looked like a 
camera by means of a soap-box with the top of a beer-bottle 
sticking out through a hole in the side, and he rushed here and 
there and industriously went through the motions of turning 
a crank and filming the more tumultuous crises of the game. 
At any such burlesque affair he was in his element. He pro- 
vided more than his share of comedy at the always amusing 
baseball game between the Lampoon and Crimson editors, and 
no costume was too exaggerated or ridiculous for him to put 
on as a member of the Lampoon's "reversible battery." 

Don't think for a minute that I mean to represent him as a 
buffoon. His humor was only one manifestation of a sensitive 
nature that showed itself also in his keen interest in art and 
decoration, and in his genuine thoughtfulness and kindness. 

The impression created by this letter is heightened by 
another, from Herter's friend and classmate, Edward 
Streeter, author of "Dere Mable" and other popular 
books : 

I lost a number of friends in the war. Several of them touched 
my life more closely than did Everit. None of them, however, 
left such a sense of vacancy. Herter's outstanding character- 
istic was a whimsical sense of humor, and I never saw it fail him 
under any circumstances. In college I was associated with him 
on the Harvard Lampoon. More than once we have been seated 
over a luncheon table and realized that the paper had to go to 
press in twenty-four hours, and what was still worse, that there 
was no material available. It was at times like that that Herter 
was at his best. He would walk up and down the room making 
dry remarks which were not of the least help and then suddenly 
an idea would emerge, and then another and another until we 



had the ground work of the entire edition laid down. Probably 
no one enjoyed these numbers more than Ev and myself. Cer- 
tainly no one laughed so hard over them. 

Later when Ev became a professional artist and married a 
very wonderful girl, Carolyn Keck, this same optimism and 
humor smoothed over the rough spots caused by lack of money. 
He lived in a little house above 86th Street on the East River. 
For a year or more he had no maid, little money, and not too 
many prospects, yet I knew of no place where I could be sure of 
better conversation, or a heartier laugh. Things which would 
have made life depressing to an ordinary man, Herter made into 
a source of amusement. I remember that there was a corner 
saloon near his house which seemed objectionable to me until 
I found that Herter had made a solemn rite of going there each 
evening before bed time with a little tin pail which he used to 
fill with beer to speed his parting guests. 

Had he lived, I think that Ev might have become a great 
artist. He had a sincere feeling for his work which spelled 
"success," and never for one moment did he dream of doing 
anything else. The very idea of being in business amused him 
and yet he was far from impractical when it came to running 
his own house and family. 

We were writing a book together when the war broke out. It 
would never have been much of a book, I fear, but my chief 
reason for wanting to write it was the contact which it gave me 
with Ev. 

Now to begin at the beginning : — Everit Albert Herter 
was born in New York, February 19, 1894, a son of the 
distinguished painter Albert Herter and Adele (McGinnis) 
Herter. His brother is Christian Archibald Herter, 2d 
(Harvard, '15), who was serving as secretary to Ambas- 
sador Gerard in Berlin when the United States entered the 
war. Seven years of Everit Herter's childhood were spent 
in Europe — France, Italy, Sicily, Switzerland. In Paris 



he attended I'ficole Alsacienne, where his name is now on 
the Roll of Honor among his French comrades. The early 
memories of his life in France made a great and lasting 
impression on him, and were always happy and beloved, 
so that on returning to France as a soldier he felt at home 
and greatly loved and sympathized with the people of 
the country. 

When eleven years old he returned to America and went 
to a small school, Pine Lodge, near Lakewood, New York. 
Here he was very happy, and did well in his studies, at the 
same time showing such talent and ingenuity as an actor 
in plays given by the boys that the masters felt convinced 
that acting would be his career. This talent was always 
increasingly marked, but had no interest for him as a 
serious vocation. 

From Pine Lodge he went to the Browning School in 
New York for two years, and at the age of sixteen en- 
tered Harvard. He did not graduate from college until 
a half-year after his class because of a serious accident to 
his foot in the fall of his freshman year which incapaci- 
tated him for five months. He never recovered from this 
accident, and when the war came his lameness prevented 
his entering any officers' training camp. At Harvard his 
studies were mostly in the art courses, and he enjoj'ed 
especially his work with Denman Ross. He belonged to 
the Institute, Signet, D. K. E., Stylus, Pen and Brush, 
Cosmopolitan, Hasty Pudding and Spee Clubs, but the 
association from which he derived the greatest enjo\anent 
and profit during his years at Harvard was that of the 
Lampoon, of which he was an editor, and in his senior 
year "Ibis." 



After taking his degree in January, 1915, he went im- 
mediately to New York, where he studied at the New York 
Art League with George B. Bridgman. That summer he 
took some painting courses at the Harvard Summer 
School, and in October was married in Easthampton, Long 
Island, to Caroline Seymour Keck. During the following 
winter he lived in New York and worked with and for his 
father. The quality of his painting may be seen in the 
mural decorations in the Japanese style which he did for 
the Stratford House grill in New York, and in Chinese 
panels for a lady's boudoir. These two things were of 
especial note in his accomplishment of that winter. During 
the summer of 1916, he worked on some decorations of 
Barry Faulkner's for the Washington Irving High School 
in New York. 

In October, 1916, his first son was born, Albert Herter, 
2d, who died just a year after his father. His second boy 
was born after he went to war, March, 1918, and bears his 

April, 1917, brought the war, and during the following 
summer, being unable to enlist or enter any camp for the 
reason already named, he spent his time painting decora- 
tive panels which he sold for the benefit of the Red Cross. 
His hope for more active service lay in the organization of 
a Camouflage Corps such as the French had formed, and 
the moment of its birth found him in Washington. On 
September 4, 1917, he enlisted as a private, and was as- 
signed to the 25th Engineers, Company A (Camouflage.) 
The injury to his foot was overlooked, and though his 
comrades tell of the agony it caused him on hikes, he never 
allowed it to incapacitate or handicap him. 



After a week as a private he became a corporal, and on 
September 25 was promoted sergeant, 1st class. With the 
first contingent of his regiment he sailed, on January 4, 
1918, for France, where the unit to which he belonged was 
attached to the 5th and 6th Regiments, U. S. Marine 
Corps, at the front. 

In words of his own Herter drew a picture of the journey 
to France which is introduced at this point in spite of its 
dealing with a single episode of his military life with a 
degree of detail that cannot be duplicated in any other. 
Apart from its place in the record of Herter's experience, it 
makes a distinctive contribution to the amazing story of 
the transportation of our millions of troops to France. 

On January 2, we got orders to burn the straw from our 
mattresses, and we knew again that we were due to start. This 
time there was no hitch. Shortly after noon mess the company 
was assembled, everything checked up, and the baggage gone. 
We left camp at about 3 o'clock, and the snow was falling 
heavily, so that it was twilight when we got to Washington. We 
passed the foot of the Washington Monument, and you can 
imagine nothing more picturesque than the men — their hats, 
shoulders, and knapsacks powdered with snow — filing by in 
dusk, with the great obelisk, its top almost lost in the gathering 
darkness and the driving snow, for a background. It was a 
great sight. 

It was about 5.30 that we finally pulled up in the railroad 
yards. It soon became apparent that things had gone wrong, 
as there was no train in evidence, except a string of coal cars 
against which we were lined up. We stacked arms, and posted 
a guard, so that no man could go outside the stacks and get 
lost; and then just waited. It was down near zero with a fear- 
ful wind blowing, and a draft between and under those freight 
cars that took us off our feet, so we were fairly miserable. Some 



ingenious soul scooped axle grease out of the train wheels and 
started a fire with it and some loose coal. The idea was passed 
along, and each platoon presently had a fire going. It was a 
wonderful scene — of the Valley Forge type — but most un- 
comfortable as you simply could n't get warm without burning. 
That lasted about three hours. Then the train finally pulled in. 

As usual there had been a mistake, and they had sent a train 
at 4 o'clock, with about half enough space and no heat. This 
train was fine though. We loaded on, by platoons, three men 
to a double seat. The racks were full of equipment — belts, 
canteens, cartridge-belts hanging from them, rifles stacked in 
corners, between seats, etc., mackinaws and ponchos hanging 
on every available hook, and the air dim and blue with tobacco 
smoke — another scene full of character and local color. The 
train stopped immediately (about 9) leaving Lieutenant Embury 
behind by a mistake. He had to hire a locomotive and catch 
up with us, which he did in about two hours, covered with grease, 
from head to foot, on his new uniform. 

We passed a pleasant if somewhat sleepless night. Owing 
to the crowding, every time you tried to sleep some one else 
would do likewise, and presently his feet would find their way 
into your face, or vice versa, and hostilities would start. Card 
games were the most popular time-killers, some lasting all night. 

Along towards 5.30 we arrived at our destination. Of course 
we had no idea where we were. We unloaded and fell in on the 
platform in column of squads. Without delay, as darkness and 
secrecy were necessary, we marched into the station. We had 
to "break step" immediately, as when we entered the stone 
paved waiting room we were all in step and the rhythmic rever- 
berations made the place shake and echo, and brought the sleepy 
porters and workmen and a few civilians rushing from all points 
to see what the devil was up. The order had been given that 
there would be no loud talking or shouting of any kind, but 
when we had crossed the station, gone down a gang plank and 
on to a ferry-boat, there it was, visible through the windows at 



the end — the skyhne of lower Manhattan, against the pale 
green sky — first signs of the dawn — and the first two platoons 
broke into a perfect roar of joy. The officers were so excited 
themselves that nothing was said, but you can imagine the 
thrill of it. The men who came from New York were wild, and 
as most of the others had never seen it before, they were over- 
awed. It was too beautiful for anything. The river was packed 
with ice — iridescent as the dawn grew brighter — against 
that wonderful background of skyscrapers and lights. 

The ferry headed straight up the river, keeping on the Jersey 
side, and suddenly headed in to one of the great docks. At this 

dock lay the , just returned from France, and sheathed in 

ice; and on the other side another great vessel, the which 

was to take us. I am not allowed to give names, but our ship 
is almost the largest transport afloat. The ferry tied up to the 
outer end of the dock, and we marched straight down the dock 
to the transport's gang plank. Each man called his name as he 
went on board, and was checked up by a ship's officer, so it was 
impossible for a spy to get on board unless he was in a company. 
(We hear, by the way, that on the last trip this boat made, 
there was a spy on board — an officer, who was caught signalling 
from a port -hole with a flash-light.) For the first time, I dis- 
covered the advantage of being a 1st class sergeant. When all 
the men had gone on board, we were kept waiting, with the 
officers, on the dock, until nearly paralyzed with cold. Then 
we were ushered on board to a most luxurious stateroom. . . . 

Having shed our packs, we went below to see how the boys 
were getting along. I assure you, the troop-space on a transport 
is a sight for sore eyes. The ceiling averages about six and one- 
half feet in height. In every available inch of space there are 
iron pipes (upright) and cross pieces six feet long about twenty 
inches across. Between these a canvas is stretched. That's 
your bunk. They are in tiers of three, one above the other, the 
lowest a foot from the floor, the other two about two feet apart. 
The upper berth is impossible to sit up in, and gets some light. 



The lower two are good for nothing but sleeping. The port- 
holes are all closed solid, so we depend on artificial ventilation — 
which puts us at the mercy of the wind. With the wind astern 
— as it now is for instance — there is no air. The aisles between 
bunks are just wide enough to pass through by squeezing — 
passing a man is impossible — and to sum up, there are no 
hooks, so a man's berth contains not only himself but all his 
belongings, blankets, poncho, shelter-tent, pack, haversack, 
cartridge belt, mess tin, canteen and cup, and toilet articles and 

Lieutenant St. G. conducts three inspections of quarters 
daily, and if a man's bunk is not absolutely neat he gets soaked. 
That keeps them busy and our quarters look extremely well. 

The men are turned loose when they get on board, but of 
course no one is allowed ashore again. ... ^ 

During the day the ship took in her cargo — great derrick 
loads at a time — and all night you could hear the squeaking 
and groaning of the great machines hauling up and lowering 
ton after ton of steel, iron, food, ammunition, etc. 

I stood on the stern with Faulkner that night, and probably 
never saw a finer sight. We looked straight across the river at 
the great mass of lights of the city, with tugs and brilliantly 
lighted ferries ploughing up the ice between us. Clouds of 
steam arose from our ship, somewhere beneath us, so that at 
times everything was hidden. Then we'd catch a glimpse 
through a rift in the cloud. Presently a ferry would head in, 
swarming with troops, and the long dark line would pile on to 
the dock, through the great store houses, and up on to the trans- 
port. There would be other ferries waiting, also alive with men, 
and as the first backed out, these came in, and the vast transport 
continued to take in its load throughout the night. 

By morning she was loaded. Only one gang plank was in 
place — from the officers' deck — and orderlies were rushing up 
and down it getting the last papers signed, etc. Then came a 
general call to quarters, and every man on board went below — 
out of sight. 



Nothing happened for a long time, and when I got a ghmpse 
out of a port-hole (along towards 3.30 p.m.) there was "Lib- 
erty" on the starboard bow, and the dear old Aquarium at the 
Battery, to port. It was very beautiful in the late afternoon 
light, and although looking out of port-holes was strictly for- 
bidden I could n't resist a long farewell look. Neither could 
most of the other officers and non-coms. 

The non-coms, 1st class sergeants, 1st sergeants, master 
engineers, and medical sergeants have a mess hall to themselves 
— another added luxury, although I can't say too little of the 
mentality and morality of the average non-com. , . . 

When we were allowed on deck again, it was night, and by 
morning no land was in sight. 

Then it became clear that trouble was ahead. Our company 
was chosen to do all the guard duty for the ship for the entire 
trip. There were twenty-two posts to guard. Three reliefs 
made sixty-six men, who, with six corporals and two sergeants, 
made seventy-four men we had to supply daily, I was on guard 
our first day and night out. It was very impressive at night. 
You can't imagine how curious a sensation it was inspecting 
the reliefs at night, when all ports were closed and covered. I 
stepped out on deck. It was totally black. Occasionally there 
would be a flash of phosphorus from the foam alongside, but 
that was all. The guard would be invisible at a distance of two 
feet. You felt strangely alone in that darkness, with the wind 
whistling and the sea rushing past, although the great black 
mass beneath you was simply packed with humanity. The 
twenty-two posts ranged from the engine room to the hurricane 
deck, so, as you can see, I got so that I knew that route like a 
bloodhound. When the time came for the guard to be changed, 
I would stir up the corporal, and together we would waken the 
twenty-two men. No slight job, when you think of fifty men 
sleeping pell-mell on and under tables, in heaps all over the 
guard-room. A purple blue light (visible only at short dis- 
tance) gave a mysterious look to the scene. These men would 



sleepily get together. The corporal called the roll, inspected 
the rifles (with me supervising at a distance, as became my 
dignity) and then with a few whispered commands, the relief 
would disappear into the blackness. At first it took one hour 
and fifty minutes to complete the relief. This was cut down to 
twenty-five minutes by Corporal Henry, who could take those 
twenty-two men through this ship just like a rat. 

There is an artillery outfit on board. They despise us because 
we're not soldiers (they being regulars) and jeer at our guards. 
So many of our men were sea-sick that we simply could n't do 
all the guard duty, and they were picked to relieve us every 
other day. Their officers boasted to ours : "Now we have a real 
military guard over this ship," they said, and St. Gaudens was 
sore as a crab. Their first night on duty two men went to sleep 
at their posts. A court-martial gave them six months in prison 
at hard labor. Our officers and men tease theirs continually 
about it, and the situation is a bit strained. 

A poor devil in the regiment died of pneumonia today. 
Measles and mumps are rather prevalent and we fear a quaran- 
tine when we land. 

There has been a row among the colored troops below — of 
whom there are vast numbers — and three are in the hospital, 
cut up with razors. 

We reach the Gulf Stream, the third day out. It is as warm 
as summer. Blue sky and blue sea look too wonderful. There 
is no wind, but a long gentle roll. The boys are sick as pigs. 

Do you remember the boy with pleurisy that was dropped off 
the litter into the snow three times? He was corporal of the 
guard. I was commander at the time. He started out with the 
relief about midnight. Presently four or five of them come back, 
having lost the rest of the crowd. I rounded them up, and 
started out on the trail of the corporal. I bump into someone 
in the darkness, and challenge him. It turns out to be a few 
more of that relief, also lost, wandering around. The whole 
relief was lost. I kept them with me, and started to post them 



myself. On the aft stairway there's a light. As we passed the 
stairway a strange bent figure went sneaking up — seat of 
trousers dragging on the ground and hand firmly clapped over 
mouth. It is the corporal of guard searching for air, so sea- 
sick he could n't unbend his knees Can you think of anything 

When I got to post No. 4 (way down in the bowels of the ship) 
the guard, by name, very ugly with ears like a bat, is spin- 
ning round and round his gun — the gun being a pivot in the 
middle — and blowing right and left as he went around. Vastly 
disagreeable, and cheerful for the man who reheved him. 
Luckily, I have n't even known a qualm of sickness. Hope it 

Twice a day the bugle blows "Abandon the Ship." Every 
man knows exactly what to do — they come up the hatchway 
in a fixed order. Thirty-one men and four non-coms for the 
first life boat; nineteen men, three non-coms for the first raft, 
etc., etc. We've got it down to a science. 

There is very little to do. I play cards with and 

and most of the time, and have strengthened my meagre 

bankroll a bit. They are miserable bridge players. 

We are getting into the danger zone. It is a curious sensa- 
tion, to know that somewhere around you, beneath the waves, 
the enemy lies hidden, waiting his chance to finish you. To 
think that at this moment he may be discharging his torpedo. 
Rather unpleasant, n'est-ce pas? 

Di Colonna is Commander of the Guard. The officer of deck 
(Mogul on board ship) comes down to the guard room. "There 's 
two soldiers sleeping on deck, against orders," he says. "Throw 
'em in the brig; we can't have any of that stuff!" 

Colonna gropes his way on deck, searching his prey. He trips 
over one, in the blackness, and sprawls on the deck. "Are you 
soldiers?" he asks. "Of course we are," this bird answers. 
"All right, honey," says Colonna. "You two babies get the 
hell out of the captain's back yard, right now, or I throw you 
both in the brig, see? " 



And these fellows grab their bedding and duck below like 
prairie-dogs! The joke of the matter is that they are both 

officers! Imagine it! A captain and a lieutenant of the 

Engineers. Of course the other officers don't stop kidding them 
at all, and Colonna is so afraid of a court-martial that he 's blow- 
ing bubbles. There is no danger, though, as he was perfectly 
right. They were out there, in the mortal dread of being 
torpedoed and getting drowned in their berths! 

I was on guard again last night. We are within 300 miles of 
France, and in the worst of the danger zone. All lights except 
the dim blue ones go out one hour before sunset — until 7 a.m. 
We get two meals per day — at 7.30 and 2.30. You can't con- 
ceive of the complete blackness of the boat after the lights go out- 
Lieutenant Fry asked a sailor the other day if it was pretty 
bad in the danger zone. The sailor said, "Hell, no! It's just 
exactly the same then as any other time. You do everything 
just the same — except you sleep in the hall or on deck fully 
dressed with a life preserver on." 

Just the same as usual! 

It is a relief to be on guard and have something to do. This 
morning at 3.30 Faulkner leaps out of his berth and says "Boys! 
The ship has stopped!" Of course we woke with a start — 
hearts in mouth, etc. Then we heard a few strange bangs and 
crashes — the ship rolling fearfully — and expected to hear the 
siren which announces that she's sinking, at any moment. 
Nothing happens, so Griswold and I go back to sleep another 
wink. Although no one admits it, the tension is quite severe. 

It is very rough when I 'm on guard this time. This causes 
continuous rumblings and creakings and groanings, which adds 
to the general uneasiness. 

All night long the colored troops, way below in the hold, pace 
up and down the narrow aisles like wild animals. I have a 
guard over their stairway, and he 's nearly as frightened as they 
are, as the first thing they'd do in a panic would be to clean 
him up and clear the stairway. 



A most impressive sight, that. Almost incredible, it is so 
stage-like. Hundreds of black men, with the fear of death on 
them, squeezing their way up and down, back and forth all 
through the night, in the faint light of the swinging blue lights. 

The men are no longer sea-sick, but sick to death of the sea. 
Grass and trees have been an attraction hitherto unknown. We 
get along with the Artillery bunch as pleasantly as two strange 
wild cats. One day they arrest as many of our men as possible 
(when they are on guard) for all kinds of trivial things. The 
next day our men rush to volunteer for guard duty — some- 
thing unknown before — in order to arrest as many Artillery 
men as possible in the next twenty-four hours. Our officers and 
theirs are on pins and needles trying to avoid a row. If it came 
to that, every one else on the ship would be with us, as the cocky, 
self-satisfied inefficient regulars have made themselves hated 
by every one. 

I'm still on guard. We have n't moved during the night — 
supposedly awaiting our convoy. Pretty ticklish business — 
standing still in the war zone. 

About ten this moining, without any warning of its approach, 
a destroyer comes leaping thiough the waves, rapidly followed 
by two more. They appear from all sides at once. All are 
strangely camouflaged, according to some new system. We 
have studied them carefully from all angles, and they are ap- 
parently just as visible as any other boat. One was pretty 
good — the first one that came up. In fact it looked like two 
boats about a mile away. 

They were greeted with wild cheers, and all hands felt that 
danger was past. Two of them darted back and forth in front 
of us. One on each side would slack off until even with our 
stern and then chase up to the bow again. Slack off again, etc. 
The other two brought up the rear. . . . 

Last night we began to bet on when we'd land. Bridge had 
inside dope from a ship's officer and tried to skin us, but we let 
him choose his time, and then we bet him his dope was wrong. 



We also made a pool on the exact hour of landing. Bridge bet 
we'd land before this morning. 

Day broke rather interestingly. At 7.15 no land was in sight 

— so we collected from Bridge. At 7.30 we had a brush with a 
submarine and their torpedo missed us by about twenty feet, 
passing under the stern. The submarine did n't come up at all, 
so nobody got a shot at him ^ — -he probably took a chance at 
long range and came pretty near getting away with it. It shook 
the boys a bit. 

Then Embury and I did a lot more betting about when we'd 
land. It was rather misty, and no land was visible until 10 
o'clock. Suddenly a great rocky headland loomed up in the 
mist. You can't imagine what joy it brought to our hearts. 

The sea got suddenly very calm, and yellowish green in color 

— and we knew that one phase of our adventure was nearly over. 
We follow the coast, getting in nearer and nearer. A more 

beautiful shore-line would be hard to imagine. The cliffs are 
dark purple, with green — probably moss on the rocks, and all 
outlines are soft and indistinct in the mist. A great surf beats 
on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs, and we see the white foam 
leaping up in the crevasses and dashing against the rocks. Sud- 
denly there is a break in the cliff. Picturesque trees hang over 
the sides and beyond them stretches a wonderful pattern of 
brilliant green fields — all shades of green — here and there 
spotted with low white farm houses, all fading away into the 
mist. Then we pass, and the cliff is before us, apparently with- 
out break, until suddenly we catch another glimpse of the in- 
land through another break. 

We are in an estuary. The shores converge and the water con- 
tinues to get smoother. Suddenly we are surrounded by vast 
quantities of boats of all sizes riding at anchor. They were 
hidden in the mist until we were right on top of them. We 
anchor in their midst. 

Camouflaged boats of all strange descriptions are on every 
side. The Harvard I hear is among them, but I have n't seen 



her. Would n't it be great if I caught a gUmpse of Bough ! 
There is Httle chance, as we get no leave on shore; I am going 
with a detail to attend to baggage, tomorrow, acting as inter- 

In about three days we shall go ashore and probably straight 
to our quarters behind the lines. I may not get a chance to 
write for a long while, as we shall be sleeping on trains for days 
and days. Also we find the censorship very strict. 

Good fortune did not appear to follow Herter, for shortly 
after landing he contracted mumps and spent weeks in 
quarantine. Finally, recovering from that and working 
through the miles of red tape which seemed woven to keep 
the soldier who had been unfortunate enough to be 
sick from returning to his own outfit, he got to Dijon, 
where the factories of the Camouflage were stationed 
and all the material they used was manufactured and 
built. Most of his friends had already gone to the front 
and on April 20 he received his orders to follow. He went 
first to the Verdun-St. Mihiel sector and early in June to 
the Chateau-Thierry front. It was there, on the thir- 
teenth of that month, that he was killed with shrapnel, 
while out camouflaging a big gun. 

A diary he had been keeping ended on June 11, with a 
paragraph of peculiar interest in view of its proceeding 
from a soldier who was first of all an artist, sensitive, 
highly organized. 

This life is curiously different from the Verdun front. Up 
there the lines have been stationary for four years, and every 
few feet is an abri, fifty feet deep often, and always a dugout 
of some kind into which you can duck when the shelling starts. 
Here there is no protection whatever. All you can do is to hit 



the ground — in a ditch if possible — and let the splinters go 
over you. Even then if the shell happens to be shrapnel you are 
out of luck. A man either gets callous or his nerves go back on 
him. I am a little nervous at times, but generally callous. I 
always sleep at every opportunity. One night — with all my 
clothes wringing wet, wrapped in two soaking blankets on the 
wet ground, my teeth nearly chattering with the cold — I 
slept ten hours, while a battery within seventy yards of me 
fired 1200 rounds. Two of the guns were thirty feet away and 
the explosions lifted me off the ground when they fired. I was 
not particularly tired that night, either, having had sleep regu- 
larly before, but I never knew a shot had been fired. 

A few days earlier he had written: "The curious part 
of it all is that we are literally on the eve of battle — one 
of the great battles, too — [he did not know that it was 
the deciding battle of the war] and you'd think we were 
on a picnic. I believe the fearful tension just before going 
into battle, that we read about, is more or less an artificial 
condition, and can be created or avoided by the right or 
wrong word at the psychological moment." To this his 
wife has added: "I am sure, and I have heard from his 
comrades, that he always had that right word, and that 
ability to control the tenor of the thought around him, 
with his sense of humor which was peerless, his demo- 
cratic and fraternal spirit toward all men; and his cou- 
rageous and uncomplaining desire to serve made him the 
most beloved man in his Company, They named their 
Legion Post the Everit Herter Post in his honor." 

Well may those who cared for Herter believe all that 
was said in his praise. A few days after his death his 
commanding oflBcer, Captain Homer St. Gaudens (Har- 
vard, '03), wrote thus to Mrs. Herter: 



He was the most universally loved and admired man in the 
company; one we could least afford to lose. He had only been 
at the front a short time, yet had made himself the most valu- 
able member of the detachment. I have had more expressions of 
regret from officers for whom and with whom he worked than I 
could have dreamed was possible. Two days after his death 
there came a telegram from Major Bennion ordering him to 
Tours for his examinations for a commission. I am enclosing 
the lieutenant's bars and insignia that I had bought for him 
some weeks ago, planning to give them to him when his com- 
mission arrived in some out of the way corner. They are cheap 
little trinkets, but I believe they will remind you of what we 
thought of him. 

He was in charge of the work on a regiment of 75's that oc- 
cupied an advanced position. As nearly as I can make out from 
the confused stories that have reached me, he was sitting in a 
gun emplacement on the morning of June 13th, waiting for 
a detail to bring up material when an entirely stray shell ex- 
ploded near by and sent a fragment through his body just below 
his chest. He managed to reach the main road less than one 
hundred yards away where he was picked up by an ambulance 
and taken at once to a hospital for the seriously wounded. 

I could not go to see him myself in this time of stress. The 
first news that came to me the next day was that he had a 
chance of living, the next that he had died. He was buried in 
the Cimetiere de la Ferte, American Section 14. . . . 

Your husband fulfilled his task as courageously and as de- 
votedly as any member of the division, which in the last few 
weeks has distinguished itself above others with brave men 
about it. After all it is not when a soldier dies but how. Of 
that how you and your children may have the proudest mem- 

I write you as his captain and his friend. 



Class of 1920 

J. o Ralph Henry Lasser, a freshman in Harvard College 
when the United States entered the war, his Jewish de- 
scent and faith were objects of so peculiar a pride and 
devotion that they should be mentioned first in any ac- 
count of him. But if three things could be named at a 
single moment his devotion to America and to his mother 
should be recorded at the very same time. Not yet twenty 
years old, he was a private in Company E, 101st U. S. En- 
gineers, when he was killed at Beaumont in France, June 
16, 1918. These statements of fact will suffice for introduc- 
tion to the following passages from two letters which he 
wrote his mother from France. It will be strange if those 
who read them do not wish to know more about their writer. 



Somewhere jn France, 
December SI, 1917. 
My dear Old Mother, — 

. . . Today is the last day of 1917. Quite a year that has 
been for me, and for you, mother dear. As I look over the past 
year, as I think of all that has happened, though sad as it seems, 
in fact I am so happy, so content. How can it be, I ask myself, 
but it is so. 

But ever as when I sit and think, I see you before me, mother 
dear. I see you as you were before I left, and I see you on that 
night of farewell. Oh, mother dear, I have so much I want to 
say to you; but how, oh, how can I say it! 

I have often wondered, mother dear, just what you think, 
and feel, and ask. Before my last step, you know that you were 
to me the dearest, the greatest, the noblest that I had. You 
know that for you was my all; for you my ambition, for you 
my endeavor, for you my love and devotion. And then, as it 
were, you perhaps think I found something greater, something 
nobler. Perhaps you feel that though before you were jfirst, 
now you are only second. Perhaps you feel that today I strive 
for that first, my ambition, my endeavor for that. Before I 
went, mother dear, you know it was mother first. But perhaps 
you think that after I w^ent it was country first. But let us be 
frank, dearest mother, and let us see the fact as it is. 

Yes, I have given myself to my country. Perhaps you think 
that in thus giving myself I have taken myself away from you, 
I have deprived you of myself. Yes, I consider my country 
first. Perhaps, then, you may think that you can hold but 
second place. Yes, my ambition, endeavor, my love, my de- 
votion is to my country and for my country. Perhaps you 
think, therefore, that it is not for you. 

But, mother dearest, and here is where I want to be clear, 
and lay the emphasis. 

What is my country? Is it the land of America? Yes. Is 
it the world under God? Yes. Is it the peoples of the world 
who are brothers under one father? Yes. Is it the institutions 



of America and the world? Yes. Is it the ideals, the hopes, the 
aspirations of all? Yes. 

But what personally and nearest to me is my country? You. 
Mother dear, you, who through hardship and privation, through 
sacrifice and almost slavery, through pain, through toil, through 
all difficulties, have nourished me, cared for me, reared me, edu- 
cated me, strengthened me, put the light of hope into me, 
given me vision; you, who gave me that life which today I offer 
for the good of all; you, mother dear, the first in my soul, the 
first in my heart, the first in my ambition, my love, my devo- 
tion, you, you, you, are my country, you are my world, you are 
the embodiment of what I fight for, sacrifice for, labor for, and 
if need be, die for. 

Oh, it is hard to make myself clear, it is hard to be exact. 
But I trust that you can understand what I am trying to say. 

Oh, mother dear, when I, as it were, tore myself from you 
and left you, I know not for how long, it was to you that I gave 
myself. I took myself away from you, the seed that you had 
sown. I gave myself to you the full grown fruit. 

There are two of you, and two of me. One of me I took away 
from one of you, the smaller. The other of me I gave to the 
other of you, the greater, the real one. I took from you the 
body around my soul, and the soul that's in me I give. Oh, 
mother, I am 4,000 miles from you, farther than I have ever 
been before, and yet today I am nearer to you than ever before. 
Today you have me as you never did. I used to be your son, 
now I am you. 

And it is just because things are so, mother dear, that I know 
how it will affect you if it be necessary to sacrifice me. But I 
know you, mother dearest, I know your power of endurance, I 
know your courage. And I have ever perfect faith in you. . . . 

And so I say to you, mother dearest, and I give my message 
oh the last day of the old year, keep up your spirits, and hope 
on, strive on, fight on, and keep your faith in God. 

Your Son. 



Somewhere in France, 
February J^, 1918. 

My All, my Mother: 

I remember, mother dear, my promise to you as I left you on 
that night historic in my life. To you I would remain faithful, 
devoted, and true. Thank God, I can truthfully say that I 
have remained to you as I promised to, and it is because no 
matter what the consequence may be, I am still going to, that 
I take pen in hand today and write as I promised to, the truth ! 

Your sorrows, your grief, your great sacrifice have been 
enormous, I know. You have been put to a hard test indeed, 
and oh, how proud I am to know that you have not been found 
wanting. But just as you have so bravely, so courageously, so 
heroically stood the hardships, the sorrows, the sacrifices so far, 
so must you now, mother dearest, summon up all your energy, 
all your loyalty, and above all, all your faith, and stand the 
next great test that comes before you in this struggle to do your 
duty, to do your share in the great task that today confronts 
all the children of God. 

Where will you get that strength? Where can you find the 
power to keep you steady, trustful, hopeful, after so much has 
been absorbed in the tests already passed? My dear mother, 
there is but one way that I know of for you to take. 

Man is a wonderful creature. He can do many things, en- 
dure many hardships, overcome many foes, and gain many 
victories. But there is a limit to the power of the human race, 
and there comes a time when the strength of man himself can- 
not stand the test before him. Let me recall to your mind the 
sufl^erings, the hardships, the mighty tasks before our people, 
the children of Israel. You know, mother dearest, how in doing 
their mission in the world, the Jews, time and time again, were 
on the point of failure. Every bit of strength, of power, even 
of hope was gone. They could not mass up enough strength to 
pull through. What then did they do? How then did they come 
forth gloriously victorious in their mission to the world? 



They did, mother dear, just what I want you to do. They 
may have lost all strength, all hope, all trust; but never did 
the children of Israel lose faith, faith, faith, unflinching in their 
God, the God of Israel. And ever in their distress, with a heart 
and soul faithful to their God, they would call upon Him, they 
would pray to Him, and Him they would ask for the necessary 

And not once was He known to be wanting, when implored 
by His people with a faithful and true heart. He turned defeat 
into victory. He turned weariness into freshness. He turned 
stone into water. He turned water into dry land. He turned 
despair into hope; and a people defeated, weary, hungry, 
thirsty, down-trodden, depressed, mocked at, jeered at, and 
suffering the greatest hardships in the history of the world. He 
made the glorious messengers of His gospel. He did so because 
they had faith in Him, and because with a faithful heart they 
asked for His aid, believing that they would receive it. 

And so I say to you, my dear mother, if you find that the 
hardships are becoming too severe to bear, if you find that you 
lack strength enough, courage enough, hope enough to stand the 
test before you, if you find that the sacrifice is too great, if you 
need strength, courage, hope — and oh, I hope you have enough 
of all, — I know you have, for I trust you — then, my dear 
mother, above all, keep your faith, unflinching, undaunted in 
your God, and ask Him for help, pray to Him, and believe that 
He will help you, have faith in Him, ever, and I know He will 
help. He must help; for He is a kind God, a good God, a true 
God, when once you learn to understand Him. No matter how 
hard you may have to suffer, no matter what tests and sacrifices 
you must endure, keep your faith, your faith in God. . . . 

I have often heard you say, mother dear, that you were sorry 
your mother gave you birth. I know you did n't mean it. 
Your life has been a hard one, an exceptionally hard one. Your 
sacrifices have been many and very great. But, mother dear, 
you have been blessed. For as I look about at my comrades. 



as I associate with them, as I learn their thoughts and ideas, I 
am given one impression especially. The greatest blessing God 
gives carries with it the greatest hardships and sacrifices. For 
I am firmly convinced that the greatest blessing God has to 
give is the blessing of being a mother. For the meaning of 
"mother" to a son is too great for words. "Mother" means 
almost something super-human. "Mother" is an ideal. 
"Mother" is the angel of God sent to a son. . . . 

You have been to me my love, my happiness, my all — my 
mother. I have tried to be to you 

Your faithful 


The boy who wrote these letters was the only son of 
Morris Lasser, of Houston, Texas, and Fanny (Antin) 
Lasser. He was born in East Boston, Massachusetts, 
October 17, 1898. His mother's maiden name will recall 
to many American readers that extraordinary book, 
"The Promised Land," by Mary Antin, which describes 
the transplanting of a Russian Jewish family from Polotzk 
to Boston, and revealed in particular the response of its 
writer to the opportunities of a new land. They will per- 
haps recall in particular the many references to an older 
sister, living after her marriage in East Boston, where 
the baby romped in his high chair when the visiting school- 
girl aunt read her translations from Latin poets to the 
ardently interested young mother. It was of this sister 
also that Mary Antin wrote: "Her eyes shone like stars 
on a moonless night when I explained to her how she and 
I and George Washington were Fellow Citizens together." 

From such sources of patriotism, rather than from 
ancestry of the kind that explains and places many other 



young soldiers as Americans, Ralph Lasser drew his pas- 
sionate devotion to the country of his birth. A consider- 
able portion of his boyhood was passed in Houston, Texas. 
A contributor to a Jewish journal of that place wrote of 
him after his death : "He was an eleven year old boy when 
I first knew him. But even at that age, all who came in 
touch with him could see that there was the making in 
him of a genius and of an idealist. The delicate features, 
the black silky hair, the soft dreamy eyes, the thin lips, 
the gentle voice, all these gave evidence of refinement and 
of depth of feeling." In 1912 he returned to Boston and 
attended the Latin School, from which he graduated in 
1916. He entered Harvard College in the autumn of that 
year, without a definite purpose beyond that of educating 
himself; but in the course of his abbreviated freshman year 
he decided to become a rabbi. He joined the Menorah 
Society, and received a Franklin Scholarship. 

Of what he meant to those who knew him best in these 
days, his friend and classmate, Arthur W. Marget, wrote 
in The Jeivish Advocate: 

Ralph was nineteen years old — well under the draft age; 
he was, at the moment of his embarking for France, about to 
enter the Sophomore Class at Harvard; he died as a Private 
in the 101st Engineers. Every point of the glorious story of his 
sacrifice, it seems to me, requires to be explained to those who 
did not know of him and of his idealism. 

Already a college man, detesting the idea of war with all the 
power of his great soul, he went to France and to his death not 
for the love of the fight or the thrill of the moment; he went only 
after long communion with himself and with another Power he 
felt to be with him in all that he did. Under the draft age, and 



barely eligible for service in the army, he enlisted at the out- 
break of the war in the old First Corps Cadets — now the 101st 
Engineers — he, a college man, as a Private; because this 
seemed to him, at the moment, the only way in which he could 
satisfy his conscience. . . . 

The afternoon before he left, as we were walking together 
in Franklin Park, he in his uniform and I in my civilians, he 
told me, very quietly and very calmly, that he felt his duty to 
be threefold: to his country, to his God, and to his mother, — 
who felt as only does a mother feel when she sends her only son 
to war. The first two, he said, he could reconcile; the third, 
he could not at that moment reconcile with the other two; 
but he had enough confidence in what he was about to do to 
believe that when the final reckoning came, the three would be 
blended to a perfect unity. 

He told me again, on the same afternoon, just as quietly and 
calmly, that his whole sacrifice had already been made. He had 
hurt his mother by his going, — and that was his sacrifice. As 
for what was to come, he had no fear. If the worst was to 
happen, he did not believe — because he could not — that it 
all ended with the machine-gun and the shell-fire. There must 
be something, he said, beyond; and in that "beyond" he placed 
his faith. 

One more word, in this letter to be read by the Jewish com- 
munity of Boston, about the Jewishness of Ralph Lasser. His 
life was, he felt, his Judaism vivified; not because he was metic- 
ulous about religious observance, but because he was steeped 
to the depths of his great soul in the spirit of Jewish sacrifice 
for Jewish idealism. Lest I should be thought to be viewing the 
whole matter from a twisted angle, I mention this one fact. 
He had intended, if he lived, to study for the rabbinate, not 
through desire for the position it offered, or the openings it 
afforded, but for the one opportunity that it presented above 
all others — service. 

"My only aim in life — is to serve," he told me in his quiet 



way, a year before America entered the war, as we were walking 
together one evening in the Harvard Yard, — the thoughts of 
both of us far removed from the war, of all things. "If I can 
serve humanity best as a flower peddler or a bootblack, at six 
dollars a week, I'll do that; only — I must serve." 

The war came. His ideal was still to serve, God knows how 
he had sacrificed his all, to the last ounce of his strength, to the 
Jewish ideal of a mission, for service to humanity. He wrote 
to me a few months before he died, begging me to send him some 
Jewish books. Surely, wherever the soul of Ralph Lasser is at 
this moment, he would not wish to be remembered other than 
what he stood and lived for, even to his death : a Jewish soldier 
in the service of humanity. 

In a memorial collection of themes written by members 
of "English A" at Harvard and preserved at Warren 
House, the headquarters of that course, there is a page of 
Lasser's manuscript. It describes the securing of his 
mother's consent to leave college and enlist for the war. 
Thus it reads : 

After several minutes of silence I said, "We must all give 
everything we have, even that which is nearest and dearest. 
I do, mother dear, realize your sacrifice, your feeling, your de- 
voted affection and care. But I am sure that in this hour of 
test, you will give all and make the greatest sacrifice. We have 
received from our dear country everything, and now we are 
called upon to render service in return. I want to serve my 
country; I want to serve you, my dear mother. Can I not do 
them both, or must I do one and not the other? Must I make 
a choice? Please don't make me choose, but do you as a true 
American mother give me your consent and let me feel when 
on the battlefield I lie that I have left behind not only a mother 
than whom none is dearer, but a true American than whom 
none is more loyal." 

For almost a quarter of an hour there was silence. My 



mother was sobbing bitterly, and from my eyes a tear fell now 
and then. Soon I heard my mother say, in sobs, yet with for- 
giveness, "Go, my son, I will not stand in your way, only may 
the good God save you and bring you back to me." 

With this consent Lasser joined the regiment of Engi- 
neers, the 101st, into which the First Corps of Cadets in 
Boston was converted. In the summer of 1917 he and 
his comrades received their special training for service 
overseas at the Went worth Institute in Boston. On 
September 26 they sailed from New York for Liverpool. 
Besides the letters from France that have already been 
quoted Lasser wrote many others, charged with the same 
intensity and exaltation of feeling. The same spirit of 
idealism and devotion found expression in the pages of 
the two pocket note-books, in the first of which, in- 
scribed "Important days and days of thought," Lasser 
began to record his impressions and sentiments from the 
very day his regiment left Boston. From these pages, and 
from those of a smaller "Line a Day" diary in which he 
made rough jottings even through part of the final week 
of his life, the following passages are taken. On their 
significance, in the light of the boy's age and personal 
history, it is needless to comment. 

Monday, September 2J^, 1917. 

. . . Left Boston about 12.30 [a.m. Sept. 25] from train yards 
behind Mechanics Building. Thought only of the folks at 
home and fell asleep thinking of my dear little sister. 

Wednesday, 26. 

Left port [New York] at 7 a.m. Saw the shores of America 
for the last time for I know not how long. Proud to be able to 
go and serve that land of liberty and democracy. 



Friday, 28. 

At about 2 o'clock we saw the first bit of land, and my heart 

was filled with joy at seeing it. About half an hour later we 

entered the port of Halifax where we saw many battle and 

troopships. As we passed the ships of our allies, our band played 

their national anthems and we stood at salute. In the distance 

I saw what looked to me familiar, and sure enough there on high 

proudly floated the Star Spangled Banner. You can't realize 

what it means to see Old Glory until you are on a voyage such 

as ours, and have been beyond her folds for several days. The 

flag floated over a small American cruiser, the smallest in the 

harbor, but there was a part of America, and maybe we did n't 

all cheer ourselves hoarse. 

Saturday, 29. 

I am on guard on the boat today. About 5 p.m. we pulled 
out of Halifax, our band playing as we passed the ships of our 
allies. There are about eight ships besides our own, all with 
British flags, including ours, going together. There are two or 
three troopships and the rest are convoys. It feels good to see 
other ships always in sight. We put on our life belts when we 
left the harbor, and must keep them constantly with us through 
the voyage. During my relief on guard, from 3-5 a.m., I 
thought of the dear old folks at home. And ever there comes 
to my mind how bravely my dear mother sent me off and now 
I realize that I was right, and not without ground did I have 
such faith in her and claim that it was only a temporary change 
that had taken place in her. Only God can repay her, for her 
brave and heroic sacrifice. The country can't and I can't 
enough, though I will try as much as I can. 

Sunday, 30. 

. . . The day is dark and dreary, and as I lean over the rail 
and gaze into the distance I can see such an immeasurable 
expanse of water, water, water. And just as I always like to do 
at night and on dark days, I look for that dim light that I always 



used to find beyond the darkness, usually from some street 
lamp or window. 

But today as I look there is not a light to be seen, only water, 
water. And at the end of my vision it seems as if the water all 
rolled off, and there's the end. 

But though no real light is there, yet I can see a light, for I 
know that the water does not roll off but extends further and 
further, inevitably on. Just as that thought to Columbus meant 
the discovery of God's last great gift to mankind, America, so 
does that fact to me mean the discovery of God's newest and 
greatest gift to humanity, not a continent but an ideal, uni- 
versal, everlasting peace, accomplished through the unflinching 
service and enormous sacrifice of the sons and especially of the 
mothers of that country which God last gave. . . , 

And so with the rest of the boys I go on, and get nearer the 
land where the deeds must be done. And I have my little 
battles long before I reach the firing line. The greatest of these 
at present is homesickness, that everlasting love and devotion 
which draws me to my loved ones. 

Through those battles I can ever find happiness, the true, 
real, only happiness. And though the dark be dark and dreary, 
though I'm, as it were, sad, lonely, homesick, yet, as I say, 
in my heart glows the fire of hope warming my whole body, 
and in my soul beams the light, of, of — happiness. Oh! may 
my dear, brave mother share that happiness with me. 

Tuesday, 9. 

When I woke up I could see land far in the distance, and I 
cannot tell how glad I was to see it. There was much beautiful 
scenery along the English coast. Arrived in the harbor of 
Liverpool at about 6.30 p.m. Thus did my faith in God at the 
outset lead me safely to land, and thus did I best the Kaiser 
in the first lap of the race. It certainly has every indication 
that we will thus win the whole race and victory. 

Pulled out of Liverpool about 12.30 a.m. 



Wednesday, 10. 

About 4 A.M. we stopped at a station where we were served 
hot coffee. I was greatly impressed by the eagerness of the 
young women, who, though they looked all tired out, were 
anxious and glad to serve us. In them, there at four in the 
morning, working hard, I saw the spirit I wanted to find among 
the English. 

Passed through some very beautiful country this morning. 
Stopped at Oxford for a while. Passed a German prison camp. 
Saw many straw huts and many small cottages on the farms. 
Arrived at Southampton about 10 a.m. Marched through a 
section of the city singing and cheering, and were cheered by 
the townspeople. Encamped at the Rest Camp for British 
troops and all troops that are soon to cross the channel. . . . 

Thursday, 11. 

A little English girl today shouted to me that if I would catch 

the apple which she had in her hand I could have it. I declined 

on catching it, but she insisted that I keep it. As I walked away 

I thought of how perhaps that was the only apple she could get 

for a long time, and how eager she was to give it to me. Her 

father or brother is very likely at the front, or perhaps he is no 

longer there. I am proud indeed that I can make my humble 

sacrifice that she may find the world better when she grows up 

than it is today. And my mind flies away, and I think of my 

dear little sister at home, and oh ! I 'm so homesick and yet so 

happy, truly happy. 

Wednesday, 17. 

Today is my birthday. Little did I dream a year ago that 
today I would be where I am, doing that which I am doing. 
But ever since I have been old enough to understand I knew 
that should such a need for my service arise, I would never fail 
my country and my God. 

Little did my dear mother dream nineteen years ago that she 
would have to sacrifice that which she suffered so to bring into 
the world. And little did any one think at that time that the 



child born in the tenement of East Boston would go forth to 
give his all that the children later to be born might have a 
better, truer, peaceful world to live in. 

Thank God He gave me life and strength these nineteen years 
to be available to my country. May He continue in His good- 
ness and may He make me able to be of service in the present 
crisis. If He will it so, may He send me back to my dear folks 
to do my duty to them as they have done theirs for me and my 
country. But if it be fated otherwise, and my God wills that 
my life be one of the many sacrificed in the achievement of our 
cause, then in true faith to Him, and ever trusting in Him, I 
shall make my sacrifice as a man, an American, a son of Israel. 

Friday, 19. 
Awoke to find myself in the French port of Havre. Thus am 
I now safe from the peril of submarines, and, thank God, I'm 
through crossing waters. Whatever waters I cross from now on 
will be in a military manner, perhaps I will have to help bridge 
the waters. How proud I am to be on the soil of that plucky, 
heroic, unconquerable Republic which has been such a friend, 
a true and faithful friend to my own dear country since its 
birth. Thank God I have the chance to help my country repay 
its debt to France, and to help that Republic in its fight with us 
for peace, universal and everlasting, for democracy, for free- 
dom. We had a long, hard, uphill march from the docks to 
camp. It was very hard indeed and taxed the strength and 
endurance of every man. Many had to drop out and be taken 
in automobiles. What kept me going I don't know, but some- 
how I think the spirit I felt, the determination and zeal that 
has ever been with me, put strength into my limbs and renewed 
effort into my powers all over, and I made good, stuck it out, 
and marched into camp in as fit condition as any man. . . . 

Monday, 22. 
After a whole day of traveling we arrived about 3.30 p.m., 
at a small French country village knoi^Ti as Rolampont, not 



far from Langres, near the river Marne. We encamp in the 
barns and empty rooms of the inhabitants. We, as it were, 
invade the little village — only as friends not conquerors. How 
glad the people are to see us, and how they love us all. My 
little French, and you bet it's but little, helps me along greatly. 
We get out barrack bags and I get out my French books and 
manage to converse with the townspeople. I learn that we are 
not over 80 miles from the front, and about 120 miles or so from 
Paris. We are just north of Switzerland, and not far from 
Verdun, The river Marne flows within seven miles of this 
place, and through the town there runs a canal leading to that 
river. Thus, you see, we are very near the place where the 
bloodiest fighting of the war took place, and where the French 
heroically withstood the invader. . . . 

November 1, 1917. 

The first day of the month, and a red letter day indeed for 
me. In the afternoon the regiment marched up to a fort 
nearby. . . . Quite a remarkable piece of work. But I enjoyed 
much more looking out over the country from a high place. As 
I looked over the country, beautiful indeed, and as I saw the 
many hills nearby, it reminded me of the New England hills, 
and oh, how homesick I felt. 

But what awaited me that night — the greatest thing I could 
have gotten at that time, mail from home, the first mail. 
Maybe my heart was n't filled with joy. Quickly and eagerly 
I read my six letters and then went on a night walk all by my 
lonesome. And as I looked into the starlit sky the world was 
mine, and my faith and trust is with ground indeed. 

How happy I am to learn of my dearest aunt's good fortune, 
and by it I see my trust in God to take care of my dear ones is 
very much worth while. All the letters cheer me so, but of 
course the one I saved for last, my dear mother's, though it 
makes me happy, sends a tear down my cheek. 

And as I walked 'neath the starry sky of France, I think, 
and think but I cannot write, my pen simply won't move. This 



I know. I am so happy, truly happy, the happiness that comes 
when you least expect, from quarters where sadness seems to 
fill the air. 

How I was glad to see the line of eager soldiers as they went 
to get their mails. I have seen a line of hungry soldiers eager 
for their food, but a line of eager soldiers hungry for the first 
mail from home is a scene that it takes a poet to describe. 

Now as I stop this scribbling and poor attempt to write what 
I want to, I am going to sleep and think, and think, and dream. 
My trust, my zeal, my spirit, my faith I know will keep me on 
and on, and to my dying day I shall be happy, happy, happy. 
Here's to my dear ones' love and love again, and, still thinking, 
let me stop writing. 

Sunday, November ^. 

Today I attended Regimental Church services and am 
determined hereafter to attend them every Sunday. Though 
my thoughts have been deep right along, I feel the need of such 
inspiration as the services give me. 

I am glad to see the human side of soldiering, but oh, how 
glad I am to see and take part in the superhuman side. As the 
regiment stood at attention, the engineer flag was slightly 
lowered and the Stars and Stripes raised on high. Then we 
all raised our right hands, and, led by the chaplain, we pledged 
allegiance to our flag. What an impression that made on me, 
words can never explain. For here we are reciting that well- 
known pledge, and in every syllable I can hear the trueness of 
those words. Never can we be accused of saying those words 
without meaning them, for on a quiet day we can hear the roar 
of the cannon on the front where soon we will take our stand 
to live up to the pledge we make to that flag. Thank God I 
can be one of those proud young Americans to stand beneath 
that flag today and pledge allegiance to it. 

A gentleman from the Y. M. C. A. of America came to us 
today and spoke to us on the romance of religion. He told us 
of how soldiers can see romance in the darkest things of war. 



And what gladdened my heart was when he said that the 
soldiers in the trenches could see in the mud of France, in the 
bullets overhead, in the hardships of the war, the onward 
march of liberty and freedom, and the coming of peace ever- 

For so it is with me. Hard as work may be, uncomfortable 
as conditions may feel, I can see in the very hardness of the 
work, in the uncomfort of conditions, in the mud and dirt 
about me, in the blood and wounds and dead, I can see the 
brighter side and, as Julia Ward Howe, I can see "the coming 
of the Lord." For, after all. He is coming to us with His help, 
and in a victory for the Allies He is bringing to us blessings 
such as we have never known before. 

I sit as I write beside the canal that runs through this town. 

Of all the slow things I have ever seen, the slowest is one of these 

canal boats pulled by horses. It almost makes me nervous to 

watch it. But then I think of how we are moving forward in 

this war. Just as the boat goes slow, so, too, do we and our 

allies. But also, just as the boat goes sure and reaches its goal 

in the end, so, too, are we going sure and I know we will reach 

the goal. . • . 

November 29. 

Thanksgiving Day. Had a real Thanksgiving Dinner. 

But the real significance of the day ever remains with me. 
How much today I have to be thankful for. Now when it ap- 
pears that I have least I really have most. For today I have 
health, strength, courage, hope, and faith. What more could 

a man ask for at once. 

December 31. 

. . . It is the last day of the year. And some year indeed has 
this been for me. And now as I look out of my window, com- 
fortable and content as I am ; as I look out upon the snow-cov- 
ered street of this French village; as I see passing before me 
children, women, old men, and fellow-soldiers; as I think of 
the war, and all that hinges on it; as I let my mind leap across 



the ocean to my dear ones; as I think, and think, and think, 

of the world and those to come into it; through it all hot and 

cold seems to come through my whole frame. I am chilled, 

and then, I'm hot; and where I try to say something, I cannot. 

I am clogged, as it were. But this I say to myself as I have 

never said it before, to myself as I have never said it to anyone ; 

and with this I say goodbye to the old year and go courageously 

into the new. 

Tuesday, January 22, 1918. 

Went up to a small camp for German prisoners nearby. They 
live there under very favorable conditions. Have plenty to 
eat. Cut wood. Had an extended conversation with a German 
non-com. He was well satisfied. Said that the German people 
had no real hatred for their enemies. Said the Kaiser did not 
rule Germany. Said the people did. Is he deceived or not? 
How well the Germans and the French guards get along. Oh, 
what war is ! Takes men who love each other, as is the natural 
love of man for man, and makes them enemies. Oh, may God 
make us able to gain such a victory as will make this war the 
last war for man on earth and thus let us give vent to the real 
worth of man, God's product, and thus we may rise nearer to 
our ideal, w^hen earth shall rise nearer to heaven, and when 
man in rising shall get nearer to his God. 

Wednesday, 23. 

Left Chantraines today for a small towm very near, Liffol le 
Grand, where there are many infantry, machine gun, and am- 
bulance. Nice big Y. M. C. A. At last I will have a chance to 
spend my evenings in a place other than the cafes so unpleasing 
to me. Saw a basket ball game in the P. M. Saw infantry 
drilling and heard the machine guns roar away. Smoke all 
about from the firing. We are now very near the front and 
undoubtedly after a short, stiff training we'll go forward to 
take our place in that line which keeps the rest of the world 
safe for democracy. War is becoming more real every day. I 
am glad to get away from barrack buildings in jerk towns on 



this condition. Although I reahze the dangers and hardships 
before me, I am by no means upset, or weakened in my de- 
termination and zeal. I hope to be one of the lucky ones to 
come out all right, but if my fate be otherwise, I am ready and 

Thursday, 2^. 

Today was a warm, beautiful day, just like spring in the dear 
old States. I stood up on the hill where our barrack is and looked 
down into the plain below where the other troops are. I could 
see the scattered lines of infantry drilling. I could see the smoke 
of guns, I could hear the steady roar, and the repeated shots 
of machine guns. All was a beautiful, a wonderful sight. And 
oh, what a feeling came over me. First of joy, then sorrow. I 
thought of it all and what it all meant. I thought of those 
men, and how many would never come back. I thought of 
those guns, and how they would mow down our brothers in the 
enemy's lines. I thought of these men, and how they would 
sacrifice all for the noble cause. I thought of the mothers, and 
wives, the sweethearts, the children at home, who may never 
again see their dear ones. And oh, what a feeling, oh, what 
thoughts. Words were never made which could describe them. 
Oh, it was God that was with me, God that spoke to me. But 
what He said must be felt, it cannot be told in words. But, 
somehow as in a dream He seemed to say to me: — "Ralph, 
your turn is soon to come. Are you ready?" And still as in a 
dream, with chills going through me I felt that I straightened 
up, peered into the beautiful skies above me, and not from my 
mouth but from my heart, my mind, my soul, my all, I answered, 


Monday, 28. 

Started in digging practice trenches today. Now the real 
tough training starts, six hours on and twelve off. Night work. 
And I 'm mighty glad to get down to the grind of war. I know 
it's got to be done and I know I'll make good. Soon I expect 
we '11 be doing the actual work at the front, and I 'm willing and 



ready to take my place in that line of men which holds back 
the enemy. . . . 

Saturday, February 9. 

Arrived at Soissons today. That city shows the ravages of 
war, simply awful. Hardly a building with a roof, and all were 
of stone. So many razed to the ground. Almost no window 
panes in the town. . . . 

Went through a section of the trenches and fortifications 
formerly held by the Germans. Situated on a high hill, the city 
of Soissons in the valley below was an easy target for the guns 
of the enemy, and the enemy certainly used them as a target, 
too. How on earth they were ever driven from that stronghold 
I cannot comprehend, but they were, and that is why tonight 
I can sleep on that hill. 

Expect to hike further on tomorrow, nearer and nearer to 
the front. All our moving now is on foot because we are too 
near the front to go by train. And maybe that pack of mine 
is n't heavy , it 's a-wf ul ! But I know I'll make good. I'll exert 
all the strength I can summon, and onward we will go to our 

Must wear gas mask all the time now. Can have no lights 
at night. Must always be prepared to take shelter from air- 

I 've seen the devastation of war, I 've seen the line formerly 
of the enemy, I've walked across what was once "No Man's 
Land" in one of the most terrible and bloody sections of the 
fight. And with my spirit, my determination, and my hopes 
undaunted I go on, on to my post, with faith in God ever, 
and love, love, love for my dear ones, my dear old mother 
there at home. May the Lord bless her and keep her and may 
it be His will to bring me back to her. Amen. 

From this time forth the entries, confined to the "Line 
a Day" diary, are mere notes, chiefly recording the day's 
work — on trenches, roads, sick horses, dugouts, the 



receipt of letters and packages from home, and the boy's 
dehght in getting them. There are many notes of "heavy 
artillery at night," and on May 5 comes this item : "Went 
to the front line tonight to dig. First time in front line. 
Some sensation. An awful dark, rainy, miserable night. 
Nothing doing, so all came back O. K., only so hungry 
and so sleepy." Often there is nothing but the single 
word "Worked": on May 23 it is "Worked; saw Elsie 
Janis" — ^ this on May 23, while back of the front line. 
On June 5 the jotting reads: "Worked. Left about 6.30 
for Beaumont, about nine kilos nearer the front. Arrived 
there about 11 p.m. Live in dugout much better than 
some. This town pretty well shot up. We relieve A Co., 
who's been having it here for two months." June 7: 
"Was captain's orderly and answered the telephone. 
Some strain! On gas guard from 9 p.m. to 1.30 a.m. Gave 
two alarms for a few gas shells. Bombarded at midnight 
and about 1 a.m. shrapnel fell near me while I had my 
gas mask on and was in the doorway of a dugout." June 9 : 
"On guard from 9 to 1,30. A good-sized bombardment 
evening, hit ammunition dump and caused a big fire 
which lasted all night. Some gas came over and many 
shells. An awful night, and I was tired out and my 
nerves are on edge." 

The last entry of all was on June 11: "On guard. Big 
bombardment on both sides. Some night!" The days of 
the week, for two weeks more, are pencilled opposite the 
dates in the little book, but beyond Sunday, June 16, he 
saw none of them. That day he was killed while on gas 
guard duty. 



To Lasser's mother, the captain of his company, John 
E. Langley, wrote on June 18: 

All of us have to die at some time and when our time comes : 
surely a soldier's death is the most glorious of all, and your 
boy's death is that of one who has left a name behind him 
"whose memory is as sweet honey in all mouths" for he died 
at his post of duty, while as guard to protect his comrades. 

It happened on Sunday, June 16th, in the early morning. 
We had been subjected to a heavy bombardment by the Boche, 
and Ralph, who was a member of the gas guard, was at his 
post keeping watch to see that his comrades might be warned 
in the case gas came over. A heavy shell burst in the air near 
his station, and his death, which was instantaneous, resulted 
from the shock, so that there was no suffering whatever. 

Reverent hands closed his eyes, and his casket was borne to 
the grave draped with the flag he loved so well and for which 
he died. The firing squad fired the last volley, and taps was 
blown. He has been buried on American soil even though it 
is in this country, and the grave will always be cared for care- 
fully, for it is the grave of a hero and "E" Company will 
always cherish his memory. The entire company joins me in 
expressing to you our sincere sympathy. 

One of his comrades, writing to a friend, in the follow- 
ing month, said further : 

I was doubly honored in being picked for the squad firing the 
salute above his grave. The service was of course Jewish, and 
I could not help but feel the depth and seriousness of it, and I 
noticed the earnest comradeship in the faces of the other men 
at the grave — boys of all nationalities and creeds, but all 
Americans of the creed of Democracy and God. 

If you can only tell this to his mother, I am sure that it will 
serve to lessen her grief and make her very, very proud of her 
boy. And tell her, please, that one of his own company, telling 



me about Ralph, said, "Lasser sure was game, for he stuck 
right to his post (he was a gas guard) through the heaviest 
bombardment ever seen." And he certainly meant every word 
of it. 

Thus did the young idealist confront the reality of war, 
and prove himself the man he had hoped to be. 



Class of 1902 

JVlLajor Cole, of the United States Marine Corps, was 
one of the few Harvard men who had long pursued the Hfe 
of a professional soldier when their country entered the 
war. He was therefore exceptionally equipped to render 
valuable service. This ended with his death in valiant 
action at Belleau Wood in the effort which enabled Presi- 



dent Wilson to write: "Thereafter the Germans were to 
be always forced back, back; were never to thrust success- 
fully forward again." 

Though the annals of the Cole family relate its descent 
to the traditional "Old King Cole" of England, it is 
enough for the present purpose to chronicle the fact that 
Edward Ball Cole, born in South Boston, Massachusetts, 
September 23, 1879, was a descendant, in the ninth gen- 
eration, of that James Cole whose name is perpetuated in 
Cole's Hill at Plymouth. Charles Henry Cole and Mary 
(Lyon) Cole were his parents. He was a younger brother 
of Brigadier-General Charles H. Cole, of the 26th Division. 
As a boy he attended a private school in Plymouth, the 
Boston Latin, and the Hopkinson Schools in Boston. 
From the last of these he entered Harvard with the Class 
of 1902. There he remained two years, in the course of 
which he played on the freshman football and baseball 
teams, and joined the Institute of 1770, D.K.E., Phi Delta 
Psi, Fencing, and Owl Clubs. A classmate, at both school 
and college, has written of him: "Eddie was quarterback 
on his freshman eleven and a good one, winning in a driv- 
ing rainstorm from Yale at New Haven, 9-0. He was 
second base on the ball team, and again we won. He was 
one of the leaders in the class at college, jolly and care- 
free, always ready for anything that turned up, especially 
if it was anything mischievous. He was decidedly popu- 
lar." Summing up his memories, this classmate writes: 
"A good companion, a good friend, and a good soldier. 
What more can a fellow be.^^" 

It was through a long course of training that Cole be- 
came the good soldier he was. Leaving college in 1900, he 



was employed for a portion of that and the following year 
in mining at Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. He then returned to 
Boston and entered the brokerage business. In the spring 
of 1904 he was appointed a second lieutenant in the Marine 
Corps, and from May 7, 1904, to February 11, 1905, served 
at the Marine Barracks, Annapolis, Maryland. From this 
time forth he performed the duties of a Marine officer both 
at sea and in many shore posts in the United States and 
the Philippines. In 1914 he served in Porto Rico and, 
twice, in Mexico. He was promoted to first lieutenant 
February 22, 1907; to captain May 1, 1914; to major 
May 22, 1917. For several years before the war he made 
a special study of machine guns, on which he wrote and 
published a number of articles. He was the author, also, 
of a field book for machine gunners, and invented a tripod 
for machine guns and a portable cart with pneumatic 
tires and wire wheels to carry the Lewis gun and ammuni- 
tion. When the United States entered the war he was 
already the Marine Corps member of the joint Army, 
Navy, and Marine Corps Machine Gun Board. In this 
capacity he served both at Marine Corps Headquarters 
in Washington and on special temporary duty at arsenals 
and factories where machine guns were made. In July, 
1917, he was detached from Headquarters and joined the 
Marine Barracks at Quantico, Virginia, where the 1st 
(later renamed the 6th) Machine Gun Battalion was or- 
ganized, August 17, 1917, with Major Cole in command. 
With this organization, developed to a high state of effi- 
ciency under his leadership, he sailed, December 8, from 
Newport News, Virginia, in charge of all the troops on the 
U. S. S. De Kalh, which, after stopping at New York, pro- 



ceeded to France. His command remained unchanged 
until his death in the following June. 

The 6th Machine Gun Battalion, a unit of the 4th 
Brigade (Marines) and of the 2d Division of Regulars, 
made a notable record from its arrival in France until after 
the Armistice, when it marched into Germany with the 
Army of Occupation. Li the six months of Major Cole's 
command of it in Europe it was stationed first, until 
March 15, 1918, in the Bourmont training area; then, 
until May 14, in the front line sector with the other ele- 
ments of the 2d Division, to the south of Verdun; and 
after a fortnight of open- warfare training was ordered 
suddenly, on May 31, to quit the training area round 
Givors-Chaumont-en-Vexin and move to the Chateau- 
Thierry section of the front line. While it was in the 
Bourmont training area, the Lewis machine gun equip- 
ment of the Marines, of which Major Cole had made so 
close a study, was superseded by other apparatus. It was 
after the consequent work of readjustment was accom- 
plished that Major-General Harbord took command of the 
Marine Brigade of the 2d Division. Of Cole he has more 
recently written in retrospect: "He had made a pre-war 
study of machine guns and was in the front rank of ex- 
perts in the use of that arm, knowing the details of their 
manufacture from actual inspection in the factories, and 
being familiar with the principles that governed their 
technical use in war. We all had confidence in his judg- 
ment and deferred to him as an authority in his special 
arm." From this statement the value of Major Cole's 
services both in the training of his men and in leading them 
in battle may readily be inferred. When they entered the 



Verdun sector they met with experiences summed up in 
the official "History of the Sixth Machine Gun BattaHon" 
as follows: "During the period of service in the front line 
trenches in this sector the companies participated in re- 
pelling raids, patrolling No Man's Land, repairing barbed 
wire, constructing trenches and machine-gun emplace- 
ments, indirect fire, barrage fire, and harassing fire." 
After two months of this and a fortnight of special train- 
ing for open warfare, they were ready for the first of their 
most costly and rewarding operations. 

On June 2 the companies of the battalion were in posi- 
tion. Early the next morning this order was received: 
"The French troops received orders to retake the posi- 
tions they have just lost. The American troops will main- 
tain at all costs the line of support they occupy — Bois de 
Clerembault, Triangle, Lucj^-le-Bocage, Hill 142, north 
corner of Bois de Veuilly. They will not participate in the 
counter-attack which will be made to retake the position 
of the French. General Harbord directs that the neces- 
sary steps be taken to hold our positions at all costs." 
For several days violent attacks were successfully resisted. 
Then the Marines began to advance. "On June 10th," 
says the "History" already quoted, "the American artil- 
lery laid down a heavy barrage from 3.30 a.m. to 4.30 a.m. 
on Belleau Wood, preparing the way for the attack by the 
1st Battalion, 6th Marines. At 4.30 the attack went for- 
ward supported by the guns of the 77th Company and six 
guns from the 23d Company. The objective was gained 
and all guns consolidated the position. . . . Four guns 
from the 23d Company, five guns from the 77th Company, 
and two guns from the 15th Company, went forward with 



the infantry. The machine guns from these companies 
and the guns under Lieutenant Hart in Bouresches laid 
down a barrage, for half an hour before the zero hour on 
Belleau Wood, thereafter on assembly points of the enemy. 
During this attack Major Edward B. Cole, the battalion 
commander, fell mortally wounded." 

Before going into such a fight a soldier like Major Cole 
knew well what might befall him in it, and wrote thus to 
his wife: 

I am leaving tonight hurriedly for the big battle and expect 
to be in it before many hours. Should I not return, sweetheart, 
remember that I love you and am thinking of you and our dear 
boys and mother. You have been a dear and noble wife and 
mother, and I am leaving my dear little boys in the best possible 
hands. In after years they will comfort and take care of you. 
Kiss them for me and tell them that I consider that I am hon- 
ored in being able to offer my country my life. God bless you 
and them and keep you safe from all harm. 

After he was wounded and before his death on June 18, 
in a military hospital at Coulommiers, the following ac- 
count of the circumstances was written from France: 

On June 10, an infantry attack, supported by machine guns, 
had been ordered to clear the woods of the enemy and his ma- 
chine gun nests. Ned was in command of the machine guns, 
and moved forward from his regular post of command to his 
battle post of command. His adjutant tried to dissuade him 
from moving, telling him that he could direct his machine guns 
better from where he was than from the forward position. Ned 
replied that he (the Adjutant) could look after the fire of the 
machine guns as it was all laid out, but that he would go for- 
ward, and that, in view of the high explosive and gas shells that 



were landing around his regular post of command, there would 
be no more danger in the battle post of command than where he 

On going forward he found seventy-five or one hundred men 
who had become separated from their officers, and who were 
lost and did not know what to do. Taking in the situation at a 
glance, he saw an opportunity for a flank attack on the nest of 
machine guns which was holding up the frontal attack. 

He directed the men he had collected to follow him, and led 
them in a flank attack. The attack was a surprise to the enemy, 
and he and his men had nearly reached the machine gun nests 
before they were discovered. It was then too late for the enemy 
to turn their machine guns on the attacking party, so they re- 
sorted to hand grenades. 

Ned was wounded in the arm and in the leg by grenades which 
he did not see when another one was thrown at him. He grabbed 
it up in his hand to throw back before it exploded to save his own 
men from the danger of the explosion, but it went off while his 
hand was raised. The fragments went through both arms, both 
legs at the thigh, his ankle and into his face. His right hand was 
shattered. His men went right ahead and captured the machine 
gun nests and thirty-five guns. Not satisfied with this, they 
kept on going and attacked a German offensive that was about 
to start and broke it up, chasing the enemy out of their positions. 

Ned, left alone, started to crawl back under rifle fire. He got 
back some distance when he was picked up by some of his men 
and carried to the rear. During this time he had lost a great 
amount of blood, and with the shock was left in a very weakened 
condition, so weak, in fact, that they did not dare to take him 
further than the first operation hospital. 

They started to operate on him the night of June 10-11, but 
had to stop on account of loss of blood. He was given two saline 
solutions to try to save him and finally a transfusion of blood 
from one of the members of the Field Hospital. The doctors 
gave him up as a hopeless case with no expectation that he would 



recover. He himself, however, never gave up, and his grit 
carried him through that night, June 11-12. In the morning 
he was a httle better, and improved a Uttle during the day. I 
saw him that night, June 12. He was irrational, though he knew 
me. I saw him again in the morning, June 13. His mind was 
normal, but he was utterly exhausted. He improved during that 
day and the next night. The next morning, June 14, the doctors 
said that, barring unforeseen conditions arising, he would pull 
through successfully. 

His act was a most courageous one, and was highly successful 
in bringing about the capture of the machine guns. It was an 
act that he was not called upon in his line of duty to perform, 
because he was a machine gun officer, but he saw the oppor- 
tunity, realized the necessity for it, and took upon himself the 
leading of this attack. His whole record upon the front has been 
a wonderful one, and his machine guns have done more toward 
stopping the enemy on this front than any other single agency. 

When his brother, General Cole, visited him in the hospi- 
tal, Major Cole begged him to bring oranges and cham- 
pagne to the other wounded men about him, believing 
their sufferings to be worse than his own. In this and in 
the flowers his brother brought to him he found much 
happiness. "I have been thinking of flowers all day," he 
said, pressing them to his face, "and now I have them." 
He spoke continually of his soldiers, and sent his wife and 
children the message that if the Germans were defeated 
by the time he was well enough to walk he would come 
straight home; if not he would insist on returning to the 
battle. Only an hour before the news of his death reached 
General Harbord, that officer received from Major Cole 
the message that he would soon be out of the hospital and 
fighting again. He was buried in the American military 



cemetery at Moiiroux, with permanent burial to follow 
in the American Belleau Wood Cemetery at Belleaii. 

It is a familiar fact that the general commanding the 6th 
French Army issued an order before the end of June, 1918, 
that the Bois de Belleau should henceforth be known 
officially as the Bois de la Brigade de Marines. In special 
honor to Major Cole the United States Navy gave his 
surname to Torpedo Destroyer Number 155, launched in 
January, 1919. In July, 1918, the Distinguished Service 
Cross was awarded to him in the following terms: 

In the Bois de Belleau, on June 10th, 1918, displayed ex- 
traordinary heroism in organizing positions, rallying his men 
and disposing of his guns, continuing to expose himself fearlessly 
until he fell. He suffered the loss of his right hand and received 
wounds in upper arm and both thighs. 

His memory was honored also by the award of the Navy 
Cross, the Croix de Guerre, with palm, and the order of 
Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. Besides these official 
recognitions there are such words as those of Major-General 
John A. Lejeune, Commandant of the Marine Corps, de- 
scribing Major Cole who served under him in the Philip- 
pines, Mexico, and the LTnited States, as "one who, from 
his entry into the Marine Corps to the hour he fell in 
battle, over fourteen years, faithfully adhered to the 
principles of a gentleman and officer of the United States, 
and added to the traditions of his Corps. Personal con- 
duct and character," General Lejeune went on to write, 
"count ever for most in those who would faithfully serve 
and be true to the ideals of their country, and Major Cole 
stands out as an exemplary possessor of those virtues, 



which are the requisites of a real American. ... As 
during life he was an inspiring example to all, so in death 
— a soldier death on the battlefield — his spirit hovered 
over his comrades urging them on from victory to victory." 
From General Harbord comes the declaration that "it 
was the gallantry of men like Major Cole which won from 
the French High Command the order that the Bois de 
Belleau should hereafter forever bear the new name of 
the Bois de la Brigade de Marines. The story of their 
valor reads like a romance of the First Empire, and has 
forever immortalized the splendid brigade to which Major 
Cole and the men he led were proud to belong. Peace to 
his brave soul, and may the story of his death for his 
country stir the sons of Harvard as long as men honor gal- 
lant deeds and manly lives!" 

A single letter remains to be quoted. It was written 
by Major T. G. Sterrett of the Marines, to the older of 
Major Cole's two sons: "You can always remember your 
father as one of the biggest heroes of this war. He gave 
up his life gloriously in the battle that turned the tide and 
was the beginning of victory. The w^orld is grateful for 
his sacrifice, which has meant for you the loss of your dear 
father. I give you my sincere sympathy, but I know that 
you and your brother will always be comforted in the 
knowledge that his life was given to make the world a 
safe place to live in." 



Class of 1905 

Alvah Crockek, Jr., was born in Fitchburg, Massa- 
chusetts, April 3, 1882, a son of Alvah Crocker (Harvard, 
'79) and Charlotte Trowbridge (Bartow) Crocker. His 
brothers are Douglas Crocker, '10 and John Crocker, '22. 
He prepared for college at Groton School, entering Har- 
vard in 1901, There he played on his freshman football 
team, was a substitute on the Universitj^ team, and cap- 



tained his junior class team. He was a member of the 
D. K. E., Institute of 1770, Hasty Pudding, and Delta 
Phi Clubs. After completing his course in three years, 
he returned to receive his A.B. with his class in 1905. 

From 1905 until the spring of 1909 he worked at Fitch- 
burg in the paper mills of Crocker, Burbank & Company, 
of which his father was president. While thus engaged 
in learning the paper business, he was married, October 19, 
1907, to Harriet Greeley of Chicago, a sister of Samuel 
Arnold Greeley (Harvard, '03). Though business was 
not congenial to his tastes, he stuck to the preparation for 
it through manual labor until he was offered a position in 
his father's firm. By this time he had satisfied himself 
that he could never be happy in business, and deter- 
mined to study the profession of architecture. Accord- 
ingly, in the spring of 1909, he went to France to begin 
his studies. From the beginning he exhibited an aptitude 
and love for his new work which ensured his ultimate 
success. In June, 1911, he was admitted to the Ecole des 
Beaux Arts, and needed but three more points for his 
diplome when the Ecole was closed on account of the war 
with Germany. 

Crocker and his wife immediately entered upon the 
work organized for the help and relief of their French 
colleagues by the American students of the Beaux Arts 
{Comite des Etudiants Americains de V Ecole des Beaux 
Arts). Besides giving aid to the families of Beaux Arts 
men at the front, this committee rendered great service 
by keeping these men in touch with their families when 
the German invasion drove them from their homes. Later 
on a "Gazette" was published monthly and sent to each 



man at the front, giving news of his fellow-students, and 
serving as a valuable aid to morale. 

When the United States entered the war, Crocker im- 
mediately sought an opportunity for service — a matter 
none too easy to accomplish in France. On July 13, 1917, 
he became a civil employee on duty with the Engineers 
attached to the First Division. On October 6, 1917, he 
returned to Paris, where he remained until November 20, 
1917. On that date he was commissioned second lieu- 
tenant. Engineers Reserve Corps, and ordered to Brest, 
where he took an important part in the colossal task of 
building that great port and base — a feat in construction 
remarkable both from the magnitude of the project and 
from the speed with which it was accomplished in the face 
of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. 

A few passages from Crocker's letters, both as a civil 
employee with the Engineers of the First Division and as 
an officer at Brest, will serve to suggest equally the nature 
of the work he performed and the manner of man he was. 


July U, 1917. 

I 've been getting acquainted some, believe me, not with one 
but with many persons and finding out how to be useful. There 
is much long-winded patience needed and a fair amount of 

We've been sitting around a table before a provincial hotel, 
watching khaki uniforms and chasseurs uniforms go back and 
forth. I 'm hungry and tired, out of doors the whole time. The 
major is a good man in his line. I wish they could say as much 
of me. I worked till late on water questions — wells, springs 
and sanitation. I go at it again soon. There's plenty to do 
and not half enough done, and little Willie is damn near dead. 



July 15, 1917. 

I've got a real job, without my galons, to be sure, but 
I've got here in time to be useful and before our American 
Engineers Regiment. So when they come I'll be as useful 
knowing the ropes as any of their lieutenants. My good old 
boss leaves tomorrow. He sure is a peach or I fail in judging 
human nature, which Monsieur Thiers, the historian, says is 
the basis of law. 

Meanwhile I work and feel fit. 

July 17, 1917. 

Today I interpreted between three aiimoniers, two priests and 
a pastevr — (1) Mr. Armstrong from Chicago, the Episcopal 
minister from your country-side; (2) A snappy young chasseur 
Pasteur, French Protestant; (3) A Roman Catholic priest, in 
almost the same garb! They were trying to get together, and 
Mr. Armstrong suggested they combine forces in the chapel 
now being knocked up. I hope they do forget differences of 
theology and get to business. They are all three right and 
stand for character. Then the Y. M. C. A. secretary wanted 
me to apply for club barracks. I hope to obtain them. I'm 
being given an object lesson by the finest trio of French engi- 
neers in one branch of work I ever knew. They are so capable 
and patient. I'm aghast at their efficient methods. Our men 
are splendidly organized too. The difference in French and 
American temperament, different ways of doing the same kind 
of work, is most interesting. Our men grind things out; theirs 
take things differently under different circumstances. 

July 20, 1917. 
I am dead tired and have a hard day's work (not bad fun) 
ahead of me tomorrow. It is a shame I cannot get in touch 
with the boss as it seems to take ages to get anything moving 
and there is such quantities of interpreting to do and so few 
interpreters. I think it is a good thing in the long run as the men 
will learn French that much quicker. It is funny to be here. 
I like it and yet I'm not clever enough to please everybody. 



July 25, 1917. 
I have a large report to put in today and so I cannot write 
at length. I have gotten aw-fully fatigued during the time since 
I got here moving around between the various departments in 
both American and French authorities for every nail or plank 
or hammer that I had to have. Having no workman yet I am 
doing both the work of design, executive and messenger serv- 
ice to the various heads without even a bike and I have to 
walk from one town to another. I do not faire la bile, but 
yesterday I was sorely tried, not being able to get documents, 
but which I have obtained since. 

August 6, 1917. 

The French General here got off some hot air about my 
French, intending a compliment. He said that there was only 
one foreigner he knew could talk French as free from accent as 
yours truly (Guess — you never will!) Le Tzar de la Russie! 
The boys here say he wanted me to know he knew the Czar. 

Aitgust 10, 1917. 

Again I am left as sole survivor with this division and hope 

I get something done while Major is in Paris. He is fine, 

though he makes no allusions to a commission for me. Tant 
mieuxl I do not in the least mind, although I am continually 

impeded in my work not having galons. Major admits 

now that I have been up against unusual odds and, although no 
word has slipped by, all blame at least has escaped my shoulders. 

I am far from giving up, or in or out, but turn up smiling in 
the morning and putt, putt up and down this camp where our 
boys are getting the training that we all hope will make good 
soldiers out of good material. Meanwhile it would seem to me 
that much real energy is wasted by the bushel that might be 
avoided. However, energy, like expanding our muscle, re- 
news itself by use and although misdirected forms a reservoir 
of more energy which may become directed after training and 
experience has proved the value of knowledge. 

The French may have faults, but we have inexperience, and 



when they act it is to the point and our intelHgent men under- 
stand that quahty better every day. It is interesting to see 
the difference in the national characteristics at work in the 
army after seeing the difference in the atelier. And with the 
training I feel sure that by degrees we will pull together with 
the French through our innate sense of pride to be brave, in- 
telligent, and energetic. We are like an uncut stone — still 
full of rough edges. Did I tell you that I had had the experi- 
ence of interpreting for General de Castelnau. He's a big, 
strong, simple person with extraordinary sensibility and handled 
a delicate situation with tact and strength and almost with 
humor. There is one quality which we seem to lack and that 
is this — all our efficiency, energy, and singleness of purpose 
in most cases lacks the saving grace of humor. Our humor 
when it shows itself is tinged with the smart element of "Am 
I not clever!" Yes, clever, my boy, but not humorous. It is 
too soon to look for humor, and yet why not? If we had just 
one little bit more humor it would be with such lightness of 
touch that we'd be learning war. The hand of steel need be 
none the less strong beneath, and so much less difficult would 
each day be. But no — press, press, press. Try to do what is 
just around the corner, nor take time to enjoy what you are 
doing right now. Restless inanity and missing out in true 
efficiency. Ye gods — nay rather may God Himself shower 
the earth and smile on sunny days — or in warm hearts, this 
His most blessed of saving graces! Humor, all- comprehending, 
cries out to deaf American ears. Rare as a day in June, or a 
day in peace-time. 

September 3, 1917. 

I fear my prognostications are true and that we are very 
thorough on the whole, but utterly lacking in certain humorous 
phases which give life the charm it might possess even in war- 
time — although it's a dirty business and I wish it were over. 

There is a great esprit de corps among the men from north 
and south, east and west. Would that hecatombs were not the 



sure fate towards which we were working! Madness — madness. 
If I knew some other way but this warHke method — and I 
secretly revile myself for not having discovered one — me- 
thinks Our Lord might have ! He was of a different race, and a 
race far more intellectually sensible to the meaning of humility 

than we are. 

September 9,1917. 

. . . Forgive a letter written by a man whose brain is con- 
fused with excessive application to R. R. forms and numbers 
a mile long. — As Major Graves said when I told him I did n't 
want my kid brother to get ahead of me — "Well, he could n't 
get a commission in the Engineer Corps." Cock-a-doodle-doo! 

I have n't got it yet. 

September 12, 1917. 

I desire to make use of my years of experience to help put 
a drop into the bucket for freedom. Although I feel that victory 
would help to establish an immortal world democracy, yet I 
am sanguine of good results only in so far as I see the suffering 
develop men's hearts and unselfishness. This is by way of 
explaining that if I do not climb the ladder, it is to be of use 

and very humbly. 

September 22, 1917. 

I look upon the war as merely an incident even if it prove to 
be the closing incident, though I hope it be only one more 
experience. . . . 

My appointment is so long in coming that I begin to doubt if 

I'll get a lieutenancy. Tant pis! If it does n't come through, 

I regret that my sphere of usefulness will be the more limited, 

that's all. I'm sure, however, that some day I'll get some sort 

of a job, and I 'm sure that my appointment damn near went 


September 29,1917. 

It's blessed to be neither dead, prisoner, nor estropie, and to 
live in the hope of seeing you soon again. I wish we had regular 
intervals which we might count on as the French do for return- 
ing to the bosom of our families. Perhaps some day we'll have 



regular permissions like the French. If not, it will continue to 
be the hardest thing we do to fight the longing, the dull ache, 
for our beloved ones. 

[Through all these weeks Crocker was ardently hoping 
for the commission to which he had been recommended, 
in the following terms, by a captain of engineers: "Mr. 
Crocker has been working with me on construction and 
repair work in the First Division area and has been of 
great assistance by reason of his clear knowledge of the 
French language and people." At length the commission 
came. The remaining letters were written from Brest.] 

November 21, 1917. 

Have some type in my companion, who's a fine chap. Saw 
and reported to a colonel for whom I've already done work. 
He remembered me and was cordial. Says we're up against 
another tough proposition — someone 's got to do it, so if we 
fail we'll be replaced. Hence, we're going to leave no stone 
unturned. Air here is fine salt air. Sunny for three hours after 
our arrival — weather's our least worry. It's like having a big 
horse to ride — whether one can jump on or not is the only 
question — once on there's no doubt of being taken over fences, 
but precious small chance of being able to get on his back! 
Another such as was mine in July. 

November 28, 1917. 

Things are beginning to look less desperate here. However, 
we've not done as much as we hoped to in a week. I'm kept 
hard at work and so is everyone. Oh this cruel war — such 
waste of material and life, and I was going to say time — but 
time seems to count for little these days. 

November 29, 1917. 
Today . . . has been a good example of a hard day. Got to 
work immediately after breakfast, a ten-minute walk from the 



hotel down by the old castle. Did some interviewing and trot- 
ting around, and all the time find French indispensable. We 
came back to the hotel for lunch and returned at once — stop- 
ping for a cup of coffee and cigar at a cafe on the way back — 
no real loaf — just a stop for ten minutes and then push on. 
The hardest thing is doing work and obtaining what you think 
is a definite thing to go on — and find that you have a repeti- 
tion of the work to enforce the well-meaning intention into 
action. You know these dear happy-go-lucky people as well as 
I do, and they do try so hard and get so far and have to be 
driven tactfully without getting their goat, and behind you the 
fear of not getting enough done. Yes, still the steed is to be 
mounted and he gets bigger every day and the chance of get- 
ting on seems near, and then you are let down by some occur- 
rence or circumstance and have to begin again. However, we 
have done a lot and it does n't show for much either, and yet 
we have every hope of accomplishing our mission. 

December 6, 1917. 

We are accomplishing much more than we did upon our 
arrival, doing everything that we can lay our hands on! How- 
ever, even at that we are hampered by the lost effort of adjust- 
ment between American and French ways, and I get pretty 
tired translating. There is every advantage in taking a large 
point of view and I insist upon myself to come up to the mark 
in this matter. But you know how hard it is to force French 
people, and we've about given up trying to — personally I 

should never have tried. 

December 12, 1917. 

I have just had my first experience employing German pris- 
oners. There was a boss, a German architect, and four men. 
We had to give them a small tip for working them in the noon 
hour. The big Prussian architect was n't a bad looking fellow, 
and they did my job loading boards and unloading the same 
on and off a big motor truck. 

Today was a full one — suddenly we had to prepare for many, 



many men on short notice, requiring us to work preparing 
quarters for them. We will have a company of laborers to look 
after, and that may prevent my getting off for Christmas! 
Don't get too blue: as one black negro said today — "I jest 
doan write as it done gone make me sad and sorrowful to think 
of my wife grieving for me, so I jest doan write at all," but he 
added, "guess I'd better write her to send me some money — 
say boss, when do you think dey's gwine to pay us off?" He 
said his wife could n't write him because she did n't know just 
what part of the States he was in ! 

December 28, 1917. 
Perhaps better days are in store for us — for all of us — and 
the poor sufferers who have nothing much to live for — suffer- 
ers because of the war. To think that cupidity, lust for power 
and selfishness, dressed up in the garb of a so-called civilization, 
should bring people who know what Christ stood for to each 
other's throats! However, so far we have proved inapt to 
comprehend the true meaning of our Enfant Jesus' teachings — 
so now we must fight, leave our homes, our children, on Christ- 
mas evening, and follow the herding of the Americans. Let us 
hope our national help may pull the Allies over their difficulties. 

December 31, 1917. 
This base hospital is Lieutenant H's favorite job. The doc- 
tors are hard workers and they have lots of pep! And we have 
been getting them into something like shape — electric light- 
ing, water-pipes, etc. — in fact, helping them to help themselves. 
The nurses are overworked — about 40 for 300 beds and in- 
sufficient quarters — this for your ears only — poor fellows — 
the sick I mean. When I think of being one of many who are 
suffering, it seems as though no one was better than the worst 
of human sufferers. When one reflects on the seven-day week 
of the hospital workers, my job is nothing like that. I need a 
dressing down and I '11 get it if my brain does n't begin to act 
reasonably. These days if a man has brains, he has got to use 
them; and if he has n't many, he's got to use the ones he has. 



In particular we have to face the fact that Germany must be 
trimmed and that right properly, in order that Bobs and Teddy, 
Nannan and Pink Toes, need not experience a war like this one 
right away again. Very soon now this job will be accomplished. 
It seems that any course that will take me into Pioneer work in 
some regiment is the thing for me to do. I have a method of 
procedure mapped out which will get me there by the time the 
spring offensives are on. 

There is no doubt that this is going to be a busy spring — in 
fact, I should not be surprised if another February, like the 
Verdun attack, were repeated. But if I am going to get into 
the fighting Pioneer work, my entrance into a school at Ver- 
sailles should not be later than three weeks from now. It 
seems brutal to tell you this. I, nevertheless, am of the opinion 
that the more children you have, the more you want to fight 
for their protection — the more too it 's one's duty to fight for 
them, although all of the sweetness and joy of innocence seems 
to go out of the world with the madness of war. Yet to lie down 
and be trodden on without pride or combativeness is mere 
complacency, and to me this is the time! . . . But I had rather 
be killed than submit to much of the ignominy, immorality, and 
selfishness one sees — almost shares in — in our heathen civili- 
zation of which we are so proud. Perhaps later days may see 
Christianity dawn from these dark ages and a good yeast per- 
meate the loaf. Oh, teach the Bible to those kids of ours. Let 
the salt get into them and tell them not to hide their light under 
a bushel. For the end of all is sacrifice. Why not start by 
being unselfish and raise a brood who can pull together from 
New York to San Francisco, helping each other to be happy! 

What does not appear in these letters is that Lieu- 
tenant Crocker's command of the French language, and 
his experience and ability in dealing with the French gave 
to his service a peculiar value. It is perhaps easier to read 
between the lines that the work at Brest was a heart- 



breaking task for all and that Crocker's share of it was 
taxing his strength beyond the limits of his endurance. 
Though he realized fully that he could not continue to 
stand the strain of this job that must be finished at top 
speed, he stuck to it until it finally broke him down com- 
pletely and resulted in his death, at Brest, on June 25, 

Crocker was survived by his wife, two daughters, and 
two sons. He received a posthumous citation "for ex- 
ceptionally meritorious and conspicuous services at Base 
Section, Number 5, France." On June 8, 1921, the diplovie 
of the Beaux Arts was awarded to him. A poem in his 
memory, by his friend Arthur Ketchum, containing many 
lines of beauty, begins with these: 

No tears for you 

O Very Dear, and true 

To that high soul in you that would not let you rest 

Contented with the half achieved, the lower best. 

But stirring at the summons of the Word 

Of your unseen Commander forged ahead 


And keeping step to rhythms all unheard 

By duller ears 

Followed a trail, unguessed. 

O Bugles, on the last redoubt 

Sing triumph out; 
A new adventurer waits 

At your high gates. 
Amid the pennons and the flash of spears; 
O Heavenly Bugles, sing 
His welcoming! 
But — no tears, no tears! 



Class of 1918 

iliLLioT Adams Chapin, as his name suggests, was of 
pure New England descent. From before the Revokition 
his ancestors, on both sides of his family, were born in or 
near Boston. He himself was born in Somerville, Massa- 
chusetts, May 10, 1895, a son of Cyrus Smith Chapin, of 
the Chapin and Adams Company, a Boston commission 
firm, and Alice (Bigelow) Chapin. His mother's father, 
George E. Bigelow, was killed in the Civil War, at the 
Battle of Fredericksburg; her grandfather. Captain John 
Bigelow, was a soldier in the War of the Revolution. His 
elder brother is Robert Bigelow Chapin, of the Harvard 
Class of 1908. 

After attending the grammar and high schools in New- 



ton, Massachusetts, he went to Phillips-Andover Academy, 
graduating with the Class of 1914. In "PhilHps Academy, 
Andover, in the Great War" he is recorded as "still 
remembered on Andover Hill as a boy of unusual personal 
charm. LTnlike most of those who spend only one year 
at Phillips Academy, he made a host of warm friends. He 
played for some weeks on the football squad and was 
elected to Phi Delta Sigma; and he was also exceptionally 
popular in his class and in the school at large." 

In the autumn of 1914 he entered Harvard College with 
the Class of 1918. Here, in his freshman year, he played 
on the Gore Hall football team, which won the inter- 
dormitory championship, and in the spring of 1915, was 
captain of the Gore Hall baseball team, which, also, won 
the interdormitory championship. In the autumn of 
1916 he was elected to membership in the Pi Eta Society, 
and became active in its management. Always interested 
both in his studies and in athletics, he was popular with 
his classmates, and had more than an ordinarily wide 
acquaintance in college. 

Near the end of his junior year, in April, 1917, he en- 
listed in the United States Naval Reserve Force, Coast 
Patrol, a minor defect in one eye having prevented his 
admission to the LT. S. Aviation Service. Feeling that in 
the Coast Patrol he was doing less than that of which he 
was capable, and still eager to become an aviator, he 
secured, on August 24, 1917, an honorable discharge from 
the U. S. Naval Reserve Force, effective upon his enlist- 
ing in the British Royal Flying Corps, which he did on 
August 26. After having passed a satisfactory physical 
examination, he reported at Toronto, on September 6. 



He received part of his ground and flying training at Long 
Branch, and Deseronto, where he remained until No- 
vember 15, when he was sent, with three hundred other 
cadets, to Camp Hicks, Fort Worth, Texas, for further 
training. There, in December, he received his commis- 
sion as second Keutenant in the Royal Flying Corps. 

At the end of a furlough beginning December 31, 1917, 
Chapin sailed from Halifax, January 27, 1918, on the 
Tunisian, in the same convoy with the Tuscania, tor- 
pedoed off the Irish coast on this, her last ill-fated voyage. 
When the captain of the Tunisian called for an "extra 
submarine watch," Chapin volunteered and afterwards 
wrote his family that "it was the most exciting three 
hours he had ever spent." The Tunisian docked at Liver- 
pool, February 6, and Chapin, having spent a few days 
in London, was sent to Salisbury, where, after further 
intensive training, he received his first lieutenancy in 
April, seven months from the beginning of his training. 

Early in May, 1918, he was ordered to France, and, 
together with his observer, flew his plane, a large De 
Haviland bomber, over the Channel and across France 
to the aerodrome of the 99th Bombing Squadron, Royal 
Air Force, to which he was assigned. Its station was about 
six miles south of Nancy, and its duties were to harass 
the enemy by bombing his lines of communication, rail- 
ways, ammunition dumps, and aerodromes. 

On June 27 Chapin was detailed, with others, to bomb 
the railwav at Thionville, north of Metz. On the sue- 
cessful accomplishment of this purpose, the formation 
was attacked by a large number of Fokker scouts. Dur- 
ing a desperate fight, a shot passed through the petrol 



tank of Chapin's plane, causing an explosion, which sent 
the plane down in flames from 1300 feet. This was about 
two miles southeast of the town of Thionville and twenty- 
five miles within the enemy's lines. Lieutenant Walker, 
of Chapin's squadron, flying at the time only fifty feet 
away, bore witness to the scene: "When he saw death 
staring him in the face, I saw him turn around to his ob- 
server, reach out his hand and shake hands with him." 

Such a final action was characteristic of one of whom 
it could also be written by a fellow-officer that "he was 
one of the best: he always had a smile and a kind word 
for everyone"; and, besides, that "we all loved him. 
In fact he was the finest type of Christian manhood that 
could possibly be found." 

At the Harvard Commencement of 1919 Chapin re- 
ceived the "war degree" of Bachelor of Arts as of the 
Class of 1918. 



Class of 1909 

ijTOODwiN Warner was the only son of William Pear- 
son Warner, of the Harvard Class of 1874, a member of 
the Boston brokerage firm of Parkinson and Burr, and of 
Hetty (Rogers) Warner, who died in 1908. He was born 
in Cambridge, Massachusetts, January 17, 1887. One of 
his three younger sisters is the wife of Francis A. Harding, 
secretary of the Harvard Class of 1909. 

In his preparation to enter this class, as throughout his 
life, Warner had to contend with the handicap of severe 
chronic asthma. He went to Harvard from Noble and 
Greenough's School in Boston, but had previously spent 
two years at the Thacher School in California and two 
years in the Maine woods. How serious his physical 



handicap was few of his closest friends realized, since his 
unfailing cheerfulness and courage concealed the suffer- 
ing to which he was subject. Through the necessity of 
living much outdoors, he was enabled to cultivate a love 
of nature, especially in the study of birds, and became an 
expert in New England ornithology. 

On graduating from college in 1909 Warner entered the 
Boston office of Stone and Webster, but left it, by reason 
of illness, in January, 1910. A trip to Bermuda in the 
spring brought him to the decision recorded in the 1915 
Report of his class: "No more office for me." He then 
began to investigate the possibilities of orcharding in New 
England, studied in the first half of 1911 at the Massa- 
chusetts Agricultural College, and in August went west 
for several months to look into the opportunities for apple 
raising in Montana, Washington, and Oregon, with the 
conclusion that the "only people who made money were 
those who sold to Easterners like me." What ensued is 
told in his contribution to the 1909 Decennial Class 

In November the College Office offered me a chance to go 
on a trip as companion to a convalescing 1912 man. Went to 
Memphis, Tennessee, on December 1. Bought a 42-foot cabin 
cruiser there, got two young fellows for cook and engineer, and 
went down the Mississippi River to New Orleans. Picked up 
another man and dog in Arkansas. Tied up to the banks where- 
ever we wished and got some good hunting. Not knowing river, 
had some close calls but made it O. K. Returned to Boston 
in February, 1912. Spent spring looking for a farm, and in 
August bought 160 acre farm in Littleton, Massachusetts. 
Have been farming it hard since then, and am specializing in 



Warner was making a success of this work when the 
United States entered the war. Impatient to take his 
part in it, he sailed for France, and on June 2, 1917, joined 
the American Field Service. It was a time at which this 
organization was rendering a service of peculiar value to 
the French Army, through meeting a demand for a large 
number of camion drivers, whom it sent to the Reserve 
Mallet, a branch of the Motor Transport service, which 
is said to have carried to the front more ammunition than 
the whole American Army used in the war. To the ardu- 
ous and dangerous work of this service Warner was im- 
mediately assigned as a member of Transport Materiel 184, 
operating at Jouaignes, Aisne, not far from the Chemin 
des Dames. Here he became Sous-Chef of his section, and, 
after graduating in October from the French Automobile 
Officers' School at Meaux, was appointed Commandant 
Adjoint, r. J/. 133. At about the same time, when the 
American Army was taking over the control of the Reserve 
Mallet, Warner enlisted as a private, and on December 
18, 1917, was commissioned second lieutenant, Quarter- 
master Corps, U. S. Army. On that day he became com- 
manding officer of Motor Transport Company 360, and 
for the remaining months of his life, contending con- 
stantly with the disability of imperfect health, pursued 
his work with an energy and effectiveness which won him 
highest praise. "In June, 1918," to quote from the Tenth 
Anniversary Report of his Class, "after returning from 
a long tour of exacting duty, during an epidemic of influ- 
enza, which greatly reduced the strength of his group, his 
command was again called out on convoy duty. Although 
beginning himself to feel the effects of the disease, he 



remained with his command against the protests of many, 
was out two nights and a day and shortly afterwards 
developed a severe case of jineumonia, from which he died 
at Camp Hospital No. 4 [Joinville-le-Pont] on June 29." 
During his illness, and after it was too late for him to 
learn the fact, he was promoted to the command of two 
hundred fifty men and about a hundred camions. When 
he was buried with military honors, at Suresnes, Com- 
mandant Mallet, under whom he had served since coming 
to France, said of him: 

His fellow-officers cannot speak too highly of him as a good 
and trusty friend; his men have always known him as a kind 
and reliable leader. As for myself, it is my desire to acknowl- 
edge before you all the deep debt of gratitude the French Army 
owes to Lieutenant Warner, who came to serve our country 
before his own needed him, and so he has ever since been per- 
forming his military duties with such devotion and efficiency. 
In the name of the Director of the French Automobile Service, 
in the name of my Reserve, I wish him a last farewell, and ad- 
dress the expression of our deep sympathy to his family and to 
those who are mourning today an affectionate friend, a promis- 
ing officer, and a perfect gentleman. 



Class of 1916 

In the death of this uncommonly skillful and daring 
aviator at Dallas, Texas, on July 4, 1918, the American 
Army lost one of the flyers from whom most might have 
been expected had he lived to reach the front. "If ever 
a man were ripe for overseas work," he wrote less than a 
month before his death, "it is I. If I were a horse I would 
paw the ground." The frientl with whom his relations 



were closest during this final month of his life has de- 
clared that his eagerness for the front so preyed upon him 
as to increase the recklessness of his flying. Near the 
end of June he said to this friend, while they were lying 
awake in the heat of a Texas night, "I'm going to be 
killed in the next month." In less than a week the fore- 
boding, all uncharacteristic of one so filled with happiness 
and hope, was realized. 

This son of Frederic Percival Clement, of New York 
City and Rutland, Vermont, who graduated at Harvard 
with the Class of 1888, and of Maud (Morrison) Clement, 
was born at Elizabeth, New Jersey, March 20, 1895. His 
father's family, descended from Robert Clement, who 
came from England to Salisbury, Massachusetts, in 1642, 
has been conspicuously identified since 1809 with the 
state of Vermont. Through both his father and his 
mother he traced his ancestry to Pilgrims of the May- 
floiver's company. In the eighteenth and nineteenth cen- 
turies his forebears rendered honorable service in the 
Revolutionary and Civil Wars. 

The friends of his earliest years noted the keenness of 
his mind and the strain of unselfishness in his character 
which endeared him to young and old. In those years 
also he manifested a strong love of nature and all out- 
door pursuits. Among them was a fondness for heights — 
he was a venturesome climber — and for free spaces. It 
almost seemed that he was destined to fly. 

Through a part of his boyhood his family lived at 
Watertown, New York, where he attended the public 
schools until he entered the Morristown School, Morris- 
town, New Jersey, then recently established by three of 



his father's classmates and friends. In each of his three 
years at Morristown he won the highest general scholar- 
ship prize and more prizes for scholarship in separate 
studies — Greek, Latin, French, History, and English — 
than any other boy in the school. He was also a member 
of the football and track teams, took an important part 
in the school plays, and in many other activities of the 
school. Entering Harvard with the Class of 1916, he 
held a corresponding place in the undergraduate life of 
his time. Throughout his course he served on important 
committees of his class, of which he was secretary- 
treasurer in his junior year; from the assistant manager- 
ship of the freshman track team he passed to the position 
of manager of the L^niversity track team; in his senior 
year he was a member of the Student Council. He did 
his part in the Harvard Regiment, and joined the St. 
Paul's Society, the Institute of 1770, D. K. E., the Re- 
publican, Morristown School, Varsity, Stylus, Signet, 
Hasty Pudding, O. K., and Delphic Clubs. The friend 
who has already been quoted, Lieutenant Rex P. Arthur, 
did not meet him until they had both entered the avia- 
tion service, but his characterization of Clement shows 
clearly what he must have been in college: 

I soon learned that Freddy was of a very nervous, eager 
temper; extremely engaging in manner and impulsively 
friendly — apparently impulsive in everything, but this was 
pure appearance, as in reality all his actions were directed by 
principles based on the finest character I have ever known. 
This was the astonishing thing about him. He had an extra- 
ordinary Puritan conscience. I say "extraordinary." I found in 
college, and especially during the war, that such a conscience, 
especially in a boy, was extraordinary. Freddy was the only 



boy I ever knew who was absolutely good and at the same time 
wonderfully popular. . . . When I think of his character, I 
always think of a steel lance. 

In the autumn after graduating from college, Clement 
entered the Harvard Law School, but, instead of living 
in Cambridge, became a member of the household of 
Robert H. Hallowell (Harvard, '96) at Readville, Massa- 
chusetts. Of the influence he exerted there, Mr. Hallowell 
wrote to Clement's father: "What a joy and satisfaction 
it is to have Fred one of our household! I do not know 
how we ever got along without him. But O! how you 
must miss him! I have rarely seen so lovely a character; 
always cheerful and happy, with the rare gift of impart- 
ing his cheerfulness to others, and so straightforward and 
just plain honest that you feel certain he never could do 
or think a mean thing." After Clement's death the same 
good friend wrote again: "You talked to me a moment 
about the bringing up of boys. If I could only bring up 
mine to be like Fred, I would feel that one of the greatest 
missions of my life had been fulfilled. In my own mind 
I had planned that Fred was the one to whom I could 
point as an ideal for my boys to follow, and I had more 
often thought how he would help them to avoid the pit- 
falls that are invariably encountered by youth." 

For such a young man as Clement the only question 
of his relation to the war was that of how and when. On 
April 27, 1917, he answered it thus, in a letter to his 
parents : 

As I wrote you a long time since — - 1 would go when the call 
came. I have now gone. 



I have thought it over carefully and have determined the 
right thing to do was for me to apply for Plattsburg. I passed 
the physical exam and the required mental tests Thursday 
morning when I filed my application. Today I heard from the 
War Department that I had been recommended for Plattsburg. 
The notifications and "marching orders" will come any time. 
. . . The camp lasts three months and it is supposed we shall 
then be fit to train the first 500,000, and then . . . ? 

Please write and say you are glad I have done this or that you 
approve. Although I am sure you do, it would be nice to see 
your letter saying so. 

Don't be worried as to what might happen. It will be six 
or eight months before there is a chance to cross and by that time 
the war may be over. 

Clement went to Plattsburg in May, and in June secured 
a transfer to the aviation service. One of the friends he 
made at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology 
Ground School, where he enlisted, June 18, as a private, 
first class. Aviation Section, Signal Corps, reports that 
Clement gave as the reason for this transfer his feeling 
that his youthful appearance would make it difficult for 
him to convince the officers at Plattsburg that he was of 
serious age, but that the real reason, in this friend's 
opinion, was the spirit of adventure moving within him. 
On July 20 he was detailed to Mineola, Long Island, 
where he qualified, September 1, as reserve military 
aviator. His next detail was to Kelly Field, Texas, where 
on October 5 he received his commission as first lieutenant. 
Aviation Section. On October 26 he was detailed to Fort 
Sill, Oklahoma, as an instructor; in February, 1918, to 
Camp Dick, Texas; and on April 1 to the School of Aerial 
Gunner V, at Taliaferro Field, Texas. He was still at this 



post when he met first with a minor accident and then 
with his death. 

In all these stations Clement's charm of personality 
won him a multitude of friends. At the same time he 
was making a reputation as an aviator in which some 
anxiety on the part of his superiors was inevitably mingled 
with admiration. This appears in one of Clement's own 
letters from Taliaferro Field (May 12, 1918) from which 
the words revealing his impatience to reach the front have 
already been quoted: 

I also find I have flown over 300 hours, which is quite a num- 
ber. They often send one over the lines with 60. I can't seem 
to think of anything but practising for overseas. Friday I was 
right on my toes and went up in one of the new planes with a 
man in the front seat to work the camera gun on the top plane. 
I pretended I was Guynemer and in the other planes were Huns. 
We dove at a plane, shot it down (merely taking a picture) 
then made an Immelmann turn like this [sketch of turn] and 
took the man from the rear. Did this to several planes and 
ended by sideslipping into the field, which is a stunt they prac- 
tise abroad in order to land in a small field. The officer in 
charge of flying saw me and when I landed he "grounded" me 
and confined me to the post — both until Monday — three 
days. Then he did admit that the turns were very good and the 
sideslipping very pretty, but that stunting was n't allowed. If 
I don't practise when it does n't harm the work I shall go 
batty. S. R. and I are inventing quick manoeuvres to outwit 
the Hun, and we think they are pretty good stunts. Of course 
it was wrong to stunt without permission, but I hope to get 
permanent permission, so I can be absolutely sure of the posi- 
tion of the plane with my eyes shut. There never will be a 
better opportunity. 



The man who flew with him on the fatal day, Sergeant 
A. L. Held, of the aviation service, who siifi^ered serious 
injuries in Clement's fall, and has recently written, "were 
he alive today, I would not hesitate to go up with him, or 
do any stunt he wanted to do with one in the plane," has 
thus described also an instance of his flying alarmingly 
close to camp buildings: 

On one occasion he did this while up one evening about sun- 
down, when he did the "falling leaf" while coming down to 
land and dived right over one of the hangers, making the men 
believe he would crash into a bunch of them, who all fled. He 
then leveled off his plane and made a perfect landing. The 
officer in charge ran out and called him for this, telling him how 
risky it v/as and that they would take him oft' flying if he did 
not stop stunting near the buildings. Lieutenant Clement sat 
quiet and listened to it all until the officer got through, then 
turned to him with a smile and said, "Say, George, was n't that 
a dandy, though?" just as though he had not heard what the 
officer told him, and the officer could not help himself but had 
to turn away and laugh. This happened time and again until 
finally they threatened to take him off flying, which would have 
broken his heart. 

A letter written bv Clement on June 30 mav well have 
caused apprehension: "I am back on the job as gunnery 
pilot and we are arranging to visit Camp Dick on the 
4th to stage an aerial battle. We have a plane painted 
like a Hun, and I am to fly it and drop some fake bombs 
at Camp Dick and then be attacked, while attempting 
to escape, by four planes with machine guns firing blank 
cartridges. It should be excellent fun." 

A great crowd assembled on the afternoon of July 4 
at Camp Dick on the State Fair Grounds at Dallas to 



enjoy the "aerial circus." The "stunts" were performed 
in such a way as to win from Lieutenant Henri Le Maitre, 
a French ace, the highest commendation, especially of 
Clement's skill. In the letter from Sergeant Held already 
quoted, it is described in technical detail, and the tragic 
outcome of the day is narrated as follows: 

Coming close to Camp Dick, he shut off his motor and glided 
quietly up to the grandstand, then threw his motor on full power 
just as he went over it, not missing the grandstand very far. 
We then circled around the camp until we were up about a 
thousand feet, when I let out a small parachute, which sailed 
slowly down on the field and was very pretty. Shortly after 
that I saw the other planes coming and I showed them to 
Lieutenant Clement, who then started to gain altitude to meet 
them. When we got up to them the fight started and, all being 
daring fliers, we had some close calls, for they were all diving 
at us and they came so fast that Lieutenant Clement could not 
keep his eyes on all of them, so he shouted to me, "Keep your 
eye on them, Held," which were the last words he spoke, for 
just then Lieutenant Martin dived at us, which was pretty 
close, and Lieutenant Clement thought it looked pretty good 
so he started his "fake fall" which he had planned, by turning 
into a "barrel roll," and letting it go into a tail spin, from which 
he never took it out until it was too late. He enjoyed the tail 
spin because he turned to me and laughed, and never did he 
lose control of his plane like some people thought he did, but 
had it under perfect control until we hit the ground. Misjudg- 
ing his distance was the cause of the accident, and, although he 
had the plane out of the spin just before we hit the ground, he 
did not take it out in time, which forced him to the ground and 
it was impossible to avoid it in such a short distance. 

They told me he was killed instantly when I regained con- 
sciousness later in the evening at St. Paul's Sanitarium. When 
the train left Dallas with his body, his fellow-flyers dropped 



flowers on the train from planes until it was well on its way from 
Dallas. I do not think that there was another man in our field 
that had as many friends as he had and it gives me great pleasure 
to write about him. 

As commander of the fliers in the Dallas exhibition, 
Clement had selected the men who were to take part in it. 
In his cardcase a diagram was found after his death, 
showing the positions and manoeuvres he had planned for 
his fellow-fliers and himself. At the very last he was 
scheduled to make the tail spin, which resulted in his death. 

His devoted friend. Lieutenant Arthur, must be quoted 
once again, and finally: 

He was an unusually modest boy, a Harvard man every other 
Harvard man should be proud of. Extremely fond of his Alma 
Mater, it was almost impossible to draw from him an account 
of his own achievements there, as an undergraduate. He was 
completely without affectation or snobbishness, yet he believed 
that only the worth-while people were worth making his inti- 
mates. So he told me. But the entire Field mourned, from 
the lowest private up, when he was killed. I never saw such 
universal sorrow. I believe it was because Freddy's actuating, 
big principle in life was to make other people happy. As a 
flier, he was the ideal type — very expert and absolutely with- 
out fear. But it made us hate the game and hate war, when we 
lost him. 

Of the deep affection in which he is remembered by a 
host of others the record is both poignant and abundant. 
A silver tablet awarded for his acrobatic flying at Dallas 
was sent to Clement's parents. He was buried July 9 at 
Rutland, Vermont. 



LL.B. 1912 

UoNALD Fairfax Ray was a North Carolinian, a 
graduate of the University of North Carolina and of the 
Harvard Law School. At the annual meeting of the 
North Carolina Bar Association at Greensboro, in that 
state, in 1919, Captain Ray's law partner, N. A. Sinclair, 
Esq., of Fayetteville, North Carolina, presented a me- 
morial paper upon him which provides the best possible 
basis for this memoir. In substance it read as follows: 

Donald Fairfax Ray was born in Fayetteville, September 26, 
1888. He was the only living child of Captain Neill W. Ray and 
Mrs. Laura Tatz (Pearson) Ray. His father died when he was 
only nine years old, and nothing could be more beautiful than 



the perfect sympathy and comradeship that existed between 
him and his mother for the remainder of his life. 

After attending the Fayetteville schools, he went to a well- 
known school for boys at Woodberry, Virginia, where he re- 
mained for two years. He then entered the University at 
Chapel Hill, North Carolina, on August 12, 1905, where he was 
graduated, taking the A.B. degree in June, 1909. The follow- 
ing September he entered the Harvard Law School where he 
took the full three years' course in law, graduating in 1912. 
After leaving Harvard, he went to Europe and traveled exten- 
sivety over the Continent for the greater part of the next year. 

He was admitted to the bar of North Carolina at the fall 
term of 1911, a year before finishing at Harvard, and upon his 
return from Europe he entered upon the practice of law in 
Fayetteville, where his great natural ability, his splendid equip- 
ment, and his application to his work won recognition im- 
mediately. From the very beginning, he rose rapidly in his 
profession, and even at his early age had won for himself a 
distinguished position at the bar. He became a member of the 
law firm of Sinclair, Dye, and Ray in January, 1915, and with an 
active practice in the Superior and Supreme Courts, developed 
into a strong and successful advocate before both court and jury, 
often winning the highest encomiums from the judges before 
whom he appeared. 

He made a profound study of the European War and its 
underlying causes, and was regarded as an authority on all 
questions pertaining to it. He became convinced in the begin- 
ning of 1916 that America would be drawn into the war, and, 
therefore, entered the Officers' Training Camp at Plattsburg, 
New York, in the summer of that year. When the United 
States declared war in April, 1917, he immediately arranged his 
business affairs so that he might enlist, and entered the first 
class in the Officers' Training Camp at Oglethorpe, Georgia, 
from which he was graduated, and was commissioned, August 15, 
1917, as first lieutenant of Field Artillery. 



On August 18, 1917, he was married to Miss Ann McKimmon, 
of Raleigh, North Carolina, and after a few weeks' leave was 
ordered to duty at Camp Jackson, South Carolina. In Decem- 
ber, 1917, he was promoted to captain in the 156th Field Artil- 
lery, and a few days thereafter was offered, and accepted, a 
position on the staff of General William J. Snow. He remained 
at Camp Jackson until the spring of 1918, when he was ordered 
to Post Field, Fort Sill, Oklahoma, to take a course of six weeks' 
training in aerial observation. He had all but completed this 
course, lacking only six flights of finishing, when his strength 
gave way under the terrific strain in the intense heat, and he 
suffered an attack of something like sunstroke on returning from 
a flight. From this attack he never completely rallied, and in a 
few days, on July 6, 1918, he died. His devoted wife, who was 
with him at both Camp Jackson and Fort Sill, was with him 
during his illness and death, and brought his body home where 
he was laid to rest by the side of his father in Cross Creek 

Thus ended a noble life crowned by a successful career. 
Though his life was short, he had "lived much." His life was 
full of usefulness and was an inspiration. The worthy son of a 
great lawyer and soldier of the Confederacy, early in life he set 
his mark high, and always lived up to it. He was a member of 
the American Bar Association, and the North Carolina Bar 
Association, and if his life had been spared, would beyond ques- 
tion have become a great lawyer. As it was, he had prepared, 
tried, briefed and argued, and participated in suits involving 
not only important interests, but also grave and complicated 
principles, and in such manner as to win the admiration of his 
professional brethren. His training was thorough, his tastes 
scholarly, his mental processes clear and logical, and his literary 
style at once vigorous, informed by good taste, and remarkable 
for its purity. The charm of his personality and his fine sense 
of humor made him a delightful companion. His judgment was 
unerring, and his advice was frequently sought by men much 



older than he on important matters of business. He was gentle 
and modest, and yet he was uncompromising in his convictions. 
He was an antagonist to be feared in any contest for what he 
believed to be right. He took an active part in business and 
political activities, and his influence for good in public affairs 
is felt as a living force today. 

In Cross Creek Cemetery today, beneath a granite shaft, 
beautiful in the purity of its lines, which typify their lives, are 
resting side by side the ashes of two men whose lives have been 
a benedict on — lawyers, patriots, soldiers. Christians — father 
and son. Captain Neill W. Ray and Captain Donald Fairfax 

To this tribute from a professional associate in the law 
may well be added the following words in a personal letter 
from Major-General William T. Snow, Chief of Field 
Artillery, U.S.A., to whose staff Captain Ray was at- 
tached for a short time: 

I had never met him prior to the Camp Jackson days. How- 
ever, he was so well recommended to me and created such a 
favorable impression upon my personally observing him that 
I detailed him as a member of my staff. He had a most pleas- 
ant and agreeable personality, and was a consistently hard and 
thorough worker in an effort to learn his new profession, the 
military. I not only was strongly attached to him personally 
but also had the highest regard for his ability, and I think he 
would have made a most efficient officer had he lived. 



Graduate School of Arts and Sciences 1911-12 

(connected with Harvard only through taking one 
course of drama study in the Graduate School for a single 
year, this Yale ace with three German planes to his credit 
contributes a shining name to the Harvard Roll of Honor. 
Maxwell Oswald Parry was born in Indianapolis, In- 
diana, December 28, 1886, a son of David McLean Parry 



and Hessie Daisy (Maxwell) Parry. His grandfather, 
Henry Parry, was a well-known engineer in Indianapolis, 
president of the Parry Manufacturing Company, and in 
1902, president of the National Association of Manu- 
facturers. Through the Pennsylvania Welch ancestry of 
his father, Maxwell Parry, as he registered himself at Har- 
vard, was descended from General John Cadwalader of 
the Revolutionary Army. His mother's ancestors came 
from England to Cecil County, Maryland, in the seven- 
teenth century. She was a descendant of George Read, 
of Delaware, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. 

Parry's preparation for Yale, where he graduated in 
1909, was made at the Culver (Indiana) Military Academy, 
the American College, Strassburg, Germany, and the 
Hotchkiss School, Lakeville, Connecticut. In the "Y^ale 
Obituary Record," from which this memoir is chiefly 
drawn, it is recorded that "he received a second dispute 
Junior and second colloquy Senior appointment, and won 
the first Ten Eyck Prize at the Junior Exhibition. He 
contributed to the Courant and the Record, was Fence 
Orator Sophomore year, and in Senior year was elected 
Class Orator and a member of the Triennial Committee. 
He took part in the various plays of the Dramatic Asso- 
ciation, and was president of that organization Senior 

All this bespoke a vivid interest in literature and the 
drama. But for a time after graduating at Yale, he 
devoted himself to business, first as secretarv and adver- 
tising manager of the Parry Automobile Company, of In- 
dianapolis, and afterwards as secretary of the Golden Hill 
Estates Company. More personally he expressed himst^lf 



through writing many articles and dramatic reviews for 
the Indianapolis Neivs, and through contributions to 
magazines. He also wrote a number of plays, "Boys of 
Gettysburg," "The Lie Beautiful," "The Flower of 
Assisi" (in memory of a classmate), "Dad," and "Stingy," 
which was produced in the year after his death at the 
Punch and Judy Theatre in New York by the Stuart 
Walker Players. He became a member of the Drama 
League and the Little Theatre Society, and established 
a connection with the Washington Square Players. At 
the end of his year of study in the Harvard Graduate 
School, he received the degree of M.A. at Yale. 

His military career is thus summarized in the "Yale 
Obituarv Record": 

He entered the Air Service on August 27, 1917, and after com- 
pleting a course at the Ground School at Columbus, Ohio, was 
attached to the Royal Flying Corps for training. He flew at 
different camps in Canada, and was then assigned to the 147th 
Aero Squadron at Camp Hicks, Fort Worth, Texas. ^ He went 
abroad with this unit early in 1918, and about the first of July 
was ordered to the Chateau-Thierry front. About two days 
after their arrival, Lieutenant Parry and five other members of 
the squadron met and conquered the famous "Richthofen 
Circus," and within the next week Lieutenant Parry had in all 
three enemy planes to his credit. On July 8 he attacked alone 
a German formation of thirteen Fokkers and was killed. He 
was at first reported missing in action, and it was not until 
March, 1919, that definite word of his death was received 
through the War Department. He was buried by the Germans 
in the Military Cemetery at ^'audeuil. The French Govern- 
ment has awarded him the Croix de Guerre, with palm, and the 

1 His commission was that of second lieutenant, Aviation Section, 
Signal Corps. 



American Distinguished Service Cross has also been given to 

The following citation, in a general order of the Army, 
accompanied his award of the Croix de Guerre: 

Pilote de chasse de graiid courage et d'une hahilite hors de pair. 
Le 2 juillet 1918 faisant partie d'une patrouille de sept qui attaqua 
douze avians ennemis, a ahattu tin de ses adversaires. 



Class of 1907 

VJn the day before Sergeant Dudley Gilman Tucker of the 
Lafayette Flying Corps fell in aerial combat he surrendered 
to a friend, who wished to go to Paris for his transfer to 
the American aviation forces, his own permission, sorely 
as he needed change and relaxation after nearly eight 
months of continuous service at the front. "Do you 
know, Harry," he said to this friend as they were smok- 



ing together on the evening of July 7, 1918, "I believe I 
ought to take that permission myself. Something seems 
to tell me I ought." "All right," answered the friend, 
"go ahead. It's yours, you know." Then they smoked 
in silence, broken by Tucker's saying, "No, you take it. 
\ou have a real reason for going, and 1 have only this 
feeling which comes over me so strongly." Tucker's own 
life was so far removed from the commonplace that this 
premonition of his death strikes no incongruous note. 

He was born in New York City, April 7, 1887, of New 
England ancestry in which such names as those of Gov- 
ernor Thomas Dudley of the Massachusetts Bay Colony 
and Nathaniel Gilman of Exeter, New Hampshire, are 
found. His parents, Gilman Henry Tucker and Caroline 
Low (Kimball) Tucker, were lovers of books, art, and 
travel. They established a Free Public Library at Ray- 
mond, New Hampshire, the early home, and afterwards 
the summer home, of Tucker's father, who for many years 
was secretary of the American Book Company. His 
mother was one of the organizers, in 1883, of what is 
now called the Messiah School, Spring Valley, New 
York, a home-like school for dependent children; of this 
she became honorary president. 

Tucker prepared for college at Dr. Louis Ray's School 
in New York, and at the Hackley School, at Tarrytown, 
New York. He entered Harvard in the autumn of 1903, 
a good student, who learned quickly and easily, and found 
no difficulty in completing the studies required for his 
degree by the middle of his senior year. In college he 
became a member of Kappa Gamma Chi, of his class 
lacrosse team in the freshman, sophomore, and junior 



years, and of the class hockey team in his senior year. 
As a freshman he suffered a serious disappointment 
through breaking one of his ankles while playing football. 
This was his favorite sport, but, in conformity with his 
father's wish, he gave it up. For his mother's gratifica- 
tion he played the violin and sketched a little, and for his 
own pleasure he cultivated his good voice. 

Leaving Cambridge in February, 1907, Tucker made the 
last of the four European trips which were a definite part 
of his parents' scheme of education. These were not mere 
tourist travel, but were sojourns here and there. In 1907 
he stayed in Sicily and southern Italy, enjoying early 
morning swims in the Ionian Sea, tramping, climbing, 
tennis and all the life of the English colony in which he 
found himself. On earlier trips he had visited the Tyrol, 
Switzerland, Germany, England, Scotland, and Wales. His 
mother recalls his coaxing her to climb Snowdon — "just 
we two." As the gathering mists warned them to turn 
back, he pleaded, "Only a little farther": thus they 
reached the top and both were glad. She writes also: 

Life at his country home at Raymond was always very full 
for him, with his pony, his canoe, and his house-parties, when 
he and his guests danced in the moonlight on the lawn, and 
swam, and drove, and tramped over the hills. Always he had 
books — best of all pleasures to him — and he was constantly 
collecting them. During his months in camp in France his 
companions wondered that he would burden himself with so 
many books, with all the frequent changes of base; but they 
enjoyed the stories which he found in them. One, Jean Marchet, 
wrote: "He was always making fun for us, reading or telling 
stories or making up plays. // etait un ires bon camarade." 



For the academic year, 1907-08, after leaving Cam- 
bridge, Tucker attended the Columbia Law School, try- 
ing to like the lawyer's profession in order to please his 
father. Not succeeding in this, he entered the employ of 
the American Book Company in 1909, and after five years 
turned the executive training thus acquired to account 
in a position which greatly interested him — that of busi- 
ness manager of the Washington Square Players in New 
York. The history of this organization of true devotees 
of the dramatic art — a historv abundantlv written in the 
public press of the two years preceding the entrance of 
the United States into the war — contributes a bright 
spot to the theatrical annals of New Y^ork. Tucker's part 
in it all was important, and the path that led him to France 
had its beginning in an enterprise directly connected with 
the stage, for it was while he was in Panama, with his 
friend Austen ("Billy") Parker, on their way to China 
and Japan to study the Oriental theatre, that they fore- 
saw their country's surelj^ joining the Allies, and set their 
faces at once towards France. Of the Panama experience 
each of these friends subsequently wrote. In a letter from 
Tucker to a cousin are these words: 

"Somewhere in France," 
June 27, 1917. 

A lot of things culminated finally in Billy Parker and my- 
self setting sail for Panama en route to China and Japan, 
where we intended to study and write about the native theatre. 
Our idea was to grab a cargo boat at Panama, but we found that 
that sounded easier than it was. Most of the cargo boats were 
carrying munitions for Vladivostok and would n't take a pas- 
senger at any price. So, after waiting about two weeks, we 
decided to occupy our time by a little exploring. Consequently 



we set off into the jungle to be gone two weeks. Our trip 
stretched out to six, however, and most of our friends gave us 
up for dead and the militarj^ authorities sent a torpedo-boat 
destroj'er down the coast looking for us. We fooled them, 
though, and after a ten-day trip in a native dugout reached 
Panama City, battered and weary but safe and sound. 

We found to our sorrow that our boat for Japan or China was 
just as far in the distance as ever, and as war with Germany 
seemed certain we decided to beat it over to France and get in 
the game. The decision was hastened by discovering that a 
boat was leaving that night direct for Bordeaux, so we hustled 
like sin, cashing checks, seeing consuls and "sich" (for our pass- 
ports were for China), buying steamer passages, but in the end 
we made the boat with several hours to spare. The voyage 
lasted twenty-one days. We stopped at about every port on 
the northern coast of South America and, in addition, at the 
islands of Trinidad, Martinique, Dominica, and Guadeloupe. 
After Trinidad, Billy and I were the only English-speaking 
people on board, which did not tend toward making our trip 
lively, but it was mighty good practice in brushing up our 

From another point of view the Panama experience is 
recounted in a letter from Tucker's friend, Parker, written 
in retrospect from 1922: 

When two men have lived together, worked together, strug- 
gled through jungles and both been laid flat with fever, and 
flown together, they come close to knowing each other. Dudley 
and I did all of those things, and I knew him as one of the most 
lovable men I have ever encountered. There seemed to be no 
outrageous set of circumstances through which he could not 
go — and emerge grinning. There was one time I shall always 
remember when I think of him. We had left the jungle and were 
coming down a steep mountainside in the Darien, following a 



creek bottom, wading up to our waists and slipping over huge 
boulders. The water — we had been in it for five hours — was 
as cold as ice and the sun was blistering all of us that was out 
of water. At last, when the guides said that we would strike a 
"rancho" one mile farther down, we stopped to rest and smoke. 
Then one of those torrential rainstorms broke, and it was as if 
a hose had been turned on us. 

In the scurrying to get to shelter, the guide who was carrying 
our pack stumbled and fell into the creek, drenching our dry 
clothes and blankets, ruining the tobacco and most of the food. 
Dudley and I sat under a ledge while the rain poured down, 
contemplating the uncomfortable night ahead of us. Then, 
suddenly, Dudley broke into song, — "Panama, Panama, land 
of milk and honey, skies so bright and sunny. . . ." And he 
put back his head and laughed. It helped us over a rough spot. 

When we came out of the jungle we found ourselves on the 
ranch of a German who, suspecting that we were acting for the 
Intelligence Department of the Army, deceived us with false 
hopes that a steamer would soon be along to take us to Panama. 
From his point of view, we had landed at Puerto Pinas on our 
own hook, and we would have to get away on our own hook, 
I think that it was only when I intimated that a destroyer 
would arrive for us if we did n't land back in Panama City soon 
that he changed his mind. At least, we were on our way within 
twenty-four hours. 

Dudley did not want to go to war; he hated the idea, and he 
had his heart set on going to China. But, after we returned to 
Panama City and discovered that war was breaking, we thought 
it over — thought about it, and said little. Dudley finally 
decided that it was a plain case of duty; and, on eight hours' 
notice, we sailed eastward instead of to the Orient. That, too, 
was typical of him. 

I don't know of a man among the Americans in French avia- 
tion who was better, or more generally, loved than Dudley. 
Everyone liked him for his cheerfulness and for his utter willing- 



ness to see the thing through to the end. Though none of us 
knows exactly how the end came, we all know that he went down 
fighting, with his teeth set and his hopes high. And to most of 
us that means far more than knowing the painful details. 

The two friends reached France in March, and on March 
28 Tucker entered the Foreign Legion. Early in April he 
transferred to the Lafayette Flying Corps. From May 22 
to January 26, 1918, he was in training at the aviation 
schools of Avord, Pau, and Le Plessis-Belleville. He was 
breveted pilote (Caudron) and promoted corporal, Septem- 
ber 30, 1917, and before going to the front, January 28, 
1918, won himself the record of a skillful and courageous 
pilot. He was assigned first to Escadrille Spad 74, and 
transferred later to Spad 15, in the famous Groupe de 
Combat 13. In June he was promoted sergeant. There 
was heavy fighting to be done on those memorable sum- 
mer days of 1918. It is written in "The Lafayette Flying 
Corps": "All the way from Rheims to Montdidier the 
enemy was strong in the air, and Spad 15 was always 
in the thick of it: ground-strafing, infantry liaison, bal- 
loon attacks, and constant offensive patrols." 

In the letters written by Tucker from France there are 
passages reflecting his life both before and after he was 
ordered to the front. The letter of June 27, 1917, from 
which a quotation has already been made contains these 
paragraphs : 

A lot has been written about Paris in war-time, and I am not 
going to bore you with my particular variation on that theme. 
I will, however, inflict a short word of my vicissitudes. In the 
first place, although this was my fifth visit to Paris, it was the 
first time that I ever really felt as if I belonged there, and the 



first time that I found myself liking the city. This was partly 
due, no doubt, to the utter absence of tourists and to the fact 
that it was the most beautiful season, when the city is at its 
loveliest with all the horsechestnuts in bloom, the fresh green 
of spring everywhere; but it was more, I think, that now for the 
first time I was not a transient. I looked on it as my home 
where I belonged. I did no sightseeing, not even going to Notre 
Dame, but I did play around a lot both with the Americans — 
there are oodles of them here — ambulance men, aviators, cor- 
respondents, and "sich"; and with the French, talking as much 
French as possible, going to the theatre, and, when I had the 
price, eating extremely well at the famous restaurants and get- 
ting a good working knowledge of the best wines. 

All in all, I had a perfectly bully time. Finally all the red 
tape was rolled up and I signed my freedom away, becoming a 
second-class soldier in the Foreign Legion, detached for Avia- 
tion. It gave me a real thrill to find myself a member of that 
famous Legion which I had heard of and read about so often 
and which in my wildest flight of imagination I never expected 
to join. Of course so far I've seen nothing of the War, and it is 
even hard to realize in this little country town that there is a 
war; and it will probably be quite a considerable time before I 
see any more because this training takes two or three months 
even in the summer when the weather is favorable. 

On March 30, 1918, he wrote his niece. Miss Margaret 
S. Huddleston, a daughter of J. H. Huddleston (Har- 
vard, '86) : 

Just a line in answer to your letter which came yesterday. 
At last, I am at the front, but from all I have seen of fighting I 
might just as well be at one of the schools. We are quartered 
about forty kilometres back of the line, our barracks half 
hidden in a small wood across the road from our hangars and 
the flying field. For the first ten days I was here the barracks 
were not quite ready, so we lived in billets in the town, a quaint 



old town on a hillside. My room was at the top of the village 
and my landlady was the quaintest little old Frenchwoman, 
who slept in a cupboard-bed in her kitchen, where she cooked 
over an open fire in a huge fireplace. 

Besides a bedroom, all the pilotes, who were not officers, had 
a mess room in the town, where we live when not working or 
sleeping. It's rather like a club, for the pilotes form a separate 
caste, and a corporal seems to outrank, although of course he 
really does n't, an adjutant mechanic. 

Now we are in barracks, where we have a big common living 
and dining room and a number of small sleeping rooms, in each 
of which two or three of us sleep. 

Our escadrille is one of four making up a group of combat. 
All of them are equipped with the latest and best type of single- 
seaters, a big 200 H. P. brute; but as yet I have only driven 
it over the field and practised a few stunts getting used to it, 
for I have never before driven this type of machine. It has two 
machine guns, both fixed and firing through the propeller, which 
are aimed by aiming the whole blooming machine. I have never 
fired them yet, but the other day, when I thought I might get 
somewhere near the lines, my mechanic solemnly loaded them 
just before I started and I felt very important indeed. 

Every once in a while, as a matter of fact two or three times 
a day when the weather permits, five or six of the fellows go 
off on a patrol over the lines, their object being to prevent Oer- 
man machines flying over our lines to get information. An 
hour and a half or two hours later they come back, occasionally 
with a story of a Oerman or Oermans shot down, and sometimes 
with bullet holes in their planes. So far they have always all 
come home, and everything is so peaceful hereabouts that it is 
almost impossible to believe that they have been playing an 
active part in the war. Many of them, too, have been at it 
for two or three years, so it does n't seem very dangerous, 
and I am beginning to have a sort of sympathy for those who 
call the aviators emhusques. 



I'm mighty glad you met Arthur Bluethenthal, but I'm sure 
he gave you a false idea of how I look. I can't possibly fill out 
a uniform the way he can. Besides you must realize that there is 
no regulation uniform in the French Aviation, and, as long as 
we conform to a few general rules, we can wear any doggone 
thing we please. On account of the loss of my baggage, which 
now seems to be definite and permanent, I have had to buy a 
new uniform and some other necessaries, which is a great bur- 
den on the exchequer, and I've still got a few things to get. 
Your socks came at the psychological moment and saved my 
life; I've worn them almost to bits, but I still have their frag- 
ments and also the wristers. 

More socks will always be welcome, but I have a superfluity 
of knitted helmets, wristers, and mufflers. Thin sleeveless and 
neckless ssveaters are also welcome, but our great and crying 
need is cigarettes. Being in the French Army, we are not 
allowed to buy from the American Commissary. 

I've strayed a long way from "Bluey," have n't I? He and 
I left the general base together on our way to the front, and 
were together a few days in Paris. He is doing an entirely dif- 
ferent kind of work from mine. He drives a big two-seater, 
which does bombing and reconnaissance. 

Oh, by the way, before I forget it, your new President, Dr. 
Neilson, was my adviser, freshman year at Harvard, and one 
of my best beloved professors, senior year. I fear I was a great 
trial to him, and it 's only a bare chance that he will remember 
me; but I wish if you get the chance that you will remind him 
of me and tell him I wanted most particularly to be remembered. 
The few real talks I had with him are a memory I will always 
treasure. He is a man it is a great privilege to know. 

To his mother he wrote, April 18, 1918: 

Dearest Little Mother, 

Well, D. L. M., I've been over the lines several times now 
and it is n't so very terrible. You sail around in the sky and 



watch other aeroplanes doing the same thing and looking like 
nothing in the world so much as a big black tadpole in a pool 
of water. You know you hear nothing except your own motor, 
and, as there are no Bodies just now on our front and no very 
definite perils, the country seems quite peaceful as observed 
from a height of 4000 metres. Of course a village here and there 
is noticeably knocked about or perhaps smouldering, while the 
ground in places is quite heavily pock-marked with shell holes, 
the effect of which against the green is as if some genii had been 
sprinkling the fields with fuller's earth from a giant shaker. 

The white blots of clouds like white wool which appear sud- 
denly and mysteriously all over the sky are the most innocuous 
looking things in the world in spite of the fact that they are 
really shrapnel and shells from anti-aircraft guns; and really 
they are almost as innocuous as they look, as not one plane in a 
thousand do they bring down, their only purpose being simply 
to keep the planes at a respectable height. 

I'm mighty glad you have seen pictures of Spads. I've got 
a big 200 H. P., one that runs beautifully, and on its side is 
painted the emblem of our escadrille. At both ends there are 
machine guns, so you see I 'm doubly protected. Tell Margaret 
I 'm thinking of naming it after her, it is so husky and well able 
to look out for itself. [He did name it "Margot" for her.] 

By the way, did I tell you we 'd moved? Well, we have. We 
are no longer quartered in the schoolhouse but have a little 
house in the village all to ourselves, a kitchen, a dining- and 
living-room, and three bedrooms where we sleep, snug and 
comfortable as can be, three in a room. It's such comfort to 
have our mess, sleeping, and living quarters together, which 
was impossible before. 

Well, last night, while I was lying comfortably on my cot, 
after dinner, reading the February Scribners (which with the 
two Green Books had just arrived), I heard voices through the 
open window proceeding from the doorway of the little cafe 
across the street, struggling hard in very, very bad and un- 



mistakably American French. I went at once to the rescue, 
and found two American soldiers trying to ask their way to a 
nearby town and incidentally to get something to eat. I in- 
terpreted for them and then, as the resources of the little cafe 
were limited as to food, I went back to our mess to forage. 
When the fellows found out what my mission was, they in- 
sisted on my inviting them over, which I did. We gave them 
some good fried eggs and cold meat, to say nothing of bread, 
butter, and coffee with real sugar in it. They enjoyed it hugely, 
as they were pretty tired and himgry. They were part of an 
advance party sent ahead of their unit on bicycles to find lodg- 
ings for the rest. It was mighty pleasant for me, too, to have 
some one to talk United States to. 

They were both regulars and among the first of our troops to 
see actual French fighting. One of them was a real old soldier 
of seventeen years standing, who had seen service in China and 
the Philippines. The other was much younger. The French- 
men were much interested in them, and kept Collins and me 
(Collins is the young Englishman who is in our escadrille) busy 
interpreting. Finally we set them on the right road and went 
home to bed. 

And again, on June 21 : 

Dear L. M. : 

I started a letter to you two or three days ago, but my letter 
was lost before I could finish it. I cabled to you two or three 
days ago, because for two or three weeks I had no chance to 
write. At the beginning of the last big attack in May we moved 
to be nearer the front. We got bombed out of the next place we 
went to, and since then we have moved four times; in the con- 
sequent hurry and confusion of moving I really have not had 
a chance to w rite. Harry Forster,^ whom I know you remember, 
is now a member of the same escadrille, and, though I expect 

1 Henry Forster (Harvard, '11), brother of Frederick Allen Forster, 
'10 (see Vol. n, pp. 138-1-10). 



him to leave every day for American Naval Aviation, while he 
stays here he is great company for me, because I have been long 
without another American to talk to. 

I 've done quite a bit of flying over the lines lately, but have 
had practically no fights. One time my lieutenant and I at- 
tacked five Bodies, but we almost immediately turned and ran, 
sending our machines down in a steep glide, zigzagging to escape 
the bullets of our pursuers. I could see the tracer bullets going 
by my companion's machine, and when we finally shook them 
off, we had dived full motor for nearly two thousand metres of 
height, and immediately we turned and climbed to continue 
our patrol. On landing one hour later, we found that the lieu- 
tenant's machine had ten or twelve bullet holes in it, while I 
got off scot-free. 

Now we are in a little town about thirty kilometres from the 
place we originally moved from, but still within reaching dis- 
tance of the cathedral town I wrote you about. I was there 
this morning, as it was mauvais temps, and I managed to get a 
few cigarettes from the Smith Girls' canteen. I tell them about 
Margaret, but they are all too old to know her — but it gets 
me cigarettes. 

My permission has been refused, because all permissions to 
the States are forbidden for the present; but I have been as- 
sured that as soon as these permissions are renewed, I will get 
one. I don't know whether to hold out for a permission home 
or try to transfer to the United States forces. What do you 
advise? I do so want to get home if only for a short time. But 
I am confused by a morbid sense that I would not pass the 
physical examination. I am not in good shape, not that I am 
sick, but I am not well. My group is a fairly typical French 
one, and incidentally contains some of the best chasse pilotes 
of France. I shall hold out in the French Army at least until I 
hear from you. I will be largely guided by your letter. 

The life, at present, I like very much, but I am handicapped 
in that because of my hopes for a permission home. I do not 



dare ask a permission here in France, and it is now eight months 
and more since I have had one. 

At present we are quartered in a large village in the midst 
of a heavilj' rolling country which reminds me very much of 
New England. Nearly all the houses here have large windows 
with rows of geraniums inside. It is the prettiest French vil- 
lage I think that I have ever seen. . . . 

It 's bed time now, and it 's early work tomorrow. Your sys- 
tem of first-class registered mail with the cigarettes works to 
perfection; I don't think I 've lost a package — keep it up. The 
packages sent by my friends seem to have hard luck. 

Lots of love to all, D. L. M., and especially to you. 

How much Tucker was sacrificing in forfeiting his 'per- 
mission on July 7 to his friend, in ignoring his own need 
of change — for he had never wholly thrown off the effects 
of jungle malaria contracted in Central America — and in 
stifling his strong premonition of disaster, this letter clearly 
suggests. On the next morning, July 8, he went on his 
regular patrol over the lines. This ended in an unequal 
combat in the vicinity of Soissons and Chateau-Thierry 
with fifteen German monoplanes against five single-seated 
Spads. The other four, manned by Frenchmen, returned 
in safety to their base, but Tucker never came back and 
was reported missing. 

All along the Chateau-Thierry front the Germans were 
preparing for their great retreat, or trying to prevent it. 
Skirmishes were frequent, reports were made carelessly, 
the wounded were cared for as well as possible, but facili- 
ties were indifferent. 

On this great battle field Tucker fell, in a level, sunny 
grain field beside the Longpont-Chaudun road. Pieces of 



an aeroplane were found there even two years later. The 
Germans reported to Berlin his fall, wounds, and death 
while unconscious. Their record is complete — the type 
of plane, Tucker's name, and New York address — but 
though it tells of his removal to a hospital in a little parish 
church at Checrise and his burial in the adjoining church- 
yard, there is stronger evidence that his body was found 
on the battle field at Vierzy. In spite of unremitting 
search by the Red Cross, these facts were not ascertained 
until the Berlin records were examined in August, 1920, 
and Tucker's body was identified in the following month. 
It now rests in the care of his home country in the LTnited 
States Military Cemetery at Seringes-et-Nesle, near Fere- 
en-Tardenois, with friends and countrymen. 

Two long summers spent in searching for traces of his 
fate and the place of his burial confirmed his mother's be- 
lief that it is the spirit only that counts; and in the sum- 
mer of 1921 she placed a bronze tablet, commemorative 
of her son's devotion to right and liberty, on a beautiful 
spot given her by the owner, the Marquis Guy de Lou- 
bersac, a French aviation officer, on the height of Violaine- 
Longpont, overlooking the field where he fell and the 
whole region over which he had often flown, filled with 
the pure joy of flight. This spot can be reached by taxi 
from the railroad station atVillers-Cotterets, or by a mile 
climb up the hill from the station at Longpont. It is on 
the farm of M. Leon Maurice, maire of Violaine-Longpont, 

At the end of the service diary which Tucker, like his 
comrades, was required to keep, his commanding officer 
wrote : 



Le Sergent Tucker n'est pas rentre. 

Secteur 25, 10 juillet 1918. 

A mon brave pilote Tucker pour touie Vestime que je lui ai portee 
et pour toutes les satisfactions inoubliables quil ma donnees durant 
son court sejour a mon escadrille a toujours donne le plus bel 
exemple d'energie et de devouement. 

V^ AouT 1918 
Le Capitaine Commandant 
Escadrille Spad 15 

In the summer of 1922 Tucker's family received notice 
that the Medaille Militaire had been posthumously awarded 
to him, in the following terms: 

Citoyen americain venu s'engager dans la Legion Etrangere 
pour servir sous les plis du drapeau franqais. Affecte pour la 
suite dans une escadrille de chasse s'est revele comme un pilote 
plein de hravoure et de sang-froid. Tombe glorieusement pour la 
France au cours d'un combat aerien au dessus la foret Villers- 
Cotterets le 8 juillet 1918. Croix de guerre. 



Class of 1913 

X HE exploit in which Wilham Vernon Booth, Jr., met his 
death has been described in the history of the Lafayette 
Flying Corps as "certainly one of the finest examples of 
cold daring the war has produced." The record of Booth's 
life shows it to have been a natural climax of all that had 
gone before. 

He was born at Chicago, October 8, 1889, a son of Wil- 
liam Vernon Booth, once president of the Booth Fisheries 
Company, and Helen (Lester) Booth. While he was in 
college his family moved from Chicago to New York, but 
nearly all his preparation for college was made at South- 
borough, Massachusetts, where he attended the Fay 
School before entering the first form of St. Mark's in 1903. 



There, according to "St. Mark's School in the War against 
Germany," he "took a distinguished part in athletics, 
playing for two years on the football, hockey, and base- 
ball teams, and being made captain of the baseball team 
in his sixth form year. He was a good scholar and was 
appointed a monitor." Still more significant is the follow- 
ing statement from the same source; "At school, Vernon 
Booth's physical build could not account for his efficiency 
in athletics and apparent immunity from injury. Usually 
it was he who at a decisive point in a contest, and often a 
discouraging point, applied that extra ounce of fight 
which neither he nor his companions knew existed in the 
team, and which won victory or staved off defeat. The 
spirit, stronger than the body and stronger than pain, was 
beyond all estimate and check; the ordinary measures of 
morale and courage could not explain it, for the greater 
the need, the more surely he met it. And in the class- 
room, shy, quiet, and observant, with shining eyes, he 
made and maintained high rank without the self-compla- 
cency which so often attends it, assimilating as he learned." 

Coming to Harvard in the autumn of 1909 and graduat- 
ing with his class in 1913, he continued his interest in 
athletics as a member of the freshman baseball and hockey 
teams, and soon won himself the nickname of "The 
Battler." Later he became manager and captain of the 
Varsity golf team. He was also a member of the 1913 
finance committee in his sophomore year, and joined the 
Institute of 1770, D.K.E., Polo, Kalumet, Hasty Pudding, 
and A.D. Clubs. 

Booth's course at Harvard was followed by professional 
study at the New York Law School. Upon his graduation 



there he entered the law office of Piatt and Field in New 
York, where he was at work when the United States made 
its declaration of war. Booth at once volunteered for 
service in the Army, but, because he was under weight 
and height, failed of acceptance. Determined upon some 
form of military service, he then sought the American 
representative of the Lafayette Flying Corps, for which he 
was tested at the Newport News field, with the result that 
he was promptly ordered to prepare for sailing overseas. 
On May 19, 1917, he sailed from New York, and on June 3 
enlisted, at Paris, in the Lafayette Flying Corps. With 
this organization he remained throughout his career, 
although offered a commission in the event of transferring 
to the American Expeditionary Forces. 

Booth received his training in aviation at the schools of 
Avord, Pau, and G. D. E. (Plessis-Belleville) . It began 
June 19, 1917, and lasted until January 8, 1918, when he 
was ordered to join Escadrille Spad 96 at the front, and 
with this he served from January 10 until he received his 
fatal injuries on June 15. On October 16 he was breveted 
pilote (Caudron), and was promoted corporal, October 17, 
sergeant June 13. His service at the front was continuous, 
except for a leave, during which, on April 27, he was married 
in Paris to Miss Ethel Forgan of Chicago, who was work- 
ing in Y. M. C. A. canteens. On May 14 he returned to 
his escadrille. 

A few of his letters to his parents contain passages illus- 
trating his life as an aviator. 



Pau, November 26, 1917. 
Dear Mother: 

Tomorrow will be Thanksgiving day and also my last day 
at any school, if it is half way decent, for tomorrow morning I 
do the acrobatics and then will be through, for they have cut 
out the last two classes and we will get that training for the first 
two months with the escadrille. It is the new system and I think 
it should be much better. The acrobatics consist of vrilles — a 
spinning nose dive with the motor out ; renversements — a method 
of turning by pointing the machine up, flipping it over on the 
back and then pulling back so that you come back in exactly 
the same line in which you came; vertical virages — another way 
of turning by snapping the machine around 180 degree corners; 
and wing slips — a way of losing altitude very quickly and very 
hard to follow, by reducing the motor and turning the machine 
on its side so there is no supporting surface. They say the sen- 
sations are rather unpleasant at first until you get used to them 
and are hard to do correctly, but easy enough to try and get out 
of. When we get our planes at the escadrille we have to practise 
them until we can do them perfectly — here we only learn to go 
through the motions necessary and get somewhat used to them. 
So I shall be glad when it is dinner time tomorrow. 

The American colony in Pau are going to give all the American 
pilots a big T. dinner. The flying here has been great fun, 
bully small, fast machines that are well looked after, but the 
weather has been very cloudy. Today I finished val de grou'pe 
in 110 H. P. 15 m. Nieuport. W^ent up the river right over the 
promenade at 300 metres as the clouds were low as far as the base 
of the mountains, then saw a rift and went up through it and 
saw the peaks of the mountains for the first time since I have 
been here. At 1500 metres it was a beautiful warm sunny day, 
with a mass of soft white clouds below, through which now and 
then I could see the ground and close by were the mountains 
sticking up through the clouds. There was not a movement in 
the air so I just sat there and took it all in. I throttled the motor 



down so it would n't climb, let go the stick and watched the 
clouds change their formations. I lost the machines I was flying 
with in the clouds and mists below and, as I could n't see any 
other machine up there, felt absolutely alone in the world. I 
could judge my approximate position by the mountains, sun, 
and an occasional glimpse of the river, so did not worry about 
getting lost. However, it got lonesome after an hour, so came 
down and began to dodge the clouds again as I had to stay up 
two hours and a quarter to finish up. 

A couple of days ago we had great sport diving at horses, cows, 
etc., in the fields down the river. We cut the motors and then 
piqued down at one of them, trying to keep the crossed front 
strut wires on the animal. This served instead of the sight 
which we get later. It was quite hard to do as it was very windy 
and bumpy, so I was thrown around and had to keep correcting 
continually. When we got within ten or fifteen feet we flattened 
out, put on the motor and went on our way jumping a hedge, 
house, or row of trees at the end of the field. When we tired 
of that we got down about ten feet over the river and tried to 
follow its winding course. Many times we could n't do it as the 
turns were too sharp, so had to pull up fast so as to clear the 
trees on the banks. That was when you realized the speed, as 
the trees were a green streak on each side going by well over a 
100 miles an hour. 

I get forty-eight hoiu-s permission in Paris, then to Plessis- 
Belleville to wait to be assigned — two to three weeks probably, 
and then two months' practice before going on regular patrol 

As this will probably reach you about Christmas, I wish you 
all a very Merry Christmas and wish that I could be there. 

Hope you are all well, I am fine, 

Much love, 




February 1, 1918. 
Dear Mother: 

The weather has eased up and the past week has been like 
spring. As a consequence we had patrols over the lines every 
day, and a few days ago had the good fortune to bring down a 
Boche machine. It was only the second time, very far within 
the German lines, so was all the easier. We were flying in for- 
mation, the Lieutenant ahead as Chef de Groupe, Ferguson and 
myself just behind on his right and left respectively, and another 
behind us, when, as we approached the end of our sector, we 
saw the Boche plane about 2000 metres below us. It was a 
large bi-plane, probably a Rumpler, regulating artillery. The 
Chef signaled to go after it, so down we went, weaving in and 
out trying to get into a good position to dive. \Mien he was 
about 200 metres over it, he dove and opened fire shortly after- 
ward. I was about 150 metres behind, so dove immediately. 
I got in position, which happened before he pulled up. After 
we got out of the way, I opened up and pulled out of the dive 
just above him — the Boche. W^e then looked around to see 
what had happened — but we could n't have hit him very seri- 
ously, as he was flying all right. The other two stayed above us 
to protect us from any stray Boche who might have come unex- 
pectedly on the scene. We worked around again for position 
and repeated, this time with better luck for on the way down I 
saw the tracer bullets going into the fusilage, and when I was 
quite close he fell over into a vrille. A moment after we saw 
him crash into a wood. I doubt whether or not it will be 
counted officially as at the time he fell he was eight kilometres 
within the lines and only eight hundred metres high so that the 
French observers probably did not see it. 

March U, 1918. 
Dear Father: 

Yesterday was quite a big day with a review of the whole 
Groupe de Combat by General Petain, Commander-in-Chief of 
the French Armies in France, with numerous other "big bugs." 



He looked us over and said that Ferguson and I looked like 
Frenchmen and that we could all stay with them as long as we 
liked, so now all the talk about compulsory transfers should be 
stopped — we shall stay at least until fall. I had not done any 
flying here since I flew out from Paris until yesterday morning, 
as my machine would not run. We finally got it going, and I 
went up to try it out. It seemed all right, so I finished with a 
vrille. When I came out I found some of the wires were jump- 
ing around like a skipping rope and others simply waving like 
wet towels in the wind. 

June 2, 1918. 
Dear Mother: 

We came down here, as I last wrote you that we would, and 
and today we are moving again. In fact I have already taken 
one machine down and am back for my own which is having a 
new motor put in and will not be ready for an hour. The old 
one was a corker, but it had so much work they would not let 
me fly it any more for fear it would give up the ghost some day 
over the lines. But the last couple of days I have been using 
a new man's machine, who had never been over the lines, and 
although only 180 H. P. it went very well. We have been very 
busy with this new drive and have had a lot of shooting up the 
troops, which is the best sport of all. The cavalry make the 
biggest fuss and make rather sporting targets when they dash 
across the fields, while a herd of cows are no fun, they just stand, 
look up and wonder what goes on. A couple of days ago we 
made that mistake as they were in an orchard and we could not 
see them very well. Yesterday I had a little show all my own, 
when, during a regular patrol, all the others had left on account 
of some kind of motor trouble. As I had half an hour's essence 
left, I decided to straff the Huns on my own account, so went 
down looking for them. The lines were not known exactly, as 
the Huns had advanced considerably during the day. I looked 
over three columns before I finally found a Boche outfit. It 
happened to be an ammunition train, so I came down and gave 



them all I had, I saw some horses and several Huns fall over — 
the rest running up the road or into the ditches on either side. 
I was only a few metres above, so could see it all and was quite 
pleased with the result. . . . The advance is slowing up somewhat, 
and I hope it will be stopped altogether in a couple of days. 

Jnne 17, 1918. 
Dear Father: 

A few days ago we moved again and from the present look of 

things I think we shall probably stay for some time as we can 

work on two fronts equally well from here and they will be 

the busy ones when things start up again. There is one peculiar 

thing about it though and that is, I can look up any time and 

see about where is working and yet I cannot go there. . . . 

We were out on a low patrol and I saw a Hun observation plane 

coming up the lines and went down the lines to have a whack 

at him. I was just getting around to get into position to get 

him good and at the same time keep out of his fire as much as 

possible, when my motor stopped. We were not very high at 

the time, but I had some wind at my back so figured for an open 

spot in the woods, the only one in sight but well within the lines 

I thought. It happened the Huns had advanced a couple of 

kilometres on that section since we had left, so the lines on my 

map were wrong — and when I was only one hundred metres 

up, I saw their front line trenches in front of me. I had been 

fooling with the menets on the way down and just then, as luck 

would have it, the motor gave a few extra coughs which enabled 

me to lengthen my pique and get into our lines. Just in front 

were nothing but large shell holes and trees, neither of which 

looked very inviting. A few more kicks carried me over them 

with a little space and I finally landed on the side of a hill between 

some trees, just in front of the second line trenches. It did n't 

take me long to climb out, taking such instruments as I could 

grab off quickly and beat it for cover. I finally wandered back to 

division headquarters and was sent back to rail-head by auto. 

That night the Huns advanced further, taking the ground 



where the machine remained, but they did not get it, for I left 
orders to burn it up in case of a further retreat. The lucky 
thing about it, I had to go to Paris in order to reach the esca- 
drille — so had an afternoon and evening with before re- 

These letters afford no indication of Booth's actual 
achievements as a combatant in the war, nor is it possible 
to suggest them more fully than by saying that he co- 
operated in engagements at Amiens, Montdidier, Chemin 
des Dames, Compiegne, and Foret de Villers-Cotterets, and 
that he was officially credited with the destruction of two 
enemy airplanes. It was in a fight between seven French 
and eighteen German planes that this "Battler" fell on 
June 25, with injuries that resulted in his death on July 10 
in the Scottish Women's Hospital at Asnieres-sur-Oise after 
he had undergone the amputation of one of his legs. The 
operation was performed in the hope of stopping the spread 
of the poison with which it was believed that he had been 
infected by an explosive bullet fired in the action. His 
wife was with him when he died. 

The circumstances of his last engagement are best 
described in a paragraph taken from "The Lafayette 
Flying Corps": 

On June 25, above the fighting to the south of Soissons, 
Booth was engaged in bitter combat with a swarm of Fokkers. 
Hemmed in, outnumbered and maneuvering desperately, always 
on the offensive. Booth's machine was suddenly set on fire by 
an incendiary bullet, and at the same instant an explosive ball 
shattered his right leg, inflicting a terrible wound. Enveloped 
in flames and in an agony of pain, he still kept his head, and 
after a straight plunge of 6000 feet succeeded in putting out 



the fire. But by now the motor had stopped for good, forcing 
him to land near Longpont, by misfortune at a point exactly 
between the lines, forty yards from the Germans — thirty from 
the French. The Germans promptly turned rifles, machine 
guns, and even 37 mm. cannon on the Spad, but in spite of a 
storm of lead and bursting shell, severely burned and dragging 
a mangled leg. Booth painfully extricated himself from his 
plane, deliberately set fire to what remained of it, and crawled to 
the French lines. In the hospital, on July 4, this splendid act 
of courage was rewarded with the Medaille Militaire, and on 
July 10 Booth died from the effects of his wounds. He was the 
best-loved of comrades and a soldier who upheld with honor the 
finest traditions of his country. 

The terms in which the Medaille Militaire was conferred 
upon Booth as he lay in the hospital were these : 

Pilote d'un splendide courage. Au cours d'tm combat confre 
quatre avians ennemis a ete grievement blesse, son appareil ay ant 
pris feu en Vair, a pu grace a sa presence d'esprit et malgre de 
fortes brulures eteindre Vincendie et atterrir normalement entre les 
lignes a quarante metres des tranchees ennemies. A incendie son 
appareil et regagne les positions franqaises malgre un feu violent 
des canons et des mitrailleuses. 

Les nominations ci-dessus comportent V attribution de la Croix 
de Guerre avec palme. 

Le General Commandant en Chef 


In addition to this the Order of the Legion of Honor 
was awarded to him on July 27, 1918. 



Class of 1917 

Olaudius Ralph Farnsworth was born in Provi' 
dence, Rhode Island, March 25, 1895. His father, John 
Prescott Farnsworth, of the Harvard Class of 1881, a 
descendant of Matthias Farnsworth, an early settler of 
Groton, Massachusetts, was a prominent manufacturer 
and man of affairs in Providence, a trustee of the Provi- 
dence Public Library, and at one time president of the 
Providence Chamber of Commerce. His grandfather, 
Claudius Buchanan Farnsworth, was a graduate of Har- 
vard, in the Class of 1841. His mother was Margaret 
Cochrane (Barbour) Farnsworth. 

Ralph Farnsworth, one of the three sons of John Pres- 
cott Farnsworth, had most of his preparation for college 



at the Moses Brown School in Providence. For the next 
to the last of his years at school he attended Phillips- 
Exeter Academy. Entering Harvard from the Moses 
Brown School in the autumn of 1913, he acquitted himself 
creditably as a member of the Class of 1917, with which 
he graduated. But for defective eyesight he would have 
gratified a natural liking for military life by trying to 
enter West Point. As it was, he came to Harvard with 
the intention of preparing himself for the medical profes- 
sion. In his junior year he won a Harvard College Scholar- 
ship. He took an active interest in football and rowing, 
but was not one of the athletes of his class. He belonged 
to the Pi Eta Society, and was a member of the "show 
committee " in his senior year. He also joined the Harvard 

His military interest expressed itself, moreover, by his 
attending the Plattsburg camp in the summer of 1916, 
and enlisting, March 30, 1917, in Battery A, First Massa- 
chusetts Field Artillery. With this organization, which 
was federahzed July 25, 1917, and designated Battery A, 
101st Field Artillery, 26th Division, he served continu- 
ously until his death. Promoted private, first class, in 
August, he sailed for France with his regiment in Septem- 
ber, and was promoted corporal in November. 

His experiences under arms were those of his regiment, 
with engagements in the Chemin des Dames and La Reine 
sectors, and finally at Chateau-Thierry. A passage from 
one of his letters, dated April 7, 1918, speaks clearly for 
the spirit in which his service was rendered: 

It is well that you have come to realize at home that we are 
in for a long struggle, but the longer I am here, the more sacred 



our cause becomes. I am not trying to be heroic or impressive 
when I say that we are the crusaders of our day. We are any- 
thing but heroic or impressive in appearance, but beneath our 
often unkempt appearance, our undignified slides for cover, and 
our very human fear of shot and shell, I know there is the spirit 
of our crusading ancestors, well camouflaged, it is true, but 
there nevertheless. 

In a later letter (June 14, 1918) he wrote: 

From various points of the line come reports of various Yan- 
kee activities, and I know what my own comrades are doing 
here. On the whole I think we can honestly feel that we are 
beginning to stand up to the oar in our share, and that we are 
becoming more deserving of the term "Ally." Along with a deep 
hatred of the Boche has come the conviction that we are in to a 
finish, that an existence without victory is intolerable. 

In the Triennial Report of the Class of 1917, the circum- 
stances of Farnsworth's death in action at Montreuil-aux- 
Leons, near Chateau-Thierry, July 12, 1918, are related 
as follows: 

It seems that his gun had been fired more than any other, and 
a comrade quotes his own words, "Its life was about ended." 
At 3 A.M. on the twelfth came an order to put down a barrage. 
Overheated by the rapid fire, his piece made a shell explode pre- 
maturely. The gun corporal had already been killed, and Farns- 
worth, although acting as sergeant and chief of section, was 
loading and sighting the gun. He had one other man only with 
him who pulled the lanyard. Ralph was leaning over to pick up 
a shell to reload when the explosion came. It was at the edge of 
the woods near Montreuil, and his body was buried at Bezu-le- 

By a later interment the body of Ralph Farnsworth was 
placed in the Swan Point Cemetery at Providence, where 
his father and mother are buried. 



"Ralph," wrote his classmate J. W. D. Seymour in the 
1917 Triennial Report, "had been a straightforward man's 
man always. He gave the best that was in him to any 
cause he felt to be right, and he never hesitated to give 
himself wholly and without reservations. He is missed 
by many who called him friend." 



Class of 1919 

i T is hardlv more necessary to inform the readers of this 
book that Theodore Roosevelt, the father of Quentin 
Roosevelt, was a member of the Harvard Class of 1880 
than that he was President of the United States. His 
youngest child, Quentin, was born to him and his wife, 
Edith Kermit (Carow) Roosevelt, at Washington, No- 
vember 19, 1897, while he was serving as Assistant Secre- 
tary of the Navy in the McKinley administration. Within 
six months came the Spanish War, with its effects upon 
the fortunes of Theodore Roosevelt, and consequently on 
those of his family, symbolized in the fact that the title of 
"Colonel," won at that time, remained to the end of his 
life the name by which he was most commonly known. 



The background of that life, at Washington and else- 
where, has been for more than twenty years so familiar an 
object of interest and knowledge to Americans in general 
that it would be superfluous here to do more than suggest 
it, especially since the publication of Theodore Roose- 
velt's "Letters to his Children" — a book in which the 
youngest of the family, "Blessed Quenty-Quee," inevi- 
tably appears with a peculiar distinctness: the conditions 
of Quentin Roosevelt's boyhood call for no detailed recital. 
Yet the newspapers at the time of his death brought 
forth certain illustrations of his boyish characteristics 
which may be repeated here. One of them was in the 
form of a statement by the principal of the Peter Force 
Public School in Washington, which — besides the Epis- 
copal High School at Alexandria, Virginia — Quentin 
Roosevelt attended before leaving home to enter Groton 
School. "Quentin's leading characteristic," said this 
teacher, "was determination to succeed in anything. 
Alwavs at the forefront in everv movement in the school, 
he was the liveliest kind of boy, showing even in those 
early years the qualities which made his father what he is. 
He was uncommonly bright intellectually, and was always 
at the head of any athletic movement in the school." His 
love of nature and of animals, warmly encouraged by his 
father, accounted for his menagerie of living pets at the 
White House. It was a pleasant thing to read about in the 
news of Washington. So was the story of the pony which 
he felt that his brother Archie, sick with diphtheria, must 
see if he was to recover. Smuggling the little beast into 
the White House elevator he succeeded — if the legend 
be true — in conveying him to an upper bedroom and 



exhibiting him to his dehghted brother. There was even 
a rumor that his father might have thwarted the plan, but 
did not. However that may be, a hkeable flavor is found 
in another story of Quentin Roosevelt, asked in his turn 
at school to state the occupation of his father, and declar- 
ing, "My father's just it." An indication of his boyish 
quality, with a prophetic suggestion of the future, ap- 
pears, besides, in a letter he wrote from Europe, in the 
summer holiday before his twelfth birthday, telling a 
Washington schoolmate of the delight he found in watch- 
ing the flight of aeroplanes at Rheims. 

From the day schools in and near Washington, the boy 
proceeded to Groton School, at which he graduated in 
1915. His contributions to the school paper, the Grolon- 
ian, revealed a marked quality of imagination, upon which 
the war in Europe, begun before he entered college, took 
a strong hold. An injury to his back, received during one 
of his summer camping and hunting trips in the West, 
handicapped his participation in athletic sports. One of 
the consequences may have been a fuller development in 
other directions. So, at least, the following passage from 
a newspaper "tribute" to Quentin Roosevelt, written im- 
mediately after his death by the Rev. Endicott Peabody, 
Rector of Groton School, leads one to infer: 

He was an eager and intelligent reader, familiar with many 
branches of literature. When he was consigned to bed, as he 
used to be occasionally on account of his back, he would appear 
at the infirmary with an armful of books — standard works, or 
the writings of the real authors of the day. The power of con- 
centration, a faculty possessed by many members of the Roose- 
velt family — which accounts for their enthusiasm and ability 



to do things — was highly developed in Quentin. He took much 
interest in printing, and spent many hours in the school press, 
acquiring a skill which would have qualified him without 
further preparation for the position of a journeyman printer. 
It was characteristic of him that he was often found sitting on 
a stool by the side of a clattering monotype machine which 
was noisily stamping out its letters, and as he gave himself up 
completely to the enjoyment of Browning or some other favorite 
author, he had an ear open to the slightest variation of the com- 
plex apparatus. 

Socially he was a most agreeable companion for persons of all 
ages, for he had been much with his parents as their comrade as 
well as with his contemporaries. His sense of humor was keen 
and unfailing, and always of a kindly nature. He was mentally 
alert, sympathetic, interested in many persons and all kinds of 
things. He was a friend who did not forget. 

Entering Harvard in the autumn of 1915, Quentin 
Roosevelt remained in college only until the United States 
entered the war. In his freshman year he was manager of 
the Gore Hall and 1919 interclass football teams. He 
served on his class entertainment committee and in the 
Harvard Regiment. In the summer of 1916 he attended 
the Officers' Training Camp at Plattsburg. He belonged 
to the Institute of 1770, D. K. E., Hasty Pudding, and 
Groton School Clubs. It was not a time in college when 
even the most studious w^ere at their best in scholarship. 
At a freshman midyear examination in mathematics, 
Quentin Roosevelt, suffering from grippe, was more than 
commonly below par; but the verses which he wrote at 
the end of his "blue book" seemed to his examiner, Pro- 
fessor E. V. Huntington, worth sending to Colonel Roose- 
velt as an indication of something besides mathematical 



ability in his son. They will serve a kindred purpose 


Ode to a Math A Exam 

"If it be not fair to me, 
What care I how fair it be?" 


How can I work when my brain is whirling? 
What can I do if I 've got the grippe? 
Why make a bluff at a knowledge that 's lacking? 
What is the use if I don't give a rip? 


Cosine and tangent, cotangent, abscissa, 

Dance like dry leaves through my sneeze-shattered head, 

Square root of a- plus hr plus A:' 

Gibber and grin in the questions I 've read. 


Self-centered circles and polar coordinates. 
Triangles twisted and octagons wild, 
Loci whose weirdness defies all description, 
Mountains of zeros all carefully piled. 


Still I plod on in a dull desperation. 

Head aching dismally, ready to sip 

Goblets of strychnine or morphine or vitriol — 

How can I work when I 've got the grippe? 

On the entrance of the United States into the war, 
Quentin Roosevelt sought and obtained his father's per- 
mission to enlist in the aviation service, for which, both 
in temperament and through the possession of a strong 
mechanical sense, he seemed peculiarly qualified. The 
injury to his back, which might well have hindered other 



military employment, was not prohibitive here. In one 
of the letters contained in "Quentin Roosevelt: A Sketch 
with Letters,"^ edited by Kermit Roosevelt, from which 
other passages will be quoted in this memoir, his light- 
hearted dealing with the processes of enlistment is char- 
acteristically described. 

I trotted down to the War Department, to start in on a 
complicated game of catch as catch can with the Aviation au- 
thorities. Their policy is one of mystery. You ask for an ap- 
plication whereupon a little colored "pusson" takes you in tow 
through some twenty miles of stairs to an equally little white 
man who gives you a blank. The rest of your day is spent in 
taking that little blank for visits to various dens in the building. 

Next comes your physical exam, over which a hypochondriac 
with the darkest views of his fellow-men presides. After two 
hours of a twentieth-century refinement of the inquisition you 
are pronounced fit, and travel on again for your mental test. 
The presiding deity there is a gentleman who feels like David 
— or was it Isaiah — that all men are liars. And the questions: 
"What is the average age of the Dodo?" the correct answer 
should be 37. "What is the average sex?" but to go on. 

It really did take me two days to get by all the red tape, and 
apparently I was miraculously lucky at that. 

His enlistment as private, first class. Aviation Section, 
Signal Corps, was achieved April '27, 1917. He was im- 
mediately detailed to Mineola, Long Island, and commis- 
sioned first lieutenant. On July 23, in company with his 
Groton and Harvard classmate, Hamilton Coolidge, he 
sailed for France in the first detachment of American 
aviators ordered overseas. His external experiences in 
France may be summarized in a list of his successive as- 
1 Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 1921. 



signments : In August he was attached to the air service 
headquarters in Paris; in October was detailed as in- 
structor to the 3d Aviation Instruction Centre at Issoudun; 
on February 28, 1918, to the Aerial Gunnery School at 
Cazaux; in March he returned to Issoudun Instruction 
Centre; in June was detailed to the 1st Army Acceptance 
Park at Orly; and on June 15 was assigned to the 95th 
Pursuit Squadron, 1st Pursuit Group. While attached to 
this squadron he was killed in action near Chamery, July 
14, 1918, having cooperated in engagements in the Toul 
and Marne-Aisne sectors, with official credit for the de- 
struction of one enemy airplane. 

In all his experience preceding the final month at the 
front he acquitted himself admirably as an instructor and 
a supply officer, and won the affection and respect both 
of pupils and of fellow-officers. His energy and resource 
in the securing of supplies were quite exceptional. A 
characteristic story was told in the summer of Quentin 
Roosevelt's death by President Crawford of Allegheny Col- 
lege, recently returned from Y. M. C. A. training work 
overseas. He reported a meeting in the preceding winter 
with the young officer, to whom he said, "Lieutenant, there 
are large numbers of Americans who are very proud of the 
way the four sons of Theodore Roosevelt are acquitting 
themselves in this war"; and added, "I shall never forget 
how his face lighted up as he made reply, 'Well, you know 
it's rather up to us to practise what Father preaches.'" 
Throughout this practice there was, in addition to vigorous 
action, an abundance of thought and feeling, of which a 
full record is to be found in the "Sketch with Letters," ^ 

1 From the same volume many details of this memoir are also taken. 



already mentioned. From this volume a few significant 
passages are assembled in the following pages. They rep- 
resent indeed both action and the sentiment of high- 
spirited youth — action the more remarkable because 
accomplished in the face of a physical handicap which led 
Quentin Roosevelt to write in one of his first letters from 
France, disappointed in the hope of going early to the 
front: "I wanted to get started flying, and have it over 
with. I know my back would n't last very long." 

On August 22 he wrote of two motor-cycle smashups in 
which he was hurt on each of two successive days. But 

there was soon another story to tell: 

August 26, 1917. 

Today I was at Bourges and had my lunch at a queer little 
tavern, black with age, that lies in the corner of an old castle 
wall. Over the door-way hangs a faded sign, Aux trois raisins 
noirs, and up by the wall runs a little, crooked alley, half cob- 
blestone, half steps, that is called Rue Cassecou. I know you 
would have loved it, — and Madame who stands at your table, 
red-cheeked and with the white cap that the peasant women 
wear, while Monsieur le proprietaire cooks the omelet. I took 
an hour off from my work, for there were places that cried for 
exploration, — narrow winding streets that might lead any- 
where, and finally did bring me to the cathedral. It has one 
square tower, but all around the walls are buttressed, like those 
in Notre Dame. It is surrounded by a cluster of crooked little 
streets, whose houses seem as grey and ancient as the gargoyles 
on the tower. I went in, for there was no service. Once inside 
it seemed like another world. There was quiet so deep that I 
could hear the patter of the sacristan's feet as he came toward 
me, and the whispers of two old peasant women who knelt at 
a little shrine in the wall. It is like Chartres, for as you come in 
you see only the sombre gloom of the vaulted arches, and then 
as you pass on you look back on the glory of a great rose window. 



There was one window — a virgin with a veil — before whom 
candles were lit, — that was so lovely that I burnt before her a 

I shall be very glad to get any books that you can send me. 
At the moment my library consists of the collected works of 
Gaston Leblanc, father of Arsene Lupin, and the "Pageant of 
English Poetry," and "The Wind in the Willows." . . . 

I wonder if I ever told you my pet prayer, — almost the only 
one that I care for. It was written, I think, by Bishop Potter, 
"O Lord, protect us all the day long of our troublous life in 
earth, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and 
the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over, and our work 
is done. Then in Thy mercy grant us a safe lodging and peace 
at the last, through Jesus Christ, our Lord." I 've always loved 
it, and now, when life is hard, and all that is dearest to me is 
far away, it is a comfort to think that sometime all this will be 
past, and that we will have peace. 

December 8, 1917. 
These little fast machines are delightful. You feel so at 
home in them, for there is just room in the cockpit for you and 
your controls, and not an inch more. And then they're so 
quick to act. . . . 

It's frightfully cold, now, though. Even in my teddy-bear, 
— that 's what they call those aviator suits, — I freeze pretty 
generally, if I try any ceiling work. If it's freezing down be- 
low it is some cold up about fifteen thousand. Aviation has 
considerably altered my views on religion. I don't see how the 
angels stand it. Do you remember that delightful grey mufiler 
you made me? It's very soft, — either Angora or camel's hair, 
I think, — and is now doing yeoman duty bridging the gap 
between the top of my suit and the bottom of my helmet. I 
think it is bringing me luck, too, for I am flying much better, 
now that I wear it every day. As a matter of fact I am wearing 
just about everything movable 'round my room now, and expect 
to for the next four months or so. 



I had an exciting time two weeks ago with a plane. I was 
taking off, and had just got my wheels clear when a bit of mud 
got thrown against the propeller and broke it. One of the pieces 
went through the gasoline tank and before the wheels were 
really down on the ground again, or before I even had a chance 
to cut the switch, the whole thing was in flames. I made a wild 
snatch at my safety belt, got it undone, and slid out of the plane 
on the doublequick time. It can't have taken me more than 
thirty seconds, and yet when I got out, my boots and pant legs 
were on fire. 

[Written while recovering from a mild attach of pneumonia] 

December 16. 

I have just started to really convalesce, and am being allowed 
to read and write again. I was really quite sick for a while, a 
good deal sicker than I thought I was, and so, as soon as my 
temperature began to go down again I thought I was good for 
letter writing and reading. The medico sat on that scheme, 
though, so today is my first day of doing anything at all for 
ten days. I am to be kept in bed here until I am well enough 
to make the trip safely, and then am to be sent up for a two 
weeks' sick leave, when I shall see Eleanor in Paris, and get 
all fixed up again. 

We have now got a real man-size organization over here now, 
and it has struck our school down here, for we now have my old 
Mineola K. O. He has made the most tremendous difference 
to the place. . . . 

The Colonel, when he put me in command, told me I was to 
try and get things straightened out as far as possible, and then 
make a detailed report on the state of things. I started in and 
found I was up against a most tremendous job. The cadets 
had no organization at all. They were being used for guard duty 
and nothing else, and there is nothing more demoralizing for a 
lot of men than doing guard under frightful conditions, and 
nothing else. I started in, and after two days sent in a report 
as long as a presidential message, asking that more enlisted men 



be detailed to relieve the guard, that arrangements be made to 
ship off cadets to preliminary schools if possible, and that if 
there were any vacancies for non-flying commissions in the air 
service, they be issued to cadets on a competitive examination. 
Then I got together the officers, and picked out six assistants 
who I knew would work and were good fellows, and arranged 
that the seven of us be excused from regular flying formations. 
Thus we could work at the cadets and tuck in our flying when- 
ever we had a spare moment. Then we divided them up into 
organizations of two hundred and fifty and started to lick them 
into some sort of military shape. Outside of the non-fliers, I 
now have one hundred and fifty fliers, and twenty navy fliers — 
known unofficially as the flying fish — and we have got them 
working out fairly well, though it's a pretty unsatisfactory sit- 
uation at best. I know if I were a cadet I should feel justified in 
kicking if, after being enlisted because I had a college educa- 
tion and was recommended by all sorts of people as good avia- 
tion material, I was used as a guard for an aviation camp with 
the prospect of flying in four or five months. 

The doctor has come in and ordered me to lie down again, 
so I must stop. I have been a perfect pig about not writing 
more, and from now on you will see a vast change in the news 
from me, for I have loved your letters. The trouble is that 
writing home makes me get gloomy, for then you start looking 
at the war as a whole, — an impossible system. I have given 
it up entirely, and take it day by day. The only really satis- 
factory thing is that flying is wonderful fun on these new ma- 
chines. I wish you could see them. We can do stunts that you 
would think were impossible after watching a Curtis wallow 
along through the air. 

January 29, 1918. 

... I have been having a continual fight with the doctors, 

though, and incidentally with myself. The trouble is that I have 

been getting in so much flying lately that I am tired out most of 

the time. The net result was that I collected another cough, as 



my lung was n't quite fixed up. I had been feeling rather poorly, 
but I was pretty anxious to get my flying done, so I was keep- 
ing on. Then today I dropped over to the main camp to see 
Ham, and there was caught by Major Goldthwaite. The first 
thing he decided, after looking me over, was that I had measles, 
because I had a cold, and a temp, and there was a suspicious 
rash on me. I finally persuaded him out of that, and then he 
turned on the other tack, and said that my vitality was low, 
and that I was very likely to get something if I did n't look out, 
and ended with orders for me to go on light duty, and do no 
work for a week. I don't know what I am going to do about it, 
for I certainly can't quit flying for a week right now, when I am 
finishing up. In the first place, they are getting ready to send 
a couple of squadrons up within a reasonably short time, and I 
am going to have a hard enough time anyway trying to get my- 
self a place in one of them. I think I shall wait and see how 
things turn out. 

In the meantime, I am going to bed at the noble hour of 
eight-thirty, which means that there won't be very much more 
to this letter. 

February 21, 1918. 

I'm at the moment indulging in the not over-satisfactory 
feeling of knowing that I 've done what I ought to have done, 
even though it was n't what was pleasantest. I was given the 
chance of being permanently — that is for the next three 
months — stationed at Paris, to deliver planes to the various 
depots. You see, the heart of the aeroplane industry is Paris, 
— for all the big factories are there. Consequently, we have 
American testers, who receive the planes, test them, and then 
accept or reject them. If they are accepted they have to be 
flown to their various destinations. I was to be in charge of 
that particular branch, and to arrange for the deliveries. It 
would be wonderful fun, of course, for I'd be flying all over 
France — out to the front as well as to the various schools be- 
hind the lines. There would be a certain amount of good ex- 



perience in it, too, but the trouble is, it 's a job for a man back 
from the front for a rest, — or one who 's had a bad crash and 
lost his nerve. It 's no occupation for me who have never been 
to the front. And so I turned it down, and I've been thinking, 
rather regretfully, of the good times I might have had in Paris. 
I would like to get a job testing, though, for I think that is 
valuable work. I don't think there's much chance of that. A 
tester is never an emhusqiie, for, after all, you can't call a man 
a slacker whose job is testing planes to see if they're strong 
enough, and well built enough to stand service. Besides, a 
tester gets wonderful flying experience, for he flies all kinds of 
machines, and in case he gets a machine that is what the French 
call nialregle, he has a slight sample of what flying at the front 
may be like with part of your controlling surfaces shot away. 

So I am still in my old work here, and having a rather amus- 
ing time, for I am not exactly sure what I am. I feel a little 
like the song, "Am I the Governor-General, or a hobo?" — for 
no one, least of all headquarters, can make out just what my 
status is. I am hanging on like grim death, until I can get sent 
out to the front. Once I have had my three weeks or so with 
the French or English, I will have some sort of a foundation 
to base on, but till then, I '11 probably remain an official mystery. 

In the meantime, I am getting in all kinds of flying, and I 
think accomplishing a certain amount in the line of training the 
new men at the same time. Yesterday I took a group of ten off 
for a reconnaissance. They all had their maps, and the object 
was to make them keep formation and at the same time make 
out from the map where they are going. It 's good practice for 
them, but by way of being dull for me, — so I thought I 'd liven 
it up by doing a couple of virages d la verticale and generally 
fooling round the sky. I did that for about five minutes — 
always keeping the general direction I was going, but more or 
less wagging my tail en route — and then looked around for the 
formation, which should have been following above in two nice 
"V's" of five. Instead, they were scattered all over the land- 



scape like flies. 1 stopped doing everything at that, and flew 
in a straight line, so that gradually they formed up again. Then 
when I got back I asked what was the matter, and found that 
they had tried to follow my movements. Of course, it's ab- 
solutely impossible, in formation, to do anything like that, 
— and I told them so. I 've also been polishing up my acrobacy 
a good bit lately, so that I can do it without thinking. 

February 23, 1918. 
Not much news this time, except one rather sad bit. Al 
Sturtevant has been shot down.^ I heard it from Bob Lovett. 
He was patrolling, doing seaplane work, when he had the bad 
luck to run into a squadron of Boche planes, out on some sort 
of reconnaissance. Of course he did n't have a chance. They 
shot him down — so thoroughly that even the plane was totally 
destroyed and sank. Poor Al, — he 's the first of that bunch 
whom we knew and played round with that is gone. Still, — 
there's no better way, — if one has got to die. It solves things 
so easily, for you've nothing to worry about, and even the 
people whom you leave have the great comfort of knowing how 
you died. It's really very fine, the way he went, fighting hope- 
lessly, against enormous odds, — and then thirty seconds of 
horror and it 's all over, — for they say that on the average it 's 
all over in that length of time, after a plane 's been hit. 

March 30, 1918. 
I had a most unpleasant time of it just at the end, for I was 
really scared, and it's the only time I have been, in the air. 
We were just about five miles from here, and I was getting ready 
to nose her down and come through the clouds to land when for 
some unknown reason I began to feel faint and dizzj'. I 'm free 
to confess that I was scared, good and scared. However there 
was nothing to do except trust to luck, so I nosed her down, and 
went for the landing. As luck would have it, I happened to 
have just hit it rightly, and I came in on that glide with only a 

1 See Vol. II, p. 256. 


couple of S's to slow me up. I was mighty glad, though, when 
I got on to good, solid ground again. 

May i, 1918. 
It 's been perfect ages since I last wrote to you, and I 've got 
a variety of reasons for not having done so. The one real one 
is that I had one hand laid up in an accident and aside from 
that have n't been feeling decently for quite a while now. It 
started a little while after I got back from Cazaux. I had been 
feeling all-overish for quite a while, and then one day when I was 
off on a voyage my motor blew up on me, and I had to come 
down for a forced landing. As luck would have it, some fool 
people got in my way, just as I was coming in to land, and as 
between hitting them or crashing, I took the latter, and hung 
myself up nicely in some trees. I reduced the plane to kindling 
wood, and got out of it myself whole but rather battered. 
Among other odds and ends, I had a bad wrist which reduced 
my epistolary efficiency. That in itself was n't anything par- 
ticular, but it was part of a vague general uncomfortableness. 
Ham and I talked things over, and found that we both were 
about in the same fix. It boiled down to this, that we both were 
heartily sick of the work we were doing, and that we wanted 
to get out to the front, or anywhere away from this mud-ridden 
hole. I had got to the point where even the sight of a flying 
student filled me with loathing. It is rather hard to teach men 
to fly, and send them on through the school, when you can see 
no future in sight for them. I knew that the men we were send- 
ing through would just be sent to a gunnery school, and then 
have to hang around goodness only knows how long until there 
were any planes for them to fly. And knowing that it was 
awfully hard to get up any enthusiasm for a job which I hated 
anyway. The long and the short of it was that Ham and I both 
decided, independent of the other, that we were stale. So I 
went to the major and asked him if he could not arrange to 
have Ham take a leave. He said that, on account of the offen- 
sive, leaves were being discontinued, but that he would allow 



Ham to take a plane on a cross-country to Paris. So he sent 
for Ham and told him this, whereupon Ham told him some long 
song and dance about me, resulting in our both being sent off 
with our planes for six days' rest in Paris. Don't you think 
that was pretty nice of him? It made the most tremendous 
difference to me, for now 1 am back here again, and though I 
don't like the work, yet I do see how useless it is to kick about 
it and not do it, when there is no chance to go out to the front 
anyway. The major has promised us anyway that as soon 
as any bunch goes out to the front he will see that our names are 
on the list. 

May 4, 1918. 
There are some nice things about aviation, really. It seems 
to be the one part of the war in which brother Boche has the 
instincts of a sportsman and a gentleman. Of course the serv- 
ice is as full of wild stories as a boarding-school, and this one 
I'm not sure about, — though I think it's so. After Guynemer 
was brought down a Boche flew over his squadron's airdrome 
and dropped a letter saying that his funeral would be on a cer- 
tain date and that four Frenchmen would be given safe conduct 
to land on the German field and attend it. They accepted it, 
and flew over, landed on the German field, were received by the 
Germans, attended the funeral, and then went back. It's 
rather a fine thing if true, and I do know for certain that they 
know where Guynemer's grave is, so it may be true. Then just 
shortly ago. Baron von Richthofen, the German ace, was 
brought down by the English. They buried him with full 
military honors, — three French aces and three English aces 
for his pall-bearers. It must have been most impressive, the 
French and English soldiers standing to attention as they low- 
ered him into his grave while the English chaplain read the 
burial service over him. All those are the little things that will 
make up the traditions of the service after the war's over. And 
it is a nice thing to know that the things that you are to some 
extent a part of will be the traditions of the service. That and 



the certainty that there will be plenty of war left even when I 
get up there, helps to make Issoudun a little more bearable. 

June 8, 1918. 
I've had so much happening to me, though, in the last ten 
days, that I have not had time to think even, which is just as 
well. Ham and I had almost begun to think we were perman- 
ently stuck in Issoudun when, with no warning, we were or- 
dered up to Orly, which is just outside of Paris. No one knew 
anything about the orders, and Ham and I felt sure that it 
meant our first step out to the front. Once the orders came, 
though, we only had twelve hours' time to settle everything up 
and leave. You can imagine how we hurried, with all the 
good-byes to be said, and packing, and paying bills. I thought 
we never would get away, but finally it was through, and we 
got in the truck and started to leave for the main camp to get 
our clearance papers. Then they did one of the nicest things 
I've ever had happen. Our truck driver, instead of going out 
the regular way, took us down the lines of hangars and as we 
went past all the mechanics were lined up in front and cheered 
us good-bye. As we passed the last hangar one of the sergeants 
yelled after us, "Let us know if you're captured, and we'll come 
after you." So I left with a big lump in my throat, for it's nice 
to know that your men have liked you. 

When Quentin Roosevelt and Hamilton Coolidge 
reached Headquarters of the First Pursuit Group, in the 
Toul sector, they hoped for assignments to the same 
squadron; but the two existing vacancies were respec- 
tively in the 95th and the 94th Squadron, and Roosevelt 
was assigned to the first of these, Coolidge to the second. 
Captain "Eddie"' Rickenbacker, commanding officer of 
the 94th, says in his book, "Fighting the Flying Circus," ^ 

1 Published by Frederick A. Stokes Co. 1919. 



that "Squadron 95 contained much the same quahty of 
material as my own squadron," and goes on to write of 
the new recruit to the 95th: 

Quentin Roosevelt was one of the newly assigned pilots in 
95. Both the enlisted men and his fellow-pilots found that 
Quent relied upon his own attainments rather than upon the 
reputation of his celebrated father; and it is safe to say that 
Quent Roosevelt was easily the most popular man in his 
Squadron. To indicate Quentin's love for square dealing and 
fairness, I may divulge a little secret that were Quentin still 
living might not be told. 

His commanding officer, moved perhaps by the fact that 
Quentin was the son of Theodore Roosevelt, made him a Flight 
Commander before he had ever made a flight over the lines. 
Quentin appreciated the fact that his inexperienced leadership 
might jeopardize the lives of the men following him. He ac- 
cordingly declined the honor. But his superiors directed him 
to obey orders and to take the office that had been assigned to 
him. A trio of pilots, all of whom had more experience in war 
flying than Quentin had so far received, were placed under his 
command. And an order was posted directing Lieutenant 
Roosevelt's Flight to go on its first patrol the following morning. 

Quentin called his pilots to one side. 

"Look here, you fellows, which one of you has had the most 
flying over the lines? You, Curtis?" 

Curtis shook his head, and replied: 

"Buckley, or Buford, — both of them have seen more of this 
game than I have." 

Quentin looked them all over and made up his mind before 
he spoke. 

"Well, any one of you knows more about it than I do! To- 
morrow morning you, Buckley, are to be Flight Commander in 
my place. As soon as we leave the ground, you take the lead. 
I will drop into your place. We will try out each man in turn. 



They may be able to make me Flight Commander in name, but 
the best pilot in my group is going to lead it in fact." 

Until the day he died a gallant soldier's death, Quentin 
Roosevelt continued to fly under the leadership of one of his 
pilots. He himself had never led a flight. 

At a later point in the same book, Captain Rickenbacker 
comes back to Quentin Roosevelt: 

As President Roosevelt's son he had rather a difficult task to 
fit himself in with the democratic style of living which is neces- 
sary in the intimate life of an aviation camp. Every one who 
met him for the first time expected him to have the airs and 
superciliousness of a spoiled boy. This notion was quickly lost 
after the first glimpse one had of Quentin. Gay, hearty and 
absolutely square in everything he said or did, Quentin Roose- 
velt was one of the most popular fellows in the group. We loved 
him purely for his own natural self. 

He was reckless to such a degree that his commanding officers 
had to caution him repeatedly about the senselessness of his 
lack of caution. His bravery was so notorious that we all knew 
he would either achieve some great spectacular success or be 
killed in the attempt. Even the pilots in his own Flight would 
beg him to conserve himself and wait for a fair opportunity for 
a victory. But Quentin would merely laugh away all serious 
advice. His very next flight over enemy lines would involve 
him in a fresh predicament from which pure luck on more than 
a few occasions extricated him. 

The exploit which Captain Rickenbacker proceeds to 
describe after this passage is the subject of one of Lieu- 
tenant Roosevelt's own letters : 

July 11, 1918. 
I got my first real excitement on the front, for I think I got 
a Boche. The Operations Officer is trying for confirmation on it 
now. I was out on high patrol with the rest of my squadron 



when we got broken up, due to a mistake in formation. I 
dropped into a turn of a vrille — these planes have so little sur- 
face that at five thousand you can't do much with them. When 
I got straightened out I could n't spot my crowd anywhere, so, 
as I had only been up an hour, I decided to fool around a little 
before going home, as I was just over the lines. I turned and 
circled for five minutes or so, and then suddenly — the way 
planes do come into focus in the air — I saw three planes in for- 
mation. At first I thought they were Boche, but as they paid 
no attention to me I finally decided to chase them, thinking 
they were part of my crowd, so I started after them full speed. 
I thought at the time it was a little strange, with the wind 
blowing the way it was, that they should be going almost 
straight into Germany, but I had plenty of gas so I kept on. 

They had been going absolutely straight and I was nearly in 
formation when the leader did a turn, and I saw to my horror 
that they had white tails with black crosses on them. Still I 
was so near by them that I thought I might pull up a little and 
take a crack at them. I had altitude on them, and what was 
more they had n't seen me, so I pulled up, put my sights on the 
end man, and let go. I saw my tracers going all around him, 
but for some reason he never even turned, until all of a sudden 
his tail came up and he went down in a vrille. I wanted to 
follow him but the other two had started around after me, so 
I had to cut and run. However, I could half watch him look- 
ing back, and he was still spinning when he hit the clouds three 
thousand metres below. Of course he may have just been 
scared, but I think he must have been hit or he would have 
come out before he struck the clouds. Three thousand metres 
is an awfully long spin. 

I had a long chase of it for they followed me all the way back 
to our side of the lines, but our speed was about equal so I got 
away. The trouble is that it was about twenty kilometres 
inside their lines and, I am afraid, too far to get confirmation.^ 

1 After Quentin Roosevelt's death this victory was verified by the 
French and duly credited. 



It was only three days after the writing of this letter 
that Quentin Roosevelt met his death, on the anniversary 
of the Fall of the Bastille. He had devoted the evening 
before this French festival to preparing some of his com- 
rades to participate, with American ragtime and banjos, 
much appreciated by the French, in an entertainment 
planned for the observance of July 14. In the morning 
of that day he set forth on the patrol from which he never 
returned. The story of his death is told in a letter written 
to the father of Lieutenant Edward Buford, Jr., by that 
fellow-officer of the 95th Squadron, who accompanied 
Roosevelt on the fatal patrol, and, for a time, was himself 
reported missing: 

You asked me if I knew Quentin Roosevelt. Yes, I knew 
him very well indeed, and had been associated with him ever 
since I came to France, and he was one of the finest and most 
courageous boys I ever knew. I was in the fight when he was 
shot down and saw the whole thing. 

Four of us were out on an early patrol and we had just crossed 
the lines looking for Boche observation machines, when we ran 
into seven Fokker Chasse planes. They had the altitude and 
the advantage of the sun on us. It was very cloudy and there 
was a strong wind blowing us farther across the lines all the 
time. The leader of our formation turned and tried to get back 
out, but they attacked before we reached the lines, and in a 
few seconds had completely broken up our formation and the 
fight developed in a general free-for-all. I tried to keep an eye 
on all of our fellows but we were hopelessly separated and out- 
numbered nearly two to one. About a half a mile away I saw 
one of our planes with three Boche on him, and he seemed to 
be having a pretty hard time with them, so I shook the two I 
was maneuvering with and tried to get over to him, but before 
I could reach them, one machine turned over on its back and 



plunged down out of control. I realized it was too late to be of 
any assistance and as none of our other machines were in sight, 
I made for a bank of clouds to try and gain altitude on the Huns, 
and when I came back out, they had reformed, but there were 
only six of them, so I believe we must have gotten one, 

I waited around about ten minutes to see if I could pick up 
any of our fellows, but thej^ had disappeared, so I came on home, 
dodging from one cloud to another for fear of running into an- 
other Boche formation. Of course, at the time of the fight I 
did not know who the pilot was I had seen go down, but as 
Quentin did not come back, it must have been him. His loss 
was one of the severest blows we have ever had in the Squadron, 
but he certainly died fighting, for any one of us could have got- 
ten away as soon as the scrap started with the clouds as they 
were that morning. I have tried several times to write to 
Colonel Roosevelt, but it is practically impossible for me to 
write a letter of condolence, but if I am lucky enough to get 
back to the States, I expect to go to see him. 

A German communique, intercepted by American wire- 
less two days after Quentin Roosevelt's death, gave the 
enemy version of the story: 

On July fourteen seven of our chasing planes were attacked 
by a superior number of American planes north of Dormans. 
After a stubborn fight, one of the pilots — Lieutenant Roose- 
velt, — who had shown conspicuous bravery during the fight 
by attacking again and again without regard to danger, was 
shot in the head by his more experienced opponent and fell at 

The tradition of chivalry between opposing aviators was 
confirmed by the German burial of Quentin Roosevelt, 
witnessed, on July 15, by Captain James E. Gee, of the 
110th Infantry, who had been captured and was on his 
way to the rear. Thus he wrote of what he saw: 



In a hollow square about the open grave were assembled ap- 
proximately one thousand German soldiers, standing stiffly in 
regular lines. They were dressed in field gray uniforms, wore 
steel helmets, and carried rifles. Officers stood at attention 
before the ranks. Near the grave was the smashed plane, and 
beside it was a small group of officers, one of whom was speak- 
ing to the men. 

I did not pass close enough to hear what he was saying; we 
were prisoners and did not have the privilege of lingering, even 
for such an occasion as this. At the time I did not know who 
was being buried, but the guards informed me later. The fun- 
eral certainly was elaborate. I was told afterward by Germans 
that they paid Lieutenant Roosevelt such honor not only be- 
cause he was a gallant aviator, who died fighting bravely 
against odds, but because he was the son of Colonel Roosevelt, 
whom they esteemed as one of the greatest Americans. 

When Chamery, about ten kilometres north of the 
Marne, was retaken by the Allies on July 18, American 
soldiers found a grave marked by a wooden cross inscribed : 

Lieutenant Roosevelt 
Buried by the Germans 

The broken propeller blades and bent wheels of his plane, 
the shattered remains of which lay near by, also marked 
the grave. A cross erected by the engineer regiment that 
had occupied Chamery bore the words: 

Here rests on the field of honor 

Quentin Roosevelt 

Air Service, U. S. A. 

Killed in action, July 1918 



Still another inscription, placed on an oaken enclosure 
reared by the French, read : 

QuENTiN Roosevelt 

Escadrille 95 

Tombe glorieusement 

En combat aerien 

Le 14 juillet 1918 

Pour le droit 

et la Liberie 

It is a circumstance to be recorded that the German 
fighting pilot, Sergeant Greper, who brought Quentin 
Roosevelt to earth with two shots through the head, sur- 
vived the war but was killed in an accident while delivering 
German airplanes to the American forces under the terms 
of the Armistice. 

From friends like Hamilton Coolidge, from a multitude 
of others, came private and public expressions of the 
grievous sense of loss that followed the death of Quentin 
Roosevelt, and of admiration for the spirit in which his 
father and mother, who stood before the country as the 
national embodiment of bereaved parents, met and ac- 
cepted their sacrifice. The youth who gave his life and 
they who survive him illustrated, alike and notably, the 
words: "To whom much is given, from him shall much 
be required." 

Apart from all personal considerations, the death of 
Quentin Roosevelt produced an extraordinary public, even 
international, effect. This is clearly revealed in a letter 
to Colonel Roosevelt, from a clergyman of Northampton, 



My brother Lieutenant Frederick M. Stoudt served abroad 
during the war in the Motor Transport Corps, and was sta- 
tioned most of the time at Verneil, France, at the Reconstruc- 
tion Park 772, where he had charge of a department in the Sheet 
Metal and Welding Shop. Towards the end of the war he had 
upwards of two hundred German prisoners working in his de- 
partment. He tells of a young German officer, quite intelligent, 
who delighted in discussing the war, and who would ask many 
questions about America and our entering into the war. 

This young officer told my brother the following in substance, 
concerning the effect upon the Germans at the falling of your 
son Quentin. That when he fell the fact was heralded through- 
out the German army, and throughout the Central powers. 
That photos of his grave and his wrecked plane were published 
and exhibited profusely far and wide. That the German au- 
thorities believed it to be good propaganda, with which to 
hearten both the soldiers and the people at home. But that it 
had the opposite effect and produced as far as they were con- 
cerned a negative effect or result. That no sooner had Quentin 
fallen but that it was whispered from ear to ear, from trench 
to trench. That in it one could see how in free America every- 
body was fighting. That though America was in the war only 
for a short time, the son of an American President, engaged in 
one of the most dangerous lines of service, was lying back of 
the German lines, while their country had been at war three 
years and that neither the Kaiser, nor any of his sons were ever 
so much as scratched. That it gave the soldiers a vision of the 
democracy of America, and helped to deepen the feeling that 
they, the common soldiers, were only cannon fodder for the 
Kaiser. That it made real to them the difference between au- 
tocracy and democracy, of which they had heard so much. That 
this feeling spread like wildfire, not only throughout the army, 
but also among the people at home. That those elements in 
Germany that were opposed to the war seized upon it and en- 
larged the suggestion. This young ofiicer declared that in the 



judgment of many this was the largest single factor in the break- 
ing of the morale of the German Army. 

With all that is suggested by this remarkable statement 
Quentin Roosevelt's contribution to the war must be 



Law School 1916-17 

J. HE name of George Waite Goodwin is found on the Roll 
of Honor of three ancient New England institutions of 
learning — Phillips Academy, Andover, Yale, and Har- 
vard. In all of these it finds a fitting place, for through 
his father he traced descent from the earliest settlers of 
Connecticut and through his mother from two Mayflower 
Pilgrims. He was born at Glens Falls, New York, July 31, 
1895. His father, for many years a practising lawyer in 
Albany, was Scott DuMont Goodwin (Yale, '69); his 
mother, Sarah Coffin (Waite) Goodwin. He studied at 
Andover only a year before entering Yale, but in that year, 
1911-12, won honors in all his subjects. At Yale, where 
he graduated in 1916, he received third division honors in 



his freshman year, a dissertation appointment in his junior 
year, and a first dispute senior appointment. As a junior 
he was a member of the University Orchestra. 

Between graduating from Yale and entering the Har- 
vard Law School, he attended the 1916 camp at Platts- 
burg, where he qualified as a marksman. At the Law 
School he pursued his studies in the manner to be ex- 
pected from one with his school and college record, and 
established warm personal relations with fellow-students. 
When the time for war service came, he chose the part of 
going abroad at once and enlisting for the ambulance work 
of the American Field Service. This he joined June 25, 
1917, and was immediately assigned to Section 69, oper- 
ating in the neighborhood of Verdun. In evacuating 
wounded to the large central hospitals at Bar-le-Duc, in 
August, at other places through September and a large 
part of October, the section rendered important service, 
in which Goodwin played his full part. One letter to his 
father illustrates the nature of this work. 

September 8, 1917. 

Since last I wrote you we have moved up to Verdun and are 
camped in a big hospital, where we expect to be for an uncertain 
length of time as we are attached to no army division as yet and 
are merely reserves. 

We moved out of our little village at four in the morning and 
wandered around most of the day before we arrived here. We 
had a little time before supper to get fixed up, and then right 
after that, five of our cars were sent out to get some blesses. We 
traveled along a road screened by painted cloths, and then, 
exactly on the dot of the hour at which we had heard that the 
attack would begin, we could see, through the cloths, hundreds 
of little spurts of flame off at quite a distance. It was like a 



circus of which we could only see enough to whet our curiosity. 
We crossed a river, or canal — hard to tell which around here 
— and then went along the road under the rows of poplar trees, 
which one invariably finds near roads and canals. On our right 
was a very high embankment with dug-outs, and at last we 
came to a tent — our destination — a receiving station for the 
wounded. The first four cars took out all they had and we were 
left to wait for new arrivals. We climbed the embankment 
and watched the firing on the whole battlefield — smoke, star- 
shells, red lights and thousands of little points of light from the 
guns, from far off on the left to as far as one could see on the 
right. The noise was not so loud as I had expected, because we 
were a number of kilometres away. Our noisiest member was 
a battery of soixante-quinze, just out of sight around the corner, 
which went off every now and then with a sharp crack. At 
last we scrambled down the steep sandy bank and sat on the 
edge of the river near the car, to watch the sun set and keep an 
eye out for incoming blesses. About half a dozen shells screamed 
past us and exploded at some distance. It became very dark, 
and we finally got our poilus to carry back to one of the numer- 
ous hospitals in and around the city. 

After considerable searching around in the dark we found it — 
not far from our cantonment, a wonderful old Catholic Seminary 
— with all our cars drawn up in the court, going out one by one, 
shifting the blesses further back to larger and better equipped 
hospitals. A "Ford" section was bringing them in from the 
front and we sat in the courtyard until it became very chilly — 
watching them unload. Inside, by the light of a few candles 
and dim lights, was a rather interesting scene: a square, tiled 
room with a low ceiling, and a bench running around all four 
sides. For some reason, a stove in the middle of the room was 
burning away, though the air was stifling with smoke, bad air, 
and ether. At a table in the corner several ofiicers were filling 
out the cards with which each wounded soldier is tagged. | In 
another corner were stacks of bandages and bottles, and the 



benches were filled with brancardiers and sleepy American ani- 
bulanciers. The wounded were carried in on the brancards and 
placed on the floor. Some idea was gained of their condition, 
and they were rated accordingly and assigned to various hos- 
pitals. Some of them were in pretty terrible condition, but very 
few were reserved as being absolutely immovable. All were 
given injections for tetanus. 

Perhaps the most interesting person there was the black- 
robed priest — with rank of Captain in the French Army, wear- 
ing a Croix de Guerre, probably richly deserved, who knelt 
beside each man and muttered a few words of prayer or comfort. 
All night long he sat there, always wakeful for any occasion 
when he might be needed — the rest of us trying to snatch some 
sleep in any convenient position or attitude. We waited all 
night and carried a couple of blesses a short distance when our 
turn came. From now on we will have twenty-four hour shifts 
— the first ten cars one day and the other ten the next. I don't 
imagine it will be particularly thrilling with the present ar- 

Goodwin's connection with Section 69 lasted until Octo- 
ber 24. At about this time the section disbanded, and 
many of its members enlisted in the United States Army. 
Goodwin had always felt the appeal of aviation, and on 
November 5 enlisted for training in that branch of service. 
On May 15, 1918, after instruction at Tours, Saint- 
Maixent, Gondrecourt, and Chateauroux, he received his 
commission as second lieutenant. One of his comrades in 
training wrote of him after his death : 

I need not tell you how popular he was with us. He could n't 
help but be, and he was easily that one of us who was best liked 
by the French officers and instructors at the school. Nobody 
was more eager to complete his training and get to the front as a 



chasse-pilote. No one of us was doing quite so well in his work 
here as "Goody." In fact, he was so apt in flying that his 
vioniteurs released him after only four hours in the air. He 
promised to be the first to get through. 

His own view of the object of all this training was ex- 
pressed in an entry in his diary as early as December 11, 
1917: "It is quite fixed now in my mind that if ever I get 
to the front I will go up against the Germans — no matter 
how many there be." Six months later, after he had re- 
ceived his commission, he had occasion to write, June 10, 
1918, to the widow of a young Yale friend killed in action 
only ten days after his marriage. A portion of the letter 
speaks clearly for Goodwin's feeling about the war: 

You must be very, very proud to have had your husband die 
so honorably. First or last the war will come very close to most 
of us and we would n't have it otherwise. My greatest horror 
would be to have to occupy a place of safety. We who can take 
any active part are fortunate. Certainly one could hunt through 
the histories from the beginning and never find a better time 
to live or better cause to die for. I 'm glad I 'm living and trying 
to do my bit. If anything should happen to me I would call 
my family foolish if they were n't glad rather than sad that I 
had done so well. So I'm quite cheerful about anything that 
may happen. 

What did happen, in slightly more than a month, was 
one of those accidents to which the best of aviators were 
subject before their days of combat came. On July 15, 
1918, he left the camp at Chateauroux for a "solo flight," 
and was passing a French machine, flying in the opposite 
direction, when it suddenly swerved from its course, and 
cut the tail from Goodwin's plane. They were about a 



hundred metres in the air. FaUing from this height Good- 
win sustained injuries from which he died that day with- 
out regaining consciousness. He was buried, with mih- 
tary honors, in the American Cemetery at Chateauroux. 
In September, 1920, his body was reinterred in the Rural 
Cemetery, Albany, New York. 

The Aeronautic League of France honored Goodwin's 
memory by the award of a bronze plaque, designed for 
the recognition of meritorious students of aviation, but 
infrequently bestowed. The more personal terms of recog- 
nition are the more significant, and this memoir cannot 
close more appropriately than with a few words from a 
letter written by a Princeton friend (Andrew T. H. Ken- 
ney), who had been thrown intimately with Goodwin both 
at the Harvard Law School and in the aviation service: 

George was straight and clean and fair. He played all life's 
games with a nerve and a full heart. We used to work together 
and dance together and play together. And now he has gone, 
leaving a life as full and swift and perfect as it is possible for 
one to be. He worked and fought for a cause that is as noble 
and fine as was his sacrifice. We can feel certain that he has 
aided to the fullest measure the coming of that era we all have 
been praying for. We who were his friends will be sure to fight 
more fiercely in war and peace for those ideals for which he died. 



Class of 1916 

J. HE parents of Homer Atherton Hunt were Francis 
Atherton Hunt, a brother of Atherton Nash Hunt, of the 
Harvard Class of 1887, and Mary Merrill (Lane) Hunt, a 
daughter of George Homer Lane of Boston. In his Hunt 
ancestry, he counted John and Priscilla Alden of the 
Plymouth Colony, and Enoch Hunt, an early settler of 
Weymouth, Massachusetts, where he was born Decem- 
ber 10, 1894. While he was still a child his family moved 
from Weymouth to Braintree. In this place he attended 
the public schools and received his final preparation for 
college at Thayer Academy. He entered Harvard, a can- 
didate for the Bachelor of Arts degree, with the Class of 



1916, but remained in college only two years. Between 
1914 and 1917 he was employed by Cordingley and Com- 
pany, wool merchants in Boston, and had become a suc- 
cessful wool buyer when the United States entered the 

On October 4, 1917, he enlisted as a private in the army, 
and was assigned to the 301st Infantry, 26th Division, 
then in training at Camp Devens. In October also he was 
married to Susan Elmira Hagar, of Weston, Massachu- 
setts. On March 11, 1918, he sailed for France, where 
he was transferred to Company E, 165th Infantry, 42d 
("Rainbow") Division. This was formerly the famous 
"Fighting 69th" New York Irish regiment, the distin- 
guishing characteristics of which are suggested on later 
pages of this volume in the memoirs of Lieutenant Oliver 
Ames, Jr., and Major James A. McKenna, Jr., both offi- 
cers of the 165 th. 

Early in July, 1918, this regiment was summoned to 
the Champagne front to meet an expected attack of 
the Germans, and Hunt participated accordingly in the 
Champagne-Marne defensive. On July 15 he was killed 
in action at St. Hilaire-le-Petit. "We were in reserve," 
another private reported. "He was struck with a direct 
hit from a shell and killed instantly. He received a letter 
the day before he died with a picture of his baby onlj' a 
few days old. One of the best fellows in the world. He 
spoke French fluently." Still another comrade. Private 
Lowell Holbrook, a Braintree boy, reported the circum- 
stances a little differentlv. Hunt and Holbrook were 
liaison runners for Battalion Headquarters. It was their 
duty to take messages for their major to one company 



and another. When a barrage was put over it was their 
work to set out with a message, one keeping about fifty 
feet behind the other, so that if the first should fall, the 
second could take the message from his pocket and carry 
it on. This is Holbrook's brief statement: "I was right 
beside Hunt when he was killed. We were lying on the 
ground and Hunt was leaning his head against the post. 
A high explosive burst near us and the vibration of the 
post caused by it killed him. He was buried that night 
about thirty feet from where he was killed." After the 
Armistice his body was reinterred in the Argonne Ameri- 
can Cemetery, Romagne-sous-Montfaucon, Meuse, and 
there, in accordance with the wishes of his father and 
widow, it has remained. 

At the Harvard Commencement of 1920, the war degree 
of A.B. was awarded to Homer Atherton Hunt, as of the 
Class of 1916. 



Class of 1917 

(jTEORGE Francis McGillen, a son of Owen Mc- 
Gillen and Anna (Fitzpatrick) McGillen, of Brookline, 
Massachusetts, was born in East Boston, February 14, 
1894. He made his preparation for college at the Pierce 
Grammar School of Brookline and the Brookline High 
School. For two years he played on the football team of 



the High School, and for one year was manager of its 
baseball team. At Harvard, which he entered in the 
autumn of 1913, he played football and became a member 
of the Catholic Club. In the Triennial Report of the 
Class of 1917, the Class Secretary has said of him: "Al- 
though he only remained one year, most of us remember 
the cheerful, kindly boy who made us always glad to meet 
him in the Yard or in our rooms. He did not remain in 
Cambridge long enough to take an active part in under- 
graduate affairs, but his record during the war entitles 
him to a sure place in the annals of the Class of 1917." 

In the interval between leaving college and participat- 
ing in the war, McGillen was employed continuously by 
the M. B. Foster Electric Company of Boston, electrical 
contractors, and in the spring of 1917 held the position 
of assistant superintendent. In March he enlisted as a 
private in the Brookline Machine Gun Company, formed 
at that time, and soon afterwards known as the Machine 
Gun Company of the 9th Regiment, National Guard. 
After its federalization, July 25, 1917, it was designated 
as the Machine Gun Company, 101st Infantry, 26th 
Division. In August McGillen was promoted sergeant 
of this company, then in training for overseas service 
at Camp McGuinness, Framingham, Massachusetts. On 
September 4 it entrained for Hoboken, whence it sailed for 
France on the following day, arriving at Saint-Nazaire, 
September 20. 

Soon after McGillen's landing in France, he was ordered 
to the Automatic Weapon School of the American Army 
at Gondrecourt. There, in the months of October and 
November, he qualified as a machine gun instructor. In 



January he went to the First Officers' School at Langres, 
and prepared himself for the second lieutenancy to which 
he was commissioned, May 15, 1918. He was then as- 
signed to Company A, Machine Gun Battalion, 9th In- 
fantry, a unit of the 3d Division, American Expeditionary 

On June 1 the companj^ entered the front line at 
Chateau-Thierry. From this date until that of McGil- 
len's death, it was constantlj^ taking its part in holding 
the line at various points, chiefly on the Marne. The 
German offensive in which McGillen lost his life began at 
midnight of July 14, while he was in command of four 
guns, each holding a strategic point on the river. When 
the bombardment opened he was taking a late supper at 
the post of command, in the small village of Parroy, near 
Chateau-Thierry, about ten minutes' walk from his gun 
positions. One of the officers who were with him at the 
P. C. reports his saying repeatedly, "I want to go down 
to my men, and I don't care what happens." His com- 
panions prevailed upon him for a time to remain where he 
was, for the bombardment was terrific, and venturing 
forth meant certain death. Still he insisted upon joining 
his men and at about 3.30 a.m. (July 15) Captain Carswell 
and Lieutenant Russell of the 9th Machine Gun Battalion, 
who had so far prevented his taking the unnecessary risk, 
left their place of safety with him to see if it was then pos- 
sible for him to carry out his wish. As they stood outside 
the P. C, a shell exploded in the air, and McGillen, look- 
ing up, was hit over the eye with a piece of shrapnel, 
which killed him almost instantlv, after he had sunk to 
the ground and asked for a drink of water. One of his 



companions escaped unhurt; the flesh was stripped from 
the other's back, from shoulder to waist. McGillen's 
body was laid in the post of command, where it was 
found undisturbed a few days later, after the place had 
first been taken by the Germans and then captured by the 
American troops. Buried in a plot of ground nearby, the 
body was reburied a year later in the American Cemetery 
at Seringes-et-Nerles, Aisne. 

It is the testimony of Captain Carswell that "the death 
of no other man caused greater grief and sorrow to the 
whole company. While with us, he had greatly endeared 
himself to everyone, always seeing the humorous side of 
everything. Endowed with a sterling character, he had 
proved himself such an efficient officer and good leader of 
men that no other man in the battalion was better loved 
or stood higher in personal estimation." 

A non-commissioned officer of the company has de- 
clared that from the way he conducted himself on a par- 
ticularly bad night, June 6, 1918, he was rated one of 
the best officers in the battalion, for not only then, but 
at other times, he "seemed to be everywhere," constantly 
cheering and helping his men. It was this sergeant, 
Jerome Moynahan, who defined Lieutenant McGillen as 
one who "will always be remembered by us as a thorough 
soldier, brave and true, and a real gentleman." 

One of his younger brothers, James G. McGillen, '20, 
was commissioned ensign from the Officer Material 
School at Harvard and detailed to duties at American 
stations; another enlisted in the navy at the age of 
seventeen and served in transport duty for a year and a 



Law School 1915-17 

W HEN the body of Edmond David Stewart, Jr., killed 
in action July 15, 1918, on the Champagne front, was 
brought to his native town of New Cumberland, West 
Virginia, for burial on October 23, 1921, a professor of 
English at the University of West Virginia, unable him- 
self to be present, offered the following tribute to be read 

as part of the services : 

October 20, 1921. 
To THE Memory or Edmond D. Stewart: 

Beloved youth; brilliant student; member of the Phi Beta 
Kappa Society, the Delta Tau Delta Fraternity, the Beowulf 
Gedrhyt, the English Club, the Greek Club, distinguished for 
his fine presence, handsome face, becoming modesty, and un- 
failing courtesy; ambitious to be a scholar and a gentleman; 



embued with the knightly qualities of courage, temperance, and 
chastity; a patriot of exalted devotion, who laid down his life 
in the service of his country. 

May his memory be sacred forever. 

By his affectionate teacher, 

John Harrington Cox. 

The young man of whom these words were written was 
born, October 25, 1894, in New Cumberland, West Vir- 
ginia, still the home of his parents. He made his prepa- 
ration for college in the New Cumberland public schools, 
from which he entered the University of West Virginia, 
at Morgantown, with the Class of 1915. The record he 
made for himself there, through both scholarship and 
character, has been indicated in the tribute already quoted. 
In the autumn following his graduation he entered the 
Harvard Law School. While in Cambridge he received 
notice of his appointment as a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford, 
but declined it by reason of the war already raging in 
Europe. When his own country entered the fight, he 
completed his second year as a student of law. On Sep- 
tember 19, 1917, as other young men of New Cumberland, 
drafted for service, were leaving for camp, Stewart, not 
yet called before the draft board, presented himself for 
service and was placed in charge of a local contingent. 
He reported for service at Camp Lee, Virginia, was soon 
appointed a sergeant, and later promoted to top sergeant. 
On November 10 he was transferred from the 155th Depot 
Brigade at Camp Lee to the 1st Provisional Recruit Bat- 
talion. On February 27, 1918, he sailed for France as a 
member of a picked company of replacements. Arriving 
there March 11, he was immediately appointed sergeant 



in the 163d Infantry, 41st Division, from which he was 
transferred to the 42d ("Rainbow") Division as sergeant 
of Company G, 167th Infantry. 

After only a month in France, Stewart was sent into 
the trenches on the Champagne front. He was killed at 
his post by a high explosive shell at 12.15 in the morning 
of July 12, 1918, thirty minutes after the beginning of a 
fierce defensive engagement lasting for several days. 

Of 573 soldiers from Hancock County, West Virginia, 
Sergeant Stewart was the only one killed in action. By 
every token of promise he was one of those from whom a 
life of leadership might have been expected. 



Law School 1914-15 

JjORN at Milwaukee, Wisconsin, September 21, 1890, 
Walton Kimball Smith was the son of Amos Appleton 
Lawrence Smith and Frances Louise (Brown) Smith. His 
father's name recalls an interesting episode linking a 
generous son of Harvard with the cause of education in 
Wisconsin. In 1845 Amos Adams Lawrence (Harvard, 
1835), the father of Bishop Lawrence, became interested 



in a Protestant Episcopal missionary to the Oneida Indians 
in Wisconsin, the Rev. Eleazer WiUiams, who was soon to 
attract much attention as a possible claimant to the 
romantic title of the "lost Dauphin," the missing son of 
Marie Antoinette. Through trying to help this clergyman 
out of financial difficulties, Mr. Lawrence found himself 
the reluctant owner of more than five thousand acres of 
land in the Fox River Valley in Wisconsin, which had 
belonged to the missionary. In order to turn this property 
to some useful account its new owner interested himself 
in a project to establish an institution of learning upon it* 
A Methodist minister, Reeder Smith — whose wife was a 
member of the Boston family of Kimball — looked it over 
and reported that a tract of land further up the Fox River 
than the Williams tract was better adapted to the pur- 
poses of a college. Accordingly this land was acquired, 
and the town of Appleton, Wisconsin, named for Samuel 
Appleton, of Boston, who joined with Amos A. Lawrence 
in the enterprise, was laid out, and in it Lawrence Uni- 
versity was established. A son of the Rev. Reeder Smith, 
who settled there, was the first white child born in the 
place, and received the name of Amos Appleton Lawrence 
Smith. That the name of his son should be inscribed, more 
than half a century later, upon the Harvard Roll of Honor 
is one of those circumstances in which the fitness of things 
may be traced. 

Walton Smith had his preparation for college at the 
Milwaukee Academy, the West Division High School of 
Milwaukee, and, for the last two years, at the Lawrence- 
ville (New Jersey) School. His mother died when he was 
eleven, his father when he was sixteen. Through all these 



years of boyhood he spent the summers with his family on 
a lake near Milwaukee, and became an ardent student 
of nature, especially of birds. He was also a lover of 
music, and greatly enjoyed playing the violin in school 
musical clubs. 

From Lawrenceville he entered Amherst College, where 
he graduated in 1914. For the following year he was a 
student at the Harvard Law School. In the autumn of 
1915 he continued his study of law at the University of 
Wisconsin, and was still there when the United States 
entered the war. He registered for the first draft, but 
his order number was so high that he believed it would be 
at least a year before he could be called into service. 
While he was an undergraduate at Amherst he had ex- 
perienced one flight in an aeroplane which he remembered 
with vivid pleasure. He therefore offered himself promptly 
for the Aviation Corps examinations. To his great dis- 
appointment, and his surprise — for he had taken a suc- 
cessful part in school athletics — he failed to pass the 
physical tests. In his desire to reach the front at the 
earliest possible moment, he then sailed for France with 
the hope of joining the American Field Service. On reach- 
ing Paris he learned that it was still possible for an 
American to engage in aviation with the British. Shortly 
before Christmas, 1917, he passed his examination for the 
Royal Air Force, and became a cadet in training as an 
aviation observer. 

This training took place in England. A letter written 
by Smith to his brother on July 7, 1918, after his ground 
tests were completed and he had been moved to No. 1 
Observers' School of Aerial Gunnery, describes the sen- 



sations experienced in his first "joy-ride." "The pilot," 
he says, "was an officer instructor with a son eighteen 
years old, so I was n't stunted very much, as the expres- 
sion goes." The same letter tells of "firing the gun 
camera and taking aerial photos," and reveals a lively 
interest in his work and an intention to become a pilot 
himself before long. His commission as lieutenant was 
nearly won when, on July 16, flying with a pilot at New 
Romney, Kent, his reputation as " a keen, industrious and 
enthusiastic pupil" well established, he met his death in 
an accident due to an error of judgment on the part of 
the pilot. Both men were instantly killed. 

Smith's body was brought to the United States and 
buried in the Forest Home Cemetery at Milwaukee. 



Class of 1909 

Hugh Charles Blanchard was born at Charles- 
town, Massachusetts, May 9, 1886, the elder son of John 
Henry Blanchard, a Boston lawyer, and Mary Ann (Kelly) 
Blanchard. He made his preparation for college at the 
Roxbury Latin School and Phillips-Exeter Academy. At 
Exeter he distinguished himself in athletics by winning the 
600-yard dash and becoming a member of the champion 
1905 football team. At Harvard he played on the second 
football team and his senior class team. He also excelled 
in putting the 16-pound shot. While still in college, he 
enlisted in the Massachusetts cavalry, in which he after- 
wards received a commission as second lieutenant in the 
Machine Gun Company of the 8th Regiment, M. V. M. 



With the organization he served on the Mexican border 
from June to November, 1916, 

Meanwhile he had spent the first three years after his 
graduation from college as a student in the Harvard Law 
School, from which he received the degree of LL.B. in 
1912. On his admission to the bar, he associated himself 
with his father's office, and duly became the junior mem- 
ber of the law firm of Blanchard, Leventale, and Blanch- 
ard. On June 23, 1916, he was married to Mignon Von 
der Luft. 

Blanchard's service on the Mexican border equipped 
him with a valuable experience, not only in the practice 
of commanding, but as a "summary judge" and a director 
of the purchasing department of his regiment. On April 
11, 1917, he was promoted first lieutenant, and remained 
a member of the 8th Massachusetts until it was federalized 
and incorporated in the 26th Division. In this unit he 
was assigned, August 5, to Company B, 104th Infantry. 
On October 4 he sailed for France, and later was trans- 
ferred to Company L. 

The personal record of his service abroad, involving par- 
ticipation in engagements of the Chemin des Dames 
sector, La Heine sector (Seicheprey and Apremont), and 
at Chateau-Thierry, is meagre. But the Tenth Anni- 
versary Report of his class provides a striking illustration 
of his quality as a soldier. 

On one occasion he was sent out in command of twenty men, 
Americans and French, at Chemin des Dames, to reconnoitre 
the enemy's line. While engaged in this he located the work 
which later proved to be the emplacement of the long-distance 
gun which was used in shelling Paris. He was discovered by the 



enemy, and a general alarm was given, causing a fierce firing 
by both sides, and although greatly outnumbered, with his de- 
tail in danger of annihilation, he brought safely back all but 
five of his men. After the firing had ceased and an unsuccessful 
search had been made for the missing, he was given, at his 
earnest request, the privilege of again searching for them. The 
search was conducted in broad daylight and all were saved. 

The incident thus described is related, in slightly dif- 
ferent terms, in a pamphlet, "In Memoriam: A Tribute 
to Lieutenant Blanchard." From its pages the following 
passages, bearing upon his service in France, may well 
be copied in further illustration of his soldierly char- 
acteristics : 

With his whole energy, which was unusual, he devoted him- 
self to the hard and exacting duty of preparation — that most 
important work. Without going into details it is enough to say 
that he learned it thoroughly, and he became ready and fit for 
what was to be required of him. To him the work was always 
serious although performed with a cheerful ardor which, as one 
of the officers expressed it, was contagious. He thoroughly 
understood and appreciated his responsibilities and throughout 
his service fully discharged them. Studious and thoughtful 
when not actively engaged, his well directed energy in action 
was conspicuous. Although while in France he was given op- 
portunity to return to the United States as an instructor, he 
declined. For he felt that his duty was at the front. His su- 
perior officers were highly pleased with this decision of his. They 
recognized his worth and foresaw in him the successful soldier 
which he subsequently proved himself to be by his intelligence 
and well performed acts. The only anxiety felt by them was 
caused by his overwork. Always ready, seeking rather than 
waiting, he thus created in them a feeling of confidence which 
was never disappointed but without exception fully justified. 



And so when the preparatory training was over and the regi- 
ment took up its active work he was ready for whatever was 
asked of or suggested to him. His incessant attention to the 
details brought valuable results. Few of those who did not 
participate in the operations in France can realize the difficul- 
ties confronting the soldiers engaged in the many and varied 
tasks imposed upon them. Guarding trenches, patrolling, mak- 
ing reconnaissances, feeling their way over unknown ground, 
ascertaining the location of the enemy, their artillery and ma- 
chine gun positions, their infantry lines, and their searches made 
in the night time when it was most difficult to avoid becoming 
lost and getting out of touch with their own commands — 
these undertakings exacted the highest skill, intelligence, and 
courage. They were fraught with ever present danger. Many 
times he proved himself equal to this work. 

He was successful in reconnoitering dangerous woods which 
few cared to explore. In these and other ways he won the hearty 
approval and praise of regular army and volunteer officers. He 
showed the men how to patrol, and to discover and avoid traps 
which abounded in "No Man's Land." This tract which had 
been considered as enemy ground, through his efforts and the 
work of others, became allied territory. He continually studied 
whatever maps could be obtained and acquired an intelligent 
understanding of the land so far as that could be done. For he 
seemed to have the topographical instinct, a quality so indis- 
pensable to a successful campaigner. It has been said that he 
was modest and unassuming in his ways, yet he had a singular 
influence over the men. The reason for this was undoubtedly 
that in dangerous emergencies he always went himself and did 
not send someone else. As the great United States general in 
the Civil War said of one of his gallant commanders, "With 
him it was 'Come, boys,' not 'Go.'" So it came about that 
when he was in command the men did not wait to be detailed 
but volunteered. He thus had that influence over others which 
forms so great a part of the necessary qualities of a successful 



commanding officer. We are not surprised when told that those 
under him were in fine condition and under the best control, 
and also that it was said of him that if spared he surely would 
rise in rank, for he had the necessary gifts of a successful leader. 

But this was not to be. For after the troops relieved the 
Marines and the battle of Belleau Woods began, when deployed 
in line of battle, they moved forward, he fell mortally wounded 
leading his command against the enemy. Who can repress the 
feeling of pride, melancholy though it be, when such an end 
comes to one who has won the respect and affection of all who 
knew him? 

It was on July 18, 1918, that he fell. 



Class of 1916 

1 N the sketch of John Andrew Doherty in the Memorial 
Report of the Class of 1916, these significant words about 
him are found: "It is a matter of history that no small 
amount of success which our football teams obtained dur- 
ing our undergraduate life was due to the undaunted and 
self-sacrificing efforts of the second team. 'Jack's' leader- 
ship in this regard is well remembered, and his valuable 
service as a member of the Varsity team during his senior 
year in college was but the natural outcome of his in- 

The young lieutenants of the American army, with 
their months of obscure and arduous training followed in 
many instances by mere moments of battle, might well 



figure in a parable of the second team and the brief glory 
of a swift decisive Varsitj^ game. To such a parable 
Doherty's record would lend itself. 

He was born at Roxbury, Massachusetts, September 
4, 1894, a son of Daniel Francis Doherty and Augusta 
Bridget (Williams) Doherty. His preparation for college 
was made at the Boston Latin School, where he was prom- 
inent in athletics. At Harvard he made an important con- 
tribution to the football triumphs of his time by his hard 
work on the second team in his junior year, crowned by his 
playing at quarterback in the final portion of the game with 
Yale in 1915, when Harvard won a memorable victory. At 
the same time he was pursuing his studies with a success 
which enabled him to take his degree of A.B. at the 1916 
midyears. He was a member of the senior nominating 
committee and of the Hasty Pudding Club. 

The Memorial Report of his class describes his sub- 
sequent activities as follows: 

After his graduation Doherty pursued an advanced course in 
Sanitary Engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Tech- 
nology. In the autumn of 1916 he assisted Dr. Paul Withing- 
ton as a backfield coach at the University of Wisconsin. At 
the conclusion of the season he returned East and was em- 
ployed in the drafting division of the Stone and Webster En- 
gineering Corporation, from which he resigned in August, 1917, 
to accept a position as a sanitary engineer for the State of 
Massachusetts. Three weeks later he left this position to 
attend the Second Plattsburg Officers' Training Camp, from 
which he was commissioned in November, 1917, as a first 
lieutenant (Infantry). 

On January 12, 1918, he sailed for France as a casual. 
On March 25 he was assigned to Company 1, 18th Infantry, 



First Division. With this organization he participated in 
engagements at Cantigny, the Noyon-Montdidier defen- 
sive, and Chateau-Thierry. He was killed in action near 
Soissons on July 18. 

In the lack of personal detail concerning his service 
abroad the comprehending reader will feel what is meant 
in the words of the 1916 Memorial Report: "By edu- 
cation and training Doherty was particularly fitted to 
serve his country in the war with Germany in many ways; 
those who knew him, however, were not surprised to hear 
that 'Jack' had gone to the front with one of the early 
American infantrv units." 



Class of 1916 

The father, both grandfathers, great-grandfather, and 
great-great-grandfather of Kenneth EHot Fuller, youngest 
son of Arthur Ossoli Fuller (Harvard, '77) and Ellen 
(Minot) Fuller, born at Exeter, New Hampshire, March 9, 
1894, were graduates of Harvard. His grandfather, 
Arthur Buekminster Fuller (Harvard, '43), chaplain of the 



16th Massachusetts Vokinteers, killed at the Battle of 
Fredericksburg, was a brother of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. 
Kenneth Fuller was entitled by inheritance to high quali- 
ties, and he came to his own. 

Except for one year when his family was living in 
Cambridge, and he attended the Cambridge Latin School, 
his preparation for college was made at Phillips-Exeter 
Academy, in the New Hampshire town of which his 
father, a practising lawyer, has long been a valuable citi- 
zen. He graduated at Exeter second in his class, and came 
to Harvard, in the autumn of 1912, with a Teschemacher 
Scholarship. As an undergraduate he became a member 
of the Pierian Sodality,^ Cercle Frangais, Exeter Club, and 
Varsity Club, the freshman cross-country and track teams, 
the Varsity cross-country team and track squad. From 
college he passed to the Law School, and had not com- 
pleted his first year (1916-17) when the call to arms and 
his response to it turned his life from what had seemed its 
destined course. Of what he brought to Cambridge, found 
there, and bore away with him, a classmate has written 
with sympathy and understanding in the Memorial Report 
of the Class of 1916: 

His early years in the country and his interest in his work at 
school left him with a love for the out-of-doors, and a taste for 
the best in books and music. Throughout his years in college, 
a camp on the shores of Great Bay and a farm in Marlboro, New 
Hampshire, were the places he sought most eagerly in vacation; 
in term time he was anxious to make the best of his courses 

1 It is significant of Fuller's musical interest and capacity that he 
was afterwards one of a group whose photograph was used as the frontis- 
piece of the Army and Navy Songboolc. 



and the other intellectual opportunities offered him, supple- 
menting them with independent reading, in which his instinct 
for the finest and most worth while appeared clearly. Deter- 
mined to serve the college in return for its service to him, he 
worked faithfully on the cross-country team, and won his "H" 
in his senior year. At the same time he gave his best effort to 
his other work, and graduated with an A.B., cum lande. 

Through it all he had the attitude of a questioner and seeker. 
Nothing satisfied him until it was the best and the truest he 
could achieve. Many commonly accepted ideas, in college and 
out of it, puzzled him as to their real value, and he eagerly 
questioned everything he undertook — every new course and 
every new activity — until he was sure that he had found some- 
thing he might truly interest himself in. The result of this 
process was that he acquired certain very definite ideals in 
which his confidence was unshaken and to which he steadfastly 

One of these was his determination to excel in some college 
activity; another, his resolve to preserve his health at its best, —  
and these two aims he realized in his athletic accomplishment. 
A third of his central ideas was to accept no statement, no 
theory, and no doctrine until he had assured himself of its 
truth. This principle he put into effect in all his academic work, 
with the result that he could never bring himself to play the 
parrot in an examination by echoing the remarks of an instruc- 
tor, unless he had convinced himself of their truth. Possibly 
his marks suffered accordingly; certainly his education profited. 
Add to these aims and principles certain definite likes and dis- 
likes in men and books, a love for France and her literature — 
and the main ideals to which he was faithful are suggested. 
Beyond these he was still in doubt as to many problems. 

His future course always perplexed him, but after long dis- 
cussion with himself, his family, and his other advisers, he de- 
termined to enter his father's profession of the law. Gradually 
his first doubts and misgivings were replaced by a vision of real 



usefulness in a legal career, and he gave himself up heart and 
soul to his work. 

Then came the entrance of the United States into the war, 
and for once he forgot all his problems in the finding of an ideal 
which he could accept unhesitatingly, sure of its righteousness 
— an ideal which required no examination to reveal its truth. 
Everything else faded out before the problem of how he could 
best serve the country and the Allies. For years he had loved 
the French literature and spirit, and it had become his cherished 
dream to travel in France. For years he had saved for this 
pilgrimage. Now that France was in danger, his love for what 
she had produced in art transformed itself into desire to fight 
for the maintenance of her national ideals and the highest 
standards of his own country. 

Fuller was the better prepared to enter the Oflficers' 
Training Camp at Plattsburg — which he did in May, 
1917  —  for his training at the Plattsburg camp of the 
previous summer and in the Harvard R. O. T. C. On 
August 15 he was commissioned second lieutenant of 
infantry. From August 27 to December 12 he was as- 
signed to the 151st Depot Brigade at Camp Devens; 
then to the 12th New Hampshire Infantry at Camp 
Greene, Charlotte, North Carolina. In February this 
organization was designated the 1st Army Headquarters 
Regiment. On March 15 it was transferred to Camp 
Merritt, New Jersey, and before the end of the month, 
having embarked at Hoboken on a transport that broke 
down, and reembarked on another, it sailed for France. 
Arriving at Brest, April 16, Fuller was immediately sent 
to the Service of Supply Headquarters at Tours, where 
he was stationed as commanding officer of casuals and 
judge advocate of a special court, until June 27. Here 



he might have remained indefinitely, but for his own feel- 
ing that his place was at the front. At Tours he occupied 
a post of responsibility. His work was that of his chosen 
profession, the law; he lived in safety and comfort, among 
friends. A position in the Judge Advocate Department 
involving legal employment of a congenial kind and an 
opportunity to travel throughout his beloved France was 
offered to him. His superiors urged him to accept it, but 
he declined, insisting upon more active service, if only 
because the casualty lists, headed "second lieutenants 
except where otherwise noted," demonstrated the grave 
need of men trained, as he had been, for infantry work. 
Writing to his father of his decision, and expressing the 
fear that it might not meet with his approval, he said: 

It was not easy to refuse such an opportunity, but I have come 
over here trained to fight in the infantry. I don't think of the 
future in terms of civilian life except in vague dreams. And if 
I am to go back to civilian life, my self-respect demands that 
I have a thoroughly honorable and proud answer to the ques- 
tion, — "What did you do in the great war?" I have acquired 
a strong dislike for the young, healthy emhusque, and it would be 
a terrible wrench for me suddenly to become one. I think that 
the second lieutenant who goes "over the top" successfully, 
displays about the finest qualities a man can have, and for a 
year my mind has been set on being put to the test to see if I 
had a share of those qualities. . . . You may say that there 
are a hundred times more men who can lead a platoon "over 
the top" than there are that can do such specialized work as the 
Judge Advocate business; but that is only an optimistic avowal 
that mankind is well equipped with the finer qualities. Or you 
may point out that it requires ten men behind the lines over 
here for every one at the front. The answer to that is, "Who 
would not rather be that one than one of the ten?" 



It was thus at his own request that he was assigned, on 
June 27, to Company C, 23d Infantry, 2d Division, which 
he joined June 30 on the front line opposite Vaux, near 
Chateau-Thierry. On the eve of this move he wrote 
home: "I have never been happier since I joined the 
Army. I am going to the front where men do the real, 
honest-to-goodness work of the war, — where they sweat 
and swear, but go to sleep (when they can) with easy 
consciences and proud souls." The storming of Vaux 
took place on the day after his joining the 23d, to which 
he was attached for the crowded, brief remainder of his 
life. Through this time the regiment was on the front 
line or in support, taking part in the semi-open warfare 
in which the 2d Division was engaged. On July 6, at 
Triangle Farm, Fuller was placed in command of the 
senior platoon of his company, and held this command 
until he was killed. It was not a time for letter- writing, 
but from the thick of the struggle came these significant 
words : 

How often you hear at home that there is no glory or romance 
in war, and that war is hell. You believe it, and yet the signifi- 
cance of it never comes over you till you get out here and see for 
yourself. How the human race could have brought such hor- 
rors upon itself is beyond comprehension. All man's philosophy 
and conception of human nature breaks down. We have got 
to do everything in our power to bring about permanent peace 
and rationalism between peoples. The first and most horrible 
step is to put down the nation that is opposed to such principles. 

And in the course of the final fortnight of his life he 
wrote this letter: 



Out Thehe, God Knows When. 
We lose track of the date, but it must be about July 13. 

Dear Father, — 

Do you remember that "Kapo" sleeping-bag you helped me 
to get from Read's in Boston? Well, I slept in it last night and 
am lying on it now, and I feel as if it were a life-saver. As long 
as I can keep it with me and keep it dry, I shall be pretty well 
off. Night before last I made my bed at 1 a.m. on the cold, wet 
ground, and it consisted of a poor piece of canvas, a raincoat, 
and one blanket. That is the way I have been living and it is 
not refreshing. 

You and I have read a lot about life at the front, and we have 
imagined that we had a good conception of what it was like. 
We had not. And you will not get it. It is one of the things 
that needs to be experienced to be appreciated. No amount of 
description would help. 

Conditions where I am happen to be very unusual. We are 
waging unsettled, semi-open warfare and have to jump from 
here to there and all around. It is a regular gypsy existence. 
By a great stroke of good luck we have had fair weather, or 
heaven only knows how we should have stood it. The stars 
have been my roof generally. Our life is irregular in the high- 
est degree. There is no telling when we shall sleep, when we 
shall eat, or when we shall fight. Of course, we move during 
the night. 

A few days ago I was separated from my battalion for reasons 
I cannot explain, and I attached myself to Headquarters Com- 
pany for the time being. I had lost my pack, but the first night 
a private lent his blanket to me and another officer, while he 
doubled up with a comrade. When daylight came I found I 
w^as lying close to an old friend and classmate, Dave Loring 
(Twitchell's roommate). I stuck with him for the next day. 
He came over wdth this outfit right after Plattsburg, is now a 
first lieutenant, and going strong. It sometimes makes me sigh 
when I see what I might have done if I had started on a different 



course. Still I have had a rich and varied career. I am glad I 
did not remain at Devens, no matter how much promotion I 
might have got. Those officers in the Depot Brigade must be 
pretty disheartened now. I am in a good place now if I can 
only pick up the necessary knowledge. I doubt if there is a 
better fighting regiment in the Army. Our colonel is a wonder, 
I don't suppose he will remain a colonel much longer. 

If I stick with this outfit, get a lot of experience, see a lot of 
action, and stay above ground, there is the possibility that some 
day I might go back to the States as an instructor. That is, of 
course, only a vague dream, but it is something to think of. 

When I get gloomy about the war, there is nothing helps me 
so much as to find some poilus and talk with them. They are 
splendid. Though they have suffered so terribly, they are full 
of fight and hope, and confident that the Boche cannot hold 
out much longer. They have nothing but praise for the Ameri- 
cans, and the word they use mostly in describing them is 
cran. I guess you know what it means, a sort of dare-devil 
elan, I think. 

My personal opinion is that our soldiers are the best in the 
world, and that if we only had the technique, organization, 
liaison, and what-not, of the French, we could lick the Germans 
tomorrow. That has got to come slowly. When it arrives and 
we can roll forward like a huge, well-oiled machine, you may 
look for peace. 

A poilu told me an incident last night that delighted him. 
He was in the thick of some of the hot fighting done by the 
Americans. We got to a point where the thing to do was dig 
in and hold on. The Americans dug absurd little dugouts, 
that would not protect against much more than sunlight. This 
poilu was much disturbed and told them they must dig, dig, 
dig. The only response he got, according to his story, was, 
"Ah! nous ne sommes pas ici pour faire des irons, mais pour 
faire la guerre." (Oh, we are not here to dig caves, but to 



"VMien I joined Loring the other day. I hiked along with liis 
platoon that night, and at about midnight we drew into a pretty 
little village where we were to be billeted. The soldiers went 
in the barns and lots. Loring and I had a room apiece, and 
we actually found some clean old homespun sheets, and crawled 
into the big old beds. I took off every stitch of clothing for 
the first time in ten days. It felt fine and I shall not forget 
the comfort of that bed. In the morning, we found we were 
in the midst of a most beautiful piece of landscape. — a charm- 
ing fertile valley. We went to the river (very celebrated it is), 
and had a glorious swim. I have never felt cleaner than I did 
then. My only trouble was that I had no clean underclothing. 
I have since then obtained some and am tolerably well off. 

I rejoined my company on foot that night, and here we are 
out in the woods, doing I cannot tell you what, until I cannot 
tell you when. 

Some day I should like to indicate for you on a map just 
what took place and where. Some day also I should like to see 
some of the letters for me that must be lying around somewhere 
in France. 

Meanwhile I carry on. 



Co. C, '2Sd IXF.Os-TRY. 

Fuller's death in action occurred at Vaux Castille. Julv 
18, 1918. while he was leading a party of about ten of his 
men in the final rush of a successful attack upon a nest 
of machine guns which had held up the advance of his 
company in the American drive upon the western (Sois- 
sons) side of the ''^Nlarne Salient." 

Vaux Castille is merely a cluster of perhaps a dozen 
peasant cottages, on the western edge of a deep, wooded 
ra%'ine. almost m the outskirts of Merzv. eight to ten 



miles south of Soissons. This ravine and wood the Ger- 
mans had strengthened with machine guns cunningly con- 
cealed and so placed that every approach to any one 
"nest" was commanded by the fire from another. As 
the Americans were not adequately provided with ma- 
chine guns or hand grenades, and had only a few auto- 
matic rifles, the machine gun nests had to be taken with 
rifle and pistol. The 23d, moreover, had spent the previ- 
ous night in making its way, in a pouring rain, through 
the maze of the Villers-Cotterets forest, reaching the 
"jumping-off-place" and getting into position just as the 
barrage opened; it had advanced several kilometres be- 
fore reaching Vaux Castille, and naturally was not in the 
best of condition for hand-to-hand fighting. Nevertheless, 
it won its objective. 

Colonel Bailey of the loth Field Artillery, which fol- 
lowed the ^Sd Infantry, gave directions for the burial of 
Lieutenant Fuller, and afterwards wrote to his father: 

The drive southwest of Soissons (Vaux Castille and Vierzy) 
was the "Antietam" of the war. The 23d and 9th Infantry 
made a record that day that will live in history. Only Ameri- 
cans like your son could have driven the enemy from the heights 
across those ravines. It was terrible, but it was magnificent. 
Your son died in the lead on the edge of the ravine. . . . He 
was one of the brave fellows who led his men so rapidly, and 
smashed through the Hun lines with such dash and vigor that 
I was compelled to move my batteries up five different times 
that first day in order to fire safely over them. Theirs was a 
magnificent accomplishment because it was the beginning of 
the end of the war. 

^Mien the 23d Regiment was relieved, on the night of 
the next day (July 19), it had only 37 officers and 1-478 



enlisted men left, out of 99 officers and 3400 enlisted men; 
it had captured 75 officers and 2100 men from eleven 
different German regiments and taken two batteries of 
150 mm. field guns, one battery of 210 mm., about 100 
machine guns, and 15,000 rounds of 77 mm. ammunition. 
On the recommendation of the commander of Company 
C, Lieutenant M. G. Griffin, afterwards killed in the 
Argonne, Fuller received a posthumous award of the Dis- 
tinguished Service Cross with the following citation: 

Second Lieutenant Kenneth E. Fuller, for extraordinary 
heroism in action near Vaux Castille, France, July 18, 1918. 
When his company was temporarily halted by heavy machine 
gun fire, 2d Lieutenant Fuller personally led a group of ten 
men in an attack on the machine gun position. He was killed 
while leading this attack, but due to his heroic example the 
enemy position was captured and his company was able to con- 
tinue its advance. 

He also received the Croix de Guerre, awarded in these 
terms : 

Le 18 juillet 1918, pres de Vaux Castille, a fait preuve d'une 
grande hraroure en conduisant un assaut sur un nid de mitrail- 
leuses en face de lui. Tue dans cette attaque. 

Further honor of a sort rarely bestowed upon one so 
young and low in military rank was the naming of a 
temporary camp at the American S. O. S. Headquarters 
at Tours, "Camp Fuller." 

In August, 1920, several large piles of large-calibre Ger- 
man and Austrian shells, still unexploded, were still to be 
seen in the Vaux Castille ravine. The ground in many 
places was fairly littered with rifle and machine gun car- 



tridges, exploded or still "alive." Most of the buildings 
of the hamlet were in ruins, but some had been repaired 
and reinhabited. 

The proprietor of a little garden, at the crest of the 
ravine, where eight Americans were buried in three graves 
at the time of the fight, pointed out the places. The 
bodies had been removed, but search of what had been 
Fuller's grave revealed a few scraps of clothing and equip- 
ment, and two helmets, one pierced by a machine gun 



Law School 1915-17 

X ROCTOR Calvin Gilson, born at DeKalb, New 
York, February 18, 1891, a son of Jared S. Gilson, came 
to the Harvard Law School in the autumn of 1915, hav- 
ing graduated in that year from St. Lawrence University 
of Canton, New York, with the degree of Bachelor of 
Science. At St. Lawrence he had been prominent in 
athletics, especiallj^ football, in which he played guard on 
the college team. There also he become a member of the 
Phi Sigma Kappa fraternity. 

At Harvard he pursued his law studies until May, 
1917, when he entered the Officers' Training Camp at 
Plattsburg. On August 15 he was commissioned second 
lieutenant, infantry, and assigned to Company K, 9th 



Infantry, 2d Division. Between this time and his sail- 
ing for France with the "Fighting Ninth," he was married 
to Marjorie Zoe Phillips, of Carthage, New York, a former 
student at St. Lawrence LTniversity. 

In France he was promoted first lieutenant, March 23, 
1918. He took part in engagements of the Toul and Troyon 
sectors, the Aisne defensive, Chateau-Thierry, and the 
Marne-Aisne offensive. On June 12, 1918, in response to 
the first request for military information from the Harvard 
War Records Office, he wrote: "My company has been 
once cited by the French for distinguished service." It 
should be noted also that Lieutenant Gilson was chosen 
to represent his company' in the parade of American troops 
in Paris on July 4, 1918. 

On July 18 he was killed in action near Longpoint, not 
far from Soissons. With his captain and five other men 
he had become separated from his company. All of his 
companions were wounded. After they had lain concealed 
in a ravine for forty-eight hours without food, Gilson vol- 
unteered to bring help. His body was found afterwards 
near the edge of a wheat field just outside the ravine. 

A few days before his death he had received notice that 
he was to be promoted to a captaincy. 



Class of 1918 

\Jrville Parker Johnson, born in Dulutli, Min- 
nesota, June 10, 1895, while his father was in the min- 
istry and serving a church in Duluth, was the son of 
Charles Henry Johnson (Harvard, '02) and Elvina (Peter- 
son) Johnson, daughter of the Rev. O. P. Peterson of 
Brooklyn, New York. His mother died in Albany, 



February 29, 1908. His father, long identified with 
prison and reformatory work, has been Secretary of the 
New York State Board of Charities since September, 

Johnson graduated from the Albany Academy in 1914. 
He was an officer in the battalion of that school, and while 
sergeant won the sergeant's medal for proficiency in 
drilling. He entered Harvard College in the fall of 1914, 
and soon afterwards became a member of the National 
Guard of Massachusetts by joining in the fonnation of a 
machine gun company in the 8th Massachusetts Regi- 
ment. At college he belonged to the Sigma Alpha Epsilon 
fraternity, and played the French horn in the Harvard 
Regiment band. His enthusiasm for military matters 
was great, and when the Mexican trouble came in the 
summer of 1916 he went with his regiment to the border 
as first sergeant of his company. While there he was ap- 
pointed second lieutenant, but, owing to certain rules as 
to length of service and age, the appointment had to be 
changed by the captain. He returned to college in Decem- 
ber, 1916, and made up his studies. In April, 1917, he 
was elected second lieutenant of his company and quali- 
fied, receiving his appointment from the state, April 15. 

When war with Germany was declared, he was not only 
active in recruiting among Harvard men but went from 
shop to shop in the manufacturing towns about Boston 
urging men to volunteer and not wait to be drafted into 
service. His regiment went early in the summer of 1917 
to Camp Bartlett, Westfield, Massachusetts, and on 
August 29, 1917, he was assigned to the Headquarters 
Company. The organization had been federalized July 25, 



1917. When it was about to embark for France he was 
transferred, September 26, to Company B, 103d Machine 
Gun Battahon — the new designation of his unit — com- 
posed of men from Maine, Connecticut and Vermont. 
He left camp October 2, 1917, and sailed from New York 
on the Cedric October 4, arriving in Liverpool October 17, 
and at Havre October 21. 

During the training period he was in charge of various 
billets. He went into the trenches early in 1918, and 
shared the part of his regiment in the engagements in the 
Chemin des Dames and La Reine sectors. In the spring 
he took special courses in bombing and gassing in the 
First Corps School, and presumably would have been sent 
to America as an instruction officer in these branches had 
he survived. When the Chateau-Thierry offensive began, 
his regiment was in the fight, and on July 18, while John- 
son was leading his men into the village of Torcy, a short 
distance from Chateau-Thierry, which had been taken by 
his company a few moments before, he was struck by a 
bomb and died a few moments later. One of his sergeants 
wrote soon afterwards to Johnson's father: 

Lieutenant Johnson was not very well known to our com- 
pany previous to July 16, as he was formerly with a different 
company, although in the same battalion. But during our 
short acquaintance of only two days, he proved to his men that 
he was a wonderful soldier-officer and what was more, a man. 

Your son was in command of our third platoon, with a 
Sergeant Sabine and myself with his two sections. We left 
Belleau Wood about 6.30 or 7.00 on the morning of July 18, 
and headed for our objective, which was the town of Torcy. 
This town was about a quarter of a mile away over open coun- 
try. The infantry had advanced ahead of us, so all we had to 



fear was the artillery. We arrived in Torcy with very few 
casualties, and our lieutenant placed my two guns and then 
took our other sergeant out in front of the town, in plain view 
of the enemy and endeavored to find a shell-hole to place the 
other two guns. 

Lieutenant Johnson ran in front of his sergeant around a 
small shrub. As he did, a small shell — either a one-pounder 
or a "77" — exploded immediately in front of him. He fell 
and Sergeant Sabine with some help carried him back into the 
street of the town where we had a little protection. He was 
conscious for about ten minutes. I was yelling to find out if 
any one knew where a Red Cross Station was, and hearing 
him speak I bent down and he told me it was "down to the 
church." He repeated that several times. We tried to use a 
tourniquet on his right leg and left arm, but could do nothing. 
So by the time that a medical man came, he was very near gone 
from concussion and loss of blood, and died on the stretcher. 

I shall not try to sympathize with you myself, as I could not 
word it, but you had a man for a son in Lieutenant Johnson. 

He was buried in Belleaii ^Vood, where his body now 
lies. He was much beloved by his men. In the last letter 
he wrote to his father, the night before he died, he said 
in closing, "I am asking God to help me to use my brain 
in order to protect my men, to succeed in my mission, 
and to act bravely," 

The captain of his company wrote: 

He was not only extremely popular with his brother officers 
in the battalion but so with all the men. Never have I met such 
a man. His untiring persistency in caring for his men was an 
example never equaled. He led a platoon with the battalion 
which took and occupied Torcy, July 18, 1918. He would 
never ask or send a man where he would not go. In fact he 
would not allow one of his sergeants to accompany him on a 



reconnaissance of one section of the town of Torcy. It was on 
this trip that he met his death from a shell. His sergeant, hear- 
ing a shell land near the ruins into which your son had entered, 
hastened forward. To the end he tried to have the sergeant 
leave him, fearing for his safety. He met his death as he had 
lived — ever willing, cool at all times, and his courage un- 

The Lieutenant Orville P. Johnson Post No. 202, Vet- 
erans of Foreign Wars, was organized in Albany in 1919. 
At the Harvard Commencement of the same year the 
war degree of A.B. was conferred upon Johnson as of 
the Class of 1918. 



Class of 1918 

XvoBERT MoRSS LovETT, Jr., a son of Robert Morss 
Lovett,^ of the Harvard Class of 1892, Professor of English 
in the University of Chicago, an editor of the New Repub- 
lic, and Ida Campbell (Mott-Smith) Lovett, was born at 
Boston, July 21, 1896. He spent the first year of his life 
in Italy, where "bimbi" became on his lips "Bimbles" — 
the name which, more than anything else, recalls him to 
his oldest friends. His years at the Elementary School 
of the University of Chicago brought out in him a char- 
acter of great sweetness and gentleness, relieved, it is true, 
by humor, but lacking, as his parents thought, in certain 

^ Special acknowledgments are due to Professor Lovett for this 



elements necessary to success in a competitive society. In 
particular he was averse to strife of any sort, a natural 
pacifist. A teacher recalls seeing him, when a little boy, 
prone on the grass of the Midway Plaisance but otherwise 
exhibiting no signs of discomfiture. "Why are you lying 
there.'*" she asked. "A big boy knocked me down." 
"Well, why don't you get up?" "He might knock me 
down again." Above all, he was devoted to his home and 

To counteract these unpromising tendencies, when he 
was thirteen his parents took him to Munich and placed 
him in a large boarding school in which Herr Romer was 
trying to stiffen the educational laxity of Bavaria by a 
little Prussianism. " Zn streng" was the comment of the 
Miinchners, and doubly strenuous it was for an American 
boy, quite ignorant of German, and held, from the mo- 
ment of his entrance, responsible for obeying all the elabo- 
rate regulations of the school. After a time he was allowed 
to become a day scholar, his first recitation falling at six 
in the morning and his last at seven in the evening. His 
father recalls turning on the light in his room one night 
about eleven, when Robert promptly rolled out of bed, 
and, with ej^es only half open, shed his pyjamas and began 
to wriggle into his underclothes. At the warning, "It's 
only eleven; you don't have to get up," he automatically 
reversed his motions, and without a word sank back into 
bed. He thus achieved a kind of stoicism which later 
stood him in good stead. Nothing could touch him 
further. After two years with Herr Romer he could face 
the hardships of training camp, oflScers' school, and front 
trenches with entire equanimity. 



One great alleviation he found in school life, the excur- 
sions into the Bavarian Alps, winter and summer, which 
were led by the Herr Direktor himself. Two summers 
were spent at the little village of Sand in the Tyrol; 
and with his father he made the ordinary ascents in 
the eastern Alps. A third summer the family spent at 
Champery and Chamounix, a summer crowned by cross- 
ing to Italy over the Col du Geant, and a return to Switzer- 
land by the Theodule Pass to Zermatt, with an ascent of 
the Matterhorn. But these summer climbs were nothing 
in comparison with winter excursions into the Zillerthal 
and Oetzthal Alps made in company with two American 
boys, William and Edward Thomas. No guides could be 
engaged. On skis and snowshoes they located passes by 
contour lines, and dug their way into huts half buried in 
snow. The second trip culminated in the ascent of the 
Schwartzenstein from Sand, a night in a hut which they 
fortunately discovered, where the temperature a few feet 
from the stove never got above freezing, and a dangerously 
rapid descent to Mairhofen to catch the last train for 
Munich. Mountains and mountaineering became the pas- 
sion of Robert's life. He was not in general a great reader, 
but the literature of mountain climbing he read in any 
language. And one thing his mountains did for him, as 
for Mr. Wells's hero in "The Research Magnificent," — 
they made him forever free of all sense of fear. That 
source of suffering of the soldier he was spared. 

On the return to America, as Robert still evinced a curi- 
ously boyish love of his home, it was decided to send him 
to boarding school. His great-grandfather had been at 
Phillips-Andover; his father's college chum, Allen Benner, 



was professor of Greek there, so thither he was sent for 
three years. As a result of his familiarity with German, 
he was appointed in successive years to act as guide and 
interpreter of the American school to exchange teachers 
from Germany. He took the classical course. He was not 
a brilliant student; he had little interest in modern litera- 
ture; but in the classics, in Greek especially, he took real 
joy. Homer, Sophocles, like the Matterhorn, were part 
of the great experience in life which his nature craved. 
He continued his classical studies at Harvard, which he 
entered in 1914; but in preparation for that competitive 
struggle which he was never to share, he gave his best 
efforts to political economy. They were his best, although 
not very successful. He entered a minor sport, lacrosse, 
but probation invariably deprived him of the important 
games. But association with the lacrosse team, with his 
fraternity brothers of Alpha Phi Sigma, and with friends 
on the faculty, especially Professor E. K. Rand (who was 
his godfather). Professor R. DeC. Ward, and others, was 
the best that Harvard gave him; and it was much. He 
was a member, moreover, of the St. Paul's Society, the 
Andover Club, and the Deutscher Verein. 

While at Andover and at Cambridge, Lovett had some 
share in social work for boys, first at Lawrence and later 
with a library group at South Boston. His interest in 
these boys was very genuine. They played a part in his 
education for military office. And another experience was 
not without significance. In the summer after his sopho- 
more year he acted for a time as a reporter for the Chicago 
Tribune. It was the season of the regrettably large num- 
ber of casualties from drowning; he was regularly assigned 



to interview the family of the victim, and more than once 
it happened that he was the first to bring the fatal news. 
His spirit suffered — but the discipline of his sympathy 
was a preparation. 

When the United States entered the war, Lovett, a mem- 
ber of the Harvard R. O. T. C, applied for admission 
to the training camp at Plattsburg and was accepted. 
On completing his course there and receiving his com- 
mission as a second lieutenant, infantry, he was assigned 
as an instructor at Camp Devens, but almost imme- 
diately was ordered to join the 26th ("Yankee") Divi- 
sion, for service overseas. Unlike many boys, he was 
not anxious for overseas service. The cruelty of war 
was utterly repellent to him, and he thought it a pecul- 
iarly hard fate which brought him into armed conflict 
with boys who had been his schoolfellows and friends. 
Yet, when General Edwards offered to return him to his 
original assignment at Camp Devens, he refused. When 
the example of an older lad, who had asked to remain on 
this side for further training, was pointed out to him, he 
said: "He's sure that's the real reason. I can't be. I'd 
better go where they want me." Fortunately he had no 
question of the good faith of the leaders of the nation, nor 
did he doubt their assurance that he was to fight in the 
cause of a better world. 

At Westfield, Massachusetts, he went into camp late 
in August, with the 103d Regiment, as second lieutenant 
of Company E. In September, 1917, the Division was 
ordered overseas, and, after a few weeks in England, settled 
down to a winter of training near Chaumont. Lovett's 
letters to his family were constant. He knew the terrible 



fear in his home, and made an effort, pathetically evident, 
to dwell upon the brighter side of war. Never did he 
speak of the enemy in terms of hatred or contempt. To 
him they were boys like himself, set apart to die that older, 
more valuable men with families, financial interests, social 
responsibilities, and political position might be spared. 

He was fortunate in his immediate associates. The 
company to which he was attached was from Skowhegan, 
Maine, and had been under the same captain as part of 
the National Guard of the state. There was understand- 
ing and good fellowship between officers and men. To 
both, his nature, so ready to attach itself by affection and 
loyalty to the human beings near him, went out. The 
company became hi? home. He did not wish to leave it. 
Captain Healy used to tease him by threatening to reveal 
his knowledge of German and French, which might have 
caused his assignment to staff work. When he was sent 
to an officers' training school, he asked both his colonel 
and his captain to put in applications for his return to his 
company. Everyone who knew him will understand 
Captain Healy's writing that he had come to love him as 
a younger brother; and will not be surprised that, when 
he rejoined his company a few days before Marshal Foch's 
offensive of July 18, he stood before his platoon with the 
tears running down his cheeks. He had worked hard with 
the inspiration of learning how to take care of his men. 
It would have been unspeakable tragedy for him if they 
had gone into action without him. 

On the morning of July 18, the 103d Regiment took 
part in the offensive from Belleau Wood. The following 
letter gives an account of events as they appeared a few 



days later, though one material fact is omitted — namely, 
the failure, on account of bad staff work, of the rest of the 
brigade to move forward in support, leaving the 103d ex- 
posed to flank attack. It was evidently this circumstance 
which led Lieutenant Lovett to question the orders which 

he had received. 

2 RUE d'Aguesseau, Paris, France. 
July 26, 1918. 

Dear Mr. Lovett: 

This letter I typewrite because it is more likely to reach you 
if it is not in handwriting. I will not intrude upon your grief 
with expressions of sympathy for the loss of that beautiful lad 
Robert. But I will tell you all I have been able to learn about 

Yesterday, the 25th, I was near the front lines when I met 
Captain Healy, Robert's captain. I heard him mention the 
name, and asked if the lieutenant he spoke of was your boy. 
When I found he was, I reached every one I could who had been 
with him, and spent the day questioning all persons connected 
with Robert's platoon and company so as to get as accurate 
an account as possible. The facts are blurred already — just 
in one little week. The letter Captain Healy will write may be 
a bit different from mine, but these are the facts so nearly as I 
can find them out from talking to twenty men. If I say any- 
thing that hurts, forgive me; God knows that I would spare 
you if I could, but I think the day will come when you will want 
all details. 

The friends of Robert's whom I have talked with, besides 
Captain Healy, are Lieutenant Kirkpatrick, who was with him 
at Plattsburg; Lieutenant Sniff, a very keen and accurate and 
sympathetic person; Ward Black, a Y. M. C. A. worker who 
knew your son well; and Sergeant Emory who was devoted to 
him. There was a corporal with him at the end, one Lancto. 
No one knows where he is; he has been evacuated, and all traces 
of him are lost. But I will do my best to find him. . . . 



On "Wednesday night, very late — indeed, almost Thursday 
morning — word came from General Foch that companies hold- 
ing the line were to go over almost at once; they were to start 
at 4.45, Thursday morning, the 18th. It was not possible to get 
ready by that time, so Robert's regiment (or the companies of 
them in action) did not start till 7.15. Lieutenant Kirkpatrick 
went across the day before; he says that Robert teased him 
about having to go over first. You must know that these lads 
have a way of jesting over their chances, and Robert was telling 
him he'd never be back, and laughing and pretending that 
Kirkpatrick was afraid. All these men say that Robert did not 
know what fear of danger was, and that before this time when- 
ever he was in action he was always laughing beforehand — 
sure he was coming back. They did not say that he said he'd 
come back; but the impression of everyone with whom I talked 
was that Robert thought nothing could ever happen to him. 

But he was very quiet this Thursday morning; Lieutenant 
Sniff and Sergeant Emory both noticed it. Both these men (and 
they are not hysterical persons) say that three or four times they 
have seen brave men quiet in just that way, and they have taken 
it for a premonition that they would not come back. Robert said 
almost nothing to any of them. 

I have seen those dreadful woods, and I shall try to tell you 
about them. There is first the fringe of the woods where Robert 
and his men stood before they went across the open. Then 
comes a very long stretch of wheat-fields; the wheat is almost 
hip high, or a little less. I think the fields must be almost half 
a mile across. Then comes a railroad track, wuth a gully at the 
side. On the other side is the hill which the men were to try 
to take. 

This hill, it was known, was manned by various German 
machine-gun companies, but no one guessed how many there 
were. The reason why Foch sent his orders so late was that he 
did not want the Germans to have any warning of what was 
going to happen. They were to think (and evidently they did 



think) that an enormous force was coming over. If they had 
guessed how few companies there were, they need not have run 
away as they did. But because the notice was so short, the 
officers had no time to reconnoitre. That is, Robert and his 
men went over territory entirely unknown to them. 

Most of the soldiers when crossing the wheat -fields drop into 
them occasionally for cover. I assume that Robert and his 
platoon must have done this; at any rate, there were very few 
losses until they had got well past the wheat-field bisected by 
the road; then they got into the rest of the wheat -field and ap- 
proached the gully. At that point, as I understand it. Captain 
Healy had ordered Robert to take his platoon and go about by 
the left flank of the hill. (I have seen this country up to within 
a few score yards of the gully; but I can only tell you from hear- 
say how the ground was just about there.) Robert and his men 
lay flat, and began to crawl through the wheat. The machine 
guns were not turned upon them, but the German snipers shot 
at them. \Mien he was half way to the bit of woods he was to 
take (just a few trees, I understand, where Germans were sup- 
posed to be lurking), Robert came back. When he started, 
young Emory begged him to be careful. He said Robert was 
so fearless and he had been crawling rather recklessly. Robert 
did go carefully, and reached Captain Healy safely. He said, 
"Captain, they're sniping my men. Have I got to go on?" 
The Captain replied that the woods had to be taken. ("I told 
Lovett he had to do it; I thought it was only a bit of brush. 
Anyway, it had to be done.") So Robert said, "All right; I'll 
go on with what men I have left." 

He started back and came safely to his men. They crawled 
on a bit further and then halted for a time; they had been losing 
men pretty heavily. Robert kept crawling up and down his 
line of men to give them instructions and "to see how things 
were going," as Emory says. Emory kept warning him to 
crawl with as little movement as he could, and he did. At one 
time he took three men, did some reconnoitering, and got back 



safely. Then Emory seems to have been separated from him, 

and Lancto was beside him. At something hke nine o'clock 

Robert was shot in the thigh by a sniper. He said, "That's a 

funny place to get hit." That wound was evidently not serious. 

Some of the men I talked with say that at that moment the 

order came for the company to retreat and that Robert began 

to crawl back with the others. Some say that before the order 

came to retreat he was again shot; that is, that he did not 

attempt to crawl. If I can find Lancto, I may learn about this. 

But, in any case, soon after he had the first wound he was shot 

again, this time in the head. The two men beside him were also 

shot. It may have been machine-gun firing this time, or it may 

have been sniping. In any case Lieutenant Sniff says he knows 

he did not suffer. Lieutenant Sniff says the nervous exaltation 

is such that a man does not feel these bullet wounds; with 

shrapnel it is different. They are all of the impression that 

Robert died almost instantly after the second wound, or wounds, 

in his head; that when the retreat was ordered and the men had 

to crawl away, leaving their wounded, your son was done with 

all this bitter war. 

But this is true: when the litter-bearers went out to find the 
wounded, the Germans had stolen Robert's watch and money — 
everything he had, even letters. He was buried in the little 
cemetery at Bouresches. I can scarcely get permission to go 
there again, or I would gladly get a picture of his grave. It is 
just a little town, shelled very much, chiefly by the Germans, 
where the civilians have just begun to creep back. These French 
civilians will care for the grave and keep flowers on it all summer. 

Robert had just come back from school, where he had dis- 
tinguished himself very much. All his friends in the company 
were impressed with his mental power. He talked a good deal 
in that last week of his life about what had happened at school. 
Ward Black had a long conversation with him; Mr. Black used 
often to bring Y. M. C. A. supplies to his men. Robert was very 
anxious that they should be as well supplied with extras as pos- 



sible, and often asked Mr. Black to do errands for this platoon. 
He told Mr. Black how he had been assigned to another divi- 
sion and had not wanted to leave his own original division, and 
had got Captain Healy to arrange for him to return. I asked 
Captain Healy if he had spoken much in that last week of things 
at home and he said no; that Robert had said only that he 
would ask, or had asked, you to get a watch for Captain Healy 
like his own. 

No one seems to remember much of what Robert said in detail, 
but they all speak of his lovable personality. They say that no 
one could have been braver, or more cheerful, more boyish. 
He liked to tell them of the pranks he used to play as a young 
lad, — such as pawning his suit case. Captain Healy says his 
conduct over here was in all ways what you would have been 
proud of. I cannot tell you what love he seems to have inspired 
and what grief, especially in Captain Healy and young Emory. 
Captain Healy was in tears when he told me about having to 
give him that order to take his men on the flank. "I never 
loved a man as much as I did Lovett," he said. Poor Emory 
could not speak without his voice breaking. 

I don't know how to write this letter, Mr. Lovett; how to 
tell you and his mother how much that cheerful, thoughtful 
personality meant to Company E in the way of example to the 
men, and to the officers. He laughed at hardships, but he never 
let his men have more hardship than they must. I carried away 
such a sense of sunny youth. They wanted me to tell you that 
he really had been happy over here; liked the soldier life. I am 
glad his end was so easy; you need not think of him as lying 
wet or wounded or suffering; the great agony of some, Robert 
never had to suffer. 

As to finding Lancto — I may not be able to do it. It is 
amazing how soon facts and men are lost track of here. No one 
of his company could tell me anything about him. . . . Later 
he will be found, but I want to reach him soon, while he can 
remember freshly. 



Captain Healy will write you, too. There is no more that I 
can learn. With deep sympathy, 

Faithfully yours, 

Maude Radford Warren. 

In the Thirtieth Anniversary Report of the Class of 
1892 there is the following brief summary of the circum- 
stances of Lovett's death: 

The engagement in which he lost his life occurred at the very 
beginning of Foch's offensive. The attack was to have begun 
at 4.30 of July 18, but it was not until three hours later that the 
regiment emerged from the Belleau Woods. The objective 
which Robert's company was to take was evidently too strong, 
for it did not yield until two days later. Robert got his platoon 
into cover in a wheat field and crawled back across the open 
grounds to report his losses and ask if he was to continue the 
attack. They said "Yes," and he answered very cheerfully, 
"Then I'll go on with the men I have left." He was very proud 
of his men. He might have had an instructor's position, but he 
did not wish to leave them. Very few of the platoon engaged 
escaped death or severe wounds. His own death was probably 
instantaneous, just as a retreat was ordered. 



Law School 1908-10 

Ijester Clement Barton was born, June 27, 1884, 
in the Chicago suburb of Maywood, Illinois, founded in 
1869 by his grandfather, William Thomas Nichols, colonel 
of the 14th Vermont Regiment, which played an important 
part in the action under General Stannard on the third 
day of the Battle of Gettysburg. This soldier, reputed the 
first Vermonter to enlist for the Civil War, was himself 
descended from Neri Crampton, a young lieutenant with 
Ethan Allen at the surrender of Fort Ticonderoga. 
Through his father's family, Barton traced descent from 
three holders of his name in as many generations who took 
part in the War of the Revolution; from Sarah (Towne) 
Cloyce, acquitted of witchcraft at about the same time 



that her sisters, Rebecca (Towne) Nourse and Mary 
(Towne) Easty, were executed, in the Massachusetts Bay 
Colony, for this s^upposed offense; and from Stephen Hop- 
kins of the Mayfloicer company. He was the eldest son 
of George Preston Barton, long a practising lawyer in 
Chicago, now living in California, and of Lucy (Nichols) 

Barton attended the public schools in Chicago, and 
graduated from the Chicago Manual Training School in 
1901. A year at Phillips Academy, Andover, then pre- 
pared him to enter Yale, in the autumn of 1902, with the 
Class of 1906. At Andover he won a prize in Latin and 
graduated with high standing. At Yale he took part in 
football, rowing, and basketball. 

His connection with the Harvard Law School for two 
years followed one year (1906-07) of legal study at the 
University of Chicago. Five years after graduating from 
Yale he gave the following account of himself in the Class 
Report of 1911: 

The year following graduation I lived at home and attended 
the Law School of the University of Chicago, the co-educational 
atmosphere of which was quite a contrast to my previous eight 
years' experience. Then, being short of funds, as usual, I took 
a photographic outfit and two friends up into Minnesota and 
Wisconsin to two militia camps and took in $900 in two weeks. 
Feeling that the possession of so much wealth in a large city 
might have a pernicious effect on my character, I immediately 
started for Wyoming with the same two and one more friend, 
and we took a thousand-mile trip with six horses, starting from 
Lander and including the cosmopolitan metropolis of Ther- 
mopolis, Yellowstone Park, and Jackson's Hole. After a month 
in Chicago it seemed to me that the most profitable thing I could 



do then, under all the circumstances, was to look around the 
West some more, and incidentally earn my own living, inas- 
much as I could n't raise enough money to go to Harvard Law 
School. So I bought an eight-thousand mile round-trip ticket 
(including Phoenix, Arizona, and Victoria, B.C.) and started 
the latter part of November. Among other things I wholesaled 
from San Diego to Seattle my own photographs of the Atlantic 
Squadron, then on its way round the world. Had a little office 
in 'Frisco and two or three assistants. On this trip I made at 
least 20,000 prints and covered about 15,000 miles in all. Re- 
turned to Chicago in July. 

The following two years, which I spent at Harvard Law 
School, I look back on with a great deal of satisfaction. For the 
past six years, I have made some kind of a Western trip each 
summer, and feel very familiar with the country out there. 
This past summer (1910) I returned to Chicago about October 1, 
passed my bar exams, got a job as attorney for Charles Hall 
Ewing and the Helen Culver estate. . . . 

Soon after this beginning he served for a time as as- 
sistant state's attorney for Cook County, Illinois, and 
later was engaged in examining titles for the Chicago Title 
and Trust Company. In 1916 he opened a law office of 
his own and entered upon independent practice. 

The beginnings of his military service are summarized 
as follows in the "Yale Obituary Record": 

When war was declared he almost immediately offered him- 
self at the first Officers' Training Camp at Fort Sheridan, Illi- 
nois, but was required to wait, on account of a sprained knee, 
until the second camp, which he entered on August 27, 1917. 
On November 27, 1917, he was commissioned a second lieuten- 
ant of field artillery, and immediately ordered to France. He 
sailed by way of Halifax and England, and reached France, 
January 7, 1918. There he followed the regular intensive train- 



ing at Saumur, and in April, 1918, he was assigned to Battery B, 
101st F. A., 26th Division, then stationed at Toul. Early in 
May he had a leave and visited his sister Thyrza (Mrs. Sherman 
W. Dean), a Y. M. C. A. worker in Paris, and his half-brother, 
William S. Barton, a sergeant in the ambulance service. 

Soon after Barton reached France he set up the practice 
of sending bulletin letters, "dope sheets" he called them, 
to a number of friends in America. They told of what he 
was both doing and thinking. In the first of them he had 
to relate an accident to his foot while he was riding at the 
Field Artillery School at Saumur. The second was written 
from a hospital cot in the officers' ward of Base Hospital 
27, at Angers, where he spent several weeks recovering 
from this injury. 

The only joy of the situation is the marvellous opportunity to 
read and study, without distractions, and I am fully taking ad- 
vantage of it. The available books are the only limitation. Be- 
sides the occasional Paris edition of New York and Chicago 
newspapers, magazines, etc., during the past three and a half 
days I have read: 1. "The Preacher of Cedar Mountain," a 
story of the Black Hills, and Chicago, in the 80's, by Ernest 
Thompson Seton. It is a better tale than I supposed he could 
write, and some parts of it strike a responsive chord in my own 
experience, — as to a love for the open places of the West, etc. 
2. "Kitchener's Mob" is very similar to "Over the Top," but is 
written by a more intelligent man and possibly from a less 
egotistical viewpoint. It is only 200 pp. and a vivid piece of 
writing. 3. Some of the latest Sherlock Holmes stories, entitled 
"His Last Bow." 4. Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina." Have only 
read 225 pp. out of the two volumes, so far, but am entirely 
fascinated. I shall certainly get hold of some more of his books, 
and confess that I have read none before. This one reminds me 
of de Morgan's "Joseph Vance" in its detailed characterization, 



but seems more interesting and meaty. In addition to reading 
I am planning to keep up with the work at the school, certainly 
the book part of it, and unless I am out more than a month, 
which is n't likely, I shall hope to finish with the others about 
the middle of April. By the time they all arrive, there will be 
almost 700 student pfiicers in the school. 

When he joined the 26th Division he took pleasure in 
meeting a number of Harvard men among the officers. 
Much of the news he sent home had to do with experiences 
common to all. In one letter written from the front, and 
but indirectly connected with his work as a field artillery 
ofiicer, he showed himself an attentive and appreciative 


June 8, 1918. 

Dear Friends: 

Yesterday I had a most wonderful experience — as great and 
joyous a thrill as one can have — at least from a mechanical con- 
trivance — my first flight of If hours, in an aeroplane. 

The afternoon was bright and hot, so they told me the air 
would be "bumpy" if we went up before 4.30 p.m. That means 
the heat waves would be rising and make us ride like a ship in a 

So the French capitaine had telephoned his superiors, and 
obtained permission. I was dressed for the air as for a polar 
trip and my pilot was ready. He was a delightful little French- 
man — named Rene Rodier — and an adjutant (i.e. sergeant), 
as is the French practice, instead of a commissioned officer. 

He took his seat in the small cockpit, up front near the bow 
of the "bus," and I mine about 5 feet back of him. He explained 
how to signal him if I saw any Boche planes, nodded ready, and 
the poilu started to turn the long propeller blade. Soon the 
motor started, the machine was turned in the right direction, 
the motor speeded up with a tremendous roar and rush, and we 
started over the ground very fast. 



I looked back at my friends, and found them holding on to 
their hats, with backs turned, in an awful cloud of dust from the 
zephyr originated by our propeller. In 5 seconds they were 
away in the distance and then we started up and left all cares 
behind; said good-bye to prosaic Mother Earth. We flew 
through the air: now low, just above cathedral spires, closely 
clustered red-tiled roofs, over pastures, woods, and workers in 
the fields, skimming the tops of fortified hills; now high, just 
below the lofty cumulus clouds, with the earth on an apparently 
flat, vari-colored floor beneath us. The many straight and curv- 
ing white lines are roads, the patches of dark green are forests, 
the little clusters of red and gray spots are villages, the extensive 
straight-line patterns in shades of brown, red and yellow, are 
cultivated fields, and the dark curving lines disappearing in the 
haze of the distance, are rivers. 

The roar of the motor is terrific, the blast of air it sends back 
at a speed of 150 miles an hour, is tremendous, but very stimu- 
lating. I lean over the side of the shining framework, and see 
directly under us the zig-zag lines of the trenches. Yonder 
lies Germany, and the enormous power of the Kaiser, now 
struggling mightily in its death throes, a land in which every 
material thing is now marvellously organized for the purposes 
of war, death, and destruction. 

I stand up in my little pit, only to be bent back by the force 
of the wind. Then I raise the semicircular support of my Lewis 
machine gun, and brace myself erect with head above the top 
wings. It is glorious! The fresh air is forced into my throat 
and nostrils; the quivering machine goes steadily along, seem- 
ingly and almost actually as safe and sure as an automobile 
or express train. It seems as though the leather casque would 
be torn from my head by the air blast. Below are alternating 
lights and shades of the cloud patterns on the earth, just above 
are the brilliant sun and the dazzling white clouds themselves. 

A short distance beneath and to one side, is my friend, wav- 
ing to me from his plane; its wide stretch of taut surfaces 



glistens in the sunlight, and the red, white and blue of France 
and America, stands out on the top of each wing, painted in con- 
centric circles. Oh, this flying is the king of sports, worth living 
for, or dying for. What matters it if we are overtaken by sud- 
den oblivion under such conditions? It is an ideal death com- 
pared to being dismembered by a shell in a hole; even the 
thought of it causes no fear. 

Are any Boche planes in sight? I adjust my mitrailleuse 
and practise sighting at various angles to be ready for emergen- 
cies. The magazine holds 94 rifle-calibre cartridges, in series of 
3, standard, tracer, and incendiary bullets. It can be fired from 
almost any angle. 

We are now circling down towards the dots which represent 
my regimental echelon. The motor has been cut down and is 
less noisy. The nose of the plane is pointing earthward, with 
the wings tipping an angle of more than 45 degrees. To my 
surprise it all seems normal and natural, this swooping down 
from the skies. The machine is perfectly steady and the com- 
motion is less. There are no strange phj^sical sensations about 
it, any more than sitting in a chair on the veranda. Compara- 
tively speaking, descending in an elevator is a mild adventure. 
It takes an unexpected length of time to descend enough to 
really reach the warm strata of air and make the acquaintance 
of the landscape. Just 300 metres below is my battery picket 
line, with 150 horses, and the roofs of the "Adrian" barracks. 
The men are moving dots. We circle around the little 12th 
century village, between the hills, and the little stream passing 
by the small church tower, and start back for our hangar. 

Flying at a low altitude is in many ways more interesting than 
up above, though more dangerous if anything goes wrong. One 
notices then the speed, which is not the case up in the clouds. 
It is the difference between a river and the middle of the ocean. 

The hills and irregularities of the ground become visible. The 
little goings and comings on the earth below enter into our con- 
sciousness, and become matters of interest. 



There is our field. We circle around and dive down just 
above the sheds, to attain a low altitude before straightening 
out for our first contact with the ground. The difficulty and 
danger of landing at once becomes apparent as we quietly glide 
over the grass at 50 or 60 miles an hour. A little hillock or 
bump would turn us over and destroy the machine. 

A sudden slight jar, and in a moment we are on the wheels, 
with tail dragging, and in a quarter of a mile have stopped. The 
motor is then speeded up enough to roll us back to our hangar. 

We climb out, covered with smiles, and a feeling of immense 
satisfaction, and remove our warm heavy clothing. 

It was perfect. 

In a letter of July 7 his thoiightfulness and the seri- 
ousness with which he faced the future were strikingly 
revealed : 

Recently I read an article in the May Atlantic Monthly on 
"The New Death." Possibly I can appreciate some of the 
things stated in it better than you can. But we do hope and 
believe that the effort we are making here will be for the greater 
good. There is much idealism on the part of the men over here 
to which they have not the time or inclination or ability to give 
utterance. There is also much matter-of-factness, disgust with 
the whole business, or happy-go-lucky acceptance of what comes 
along. It is true that the majority have only a slight conception 
of what they are getting into, before they leave America. It is 
appalling to think of what these nations have suffered during 
the past four years. But after a while one gets acclimated to 
most anything, if he is still alive. I consider that I have had 
comparatively a very easy time of it thus far. Life never 
seemed sweeter or better. I have a good chance to survive, 
but if I don't my great wish is that I am not snuffed out in some 
fool way by a shell back of the lines but rather while actively 
engaged in some effort really worth while. 



It was in the Aisne-Marne offensive, at the northern 
edge of Belleau Wood, that Barton was killed in action, 
July 19, 1918. He was sent forward, July 17, as liaison 
officer with the infantry, to transmit to the artillery the 
requests of the infantry, and to help in directing batteries 
against the German machine guns and other targets — a 
hazardous mission. The liaison runner who accompanied 
him, Private John F. Walsh, an eye-witness of his death, 
has thus described the scene: 

It was about three or four p.m. We were lying in a shell hole, 
which was about three or four feet deep, for protection. We 
started forward to get the wounded and bring them back. After 
a few trips we sought cover in another shell hole, because the 
barrage was heavy; also, machine guns were sniping us. 

When it quieted down a bit, I saw Lieutenant Barton start 
forward again. He had gone about forty feet when I saw him 
throw up his hands and fall forward. I went forward to see 
what was the matter. On getting there I found he was dead — 
killed instantly by a shell. 

In General Orders from the Headquarters of the 26th 
Division he was cited in the following terms: 

For meritorious service. On July 18 and 19, 1918, during the 
Aisne-Marne offensive, as liaison officer of the infantry, he 
went forward with the attack of the infantry on Torcy. At the 
time visibility was difficult, owing to the dense mist which 
covered the ground. He fearlessly, under heavy machine gun 
and shell fire of the enemy, went to the most forward portions of 
the line, obtaining and transmitting to the artillery exact infor- 
mation of great value. He continued to expose himself in the 
performance of his duty until killed by enemy shell fire. 

A strange sequel of Barton's death was that when his 
brother and sister visited the scene of the Belleau Wood 



fight in January, 1919, they found there a mud-stained 
handkerchief marked with his name, and that still later 
his helmet, inscribed with his name in his own handwrit- 
ing, was picked up on the field. 

A poem in Barton's memory by Eunice Tietjens, rounds 
out the record of his life in the expression of a sorrow and 
pride which soldiers such as he have left behind them: 

This Much is Left Us — 

The guns are silent noic, and all the dust 
Of shattered flesh returned into the earth. 
Friend sleeps with foe, nor any windy gust, 
Nor summer rain can wake them to new birth. 

You died, then, you and seven million more. 
You died for home, or victory, or peace. 
These things we have, and life's much as before. 
Save for the silence where your voices cease, 

Save for the human silences that come 
When those who loved you suddenly are still 
Remembering — or at twilight when the numb 
Sore spot in the mind like an old wound aches chill. 

Life runs the same. The outer shell of living 
Which, when we lost you, covered emptiness. 
Is deepening now, is taking form, and giving 
Solidity to what was bodiless. 

Oh, we have not forgotten ! We remember. 
Yet we have lost the glory of your days. 
Time circles still from spring to stark December 
And we slip back into the trodden ways. 



Yes, we grow old. And our once naked hearts 
That glowed like steel with agony and wrath, 
Grow dusty with long days, and little arts 
And gracious nothings deck the aftermath. 

But you are free, who went in that white glow 
And laid you down with tragedy for bride; 
Life cannot touch you; you can never grow 
Old and cold and dusty at our side. 

For you are youth, who now have cheated time, 
And you are courage flung against the sky — 
One with all radiant things, that in their prime 
Are frozen into beauty when they die. 

And death, who had his will of you, can never 
Still that high courage with a thousand wars. 
And we who love you hold you now forever. 
As wide and white and peaceful as the stars. 



Class of 1913 

\_yARLETON Burr, known to his intimates as 
"Chubby," was a son of Isaac Tucker Burr, of the Har- 
vard Class of 1879, and AHce McChire (Peters) Burr. He 
was born at Milton, Massachusetts, August 29, 1891. 
After attending the Noble and Greenough School in 
Boston, as a younger boy, he entered Milton Academy, 
from which he graduated in 1909. Proceeding immedi- 
ately to Harvard, where he became a member of the In- 



stitute of 1770, D. K. E., Polo, Kalumet, O.K., Hasty 
Pudding, and A. D. Clubs, he graduated from college with 
the Class of 1913. 

During his college vacation in the summer of 1911, his 
sister has written, he went to Newfoundland with the 
Grenfell Association and, entering with the true spirit of 
his leader into its work, made a trip with Dr. Grenfell up 
the Labrador Coast, visiting the natives and bringing 
them relief. Immediately after his graduation he travelled 
through the West with his classmate, George v. L. Meyer, 
Jr., out to the Pacific, and then on a hunting trip in the 
mountains of Wyoming. For the year following his return 
from this trip in October, 1913, he worked in the Boston 
office of Kidder, Peabody and Company during the week, 
as he expressed it in a Class Report, "and watched my 
friends get married on Saturdays." The next autumn he 
entered the employ of the Paul Revere Trust Company, 
with which he remained until its consolidation with the 
State Street Trust Company, in January, 1916. In Feb- 
ruary, the better qualified for usefulness by the training of 
a Plattsburg camp in the summer of 1915, he set sail for 
France with his classmate, Oliver Wolcott, for work in 
the American Ambulance Field Service. Immediately 
attached to Section 2 on the Verdun front, he remained 
there as a driver until June. Then he was transferred to 
Section 9, and sent to the Vosges as its director. He con- 
tinued in this service until his return to the United States 
early in February, 1917. A few passages from the letters 
he wrote to his family during this year at the front are 



March 2, 1916. 

Jack Brown, who has just returned from the front and is tak- 
ing La Touraine home on Saturday, has very kindly consented 
to be the bearer of this letter. It is a fortunate opportunity as, 
under these circumstances, I shall be able to write very freely 
and to enclose these photographs which, through the mail, 
would probably never get by the French censor. You will find 
on the back of each photograph a full explanation. Very un- 
fortunately, the one I should have valued most did not come out. 
It was a close view of the new ambulance marked "Francis 
Hardon Burr." ^ This car was delivered from the factory about 
four days ago (and not in forty-eight hours as Uncle AUston 
expected), and was taken out to Section 3 (in the Vosges) by 
Waldo Pierce, who played on the same team with "Hooks." 

The "Doc" 2 returned from the front yesterday, where he has 
been on one of his regular rounds. After lunch he interviewed 
each one of us new men separately, and informed us where we 
were going, with the special injunction that we should tell no 
one. He is sending O. and me and one other man tomorrow to 
Section 2, which is now operating just outside of Verdun, at 
which point is now being waged probably one of the greatest 
battles of the war. Of course, we are thrilled in spite of all the 
hardships which we anticipate. The "Doc" tells us that this 
section is being terribly hard-worked, that both men and cars 
are continually breaking down, and it is for this reason that he 
is sending three fresh drivers with three new cars to relieve the 
others as soon as possible. Apparently the men are now living 
in an old barn which affords practically no comforts. They 
get very little sleep, and, as the roads are in frightful condition, 
they are all plastered with mud. However, as O. and I desired 
particularly to get into the thick of it, we are looking forward 

^ Carleton Burr's cousin, of the Harvard Class of 1909, who died in 

2 A.Piatt Andrew (Harvard, Ph.D., '00). 



eagerly to this life. The trip from here to Verdun will probably 
take us three days and will be all the way through the famous 
battlefield of the Marne. We shall travel in convoy with a 
French conducteur on the first machine. 

The "Doc" impressed upon us particularly that in our letters 
home all we could mention was our health and the weather and 
could give absolutely no description of our whereabouts. Ac- 
cordingly, as both these topics are fairly bromidic, and as we 
expect to be frightfully busy, you will probably get very little 
news from me in the next few weeks unless, of course, I find 
another special despatch bearer. Don't forget that I shall be 
always most grateful for news from home! My address in the 
future will be: S. S. U. 2; Convois Automobiles, par B. C. M., 

S. S. U. stands for Service Sanitaire United States. They used 
to have an A (for Americaine) instead of the U, but it was con- 
stantly being confused for Anglais and they were accordingly 
forced to change. Par B. C. M. means "Through the Bureau 
Central Militaire." This address will reach me, no matter 
where the Section may be moved. By the way, Section 2 is the 
famous one of which Salisbury is the leader and which has been 
glorified by Buswell in his book. 

I have dined almost every night in Paris since my arrival 
here with either Norman Prince or Victor Chapman (both of the 
Flying Corps) or Rex Carey of the Embassy. The many incidents 
which these three have related would fill a volume, and I am 
afraid you will have to wait till I get home to hear many of them. 
Victor Chapman, who served a year in the Foreign Legion and 
was once wounded, was really the most interesting. . . . 

It has been very striking to me, from the bits of gossip I have 
picked up here and there, to learn how much the French dislike 
the English. The former are convinced the latter are shirking 
their duties on land, and have many stories to corroborate their 
beliefs. Also, the unsupportable manners of the English officers 
are very irritating to the French. There is no doubt that if the 



English made an offensive now, it would do much to relieve the 

German pressure at Verdun. Of course, it may be said in behalf 

of the English, that fighting on one's own territory and on foreign 

soil are two different parts of speech; which fact, I think, is 

frequently overlooked by the French. 

O. and I were remarking only last night as to how callous to 

present conditions we had both become in only one week. For 

instance, when we landed in Bordeaux we almost fell over each 

other trying to get a photograph of a man in one of the new steel 

helmets. On the contrary, the other night we casually went 

to sleep while some of the French 75's just outside the city were 

firing at a supposed Zeppelin. The whistle of the shells sounded 

to me more like a high-pitched tuning fork in vibration than 

anything else I can describe. 

Petit Monthairons, 
March 13. 

Since we left Paris we have been frightfully busy, but almost 
every moment has been interesting. We had a most fascinating 
trip from Paris here under the auspices of a very intelligent 
French conduct eur by name of Wolf. Our way took us through 
Meaux, Montmirail, St. Dizier, Bar-le-Duc, Souilly and finally 
here. The first-named place marks the spot at which the Ger- 
man advance to the east of Paris was checked. All the way we 
travelled on beautiful roads lined on either side with lofty 
poplars spaced at regular intervals. At each town we came to 
we were held up by a sentry demanding our papers, and were 
then allowed to pass through the picturesque little village 
crowded to the breaking point with reserve troops and muni- 
tions. It certainly made my blood thrill. 

On reaching this point, late on the second night, I saw at a 
glance what we were up against. Petit Monthairons consists 
of an old chateau and its few retaining buildings. I guarantee 
you will not be able to find it on any map, but it is just half- 
way between Ancemont and Villers. The chateau itself is 
used as the hospital. Our section, including as many more 



Frenchmen, is quartered (on straw mattresses and brancards) 
in the upper part of the chateau barn. The lower portion of the 
same building is utilized as a coffin factory. Meals are served 
in an old and filthy farmhouse just outside the walls (about the 
grounds). Very fortunately, however, there was no room in the 
barn for any more when we arrived, so that, after spending one 
almost sleepless night in our ambulances, O. W. and I and two 
others discovered a little house in the back of the grounds, built 
into the wall, and there we spread our straw mattresses. The 
house, I may add, has not as much floor space as our playhouse, 
but is much more massive in structure. 

Of course we have enough thrills to keep us interested. The 
Bodies have a nice little gun the other side of the river behind 
a hill, which lets us know of its existence about thrice daily by 
sending over shells at about three-minute intervals. These are 
aimed evidently at Ancemont and Villers respectively, each of 
which is a considerable traffic centre. Some of these messengers 
come excitingly near us, however, and, in fact, one shell has 
already removed about half the roof of a small building not over 
a hundred feet from the chateau. It is perfectly wonderful how 
quickly man adapts himself to new environments. When I first 
got here, it actually annoyed me when anyone spoke to me, as 
I wished to concentrate my whole attention on the unceasing 
cannonading which is ever present in this locality; also, I 
used to gape open-mouthed at the countless aeroplanes above, 
or stand by the roadside, lost in admiration and wonderment 
at the endless ravitaillement or convoys. Now, I am actually 
beginning to feel that my life would be incomplete without all 
these. I will frankly admit, however, that I do not believe I 
shall ever feel perfectly at home with shells or, more especially, 
with bombs from hostile aeroplanes. I am sure that on my 
return you will notice a marked shrinkage of my neck, as the 
result of pulling my head down into my collar several times 



March 22. 
. . . This life is a fascinating one, as every day brings new 
incidents into one's life. My only regret is that I cannot transfer 
to you at home my many and varied impressions, but, as the 
Frenchman says: "II ne faut pas etre difficile, cest la guerre!^' 
This philosophy has actually become already a part of my exist- 
ence, and I assure you that the constant rumble of artillery is 
more musical to my ear than the sordid drone of the ticker. 

April 1. 

... I belong to a very exclusive little club here now, con- 
sisting of the local coffin-maker, an infirmier in the hospital, 
a man who sluices out the sinks, and myself. We four have had 
several social evenings which consist chiefly in listening to the 
coffin-maker sing. Such soirees are doing much to improve my 
French. The reason I became a member of this select circle was 
because I bought them ten litres of pinard (red wine) the last 
time I was in Bar-le-Duc. One could buy his way through Hell 
in this country with pinard or cigarettes. 

At several different times lately I have seen Boche prisoners 
trudging along the roads escorted by mounted gendarmes, and 
every time I have been struck by the youthful appearance of 
the men. Of course, both armies use their youngest men for 
attacking purposes, but some of the Germans I have seen could 
not have been over sixteen or seventeen. Some of them look 
scared to death, but for the most part they are smiling and cheer- 
ful and seem very happy at the thought of being through with 
it all. I personally do not blame them a bit ! Unfortunately it 
is forbidden to speak to them, otherwise I should have long since 
attempted to exchange cigarettes with one in return for his 
much coveted helmet. 

My respect for the Ford as an automobile has augmented 
enormously since I have been over here. As an ambulance, 
also, it is far more practical than the heavy, cumbrous vehicles 
of the French and British. Of course, it holds only three couches, 
while the French and British hold double the number; but all 



the blesses much prefer to ride in our cars, as they would rather 
be rocked over the poor loads than bumped over them. The 
number of my car is 148, and on its side it bears the name of 
*'Amory Carhart." I have never heard of Amory, but if he 
should overhear the invectives I hurl at his namesake sometimes 
when she refuses to start on a frosty morning he might almost 
feel ashamed of himself for his generosity. I don't know what 
he 'd think of me ! 

Well, I must start old 148 in order to warm up my radiator 
water for a shave. Such are the luxuries of life when one is in 
the Army ! 

April 18. 
... I believe I witnessed one of the most awful spectacles 
the other day which any morbid character could ever hope to 
see. Very near us here is a munition park where thousands of 
pounds of high explosives, in one form or another, are stored. 
Some soldiers were loading a camion (truck), and one of them 
must have dropped a case of grenades. At any rate, a terrific 
explosion ensued, blowing three camions into atoms and literally 
spattering seven soldiers and four horses all over the adjacent 
field. Some day, if you so desire, I will give you the minute 
details of that scene as witnessed by my own eyes. All day 
long I had a little tight knot in the pit of my stomach as the 
result. I could not help thinking, also, how ghastly it would 
have been if one of those mangled human forms had been some- 
one I had cared for in life, or even someone I had known. 

But, fortunately, the life of an ambulance driver is not a con- 
tinual "campaign of f rightfulness." In other words, one is not 
all the time up to his knees in blood. In fact we come much 
more in personal contact with the live and active troops than 
we do with the blesses. The grands blesses are loaded into our 
cars by lazy, genial brancardiers, and for the most part don't 
peep until we reach our destination. One might be carrying so 
many barrels of apples for all the part played by any personal 
equation in such a transaction. On the other hand, the petits 



blessis are, for the most part, so delighted to have received a 
bonne hlessnre, with the outlook of two or three weeks of 
repos, that one cannot but rejoice with them. One certainly 
can't blame them for such a point of view! Many extremely 
interesting experiences are related to us by the blesses, and they 
are always ready to talk, providing, of course, that they are not 
too far gone. 

June 2. 
S. is correct, of course, in his statement that the ambulance 
drivers become callous. I defy anyone to do the work we are 
doing and not become callous ! After all, we at home maintain 
a certain air of mystery about the dead, simply because we are 
unaccustomed to seeing men die or even after they are dead. 
For example, now it would not give me a qualm, if I were 
wounded, to lie in an ambulance between two dead men, whereas 
at the beginning, such an episode would have made the cold 
chills run down my back. I think we all over here have much 
more feeling for the badly wounded than we have for the dead. 
Surely death is an easy relief for all suffering ! . . . 

It was yesterday at high noon that some of us were lounging 
about our cars in the sunny courtyard of one of the hospitals 
situated near the railroad station. Some one, looking up, per- 
ceived a squadron of Boche planes so high in air that they gave 
the appearance of being pure white. It was not long before the 
dreadful whirring of a bomb was heard and the resultant crash. 
The first bomb was followed by others in quick succession. It 
soon became evident that the railroad station was their objec- 
tive, as the bombs were falling thickest in this location although 
the damage done was by no means confined entirely to this 
area. It was on the third shot, I believe, that I heard the 
heart-rending cry of a wounded woman. Everyone who was 
able jumped for some cellar, with the exception of our Ambu- 
lance men and a few brancardiers. Of course, when we heard 
the whine of falling bombs we would flatten ourselves on the 
street and await the crash. I remember distinctly doing the 



"dip" in a little 'place in which I was alone. I had not time 
to get to my feet before another bomb would start falling. The 
total damage was thirty-eight killed and one hundred and eight 
w^ounded, and, with the exception of four or five, every one of 
these casualties was taken to the nearest hospital by an Ameri- 
can Ambulance man, either in his arms or in his car. One of 
our cars was riddled with holes, and several of our men had 
miraculous escapes. Oliver just escaped being badly hurt by a 
flying brick. Another man was standing within fifteen feet of 
the only bomb which did not go off, when it landed. In short, 
all our men behaved themselves wonderfully, although after- 
wards, when comparing notes, we each admitted having been 
terrified. The hardest thing for me to bear was the sight of 
wounded children. I carried in my arms at one time a little 
girl of about three and a half years, with her little fat thigh 
riddled with holes. Not a whimper did she utter, but just put 
her little arms around my neck and hung on. I have heard 
since that she died, although I am still not sure of it. A hun- 
dred and one similar instances occurred which I shall relate to 
you on my return. The net result for us, of course, was that we 
completely won the favor of the inhabitants of the town, and 
we have only to ride through the streets to hear the frequent 
cries of ^'Vive les Americains!" It is quite a different attitude 
from the w ay in which we were received. 

July 9. 

Here I am in Bordeaux again and many miles from the rattle 
of musketry. "Doc" has put me in charge of a squad here, 
with the simple little object of unpacking and preparing to ship 
to Paris twenty-nine new Fords which have just been landed. 
Although I have been here for three days now, this is literally 
the first moment I have been able to call my own. You have 
no idea what a colossal undertaking this is, as all the cars have 
to be assembled on the dock, run through the town to a carpen- 
ter who puts on temporary wooden bodies, and then thoroughly 



oiled and greased to be run over the road to Paris. I expect to 
be here for at least a week more. ... 

The week I spent in Paris was an extremely busy one, as I 

had no sooner got there than "Doc" went off on one of his tours, 

leaving me in charge of his office. The work, of course, was all 

new, but I managed to "get away with it." Nevertheless I 

found time to attend Victor Chapman's funeral services in the 

American Church on the morning of the Fourth of July. Of 

course his body was not there, as he fell in the German lines, but 

a more simple and beautiful service I never attended. The 

words, "O Death, where is thy sting, O grave, where is thy 

victory? " never had a fuller meaning. A more perfect tribute, 

also, than the short sermon delivered by the clergyman, no man 

could have desired. It may have impressed me in particular, 

owing to the fact that I had dined with Victor the night before 

he was killed. . . . 

It was soon after this that Burr accepted the appoint- 
ment as director of Section 9 in the American Ambulance 
Field Service. For the impression he had already made, a 
letter of July, 1916, from Dr. A. Piatt Andrew to Burr's 
mother, speaks in no uncertain tone: "I have come not 
only to like him personally, which anyone would at first 
glance, but, also, to have real esteem for his abilities, and 
his qualities of mind and character. We have asked 
Carleton to take the direction of a new section which we 
are sending into the field, and I am sure he is fitted by his 
tact and his unusual combination of gentleness, energy, 
and force, to meet the very difficult task of handling a 
group of volunteers." 

The following letters were written from his new post. 



August 18, 1916. 
Here we are, as a section, in a beautiful little town in the 
Vosges Mountains. Only this morning, also, your cable, stat- 
ing "under circumstances approve Carleton's staying," reached 
me by mail from Paris. The net result is that this morning I 
feel perfectly at peace with the world. With a section of new 
cars and an eager, willing bunch of men, the life as a section 
leader for a while, at least, should not be a difficult one. Besides, 
as an officer I have thus far been billeted in a private room with 
all the comforts of home. It has its distinct advantages over 
sleeping in one's ambulance or in a filthy barn, I assure you! 

September 11. 

We left the pare of this army in France, where we had re- 
mained eight days, on August 25, and took up our position and 
our accompanying duties in this town of Alsace on the same 
day. A lovelier trip across the frontier pass and into this moun- 
tainous country could not have been sought for anywhere, 
especially in the clear, dewy light of that early morning. That 
same afternoon, accompanied by the lieutenant of the French 
section, whom we were replacing, as guide, our lieutenant and 
I sallied forth to visit as many as possible of the posts we were 
to serve. These are divided into six mountain and six valley 
posts, at each of which we must maintain one car all the time. 
To handle this work, therefore, we have divided the section into 
three squads of six men each, maintaining at the same time a 
reserve of two cars here at the base in case of break-down or as 
a relief if any one of the posts should be over-worked. . . . 

A good example of the Alsatian feelings towards Americans 
was shown to me the other day in visiting Richard Hall's grave. 
In the beautiful little military cemetery in which he is buried 
I found his grave with its simple wooden cross, bearing his name 
and the legend, " Mort pour la patrie." But also the touch of 
some devoted caretaker was present, for on the grave itself were 
growing some freshly-watered little flowering plants. Upon 
questioning a doctor of the nearby hospital, I found that ever 



since Section 3 had left in January, two girls of the only cafe in 
town had voluntarily assumed the role of caretakers. Of course 
I paid them a call, and found them just as nice as they were plain. 
They seemed to consider it only natural, in view of the fact that 
Hall, several times before his death, had taken his meals in their 
establishment, and that, as he had left no immediate friends in 
this neighborhood, they should do this little bit in his behalf. 
This is a typical example of the sympathetic attention we en- 
counter at every turn (not that we have selected our grave- 
tenders as yet !) and which feeling, I am convinced, is mothered 
only by intense suffering. The peoples of Europe should, there- 
fore, gain something, if only morally, out of this miserable war. 

A letter from the mother of Richard Hall, one of the 

first American ambidanciers to be killed in the war, may 

well be introduced in this place. 

A BoRD DE La Touraine, 
le 21 decembre 1916. 

My dear Mr. Burr: 

Perhaps your son has written you that Section 9 had a visit 
from an American ambulance "Mother" when my son and I 
were allowed to go to Alsace to see the places where our own 
Section 3 worked last year and where my boy Dick gave his 
life for the cause which we all feel is our own. 

I had fully expected to go up to Boston for a day on my re- 
turn, just to see the families of the boys who gave us such a 
hearty welcome, but our boat is so late that I can barely reach 
home in time for Christmas. 

I want to tell you just a little of your fine handsome son. How 
he is respected and beloved by all his men, although he has had 
the difficult task of keeping them content and busy when there 
is very little real action going on in the Vosges. It is, however, 
a much busier place than any other except when big fighting is on, 
and the life in the mountains has a charm all its own. 

Nothing could have been pleasanter than the cordial hospital- 



ity shown us by Section 9, and I am so disappointed not to be 
able to do just a little in return. The boys have shown every 
respect to the memory of a fallen comrade, and I shall always 
feel that Section 9, with Carleton Burr as leader, is very near 
my heart. The boys all look well and strong and happy, and 
it was a great pleasure to see them. 

This is very little, but perhaps it will be a satisfaction to you 
and your family to have a word from some one who has seen 
your son so recently. 

Very sincerely yours, 

Elizabeth D. Hall. 

For this first period of Burr's service abroad one more 
letter, written on Christmas Day, 1916, will speak. 

We are now momentarily settled in the town of V , in 

which I spent many weeks while in Section 2. We are doing 
evacuation work to the rear, and are waiting patiently to be 
attached to a division and then sent up into the very front lines. 
We are now in the position to need a little blood on the outside 
of our ambulances to make the men appreciate the real meaning 
of this work. Young men, full of spirit, have got to be in the 
thick of it (at least, for a while) to make them believe that they 
are really doing something. 

This morning I went over to X , in Argonne, to attend the 

funeral of an American driver named Lines ^ in Section 1, who 
died day before yesterday of galloping pneumonia. With me, 
from this section, were four of our drivers, among them George 
Lyman, Jr. There was a large attendance of French officers, 
all of Section 1, and representatives from Sections 2, 4, and 
9. Also, Dr., Mrs., and Miss Lines, who live in Paris, ob- 
tained permission to attend the funeral. Besides these were 
"Doc" Andrew and Mr. Robert Bacon, who came up from 
Paris for the occasion. The simple military service, held in a 

^ For memoir of Howard Burchard Lines, see Vol. I (p. 183) of this 



barn for a chapel, served both for Lines and for an escaped Rus- 
sian prisoner who had died at the same time. It was the latter 
who obtained the majority of my sympathies as, having escaped 
from a German prison camp, he successfully crossed "No Man's 
Land," only to be mortally wounded by the fire of a French 
sentinel, just on reaching his haven of refuge. Solitary, in a 
strange land, he met death at the hand of a friend, after making 
a brave and successful attempt to escape from his enemies. It 
was certainly a pathetic case, and I could not help contrasting 
his situation to that of Lines who, surrounded by friends and 
admirers, was almost royally escorted to his last resting place. 

Returning to the United States in February, 1917, Burr 
entered the Boston office of Stone and Webster early in 
the following month, and was there when Congress made 
its declaration of war. But it was not possible for him 
long to remain there. "He once remarked," his sister has 
written, "that war is Hell because boredom is Hell, and 
the slogan of the Marines, 'First to Fight,' attracted him 
for that reason. He wanted to jump right into active 
service, and he had a dread of being on the outskirts of 
'the big game' without getting into it. The past record 
of the Marines all over the world indicated that they 
would plunge in and fight to the finish." It was therefore 
in this arm of the national service that he sought his op- 
portunity, and on July 6, 1917, with his Plattsburg and 
ambulance experience in his favor, was commissioned 
second lieutenant, U. S. Marine Corps. A period of special 
training at Quantico, Virginia, followed, and in September 
he sailed for France with the 6th Regiment of Marines, 
2d Division, one of two hundred and fifty officers chosen 
from over four thousand applicants. 



To quote again from his sister's words: "After a note 
had reached his family that he had sailed from Phila- 
delphia and they thought him well on his way, the 
telephone rang, and his voice was heard as though from 
mid-ocean. He could not at this time disclose his where- 
abouts, but it was later ascertained that his steamer had 
gone from Philadelphia to New York, there to join her 
convoy. Thus he had an opportunity to bid his family 
farewell over the wire, and it was the last time they were 
ever to hear his voice. 

"After reaching France the 6th Marines were billeted 
in a town where he was made mayor. General Catlin in 
his book "With the Help of God and a Few Marines," 
remarks on his work as follows: 'Because of his initia- 
tive and daring he was made intelligence officer of the 
First Brigade and achieved some remarkable successes at 
patrol work while we were in the trenches.'" 

From the time of reaching France for the second time. 
Burr was a devoted writer of letters to his family. Through 
passages from these the reader will learn not only of his 
work in the regiment, as assistant judge advocate, as bat- 
talion intelligence officer, with night patrols on the front 
line, of his sojourns in hospital — once to recover from the 
effects of gassing — but also, by inference, much about his 
spirit as a soldier and a man. 

St. Nazaire, 
October 21, 1917. 

We arrived here in this uninteresting port on October 5, and 
landed the following day. Much to our disgust we found that 
the 5th Regiment of Marines (which preceded us by two or 
three months) had been all split up into small groups and were 



being used as provost guards in London, Paris, Bordeaux, etc., 
etc. I fear that the same fate awaits us and the best to be hoped 
for is that it will be only temporary. It is true, however, that 
over half our officers have been sent to an ecole de feu, which 
looks as if the Marines might get into the trenches some day at 
least! During the major's absence (he being among those at 

school), Captain x\ has been put in charge of the battalion 

and has made me the battalion adjutant. As a result, I ride 
around in a little motor-cycle side-car, and generally look 

This is a typical seaport town of about 17,000 inhabitants, 
and is now literally infested with American soldiers of all ranks 
and services. Generally speaking tne Americans have behaved 
themselves pretty well, with a few disgraceful exceptions. One 
law-abiding French civilian was knocked over the head and 
killed by a drunken Massachusetts militiaman for refusing the 
latter another drink. A few days later, however, one of our 
sailors was found floating in the river, with his hands tied be- 
hind his back. Since this misunderstanding, however, there has 
been no bloodshed. 

November 6. 

We are a long way from the trenches at present, with very 
little prospect of seeing them for considerable time to come. It 
is, of course, possible that we (the Marine Corps) shall never see 
them, as our relationship with the Army is none too cordial. On 
the other hand. General Pershing, who made a minute inspection 
of our camp the other day, did nothing but pay us compliments 
all the time he was here. We certainly are in a peculiar situa- 
tion, in explanation of which there is undoubtedly much to be 
said on both sides. 

Someone in the family has given my name and address to the 
Mattapan Church. I have received notification that my name 
is posted on the "Roll of Honor" in the front of the church. 
They, in turn, have given my name to all sorts of Brotherhoods 
who also have me on the "Roll of Honor." I cannot help being 



tremendously amused at the holy character of a large percentage 
of my mail, but, as long as they do not charge me membership 
dues and, by their prayers, can keep me off the real "Roll of 

Honor," I shall be perfectly satisfied. 

St. Nazaire, 
November 19. 

Again I am availing myself of the "underground" to write 
you a little more in detail of life as it is in St. Nazaire. To be 
sure, there is a sameness about it all which would be appalling 
if it were not for the indomitable cheerfulness of all Americans 
concerned, which is due, I suppose, to the thought that if we 
kick now, what shall we do when we are really in trouble. The 
time is set for the Marines to be brigaded as the latter part of 
December, but no one believes that this will be really possible 
until at least the end of January. Then will follow a course of 
two months' training before we are fit to take our place in line. 
This means that the end of March or early April should find 
us "up to our knees in blood." Many French officers with 
whom I have spoken of late say that the German artillery is 
showing visible signs of weakening both in range and accuracy. 
It is for this reason that the Allies are able to use "tanks" now, 
which would have been absolutely useless against German artil- 
lery of two years ago. I know this statement sounds peculiar 
when every day we are reading of fresh German advances in 
Italy, but nevertheless I am sure there must be some truth in 
it. There were no French officers making any such statements 
in July when I left here, I assure you. 

December 6. 

On entering the local Y. M. C. A. for the first time today, I 
was greeted by a large sign on the wall which read: 
"Be the kind of man 
Your mother thinks you are." 

This, I am frank to say, aroused me to some serious contem- 
plation, for, I suppose, it was intended as a stimulus to the 
performance of great deeds on the part of the reader. On me, 



however, this advice had a very soothing, almost narcotic effect, 
for I argued to myself, "My mother knows all my faults, what 
is the use of my trying to conceal any of them under any such 
boast? She knows how I hate to write letters (especially when 
I have nothing to say), therefore, why write any?" etc. Con- 
trary to this train of thought, however, here I am once again, 
pen in hand, attempting to convey to you my personal and 
confidential ideas, and at the same time entirely conscious of 
the fact that the censor is ready to swat me if I digress in any 
way from the stipulated forms and regulations. It is like dis- 
cussing your trade secrets when your biggest competitor is 
sitting in the same room with you ! Much as I dislike the cen- 
sor, however, I have a tremendous feeling of compassion for 
him, as the censorship of the company mail is one of my tasks 
every fifth day. If you knew how much alike and how terribly 
uninteresting such a collection of mail could be, you would 
wonder (as I often do) what is the use of the postal system, 
anyhow? At very irregular intervals, however, I am reminded 
of its value as a transmitter of joy and satisfaction, when a ship 
comes in bringing some mail from home. 

The General Court Martial, on which I am now serving, 
although it entails considerable extra work, is really very in- 
teresting, as every case, of course, presents its new aspects. 
From my small and very limited experience as a judge advocate, 
I realize the fact that to be an expert trial lawyer must be a 
fascinating profession. 

The friends whom I mentioned as having seen, in one of my 
early letters, have long since left for fairer climes (or rather, for 
further training in some more distant camp). At present there 
are not even any acquaintances of mine in any of the neighbor- 
ing camps, but as I find plenty of good company among my 
fellow Marine officers, I am not at any loss for good companion- 
ship. We have a piano installed in our quarters, and there is 
right here all the music and merriment which is necessary for 
the full enjoyment of life. I find more from day to day that 



there is a certain ease (especially in reference to the future) con- 
nected with this military life, which, if I ever return to civil life, 
will be very difficult to shake off. The fact that no one ever 
worries about the future, even in such times as these, is certainly 
a strong recommendation for the life of the soldier. The great 
disadvantage with the whole scheme is, of course, that you have 
nothing whatever to do in the selection of your friends. One 
immediate superior, who is a mucker and out of sympathy with 
all you do (not that this is my case), may absolutely poison your 
whole outlook on life. Also, if you find yourself on detached 
duty with one other officer, whom you may not like, and with 
whom you are accordingly forced into extreme intimacy, then 
again you are "out of luck." As a whole, in this battalion we 
have an unusually good crowd of oflScers and, so far, I have 
not been confronted with either of these problems. 

Never, in all my life, do I believe I have written so much and 
said so little. I believe that, at this rate, on my return to the 
United States, I shall be qualified to write editorials in daily 

papers ! 

December 17. 

Uncertainty as to our future plans continues as heretofore. 
I have been notified, however, that when we go to the trenches 
I am to be detached from the 75th Co. to become Battalion 
Intelligence Officer. As far as I can make out, it is the duty of 
this functionary to keep constantly posted (by fair means or 
foul) as to what troops of the enemy are in the opposing trenches. 

December 30. 
Here I am once again a free lance, having spent ten miserable 
days in the hospital under double quarantine with the measles! 
By "double quarantine," I mean that I was confined to a small 
room in an army hospital which was itself under quarantine on 
account of the many contagious diseases which were being 
cared for at the time within its somber walls. Luckily, letters 
and boxes from the outside were not denied me so that with all 
your generous gifts my Christmas was really a very happy one. 



January 21. 
We are now only a few miles to the westward of where I spent 
my first four months as head of Section 9, although I had never 
actually been in this sector before. Our trip up here was con- 
siderable of an ordeal for all concerned, as it took three days 
and three nights and our accommodations were miserable. The 
men were crowded in "side-door Pullmans" (cattle cars), while 
the officers were not much better off in an antiquated railway 
carriage. There were no facilities for washing and we had to 
sleep sitting up, so that we were both filthy and tired upon our 
arrival. We pulled in at 3 a.m., at which time I was detailed 
to go in search of a hospital for one of our men who had been 
seriously hurt. There was a heavy snow on the ground, and it 
was raining, so that I managed to get soaking wet, in which 
condition I remained all day. I had only just been released 
from the hospital for measles a few days before. The net result 
was that the following day I developed a severe cold and fever, 
and only just escaped pneumonia. As life is difficult enough for 
one in perfect health, my condition (which lasted about ten 
days) did not give me a thrill. However, as there is nothing so 
bad that it could not be a whole lot worse, and as I have com- 
pletely recovered now, I have no complaints. 

February 22. 
Next week I go to school for a week to learn how to interpret 
aeroplane photographs in connection with my work as Intelli- 
gence Officer. My chief duty as I. O., however, will be leading 
nightly patrols in "No Man's Land." I have had the pick of 
the battalion in choosing my men, and, unless I am way off in 
my judgment, I think I would have no fear in going anywhere 
(humanly possible) with these men at my back. Playing "hide- 
and-seek" with German patrols for such big stakes is going to 
have its thrilling moments, I am sure. 

March 9. 

. . . Do you remember I told you once that I should 
rather be a second lieutenant in the Marine Corps than a cap- 



tain in the National Army? The Marine Corps have been 
used almost entirely for expeditionary duty in the past, and by 
experience know what to take with them on such occasions. . . . 
Now that the Marine Corps have decided on an increase, I 
shall soon be a first lieutenant and possibly a captam.^ The 
Army have adopted the merit system for their expeditionary 
oflBcers, which system I hope will be incorporated in the Marine 
Corps, as in times like these the best officers should be placed 
at the head of the list regardless of the numbering. 

April 22. 
Did you ever see the letter written by a British "Tommy" 
to his wife from a German prison camp, which ran something 

as follows : 

"German Prison Camp. 
"Dear Wife: 

"Everything is fine. I have a nice warm bed with plenty of 
blankets in some fine dry barracks. Getting very good food and 
plenty of it. The prison warden is a good-hearted fellow who 
looks after all our needs. 



"P.S. Mike Murphy was shot this morning for complaining." 

My position is much the same, only in my case it would be 
the censor who would do the shooting. I should, of course, like 
to enclose maps with a graphic account of my first "hitch" in 
the trenches, but, taking everything into consideration, believe 
that Tommy's diplomacy is perhaps the wiser course. I will 
not carry it to quite the same extreme, however, as everything 
I shall now disclose will be the truth. To begin with, I am now 
in a rest camp a few miles behind the lines for a few days until 
the battalion again goes up to take over a new sector. 

To return to the subject of the trenches, can you imagine 
living for twenty days in the upper berth of a Pullman train 

1 His commissions as first lieutenant, and shortly afterwards as cap- 
tain, were sent later but did not reach him. 



which is dripping water from the roof and which is Hterally in- 
fested with rats? Everything is smeared with a thick, sticky 
mud, and there is no Ught except that given forth by a candle 
(if you have one). Everything, however, you take as a joke. 
There are two things which impress you particularly at first: 
(1) the vast amount of work which has been done in the con- 
struction of trenches and dug-outs (there are literally miles and 
miles of trenches in one small area, in which you might lose 
yourself for two or three hours) ; and (2) the great quantity of 
enemy shells which can fall right in your midst without doing 
any harm. Unfortunately, however, the latter is not always the 
case, especially when the Huns send over two or three hundred 
gas shells in one small area. . . . 

By far my most interesting duty while in the front line was 
leading patrols in No Man's Land at night. I think I can safely 
say that I have been as near the Huns as one can get in France 
without staying over there. One night we ran into a heavy 
German patrol, and it did my heart good to see the way they 
cleared out before we could close on them. We did cut some 
of them off, however, and drove them down on to a French 
machine gun position. . . . There is one thing positive, how- 
ever, and that is, the enemy will never get me alone, for I have 
the most wonderful crew of youngsters to follow me you can 
imagine. They would never leave me dead or wounded to the 
mercy of the Hun. This must sound terribly bloodthirsty to 
you, but I have found out that you do not have to be super- 
human or abnormal to lead this life. If you live like a rat you 
must behave like a rat, and it is only human nature to do so. 
In spite of all the hardships you never hear a word of complaint, 
but instead everywhere you are greeted with a smile or some 
bit of humor. 

Ma7j 16. 

The scarcity of my letters of late has been more or less in- 
evitable owing to the fact that we have been on the move and 
during such periods our regimental post office ceases to function. 



My part in every move has been a very interesting one, as in 
my temporary capacity of Battalion Billeting Officer I have 
always preceded the main body by one to three days. We have 
been quartered in towns (and are at present) where there have 
never been any of our countrymen before, and, needless to say, 
the admiring yokels take a profound interest in our every move. 
One old woman, for example, expressed profound astonishment 
that I was not black; another asked me if our language was not 
something like that of the Moroccans. Everywhere I was fol- 
lowed by a procession of old men, old women, children, dogs and 
geese. With all their curiosity and ignorance, however, they 
have shown a sincere gratitude at our presence and have done 
everything to make things easy for us. Never have I encount- 
ered any objections in filling their barns to the limit with our 
troops. Of course, they are paid five cents a day for every man 
quartered; one franc a day is the rate for an officer's billet. 

May 30. 

We are at present quartered in a beautiful little town way 
behind the lines where everything and everybody are at peace 
with the world. This is not quite true, either, as there are 
ten German prisoners employed on a nearby farm. My orderly 
saw one of them walking down a side street alone the other 
day, and thought he was escaping. Accordingly, my trusted 
servant drew his revolver and started chasing this aforesaid 
prisoner, creating panic in a mind where a few moments before 
probably no thoughts of any kind existed. Luckily for Ger- 
many, however, a French officer, wreathed in smiles, stepped in 
just in time to save the Hun from having his head mashed by 
the butt of a 45-calibre Colt. . . . 

Please do not worry if you do not hear from me regularly. If 
anything should ever happen to me, you would be notified very 
soon through other channels anyway. 



Base Hospital No. 27, 
Angers, France. 
{Undated; received June 28, 1918.) 

B 's cable stating that I was in Paris and my condition 

was not serious must have given you a start, coming as it did 
out of a clear sky. Our idea in sending it, however, was to let 
you know before the casualty list was published that there was 
really very little wrong with me. It was just hard luck that a 
shell containing a little phosgene and arsenic had to burst right 
along side of me and the slimy yellow vapor got into my lungs 
before I had time to adjust my mask. The result was that I 
became violently ill almost immediately, and the combination 
of choking and convulsions was necessarily considerable strain 
on my heart. Right now I feel almost normal except for an 
irritating cough and a burning sensation in my stomach, espe- 
cially after eating. In a week or ten days I expect to be back 
again with my organization — that is, what is left of it. 

Chateau des Hommeaux, 
Le Lion d'Angers, 
June 16. 

From Paris, where I last wrote you, I was transferred to 
Angers in a sumptuous American Red Cross train. I had not 
been in the base hospital at Angers more than twenty-four 
hours, however, before I was asked by the doctor in charge if 
I wished to be "farmed out" in a French family, to which (as 
you will remark by the letter-head) I replied in the affirmative. 
In consequence, Lieutenant Shaler Ladd, U. S. Marines, and 
I were conducted by M. Gaston Paris, our host, to his chateau 
at about twenty-five kilometres from Angers. Every since we 
have been living like princes, lolling about the chateau grounds, 
and not being allowed by our generous hosts to turn a finger for 

The Paris family consist of Mr. and Mrs. Paris only. He is 
a man of sixty who does not appear over forty and who was for 
many years French consul-general in New York, thereby speak- 
ing almost perfect English. His wife has been an invalid for a 



great many years, and her health has not been improved by the 
loss of her only son, a very promising French aviator, who was 
killed at Verdun last September. 

All Americans over here are convinced that this is the last 
battle of the war, as the Huns are making such a terrific effort, 
which they will be unable to maintain indefinitely. I wish you 
could have seen the slaughter we performed among them in only 
one small sector of the front. Of course we had to pay for it 
ourselves, but when I left there were at least eight dead Germans 
for every dead Marine. If all Americans fight in anything like 
the same manner that the First and Second Divisions have 
shown themselves capable of, I think undoubtedly that the 
Americans will prove themselves the best troops in this war. 
They have the physicjue of the English coupled with the reck- 
lessness of the French, which is going to be pretty hard for the 
Hun to stop. 

Base Hospital No. 27, 
July 7. 

The time is approaching very rapidly now that I shall be re- 
turned to my organization. I assure you that over a month of 
hospital life is not the king of indoor sports and the sooner I am 
discharged, the happier I shall be. The only thing holding me 
up now is a slight infection on my neck which has refused to 
heal properly, due probably to my run-down condition after 
being gassed. During the past few days, however, my condi- 
tion has shown a marked improvement, and I think one of the 
next two or three days will see me on my way. I doubt very 
much if I shall return to my old duty as Intelligence Officer of 
the First Battalion, but there is no doubt I shall be returned to 
my regiment. There will be some gaps among both the officers 
and men with whom I have served all these months which will 
have been replaced by new faces, so that everything is bound to 
appear a little strange whether I return to my old unit or not. 

There is a very genial crowd in the officers' ward, and, as we 
are allowed liberty to town almost every afternoon, life has 



really not been a hardship. The French certainly extended 
themselves on the Fourth of July, which they celebrated as a 
national holiday. There was a review of the Allied troops in 
the morning, which was the chief event of the day. My great- 
est amusement, however, was with a very pretty little French 
boy (about four years old), dressed as Uncle Sam, who refused 
to leave my side. Several of us from the hospital had a table 
in a sidewalk cafe, and while Uncle Sam was not sitting in my 
lap, he was standing in the centre of the table and taking off 
his large hat with great solemnity to the passers-by. He was n't 
very much taller than the beer glasses which surrounded him. 

A week after writing this letter, Burr was able to take 
part in the Paris parade of July 14. On the 18th, the day 
on which the Foch offensive really began, he rejoined his 
command. "The next day, July 19, 1918, at 9.30 a.m." 
— to turn yet again to the words of his sister — "he was 
killed in action. The attack started at 8.15 a.m., and they 
had left Vierzy with Hartennes as the objective. They 
were soon under the direct fire of German batteries that 
were sweeping the wheat fields. A machine gun barrage 
was also helping to thin out the ranks, as the fields they 
crossed were devoid of trees, except for some clumps of 
bushes lining a sunken road. A piece of shrapnel on 
which Fate had inscribed his name pierced his side, and 
his earthly career came to a swift and peaceful end. In 
the land he loved next to his own he will always lie, con- 
tent that he could give his all to a cause that was so near 
to his heart. On that day the bells throughout America 
were joyfully ringing to proclaim the turn of the German 



Class of 1918 

-LHiLiP CuNNiNGHAMwas bom in Gloucester, Massa- 
chusetts, June 21, 1894, of an old New England family. 
Of his immediate relatives, an uncle (Guy Cunningham, 
'87), an older brother (Allan Rowe Cunningham, '09), and 
two cousins were Harvard graduates. His parents were 
William Tarr Cunningham, a banker, and Edith (Rowe) 
Cunningham. His two grandfathers, each at the early age 
of eighteen, commanded vessels sailing out of Gloucester, 
and afterwards established themselves as owners of large 
fleets of fishing schooners. 

While a child, Cunningham had a severe attack of 
pneumonia, with complications. As a result of this he 
lived as much as possible in the open air, spending several 



summers at Camp Kineo, Long Lake, Maine, and one 
winter in South Carolina. Here he could gratify his love 
of horses by riding. As a result of this outdoor life, and, 
more than all, by the favorable character of his home life, 
he improved his health so that when he answered the call 
to war he had such vigor and endurance that he was en- 
tirely fit for the arduous duties of a private soldier. His 
studies preparatory for college were made at the public 
schools of Gloucester, and, in the final year, at Volk- 
mann's School in Boston. 

At college he became a member of Phi Kappa Epsilon 
and the Volkmann School Club, and interested himself 
especially in history, government, and economics. His 
course began in the autumn of 1914, was marked by his 
service on the Mexican border, in the summer of 1916, as 
an enthusiastic member of Battery A, 1st Massachusetts 
Field Artillery, and was cut short, in his junior year, by 
his leaving Cambridge shortly before the declaration of 
war, to enlist in the aviation service. When defective eye- 
sight prevented his acceptance by the government, he 
went to Buffalo, New York, for instruction in the private 
training camp of the Curtiss Company. From Buffalo he 
proceeded to Newport News, Virginia, and had pursued 
his course to the point of receiving credit for six hours in 
the air with an instructor when he fell ill with typhoid 
fever. On his recovery, his furlough having expired, he de- 
cided, instead of taking up the aviation work still needed 
for a pilot's license, to rejoin the battery with which he 
had served on the border. As a private he attached him- 
self again to this organization, which was federahzed July 
25, 1917, and afterwards designated Battery A, 101st Field 



Artillery, 26th Division. Cunningham joined it at Camp 
Boxford, Massachusetts, where it was made ready to sail 
for France on September 9. "His attitude toward the 
European war," an intimate classmate has written, "was 
always far from that of a neutral." 

In a letter from the Adriatic, dated September 11, Cun- 
ningham described the mode of life on shipboard, his own 
"telegraph work" and "digging on special detail stuff," 
and cheered his family with the final words, "believe me 
— I am having the time of my young life thus far." From 
France he wrote, December 6, when the 26th Division was 
receiving its final training: "Now I am in the special 
detail of the Battery with my own horse and interesting 
work. As I told you, I was at once put in the Wireless 
School, where I have had almost nothing to do. Lately 
they have taken me more and more for Batteries duties 
with the detail; more interesting, more work. It looks 
now as though I would have one of the best jobs in the 
army for a private, so you need n't worry." 

It was not long before the 26th began its active service 
at the front. In "New England in France," Major Emer- 
son Gifford Taylor's history of the division, it is stated 
that "the first shot from troops of the National Guard 
or National Army against the Germans was fired on 
February 5, 1918, by Number One piece. Battery A, 101st 
Field Artillery, at 3.45 p.m." About a month later, Cim- 
ningham, after writing (March 2), "A letter is a Godsend, 
American articles too, but a picture of a well-known face 
or place always brings you people to me with astonishing 
vividness," proceeded: 



You probably know we have been at the front for some time. 
It is nothing at all like my dreams. I had a vivid picture in 
my mind of a dark, muddy, devastated country, four or five 
streams of crowded traffic on every wretched road with autos 
and motorcycles shrieking by, — the whole accompanied by a 
dull (deafening) roar ahead. Streams of ambulances full of 
groaning men and endless columns of fresh troops hurrying 

Au lieu de cela I find no striking differences from the interior. 
At times there is a distant booming of guns much like that on 
the range, and we often see small bodies of troops or supply 
trains coming or going but the total brings no impression of 
danger or action. This is a quiet sector and I have spent most 
of my time with the horses, back of the lines, but I am certain 
that the feeling is almost the same in the gun pits. It may 
change when a few of us get hit. Our own infantry is in front and 
has made several raids for which it has been cited. 

The discomforts of existence at the front and in the 
"horse cars" used for the transportation of troops, figure 
in later letters, together with assurances that all was going 
well with Cunningham himself. "I hope to Heaven you 
are through thinking me blue," he wrote April 10. "There 
is one thing in the world to mar my good time, and that 
is any fear I may have of not being worth so much worry." 
In the same letter he says, "We had a direct wire to the 
'front line trenches,' and I was for a while one of the three 
operators on the front end. At another time I was in a 
projector relay, at another working at the telephone 
central in the shipper's oflBce." 

In a letter of June 3 there is a picture of Cunningham's 
work as a telephone operator which contributes to an 



understanding of the general utility of the American 
private : 

The last few days I have been operating the switchboard for 
the regimental headquarters. My shift was the heavy one 
from three to ten p.m. I thought I had iron nerves, but the 
first night I was some wreck. 

In the first place it was practically my first experience at any 
sort of switchboard (I have not had more than a few hours on 
a quiet eight-drop board) . This was a twenty-drop board con- 
necting all the offices and officers here to the outside world. 
At first with a sixteen-drop board I had only two possible 
routes to the most important place. In one room were the 
telephones of my old border sergeant now captain, the regi- 
mental telephone officer, and the colonel. One mistake is the 
end of any man for the latter. The instant penalty is "You are 

relieved from duty, —  you will report to ." Imagine me 

calling the general for the colonel through about eight leaky 
lines with outsiders coming in on the wires all down the line 
while at the same time trying to do similar work for an average 
waiting list of half a dozen, all officers and all insistent. We 
cannot finish one and then take another. Say I get a call for 
"a." I call central 1 and ask for 2. Meanwhile another drop 
(call) falls. I connect him with my line to 1 and find he wants 
"b." Good. Then, or during the conversation, 2 answers and 
I call for central 3 meanwhile trying desperately to keep 1 from 
cutting the connection and, after connecting my line to you, 
ring 1-2 line, asking 4 for 5 through which I hope to get "b" 
etc., etc. It is simply an endless collection of everyone who 
calls on your one home line and keeping the conversations sorted. 
Imagine the general finally answering the phone only to hear 
my plaintive voice asking, "Is this the mess sergeant?" Also 
it is of course a very bad break to allow an officer to hold the 
line when his junior is calling, even if the junior has hung up — 
either tired of waiting or not of the waiting kind. Of course 
there are cases where I can get away with a thing like that. 



Do you wonder I was some dazed to get all this in one short 
evening? Everything is in code and the operator must know 
every possible method of reaching anywhere. 

After a day or two it gets much easier and it is always a good 
job. I was only put on to fill up a shortage and return to 
escalon tomorrow. I wish I could keep the job as operator. 

Neither in these letters nor elsewhere does the individual 
part of Cunningham in the engagements of the Chemin 
des Dames and La Reine sectors reveal itself. Less than 
two weeks before his death at Chateau-Thierry he wrote, 
after describing a hard march, "How much farther we 
go, if any, I do not know. We are at the front, but ap- 
parently a reserve regiment. I shall know better later. 
Of course I am still in escalon, miles behind with those — 
prisoners. We ought to be relieved soon. It sure seemed 
good to be oflficially told of all the troops we have on the 
way over here. I should call it one large bump for the 

Battery A had not long to wait for relief from its posi- 
tion in reserve. At the beginning of the Chateau-Thierry 
drive it was pushed forward to Lucy-le-Bocage, close 
behind the famous Bois Belleau. Another battery had 
been firing during the night of July 18-19, and the Ger- 
mans retaliated with a heavv concentration. At about 
7.30 in the morning of the 19th, Battery A had ceased 
firing for a time, and the men were about to go to break- 
fast when a shower of shells fell in and about the bat- 
tery's position. Several men were wounded, and Philip 
Cunningham and one other were instantly killed. He 
was buried in an American armv cemeterv close to the 
Marne at Bezu-le-Guery near La Ferte-sous-Jouarre. 



"Those of us who knew Cunningham," writes the class- 
mate, Samuel B. Webber, already quoted, "have never 
ceased to mourn his loss. A man of striking individuality 
and vigorous personality, devoted to his friends, endowed 
with a dogged tenacity of purpose in all he did, fearless — 
he died as he would have wished to die." 

In his native Gloucester the "Old Training Green" on 
Washington Street has been renamed, in his honor, 
"Philip Cunningham Square." 



Law School, 1916-17 

JjOTH the grandfathers of Clifford Barker Grayson, born 
at Chattanooga, Tennessee, May 4, 1894, were captains 
in the Confederate Army. He was the son of David Lauck 
Grayson, a lawyer of Chattanooga, and May (Glascock) 
Grayson. He prepared for college at the McCallie School 
in his native city, and, entering Cornell University in 1912, 
graduated there with the class of 1916. At Cornell he was 
a member of the Sigma Phi Sigma fraternity and of the 
executive committee of the Inter-fraternity Association. 
He joined also the Cornell University Christian Associa- 
tion and Cosmopolitan Club, and was president of the 
Southerners' Club and International Polity Club. 

In pursuance of his purpose to enter his father's profes- 



sion, he came to the Harvard Law School in the autumn 
of 1916. Here his first year of study was unfinished 
when the United States went to war, and in May, 1917, 
Grayson entered the Officers' Training Camp at Fort 
Oglethorpe, Georgia. On August 15 he was commissioned 
first lieutenant, infantry, and early in September sailed 
for France as a casual. From October 1 to November 7 
he was detailed to the Officers' Training School at Valreas, 
and on November 9 was assigned to Company B, 9th 
Infantry, 2d Division. For several months he was act- 
ing captain of his company, and on his twenty-fourth 
birthday. May 4, 1918, was appointed adjutant to the 1st 
Battalion of his regiment — a distinction which speaks 
clearly for the quality of the service he had already rend- 
ered. To the end of his life he performed the duties of an 
officer of the 9th Infantry, participating in engagements at 
Chateau-Thierry (Vaux) and the Marne-Aisne offensive 
(Vierzy). In an account of him printed in the Chatta- 
nooga News at the time of his death, it is reported that on 
one occasion he was so completely buried by the explosion of 
a shell that it was necessary to dig him out of the earth, and 
that on another he narrowly escaped death in an air raid. 
On the first day of the Allied advance, July 18, 1918, 
he was seriously wounded while leading his command in 
action, at Vierzy, south of Soissons. On the following day 
he died at Hospital 47 nearby. Colonel L. L. Upton of the 
9th Infantry wrote a few days later to Grayson's brother: 

The regiment has lost a courageous and gallant officer, be- 
loved alike by his fellow-officers and by his men. His conduct 
during this battle, as in former engagements with his regiment, 
has been of the highest order and an inspiration to all about him. 



Class of 1909 

Jl HE record of the life of Charles Castner Lilly is a vivid 
reminder of the fact that the missionary spirit in which the 
earliest graduates of Harvard College went out into the 
world did not die with the centuries that are gone but is 
still embodied, under vastly changed conditions, in the 
lives of young Harvard men. 

He was born at Waldoboro, Maine, September 20, 1886, 
the son of Charles Henry Lilly and Mary Elizabeth Brew- 
ster (Storer) Lilly. A lifelong friend has recalled the gentle, 
obedient disposition which marked him from childhood, 
and the early development of a religious spirit. As a boy 
at Waldoboro he became a member of the Congregational 
church. Here also he attended the public schools until 



he was sixteen, when he went to the Brewster Free Acad- 
emy, Wolfeboroiigh, New Hampshire, to prepare for col- 
lege. He entered Harvard in the autumn of 1905, and 
graduated in 1909, magna cum laude, with final honors in 
classics. He was a member of the Christian Association, 
the New Hampshire and Classical Clubs, and won his class 
numerals in football. A "Detur Prize" was awarded to 
him in his freshman year; second year honors in classics 
followed; and in his senior year the Bowdoin Prize in Latin 
for a translation of a passage from Ruskin's " Aratra Pente- 
lici." During his college course he was a holder of Crown- 
inshield, Henry B. Humphrey, George Emerson Lowell, 
and Matthews Scholarships. Well might one of his teachers 
write of him after graduation as one who "did very good 
work and made a strong impression upon me as a man 
of sincerity, devotion, and fine character." 

In fulfillment of a strong missionary impulse, Lilly went, 
in the autumn of 1909, to Japan, where he served for three 
years as a teacher of English in the government schools 
of the large city of Osaka. For the first of these years he 
was connected with the Tennoji and Imamiya Middle 
Schools; for the second and third with the Osaka City 
Higher Commercial School. Outside of school hours he 
conducted Bible classes and taught in the Y. M. C. A. 
evening schools. While teaching in the Higher Commer- 
cial School he took a house near the school, and kept some 
of its rooms open for the free use of students, upon a large 
number of whom he exerted a strong personal influence. 
During the vacations he travelled extensively in Japan, 
and made manv missionarv addresses. With his work as a 
teacher in the Higher Commercial School he combined the 



editorship of a bi-monthly paper, the Osaka Truth, issued 
under the mottoes of the Brewster Free Academy, Mens 
Dux sit Veritas, and of Harvard, Veritas. He was con- 
ducting this journal when President Eliot visited Japan 
in 1912, came to Osaka in June, and made an address on 
"Restraint under Liberty" to an audience of about 
two thousand students. The address is reported in the 
Osaka Truth, which also gave its readers a general ac- 
count of President Eliot's visit. The humors of the oc- 
casion were not lost upon Lilly, in whose account of it the 
following words are found: 

At the request of Mayor Uyemura, who wished to infuse some 
democratic ideas into the minds of his ceremonious countrymen. 
Dr. Eliot did not wear the conventional frock coat, but spoke 
in an ordinary sack coat instead. His salutation was likewise 
democratic, for he began his speech with the informal greeting, 
"Fellow students." In reporting this the ambitious English 
column of the Osaka Mainichi Shimhun made an amusing 
blunder, for it reported him as beginning his speech with the 
words, "Hello, students." 

In the summer of 1912, Lilly returned to the United 
States via Korea, Manchuria, Siberia, Russia, Germany, 
Switzerland, France, England, and Canada, and in Septem- 
ber began a course of study at the Union Theological 
Seminary and Columbia University. He spent the sum- 
mer of 1913 as a field worker on the Ohio State Rural Life 
Survey. In February, 1914, he suffered a nervous break- 
down, which forced him to give up his studies in New York 
and return to his home in Maine for an extended rest. 
Here he threw himself into local betterment work, organ- 
ized a Boy Scout troop, started a fund to equip a play- 



ground, and took an active part in the promotion of the 
School Improvement League and the Pubhc Library. In 
the summer of 1914 he took a course in Rural Leadership 
at Silver Bay, and in the following winter was engaged for 
five months in the rural work of the Y. M. C. A. in Wind- 
sor County, Vermont. The next winter he was needed at 
home, by reason of illness and death in his family, and ac- 
cepted a position in the Waldoboro High School. In the 
autumn of 1916 he became a secretary at the Boston 
Y. M. C. A., where he had made many warm friends, and 
was making himself most useful, when the demand for 
military service came to the men of his generation. 

It had been Lilly's hope that he might go to France as a 
Y. M. C. A. secretary; but falling just within the draft 
age, he waited to be called to the colors. When he was 
called, it was only to be rejected because of defective eyes. 
Nevertheless on April 1, 1918, he enlisted as a private, and 
was assigned to the 151st Depot Brigade, at Camp Devens. 
From this he was transferred. May 5, to Company K, 39th 
Infantry, 4th Division, at Camp Mills, and on May 10 
sailed with his regiment for France. He is reported to have 
told a cousin that he did not expect to return. Just be- 
fore sailing he wrote to his family: "My courage is good. 
I have not been homesick or discouraged. I am glad and 
proud to be a soldier of Uncle Sam, and if I am called upon 
to make the supreme sacrifice it will be no hardship but 
simply following more closely in the footsteps of the 

A sergeant of the 39th Regiment wrote afterwards to 
Lilly's sister that, in spite of joining Company K so late, 
he made a warm place for himself in the affections of his 



comrades. As this correspondent describes the voyage to 
France, "during the trip he spent his time doing every- 
tliing possible to keep our boys in good spirits. He was a 
great asset to the company morally, and evenings the 
boys would gather around him while he would read and 
explain to them from the Scriptures, being a great lover of 
the Bible, and he took a big personal interest in the moral 
welfare of the men." Writing home from the ship him- 
self Lilly said: "Under Y. M. C. A. auspices I have been 
teaching a class in French of about twenty men in my com- 
pany. Last night the head sergeant told me that after 
landing my work is to be with the company commander 
as orderly and interpreter, and that 1 am to continue 
teaching the French." 

After reaching France late in May, the regiment received 
intensive training back of the lines, and at Acy, near the 
Marne-Aisne front. Lilly felt the disadvantage of having 
joined an unusually well-trained company after his brief 
experience at Devens, but wrote cheerfully to his family 
on July 4 : 

I have reason to believe that when we go to the front line 
trenches, I shall be as well able to give an account of myself in 
the fight with the Huns as most of the fellows of the Company. 
It was a big handicap that we Devens fellows had to make up, 
but our training here has been excellent. A week ago Saturday 
I received my first ofiicial recognition of proficiency by being 
made a first class private, with $3 per month additional pay. 
I believe I am the only one of the Devens men in the company 
to receive the distinction, and although it is not much in itself 
I am hoping it may be but the first of several steps upward. . . . 

Not long ago the company commander picked me out for 
special training at a liaison or communication school. I spent 



a full week away from the company at a nearby town learning 
how to send signals by flags (semaphore and wig- wag), arms 
and blinking lanterns. We were taught also how to set up, and 
operate and repair a field telephone and got a start in wireless 
telegraphy. Needless to say, I enjoyed every minute of the 
course and feel now better fitted to render some real and valu- 
able service to our army when the actual contest comes. 

In the Marne-Aisne offensive the 39th Regiment went 
over the top for the first time on July 18 near Chateau- 
Thierry. For three whole days it was in constant and 
successful action, gaining its objectives and contributing 
its share to the beginning of the German retreat. On the 
second day, July 19, Lilly who had borne himself, on the 
testimony of the sergeant already quoted, as "a very cool 
and brave soldier, always upholding the fighting qualities 
of the American soldier," was shot through the head and 
instantly killed, at Chony, near Chateau-Thierry. Here 
he was buried, sincerely mourned by officers and men, not 
only as one of the first in his company to fall, but also for 
the qualities of character already revealed in a brief period 
of close association. 



Class of 1904 

Among the few names on the Harvard Roll of Honor be- 
longing to men whose military experience in the service of 
the United States had been considerable before the World 
War, the name of Allen Melancthon Sumner must be 
counted. On January 1, 1914, he had retired from service 
in the U. S. Marine Corps after seven years of connection, 
as an officer, with that organization. Recalled to action 



soon after the outbreak of the war, he stood well equipped 
to take an effective part in it. 

Born at Boston, October 1, 1882, he was the son of Allen 
Melancthon Sumner (Harvard, S.B. 1865; M.D., 1868) 
and Ellen Frances (Prescott) Sumner. A portion of his 
boyhood was spent abroad. His special preparation for 
college was made at the Pomfret School, Pomfret, Con- 
necticut. When he was seventeen he had such a desire to 
enter the navy that he secured an appointment to Annap- 
olis without the knowledge of his parents, and would have 
gone to the Naval Academy instead of Harvard if he could 
have obtained his father's consent. After four years at 
Cambridge, where he was a member of the Shooting Club, 
he engaged for a year in ranching in New Mexico, and in 
travelling in Costa Rica, the United States of Colombia, 
and South America. In 1906 he became private secretary 
to William D. Orcutt (Harvard, '92), then vice-president 
of the University Press at Cambridge. On March 17, 
1907, he was commissioned second lieutenant, U. S. Marine 
Corps, thus arriving somewhat circuitously at a goal akin 
to that of his boyish ambition. 

Till January, 1909, Sumner was stationed in turn at the 
Marine Barracks of the Naval Academy, at Annapolis, 
and of the Norfolk (Virginia) Navy Yard. He was then 
ordered to Cuba, and served till January, 1909, with the 
1st Provisional Regiment of Marines in the Army of Cuban 
Pacification. This duty was followed by nearly two years 
of service at the Norfolk Marine Barracks. On December 
16, 1909, ordered to temporary duty on the U. S. S. Prairie, 
he sailed for Central America on that vessel. On May 12 
of the same year he was married to Mary Randolph Jeffer- 



son Morris, of Washington, D. C. A daughter, Margaret 
Page, was born of this marriage. Sumner's resignation at 
the beginning of 1914 from the Marine Corps, in which he 
held the rank of captain, followed the death of his only 
sister, which left his mother alone and newly dependent 
upon his presence. 

Called to active duty when the United States entered 
the war, Captain Sumner was stationed, July 5, 1917, at 
the Marine Barracks, Quantico, Virginia, and assigned 
to the 81st Company of the 6th Regiment of Marines. In 
the "History of the Sixth Machine Gun Battalion," 
already drawn upon for the memoir of Major Edward Ball 
Cole in this volume,^ it is possible to follow in some detail 
the fortunes of the unit to which Captain Sumner belonged. 
It sailed from Newport News, Virginia, December 8, and 
from New York, December 14, 1917, on the U. S. S. De Kalb, 
arriving at St. Nazaire on the last day of the year, and 
proceeding immediately to the Vosges for its final train- 
ing. Before the end of March it was in the front line 
trenches at Mont-sur-la-C6te. Through April and May 
it alternated between front line and reserve duty at vari- 
ous points. On April 29 Captain Sumner relieved Major 
L. W. T. Waller, Jr., in command of the 81st Company, 
when Major Waller was ordered from the 2d to the 3d 
Division in command of the 8th Machine Gun Battalion 
of that division. Service of that most active nature 
through which the Marines were enlarging their fame con- 
tinued at the front through the greater part of June, and, 
for Sumner, well into July. When Major Cole was mor- 
tally wounded at Belleau Wood on June 10, and Captain 

1 See ante, pp. 271-280. 


H. E. Major became battalion commander in his stead, 
himself to fall five days later, Captain Sumner took his 
place in command of the right front in this momentous 

His own death occurred hardly more than a month later. 
Earl}' in the morning of July 19, the 81st Company, at 
Vierzy, near Soissons, was about to take part in the attack 
upon Tigny. The major under whom Sumner was serving 
wrote as follows of the immediate circumstances: 

Captain Sumner was with one of the platoons of his company, 
waiting the signal to attack. They were under very heavy 
shell fire, and he had placed his men under cover as much as 
possible while he remained exposed to watch for the signal. He 
was hit while so doing by a fragment of a high explosive shell, 
and died very shortly afterward. His death was painless, as 
he was unconscious from the moment he was hit. His company 
buried him where he fell, under very heavy shell fire. It was 
impossible to move him. His end came as he would have wished 
— at the head of his company. 

Captain Sumner did not die in vain. He left his work a shin- 
ing example to all the officers and men, to influence their con- 
duct, to make them better able to lead to the ultimate victory 
which is sure to be ours. 

A later letter ascribes his death to an aerial bomb, 
dropped from one of thirty German airplanes flying low 
and attacking the spot where Sumner fell. 

His valor was recognized by the award of the Croix cle 



Class of 1915 

About a fortnight after receiving the degree of Bachelor 
of Science at Harvard, David Morse Barry saw the body 
of a boy drowned in the Ohio River, and wrote in a journal 
he was then keeping, "I should dread to die before I had 
lived to some purpose." Two years later he had devoted 
himself to what he believed the highest purpose — the 
military service of his country, and, a little more than a 
year later, had laid down his life in its performance. 

He was born at Florence, Arizona, January 12, 1894. 
His father. Dr. William Taylor Barry, of Santa Barbara, 
California, was the son of Andrew Jackson Barry of Ken- 
tucky, a colonel in the Confederate Army, whose father, 



William Taylor Barry, was Chief Justice of Kentucky, 
United States Senator from that state, and Postmaster 
General under Andrew Jackson, who appointed him Min- 
ister to Spain. David Barry's southern background was 
distinguished besides by the fact that George Mason, the 
constitutional lawyer of Virginia, was an uncle of an earlier 
generation on his father's side. On that of his mother, 
Lilian (Morse) Barry, a daughter of Charles Huntington 
Morse (Yale, 1834), he was descended, in the ninth gen- 
eration, from John Morse, a member of the original New 
Haven Colony, and a founder of Wallingford, Connecticut. 
His mother died when he was but three weeks old. 

He made his preparation for college in the Santa Bar- 
bara (California) High School, where he was successful in 
debating and in newspaper work. Entering Leland Stan- 
ford Jr. University, with the Class of 1915, he passed his 
freshman and sophomore years there, coming to Harvard 
in the autumn of 1913 for his last two college years. Here 
he took the degree of S.B. in 1915. For the two ensuing 
years — or at least till the disruptive spring of 1917 — 
he was a student in the Harvard Law School. In April 
and May he was in some uncertainty whether to go to 
Plattsburg, to enter the Ambulance Service as the quick- 
est route to the front, or to train for a commission through 
the Harvard R. O. T. C. He decided on the last of these 
courses; but passages from letters to his father while the 
decision was in process indicate both his own state of mind 
and the conditions prevailing in Cambridge at the time: 

Cambridge, April 21, 1917. 

I am finally able to apprise you of what definite decision I 
have come to after a great deal of deliberation. Whatever un- 



desirable features it may have, entering into some form of active 
national service has come to be the great call now, and I am 
sure that you would not wish me to be the last man to go or 
wait until the present conscription plan which seems certain of 
passing drafts us into the army. If you do not feel as strongly 
as I do, it is doubtless because of the general sentiment through- 
out the West. But here, and I think among college men espe- 
cially, there has grown up the feeling — the conviction — that 
this country has entered into a great and solemn undertaking, 
that the cause which we have enlisted in is one of the greatest 
and most thoroughly right for which civilized men have ever 
fought. It is not because Germany has sunk a few of our mer- 
chant vessels, or killed a few ship hands and stokers on them, 
that we have gone to war; but as a Democracy it is our duty 
as a nation to line up our forces on the side of democracy against 
autocracy and plutocracy which threaten the western world. 
To sum it all up, Germany has simply got to he beaten. And 
when we are involved in such a tremendous crisis as this, it is 
not the part of the eligible men of the nation to follow their 
private and selfish pursuits and shun participation in what has 
to be done. 

I have accordingly applied and been recommended for ap- 
pointment to the Officers' Training Corps, which is to begin 
training May 8th at Plattsburg; I have not yet received noti- 
fication of appointment, but am pretty sure I shall within a day 
or so. I passed the physical examination, having only some 
difficulty on account of vision which I got around, however, and 
presented the very best credentials possible, it being necessary 
to present letters of recommendation from three citizens. . . . 

As to law work, the entire school is rapidly being depleted. 
The faculty has offered to encourage enlistment by granting 
those accepted by a training camp credit for the year's work 
without the requirement of passing the regular examinations, 
so that I lose nothing whatsoever by this course, and may pos- 
sibly be free to return to school by next October if peace de- 



velops before then. I don't expect we shall ever be required to 
fight on the continent, unless the war continues for more than 
a year more. 

What this course of training enables us to do is to be ready 
to take a commission by the end of the summer, the lowest 
being that of second lieutenant. One advantage of this is that 
it obviates the necessity of going in as a private under the gen- 
eral draft which the conscription act provides for. 

May 19, 1917. 

What I have done now is to enlist in the Reserve Officers' 
Training Corps at Harvard. The work which is mapped out 
for us is identical with that given at Plattsburg, with certain 
advantages which are not obtainable there, principally in hav- 
ing with us a corps of experienced French Army officers who are 
instructing us in actual warfare. This camp has now about 
1200 cadets under the command of detailed Army officers. It 
is to last three months, at the end of which time those who 
have satisfactorily completed the training will be recommended 
for commissions. Thus, I will have had the same preparation 
for a commission and the same chance of receiving one as though 
I were sent to Plattsburg. 

The reasons why I did not return to law as you desired are 
numerous. The very practical consideration is that the con- 
scription bill has passed and I should probably be drafted in 
as a private during the course of the summer if I did not get into 
some officers' training camp; as it is, when I do go it will be 
at least as a second lieutenant. Again, I feel irresistibly im- 
pelled to get into some branch of service at this time. That I 
should not get in and do my share in such a tremendous crisis 
would not be what would be expected of any young man of any 
vigor at this time — to sit by and watch others go out at this 
juncture is more than I could possibly stand. Students who 
are staying on at the law school tell me that they find it nigh 
impossible to work with any effectiveness when such momentous 
things are occurring all around. Indeed, this is not a time for 



a sedentary life of books, and I feel more than thankful that I 
am physically able and young enough to take a real live and 
active part. As to credit for the year's work in school, that is 
secured — for the school grants credit to all men enrolled in the 
local R. O. T. C. on the same par as to those who go to a federal 
training camp. 

What do you think of my enlisting in the Ambulance Corps 
in the place of service in the Army? I am seriously considering 
it, and may finally decide to do it. 

I feel that this war is a great calamity in what it will cost the 
country, and that those of us who go to the front will face great 
sacrifices. But still we are not looking about for ways and 
means of escaping service — we do not want to be left out. You 
suggest that I let conscription take its course. That is not the 
way I feel about it. I probably might not be drafted in the first 
contingent, nor the second, third, fourth or fifth, and might 
not be drafted at all. But the essential thing is that / am not 
going to wait to he drafted. When there is such an unquestioned 
call to the highest duty which a man owes in this world  — to 
one's country — it would be dishonorable and positively cow- 
ardly to decline to respond until made to. This is not the Presi- 
dent's war, nor that of Congress, but Ours. As I said before, 
I am mighty glad that I am not disqualified from entering 
active service. Why, looking around the streets of Cambridge 
today one can notice obviously the general character of those 
who still retain their civilian clothes: they seem sort of apolo- 
getic, wish to keep out of sight, and are mostly defectives. In 
the whole Law School, I believe I am safe in saying that there 
are not more than a dozen able-bodied men who have not left 
to join some branch of government service. 

I shall in all probability pursue the course here during the 
summer. I understand that within two weeks the Government 
is going to take it over entirely as a federal camp. We are to 
be barracked in the Freshman dormitories which will become 
Army quarters under perpetual guard. From July 14 to August 



14, we go on a 250-mile campaign in Maine under actual war 
conditions. Next week we camp out at Wakefield for target 
practice on the U. S. rifle range. The pace is terrific with eight 
hours of field drill and two of evening lectures; one is pretty 
worn out by bed time. 

I am investigating enlistment in an ambulance unit being 
organized by the Government for immediate service in France. 
I may decide to enter this as ofl'ering an opportunity for more 
immediate service, the enlistment being for the duration of the 
war. This service is taking over the entire transportation in 
France, and when our armies come over we will be taken in 
with commissions in the transport service I understand. This 
appeals to me distinctly as quite a desirable opportunity and it 
may be I shall do this, sailing for France within two or three 
weeks, I understand. However, I will let you know further 
about this. 

When the work of the Harvard R. O. T. C. was well 
under way, Barry wrote to his father: 

June 15, 1917. 

We are getting instruction under the French officers which is 
unequalled anywhere in this country. They are drilling us in 
the formations which the Allied armies have found to be the 
best adapted to the conditions prevailing on the western front. 
In particular the skirmish formation prescribed and used in the 
U. S. Army has to be quite altered to meet the formations which 
are now necessary, since charges and advances have their origin 
from the trenches and not from march formations. 

We have pretty steady occupation and I seldom am able to 
get away from Cambridge. 

I registered for the draft last week. I understand that very 
few of us men here will not be taken. After the exemptions are 
made out, and they are very extensive, there will not be many 
more eligibles left than will be needed, while there will probably 
be three drafts a year as long as the war lasts. I think I am do- 



ing the right thing to take up and continue this training here, 
so that when I do go in it will be as an officer; I don't think I 
would enjoy the status of a private, and besides the need for 
educated men for officers is great. The Government hasn't 
yet recognized the local R. O. T. C, but am pretty sure they 
will when Congress gets its affairs straightened out. 

Of one thing I am absolutely sure now, and that is that we 
are going to be needed for active service much sooner than we 
thought a month or more ago. The situation in Europe is 
getting terrify ingly critical. England is suffering immensely 
from the submarine campaign. France, the most glorious nation 
in the world, is putting forth its last strength, and cannot much 
longer uphold its long battle line. Russia is wavering on the 
brink of a separate and dishonorable peace. And still Germany 
is unbeaten. Everything points squarely to but one conclu- 
sion, and that is that it is up to the United States to step in 
and throw its full strength against Germany and that very very 
soon — it may be too late to serve our cause even at that, but 
within a year we will'have a million men in France and thereafter 
we can put forth a million men a year without suffering national 
exhaustion. These are wonderful times to be living in. 

Barry, like many others, was disappointed in his ex- 
pectation that the government would accept the work of 
the Harvard R. O. T. C. as equivalent to that of such a 
camp as Plattsburg. Since it did not, he rejoiced in his 
admission, in August, to the Officers' Training Camp at 
Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, and wrote to his father: "I 
think I should have preferred to have been assigned to 
Plattsburg, where most of the men I know are going." In 
the same letter he said, further, "I feel rather overdone 
after our long and arduous summer's training, but feel 
like going after it again now, and there is no reason why 
I should not land a commission this time." 



Three months later, November 20, 1917, he had the 
satisfaction of writing to his father: 

I have been offered, accepted, and sworn into the Army with 
a commission of first heutenant. That is exactly what I aspired 
to, but as there were only 702 of these to be given out of 2800 
commissions, I was in doubt for weeks. 

Our commissions date from November 8, but effective No- 
vember 27. Active service begins December 15. I have not 
yet received my assignment. I can tell you I shall be proud to 
go out of here with silver bars on my shoulders; it's without 
doubt the biggest honor I have ever received. At the same time 
there is grave responsibility attached. 

After receiving his commission, Barry was assigned to 
Company E, 59th Infantry, 4th Division. The regiment 
was stationed at Camp Greene, Charlotte, North Carolina, 
and from the time of his joining it, late in December, until 
its sailing for France, May 1, Barrj^ continued his train- 
ing with it there. On his arrival in France he was ordered, 
with nine other officers of his regiment, to Langres for 
advanced instruction. On June 14 he wrote to his father: 
"Last week we finished a two weeks' course in automatic 
rifle. I was given a grading of 98 per cent for the course. 
. . . We are studying now grenade warfare. They cer- 
tainly are a mean weapon. I am not as enthusiastic about 
the present course as our former one in auto-rifles. . . . 
My regiment is in the line on the British front. We 
expect to go back in about two weeks." On July 7 he 
wrote : 

I got back to the regiment just as they were preparing to 
move to the front. And just before moving I was placed in com- 
mand of Company E. The title of captain has n't followed me, 



but it is none the less a captain's role I have taken. You can 
imagine I am keenly sensitive of the great responsibility devolv- 
ing upon me in leading 250 men into the line. I have prayed 
God for the courage and strength to enable me to do the right 
things, and am not lacking in confidence. Today as I write we 
are bivouacked in woods behind the front. We arrived here 
yesterday morning at the dawn, following an all-night march. 
The worn-out men literally fell in their tracks and slept when 
we halted. I did the same. We are not in the line, but in im- 
mediate reserve behind. We are fighting with the French in 
the great arc about Paris. The Boche attacked a hill near 
which we were digging trenches, early the other morning; I 
knew something was up by the deafening roar of artillery and 
every other weapon fire. They failed, and left 500 prisoners in 
American hands. I saw some of them the next day — pitiful, 
tired, and utterly unwarlike specimens. One American could 
handle a dozen such. 

On July 10, on the eve of Barry's departure for the front 
lines where he was to participate actively in the Marne- 
Aisne offensive, he wrote this significant letter to his 

I received orders to appear before the colonel this afternoon, 
and there received the order to leave this evening for the first 
lines. Three captains and two first lieutenants were recom- 
mended to be attached to a French company at the furthest 
front, to remain with them a week, participate in all operations 
subject to the French commander, and be quartered with the 
French ofiicers. For the past week I have been in command of 
Co. E albeit I am still but a first lieutenant. I have only a brief 
minute, for we leave shortly after dark. One never knows the 
chances of battle, and it is with a solemn appreciation of the 
danger I am being sent into that I go. For several days our 
regiment has been behind the front about seven kilometres as 
Division reserves; we are all ready for the German offensive 



when it comes. Goodbye, father, this time; I'll write on my 
return. And if in reality I share the fortune of so many better 
men than I, know, dear father, that I have been a man to the 
last; I'll die if necessary, but no force under heaven can make 
me flinch in doing so, and an officer never fails his duty. I pray 
tonight for you all, and even the thunder from the guns now 
belching from every hill around cannot drown the note of that 
reaching upw^ard. I have faith in God to strengthen me during 
the first days when I shall go into the battle even now starting 
at the front. We are before Paris, and guarding that key of 
France, and no Frenchman will give way on this sector. 

Six days later he wrote again : 

I returned from the French front yesterday, and the whole 
regiment leave tonight to support the French. You know now 
of the great German offensive. I must write quickly — later 
I'll narrate my adventures in full. The Boche attacked us just 
before dawn — I was in the front line (no line at all, just a 
series of holes, held by automatic riflemen and machine guns) 
and the German first positions about 300 yards away. These 
guns open up — the artillery sent over a beautiful barrage, and 
all was quiet. The Boche began shelling then the road and vil- 
lage behind us, and presently a shell fell near — a second fol- 
lowed terribly close and the French lieutenant and I dropped 
into our ditch three feet deep. Then the aw^ul deluge. Our 
ditch was caved in and always that awful shrill of shrapnel and 
thunder of bursting shells. Nervousness passed and for fifteen 
minutes lying there I faced death — but I felt strangely calm 
and deliberate. One becomes fatalistic when so surrounded by 
fire. I feel that if I am to be struck it is inevitable — • why worry 
and fear? The actuality is not as fearful as the expectation. 
Well, we were bombarded daily thereafter, and I watched the 
dead and wounded carried out. The last night, standing by a 
sentry post with the French lieutenant, a bullet flashed out of 
the darkness and sped by us — we dropped, pistols ready, but 
all was quiet. Later when we had gone to platoon headquarters, 



tlie rifles out there opened up on a Boche patrol — a small en- 
gagement took place. A few were killed in our sector — brave, 
loyal French soldiers. We marched all night and reached camp 
yesterday dawn. We move tonight. I would rest, for I have 
not slept for four nights. My brain is tired. I think of those 
lines: "Many are the hearts weary tonight, waiting for the 
war to cease," and I feel just one of them — so weary and so 
much toil ahead. I have no fear of the danger, I could not fear, 
— for I have men to lead — but just a little rest. I look to God 
for strength. 

The last word received from him, addressed to a friend, 

was this: 

July 18, 1918. 

I am sitting in my dugout (filthy dirty) and all the light I have 
is a stumpy bit of candle. The men are singing outside. You 
know a great favorite over here is "There's a long, long trail." 
This must be short, as in a short time we go "over the top." 
One becomes a fatalist here. If a shell is intended for me I 
believe it will reach me. However I try to avoid it. The 
Marines have been making a glorious record, but the sights 
here at the front are terrible. Sometime I shall get hardened 
to them — but as I think of it now it seems almost impossible 
that God should permit the terrible suffering which I witness. 
The battlefield seems to be a vast field of unburied dead. No 
houses, no trees, but tangled barbed wire and deep shell holes. 

Two days later, while his company was acting in sup- 
port, near Chateau-Thierry, Lieutenant Barry sitting with 
two other officers behind the shelter of a natural embank- 
ment was killed by the explosion of a shell which dropped 
within five feet of the group. Buried near by, his body was 
reinterred several days later in American Cemetery 371, 
at Chevillon, Aisne. The fullest account of the circum- 
stances of his death is found in a letter written by Private 



Majella F. Doyle, orderly of Lieutenant A, T. McAllister, 
of Machine Gun Company, 59th Infantry. Private Doyle 
was himself wounded by the high explosive shell which 
caused the death of Barry and the two lieutenants with 
whom he was sitting. 

No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me in regard to 
your dear son's death. Nevertheless, I was there at the time 
the three lieutenants were killed. I was wounded by the same 
shell. I will try and explain it all as nearly as I can recall the 

I was a runner for Lieutenant McAllister of the Machine Gun 
Co., 59tli Infantry, and on the morning of July 19th or 20th, 
1918, at about 9.15, in company with Lieutenant McAllister, 
was going up a road through a wheat field toward the French 
artillery. I understand that the business of the lieutenant was 
to see the French artillery major to learn whether we were at- 
tached to the artillery. 

This road ran parallel with the German line, being about two 
city blocks apart. We had only gone a short distance when we 
met Lieutenant David M. Barry (of Co. E, 59th Infantry) and 
Lieutenant Brewster (of Co. F, 59th Infantry) coming from the 
French artillery. (This artillery had furnished us with a heavy 
barrage the day before under cover of which we, the 59th In- 
fantry, had advanced and captured the town of Chezy from 
the enemy, and driven them some miles through wheat fields.) 
The two lieutenants stopped and shook hands with Lieutenant 
McAllister, and talked for one minute about the evening battles. 

Lieutenant Barry said to Lieutenant McAllister, "Mack, my 
company is all shot up, I hardly have any men left." I noticed 
that Lieutenant Barry seemed greatly distressed over losing so 
many of his boys. They stood there for about three minutes 
when one of the lieutenants cried out, "See those Boche bal- 
loons up there; we must scatter or we will draw fire on our- 
selves." The words were hardly out of his mouth when high 



explosive shells from the German artillery began striking the 
road and hitting around us. We could do nothing except to 
sit alongside of the road, a small bank about two feet in height 
affording us a slight shelter to sit behind. So we took this only- 
shelter and sat down there to get what we call "under cover." 

I took my place at the end, while Lieutenant McAllister sat 
to my right and next to him was Lieutenant Brewster, with 
Lieutenant Barry at the other end. The four of us sat right 
alongside of each other, the three lieutenants sitting with their 
feet stretched out in front of them. I had partially turned 
toward the German front line to see what was going on when a 
high explosive shell struck the ground about five or seven feet 
behind us, and bursting killed Lieutenant Barry and Lieutenant 
Brewster instantly. (A better way than that of suffering for 
hours and then dying.) I don't think they ever drew a breath 
after they were hit; for when I looked over at them the two 
brave lieutenants were still sitting — or rather half sitting up 
against the bank in the same position as first taken. It was 
only a short time before they were carried off the battlefield. 

The concussion from the shell hurled me twelve or fifteen feet 
across the road, and wounded me about the face and arms. 
Lieutenant McAllister called to me and asked that I try and 
secure some help as he was wounded in the legs. I secured 
medical assistance and he was removed to the first aid station, 
and a little later was taken back to the field hospital, where he 
died the next day. The doctor in attendance said that Lieuten- 
ant McAllister's right leg was shattered, and he had a wound in 
the right side, one in the chest and one in the stomach. Lieu- 
tenant McAllister talked to me after the four boys had him on 
a blanket and were carrying him to the first aid station. He 
told me to go ahead and get my wounds dressed and he would 
see me in the hospital. I was taken to a base hospital a long 
way behind the line, where I remained under treatment for six 

I cannot give very much information as we were only to- 



gether at that time, and then only for a few minutes. I only 
wish I knew more of your son's fighting and his company, but 
as I said before this is all I know. There is one thing, however, 
Dr. Barry: Your son (Lieutenant Barry) with his company 
drove the enemy four miles through a wheat field the first day. 
Your brave son was with the division that drove the Germans 
from the nearest point to Paris. 

Of Barry's last day of fighting, of which Private Doyle 
knew little, Captain John P. Bell, of the 59th Infantry, a 
warm friend of Barry's, subsequently wrote: 

On July 19, we took over the front line from the 58th, and 
went over the top at 4.25 a.m., which was our first appearance 
under fire. I think that day and the next will ever be considered 
by the old men of the 59th as the saddest days of our lives. For 
the first time in our lives we saw our dear friends and comrades 
struck down at our feet. Your dear son like the brave, noble 
man which he had proved himself to be, was in the thick of it. 
He led his men on under the most adverse conditions, cheering 
them on with a splendid example of leadership. The day was 
over, the objective was reached, but under heavy losses. The 
next day, the 20th of July, was the day your dear son so gal- 
lantly made the supreme sacrifice. . . . 

Lieutenant Barry was one of our best officers. His life was 
devoted to the welfare of his men. His men were devoted to 
him for his manly character. 

Another captain of the 59th, John J. Finessy, heartily 
endorsed the statements of Captain Bell, and added: 
"David was an excellent officer and a gentleman. We 
loved him." When the men of the 59th buried Lieuten- 
ants Barry and Brewster near the spot where they fell 
they marked the graves as those of "our beloved officers 
and comrades." 



M.D. 1898 

The medical studies of Howard Walter Beal at Harvard 
began in 1893, and, after an interruption through absence 
from the Medical School for what should have been his 
third year, were completed in 1898. He had come to the 
Harvard Medical School from Phillips Academy, Andover. 
He was born at Bangor, Maine, November 26, 1869, the 
son of John Doyle Beal. 

The year of his graduation from the Medical School was 
the year of the Spanish War. Into this, Beal, having just 
completed his term as house officer in the Massachusetts 
General Hospital, entered with a commission of first 
lieutenant, Medical Corps, and served as surgeon on army 



transports to Cuba and Porto Rico. Transferred to the 
Base Hospital at Manila, he then saw active service in 
the Philippines until 1902, when he returned to the United 
States. In the autumn of that year he married Henrietta 
Hobbs, a daughter of Warren D. Hobbs of Boston. 

In 1903 Beal resigned from the army, and became a 
member of the Medical Reserve Corps, subject to call 
when his services might be needed. He then took up the 
practice of his profession in Worcester, Massachusetts, 
where he became widely known as a surgeon. 

He was not one of those to wait for his country to enter 
the war in Europe, but on September 4, 1914, only a 
month after it began, sailed for England on the first Red 
Cross ship that left the United States. He soon became 
head of the American Women's War Hospital at Paignton, 
England, which he organized effectively and conducted 
as director and chief surgeon until December, 1915. Ex- 
hausted by the strain to which this work had subjected 
him, he then returned to the United States and was ill 
for several months. 

The new challenge that came to him with the entry of 
the United States into the war was immediately met by 
the offer of his services to his country. He received the 
commission of Major, Medical Corps, and on August 6, 
1917, sailed for France with the 76th Engineers. His first 
assignment overseas was that of consulting surgeon at the 
Base Hospital of the First Division. Then — in response 
to his own request for a station at the front — he became 
chief of the First Surgical Division, 6th Field Artillery. 

While performing the duties of this post he was wounded 
near Roye, July 18, 1918, by a bomb from an airplane. 



Borne to the American Red Cross Hospital Number 1 in 
Paris, he died there of his injuries, July 20. 

"He was a man" — it is written of him in "Phillips 
Academy, Andover, in the Great War," — "of steadfast 
and earnest qualities, with the spirit of self-sacrifice in his 



Class of 1913 

IJORN at Springfield, Massachusetts, August 1, 1892, 
Donald Earl Dunbar was the son of Palmer Hall Dunbar 
and Martha Jane (Underwood) Dunbar, of that city. He 
received his preparation for college at the Springfield 
public schools, entering Harvard in the autumn of 1909 
from the Central High School, in which he led his class. 



His scholastic record at Harvard was of the best. In his 
freshman year he won a "detur"; in each of the three 
remaining college years he was a scholar of Group I. As 
an undergraduate he held Bowditch, Price Greenleaf, and 
Richard Augustin Gambrill Scholarships, and, for the 
first year after graduating magna cum laude, was a Shel- 
don Travelling Fellow studying at King's College, Cam- 
bridge. In his senior year at Harvard he won, besides the 
Ricardo Prize, the second Bowdoin Prize with an essay on 
the tin plate industry to which the Hart, Schaffner and 
Marx prize was awarded in 1915. In his sophomore and 
junior years he received honorable mention in the Bowdoin 
prize essay competition. He was an editor of the Advocate, 
the Cri7nson, and the University Register. He belonged 
to the Memorial Society, the Speakers' Club, the Signet, 
the Student Council, and the Phi Beta Kappa, of which he 
was second marshal. He served on the committee for the 
sesquicentennial celebration of HoUis Hall and as chair- 
man of the Student Council Committee on Scholarships. 
After his year at King's College, Cambridge, he entered 
the Harvard Law School. There he concerned himself 
especially with the economic aspects of the law of public 
utilities. He won the distinction of an editorship of the 
Law Review, which said of him, after his death, "He was 
immensely popular both inside and outside the classroom. 
In the former he was always distinguished by the keenness 
of his criticism and the width of his interests. He had a 
real genius for friendship. All those who have known him 
will realize how ill he can be spared. Nil tetigit quod non 
ornavit.'' The promise for his professional career was 
bright when he left the Law School in the month following 



the declaration of war and entered the Officers' Traming 
Camp at Plattsburg. At the Commencement of 1917 he 
received the degree of LL.B. 

When the Plattsburg camp came to an end, Dunbar 
was commissioned, August 15, 1917, second lieutenant of 
infantry and ordered to the 76th Division at Camp Dev- 
ens. Almost immediately he was assigned to Company L, 
101st Infantry, 26th Division, with thirty-five young 
officers of which he sailed for France, September 7. In 
the period of training at Rebeuville, near Neufchateau, 
Dunbar proved himself one of the best junior officers of 
the regiment, and on January 15, 1918, was commis- 
sioned first lieutenant. At about the same time he was 
appointed battalion adjutant and performed the duties of 
this exacting post with marked success for the brief time 
until the regiment went to the front at Chemin des Dames 
early in February, when he was reassigned to Company I. 
With this he remained until his death. 

It is an interesting fact that a platoon of the 101st In- 
fantry was the first infantrj^ unit of the National Guard 
or National Army to take a position on the front line. It 
is also related, in the memoir of Dunbar in the Third 
Report of the Class of 1913, that he and a battalion scout 
officer "were almost wholly responsible for the plans and 
execution of the first All-American raid, which was made 
on the German lines opposite Seicheprey," on the Toul 
front in May. In the same account of him his character- 
istics as a soldier and the circumstances of his death are 
thus described: 

He had one of the greatest "field presences" I know. Men 
who were working with Dunny in No Man's Land always had 



an unconscious feeling of confidence: it was not that they felt 
sure that he would bring them back safely; but they felt that 
he knew where he was, what was around him and what he 
wanted to do, and that the patrol had no need to worry about 
any Boche patrol of like numbers. In other words, he went 
into the field looking for information quite as he would walk 
into a city building and look for the janitor. 

When the regiment moved to the Chateau-Thierry district, 
L Company took up a position in a ravine just west of Vaux, 
and Dunny was here on the memorable morning of July 15 
when the Germans tried to take the town. Throughout the 
barrage and attack he was walking calmly up and down his 
lines, giving orders and steadying the men. Later he personally 
organized and led a party to counterattack on a portion of the 
line to the right which had been broken, and he successfully 
cleaned out some straggling Boche positions in the woods be- 
hind us. 

Five days later the company went over in attack; on leav- 
ing cover they were met with terrific machine gun fire, as the 
place was open to the sweep of several Boche nests. Babe 
was killed almost immediately, while walking before his men, 
looking after their shelter and alignment, and quite forgetful 
that he even existed. 

Babe was a remarkably intelligent officer, absolutely fearless 
and absolutely fair: those above him could not coerce him, and 
those under him knew they would be squarely treated. The 
officers and men of his company erected a stone over his grave, 
with a simple inscription which shows their feeling, "He still 
lives in our hearts." And they still preserve the picture of that 
grave and their memory of Dunny as one of the greatest treas- 
ures of the Great War. 

In the pages of this Third Report of Dunbar's class 
another tribute is paid to him by William James Blake, 



If the men of the class knew how "Babe" Dunbar was loved 
and respected by every man in the 101st U. S. Infantry because 
of his courage and fearlessness and qualities as a real man and 
leader, and could hear this sentiment voiced by the officers and 
men of my regiment when the news of his death passed around 
after Chateau-Thierry, it would be some recompense for the 
disappointment all 1913 men felt at the news of his loss to the 
class. Distinguished in college in times of peace, he was equally 
distinguished in war. He, Roger Bennett, and myself, had the 
honor to be chosen as three of the officers to lead the first 
American raid, composed of a battalion, and the man who had 
most to do with the planning, training, and successful execu- 
tion of this first large coup-de-main was "Babe" Dunbar. 

A letter of an older Harvard man, William Read Buck- 
minster, '94, addressed to Dunbar's mother a fortnight 
after his death, contained the following words : 

I write you of your son who died gloriously for France and 
his own land on the twentieth of July. I think that I was his 
closest friend in France; I know that he was mine. He was my 
roommate during fall and spring. We wore one another's 
clothes, and shared everything. He and I were always going 
together to the Lafayette Club and to pleasant parties with 
French officers who were our dear friends. The memory of 
those days together will always be one of my happiest recol- 

I was the last officer to speak to Donald before he died, just 
as he went up over the high bank where within three or four 
minutes he was shot down. I think that I was the first to see 
him as they brought him back dead just after dusk. He must 
have died painlessly for his head was thrown back and there 
was a smile on his face, just as I always knew him. 

You may well be proud of his life and of his death. Had he 
lived, I knew that he had a great future. But he died as he 



would have died, leading the attack which forced back the Ger- 
man foe from the very nearest point of his advance on Paris. 
There could be no more honorable place. 

Dunbar was three times cited for bravery, and received 
the Croix de Guerre for his part in the raid at Rupt-de- 



Class of 1910 

A MEMOIR of George William Ryley in the Decennial 
Report of the Harvard Class of 1910 presents the record 
of his life and character with such sympathy and fullness 
that it would be superfluous to tell the story in different 
words in this place. It may, however, be prefaced with 
the names of his parents — the late Thomas Ryley, long 
associated with the wool industry in Lawrence, Massa- 
chusetts, and Annie (Hartford) Ryley, a native of Ken- 
tucky — and with a definite mention of the fact that while 
an undergraduate he was a member of the freshman and 
University track teams; in 1909 the Varsity team, on which 
he was half-mile runner, won the intercollegiate champion- 



In the Class Report, the following paragraphs appear: 

George William Ryley was born September '29, 1888, in Law- 
rence, Massachusetts. After graduating from the public schools 
of that city he entered Harvard College and was with the Class 
of 1910 four years. During the next three years he was at the 
Harvard Law School, graduating at the time of the Triennial. 
He was admitted to the Massachusetts Bar in September, 1913, 
and began to practise law as an attorney for the Boston Legal 
Aid Society. It was characteristic of him to go with the Boston 
Legal Aid Society upon leaving the Law School. Other posi- 
tions offering far greater financial rewards were open to him, 
but he made his choice because he thought he could learn for 
himself and do more service to others there than anywhere 
else. His work with that charity was much appreciated and 
since his death money has been donated to the society in his 
memory to assist in the work he once helped to do. After serv- 
ing in that office about a year he was employed on the legal staff 
of the Boston Elevated Railway Company for about the same 
length of time. In October, 1915, he entered the office of Racke- 
man and Brewster in Boston and was associated with them until 
he entered the military service of the LTnited States. 

In May, 1917, he entered the R. O. T. C. at Harvard Univer- 
sity and continued there until the opening of the Second Officers' 
Training School at Plattsburg, New York, which he attended 
from August to November, 1917. He was commissioned a first 
lieutenant, U. S. R. at that time. In January, 1918, he sailed 
for France, not being attached to any unit, but under orders to 
report to Pershing. In France he attended an Officers' School 
[at Chatillon-sur-Seine] until he was assigned to Company L, 
102d Infantry. On July 20, 1918, at Chateau-Thierry, during 
the progress of a violent action, he was killed by a German shell. 
His body lies in the American Cemetery at Belleau Wood, its 
resting place being marked by the same plain white wooden cross 
that marks the graves of all the soldiers there. 

His classmates will remember him with affection and respect 



because of his cheerful disposition and certain unusual qualities. 
The power and control of his mind over his body extended be- 
yond the point of mere coordination of mind and muscle. He 
was an accomplished pianist, which implies at least coordination. 
Few men of any degree of physical strength could run four 
hundred yards after having the flesh of one leg slashed to rib- 
bons and a shoe literally cut off. Ryley did this in the track 
meet with Yale at New Haven in 1909 and he was physically 
smaller than most of us. Nothing further need be said of the 
quality of his courage. He was introspective and self-analytical, 
but this did not make him either melancholy and gloomy or 
self-satisfied and vain. He was, on the contrary, very modest 
and always cheerful. While at Plattsburg in 1917 he said to 
several people that an investigation of his motives in going into 
service convinced him that he had gone in as a matter of ex- 
pediency rather than of patriotism. His habit of introspection 
made him investigate his motives at times when it would occur 
to very few men to do so at all. His modesty would not allow 
him to reach a conclusion which gave himself a well deserved 
credit that he felt to be undeserved and his habit of frank 
speech led him to say exactly what he thought about himself. 

He contemplated economic, philosophical, and religious mat- 
ters more than most men do. In such contemplation he fre- 
quently thought aloud. This may have misled some hearers 
into a wrong opinion of him by their failure to realize that what 
was a mere link in his chain of thought on a subject was not 
necessarily his final conclusion. Such hearers may have con- 
sidered him queer or thought his ideas strange, but his thinking 
aloud was well worth listening to, and his conclusions were 
sound when he reached them. The last year of his life had 
much tragedy and pathos in it. He greatly deplored the war 
and frequently said he did not expect to come out alive. On 
May 17, 1917, he wrote on his office diary, "Finis. Left for the 
Army. God help us." In spite of that feeling, he continued to 
be cheerful, optimistic, and companionable, and it is so that he 
will be remembered by all who knew him. 



First buried at Belleau Wood, as these words relate, 
Ryley's body was afterwards brought to the United States, 
and on September 8, 1921, reinterred at West Paris 
Cemetery, Andover, Massachusetts. The Lawrence Daily 
Eagle printed, on September 10, a full account of the 
services, and of Ryley's own record, gathered largely from 
one of his fellow-officers of the 102d Infantry, Lieutenant 
Paul Hines, D. S. C. To the words of his classmate already 
quoted this report from a comrade in arms should be 

"He was the coolest man under fire that I ever saw," said 
Lieutenant Hines. "I never saw him flustered in the least. He 
was a continual surprise to us, for he was continually making 
improvements in the company in lines that we never knew he 
was interested in. The men had implicit confidence in him, for 
he never sent them into a place where he would n't go himself." 

As second officer of the company, Lieutenant Ryley had 
charge of the mess. He insisted that the rolling kitchen should 
be kept meticulously clean. It took hard work to do this, for 
some cooks were disposed to be careless. His insistence won 
the day. When the regimental adjutant came for inspection, he 
pronounced the kitchen the cleanest in the A. E. F. He thought 
so highly of it that a few days later he returned with General 
Edwards and his staff to inspect the "model kitchen" of France. 

L company just missed the battle of Seicheprey by two hours. 
It held the position which the Germans took in April until two 
hours before the Germans came over in large numbers. Some 
members of L company had been left behind to act as guides for 
twenty-four hours, and they were killed or captured when the 
perfect box barrage of the Germans cut them off. 

Following this L Company went back into the line in the Toul 
sector and about July 1 went into a rest area. On July 6 it 
moved into the front lines near Chateau-Thierry. It went over 
the top on the 19th, and was badly decimated. 



Before this, however, Lieutenant Ryley had rendered a con- 
spicuous example of his abihty to think clearly. One evening 
as the company moved up toward Beaumont to relieve another 
the road was heavily shelled with gas. Lieutenant Richie 
thought of having the company break ranks and take to the 
trenches along the road. Lieutenant Ryley pointed out the 
danger from their low valley position and urged his senior 
officer to push on through the gas and reach a higher place. 
Lieutenant Richie had great faith in his junior, and adopted 
the suggestion and brought the company through with practi- 
cally no casualties. 

The pity of his death was that he was destined to be killed on 
his first venture "over the top." The objective for L Company 
on July 19 was a knoll outside Bouresches about 1000 yards from 
the trenches held by L Company. The knoll overlooked a single 
line of railroad and the Germans strongly fortified the knoll 
with machine gun nests. To take the knoll meant to leave the 
trenches and cross the exposed track and than go 1000 yards 
through a field of wheat. 

The attack was set for 3 o'clock. Just before the company 
went over, Lieutenant Richie, Lieutenant Ryley, Lieutenant 
Rugg and Lieutenant Hines had a conference on the way the 
men should best leave the trenches. L Company was on the 
extreme right of the 102d Infantry, and was therefore in the 
most exposed position. Three different theories were advanced 
by Lieutenants Richie, Hines, and Ryley, but the other three 
officers agreed that the method devised by Lieutenant Ryley 
was the best. Later they learned that had either of the other 
two suggested methods been followed, the company would have 
been annihilated. As it was, the company lost sixty men in the 

Lieutenant Richie led the attack and went down almost in- 
stantly. A high explosive bullet pierced his thigh. He will 
limp the rest of his life from the wound. He called to Lieu- 
tenant Ryley to take command. Lieutenant Ryley did, and 



went down a few seconds later. He had not gone more than 100 
yards from the trench that he had left. 

Lieutenant Hines did not see him fall because of the wheat. 
A few moments later Lieutenant Hines all but stumbled over 
his body. He was lying on his face with his head pillowed on 
his right arm. Death had been instantaneous, for a bullet 
had gone through his head. . . . 

L Company took its objective and then rested. Its loss of 
life was appalling. The day was the worst that Lieutenant 
Hines experienced in France. A detail went back that night 
and buried Lieutenant Ryley. With great care the body was 
wrapped in blankets and then the blankets were sewed together. 
Then the body was placed in a grave sheathed with boards and 
the burial detachment went forward to join their comrades and 
keep faith with the dead. 

The last word of Lieutenant Richie to Lieutenant Ryley be- 
fore going over was to remark that neither had provided him- 
self with emergency rations. "Never mind, Richie, we won't 
need them," was Ryley 's reply. He was right. The tone he 
used in his reply was offhand and carefree. Lieutenant Hines 
has never thought that he had a premonition of the fate that 
was so soon to be his. 



Class of 1916 

As a portrait forms the frontispiece of a biography, a 
picture of McKinlock, drawn by a classmate for the Me- 
morial Report of the Class of 1916, may well stand at the 
beginning of this memoir: 

To me he was always Mac. We met first in the Union at mess, 
strange and a little shy, as freshmen are, but eager for every- 
thing in our new environment. I remember best Mac's smile, 
stretching from ear to ear, his large fine teeth as white and 
bright as ivory in sunshine. A wonderful smile, radiant, un- 
bounded, comprehensive; an epitome of untainted, strong boy- 
hood, full of the wind and sun of open air, too young and too 
bubbling for care or suppression; a provoking, beckoning smile 
that called you out to play — and you smiled back, and went 
with a rush. His eyes were deep, and brown as beech leaves 



at the bottom of a brook pool; they reflected the sun of his 
smile. But in them, too, were sympathy and a wistful look, as 
you found on better acquaintance. 

At first I called him "The Brown Bear"; he was so stocky 
and short, his curly, thick hair ("like a nigger's," we used to 
shout at him) as brown as his eyes; and there was always some- 
thing playfully bothering and quarrelsome about him. He was 
in every rough-house in those days, at the bottom of many, 
and day in and day out engaged in personal combat of the most 
ridiculous and amusing nature with Whitlock, who was as short 
and irrepressible as himself. 

Mac was a keen athlete, playing on the freshman and Varsity 
teams, and easily winning his "H" in football. Though he was 
sturdy and quick and strong, he worried about his condition 
as a mother would over an ailing child; it was in his tempera- 
ment to do so. For athletics was a serious matter, now detested 
ardently, now enjoyed thoroughly, as the day varied with suc- 
cess. I always felt athletics worried him more than they pleased, 
— I am sure his courses did — but he wanted success in them 
and attained it. 

Over here in Germany, with the veil of the war drawn full 
across other times, only the more shining memories stand out; 
the rest have been absorbed. But I remember the last time I 
saw him — in the court of the centre Freshman Dormitory fac- 
ing the Charles. We were second lieutenants, he of cavalry, 
I of infantry; he en route from Camp Sheridan to France, I 
studying under Colonel Azan. It was September, the night 
warm and full of stars, and as we said good-bye for what was 
the last time, Mac's voice was low and uncertain. We were 
young boys again, as in our freshman year; and as I turned up 
the stairs to my whitewalled room I thought it must be very 
lonely and sad to go thus to France, alone, without friends, and 
the war for us so new. 

It was over a year later, in the full rush of our victory, when 
I heard of Mac again. He was dead. How rumor flew through 



France with a hundred tongues, each speaking a different story, 
those in the A. E. F. know; one day you might sit in quiet 
shelter with a happy letter from a friend, the next morning 
would come a broken story of his death that pieced itself 
together, here a little, there a little, for weeks and months be- 
fore confirmed. 

But Mac is dead, bravely, we know, honestly and fearlessly, 
carrying the true heart of the boy against the murdering cannon. 
And we who can never sit under his smile again can place it 
in our hearts to warm in afterdays our faith in what is untainted 
and straight and true in life. 

The points of detail which can be added to the broad 
lines of this picture only substantiate its faithfulness. 

George Alexander McKinlock, Jr., was born at Chicago, 
May 16, 1893, the only child of George Alexander Mc- 
Kinlock and Marion (Rappleye) McKinlock. His father 
is president of the Central Electric Company of Chicago. 
The boy attended no school until he was ten years old, 
when he entered the Fay School, Southborough, Massa- 
chusetts, equipped with such physical strength that one 
of the older boys immediately asked him the flattering 
question whether he played football. "No, but I think 
I'd like it," was the characteristically honest reply. After 
three years he entered St. Mark's School, Southborough, 
in the first form. There his strength became a byword — 
in the saying, "strong as McKinlock." He played for 
three years on the school football eleven and hockey team, 
of both of which he was captain in the sixth form year. 
For two years he played also on the school baseball nine, 
and in his last year at St. Mark's had the honor and re- 
sponsibility of a monitorship. 



One of his letters from St. Mark's reveals a shrewd- 
ness of observation to which speakers at boys' schools 
may be subjected more often than they suspect. Theo- 
dore Roosevelt, no longer President, had been talking at 
St. Mark's. McKinlock, writing to his father, gave an ex- 
cellent summary of his remarks, and proceeded: 

His delivery took me rather by surprise. I had expected him 
to have a rather deep voice. On the other hand, he impressed 
me as having a rather small voice. He spoke in a rather sym- 
pathetic and confidential tone, making side remarks and having 
a good sense of humor. Afterwards, I met him and he con- 
gratulated me on having won the Groton game. He seemed 
shorter than I had expected, but when he spoke he reminded 
me of Homer's description of Odysseus, Book IH, 208: 

"But when truly they mingled among the assembled Tro- 
jans, Menelaus indeed surpassed them with his broad shoulders, 
but when they sat down, Odysseus was the more august. But 
when they began to weave speeches and counsels before all, 
truly Menelaus harangued fluently a few things indeed, but 
very clearly, since he is not abounding in words nor rambling 
in speech, even if he was later in birth. But when crafty Odys- 
seus arose, he stood and looked downwards, having fixed his 
eyes on the ground and he moved his sceptre neither backwards 
nor forwards, but held it unmoved, being like to a foolish man; 
thou might say he was some morose man and likewise senseless. 
But when indeed he uttered his great voice from his breast and 
words like to the wintry snow storms, then no other mortal 
indeed could contend with Odysseus." 

This simile perhaps is not a very happy one, but both Mr. 
Roosevelt and the simile impressed me, so I thought I would 
tell you about both. 

Evidently the boy was using his eyes and his mind as 
well as his muscles. The general impression he left be- 



hind him at St. Mark's is embodied in words written by 
the headmaster of the school, the Rev. Wilham G. Thayer, 
recalhng him both in his boyhood and in his young man- 
hood in terms that speak for their essential oneness: 

There are only happy memories of Alexander McKinlock's 
life in St. Mark's School. I recall him as he entered the School, 
a sturdy little boy of twelve, strong in body, open-minded and 
transparent in character. One could almost predict the kind 
of boy and man he was going to be. A thorough boy but sound 
in his judgment and reserved in his estimates, he was not car- 
ried off his feet by the enthusiasm of the new school life, as is 
commonly the case of the new boy. His interest in the School 
and his loyalty developed naturally, and when they became 
factors in his experience he expressed them in service. 

McKinlock always looked for a reason and motive for action. 
In his studies he did what was required of him and unless his 
interest was aroused he did not exert himself to do his best, but 
his sense of duty and self-respect kept him up in his studies and 
school requirements. I was always aware he had far greater 
ability than he showed in his school work. This ability did not 
find full expression until he was well along in his college life. 
In some of the college courses he did noticeably good work 
and showed mental ability of first order. 

Though he was interested in various school sports, his char- 
acter was shown best in football. Both in school and college he 
played the game for all it was worth. He did not care about 
the game so much that he would have played it for its own sake, 
but because he played well he recognized his obligation to the 
school and college, and he used his abilities for the school not 
because he found great pleasure in the game but because his 
service was needed for the success of the team. 

In the same spirit he entered the war. Many young men were 
drawn by the love of adventure and the excitement of getting 
into the fight. McKinlock much preferred peace and the op- 



portunity for other kinds of service, but nothing could keep 
him from fulfiUing his obUgation. From the moment his life 
began in the training camp to the moment he fell, he entered 
heart and soul into the task before him using all his energies, 
physical, mental, and spiritual, in full measure pressed down 
and running over. 

McKinlock's friends always speak of his clean-mindedness, 
but it was more than that. He had a clarity of soul and cared 
only for the things that were true, pure, honorable and of good 
report. He did not wear his heart on his sleeve but his affec- 
tions were deep and strong. The personal recollection which 
means most to me, is the responsive smile that revealed the 
mind, heart and soul. I cherish his memory as a rare possession. 

In the autumn of 1912 McKinlock entered Harvard. In 
the summer between his freshman and sophomore years 
he went to Germany with his mother and studied the 
language of the country. In a letter to his father, dated 
Dresden, July 2, 1913, after describing the modern attrac- 
tions of the cities he had seen, he made these significant 
observations: "I would rather live in America than here 
amongst all this order and perfection of material things. 
The German seems to me, in his desire to make Germany 
powerful and famous, to have forgotten to develop his 
finer qualities. The workaday man is fettered and con- 
sequently uninteresting. You can't get away from civili- 
zation. I feel that what 1 am doing has been done by so 
many before my time that it is worn out." From Heidel- 
berg he wrote a few weeks later: "The college buildings 
are unattractive things spread indiscriminately through 
the town. The students live in pensions. They sit in the 
cafes, drink beer, and play cards. Mostly they are un- 
attractive, sloppy-looking animals. The Germans look 



like our cheap sports in a small country village. If you 
want to exercise here, evidently you must join the army; 
all the others eat and drink. The average German does not 
seem to think. His life is in a rut. They have not many 
morals." One summer in Germany was all he wanted. 
But its result, on his reaching France in 1917 with little 
French then at his command, was, as we shall see, that he 
was able to conduct his first conversation with a French 
officer in German. 

In other summer vacations he gained a valuable knowl- 
edge of life in the open through camping and hunting trips 
with his parents, while he was still a boy, and with college 
friends after he had come to Harvard. One of them de- 
scribes him as the man of the cleanest mind and body he 
ever met, warm-hearted, thoughtful of the comforts of 
others, and generous in the extreme. 

At Harvard, where McKinlock belonged to the In- 
stitute of 1770, D. K. E., Hasty Pudding, S. K., and 
Porcellian Clubs, he was conspicuously successful in foot- 
ball. He played on his freshman team; in his sophomore 
year he belonged to the University squad; and in his 
junior and senior year was a member of the University 
team, on which he played in the Yale games of 1914 and 
1915, both of which were won by Harvard. His character, 
abilities, and personality marked him clearly as one who 
might well "go far. " 

On graduating from college in 1916, McKinlock entered 
his father's business, the Central Electric Company, at 
Chicago. Beginning at the bottom, he endeared himself 
to his fellow-workers, who would some day, as they all 
thought, become his employees. The laborers in the pack- 


ing rooms looked up to him because, with his uncommon 
strength, he could toss a box higher than any of them. 
Throughout the organization his sense of justice and his 
consideration for others bespoke a genuinely democratic 
instinct of the best augury for the future of the business. 
When he left it for the war, the faith and courage with 
which he went were a strength to those who remained at 

McKinlock entered the Officers' Training Camp at Fort 
Sheridan, Illinois, in May, 1917. On August 15 he was 
commissioned second lieutenant, cavalry. On Septem- 
ber 9 he sailed for France as a casual. There he was de- 
tailed to the First Corps Schools at Gondrecourt. After 
about three months of varied training he was assigned in 
January to the 3d Machine Gun Battalion, First Division, 
and detailed to duty on the staff of Major (afterwards 
Lieutenant-Colonel) Chester Arthur Davis, as intelligence 
and liaison officer. On June 15 he was transferred to Head- 
quarters, 2d Infantry Brigade, First Division, for duty as 
intelligence officer on the staff of General Beaumont B. 
Buck. He was killed in action, July 21, 1918, at Berzy- 

To supplement this bare outline of his military record, 
in which engagements at Cantigny and in the Marne- 
Aisne offensive were included, there are letters from Mc- 
Kinlock and from the officers under whom he served. 
There are also less formal remembrances, of his smile, of 
his ready humor, of his truthfulness. "Alexander keeps 
us sane," wrote one of his friends, and related an experi- 
ence at the end of a trying day: "We were pretty well all 
in. I particularly was in a frightful state of mind, and I 



came back to find Alexander lying on his stomach reading 
a magazine, and when he threw back his head and laughed, 
it made everything all right." On a moonlight night at 
Cantigny, after long-continued and terrible fighting, while 
the German shells were still falling, Colonel Davis was 
struck and called out, "1 have been hit." In a few minutes 
he looked up to find McKinlock beside him, and ex- 
claimed, "You did n't come to me through all this glare!" 
To which McKinlock, with his smile, replied, "But, sir, 
1 thought you said you were hurt." At Cantigny also, 
reporting, under orders, on the placing of guns at a cer- 
tain moment, ten minutes before they were actually in 
position, McKinlock won the respect of his superior officer 
by qualifying his written statement so as to make that 
officer, and not himself, responsible for the naming of the 
not strictly accurate hour. There are stories, too, of his 
devotion to his mother, who, visiting the First Division 
Headquarters after the Armistice, was told what a wonder- 
ful fellow her son was, and how he was loved. "Well, 
don't you suppose I knew him too?" she finally said. 
And they replied, "You may have known a wonderful 
boy, but we knew a wonderful man." 

Of the letters to be quoted, there are first these passages 

from a few of McKinlock's own : 

October 22, 1917. 

I am now at the First Corps Training school and having an 
interesting time: we aren't allowed to write about details but 
our living conditions are exactly the same as our last week 
together in New Brunswick — cold weather, rain and mud; the 
rubber shoe packs have been a life saver. 

Tonight I have the two trunks piled on top of one another 
for a desk and am sitting on the bed writing by the light of the 



collapsible lantern; you see we made some good purchases. 
The sleeping bag with waterproof cover has been just the thing, 
for during the first week there were three leaks in the roof, but 
now I have moved to a dry spot. The weather is like that we 
had when we motored in Scotland. 

We travelled here by troop train in a second-class voiture. 
I slept in my sleeping bag in the aisle, we washed up on the 
station platforms, and bought rye bread and vin ordinaire 
whenever the train stopped, which it did very often, and for 
half an hour at a time. We came directly here without stop- 
ping. It was a relief to settle down even though the accommo- 
dations are n't any too dry. When we left the big boat we had 
a day and night before taking the train for the crossing. 

Dave Sigourney and I had seven French officers for supper 
after the theatre, in an upstairs room in the hotel we started 
our tour from; I sat next to a major who talked very little 
English; we got along best in German — rather odd to talk to 
my first ally in the enemy tongue. 

I have been taking an hour's French at seven p.m. from a 
middle-aged woman in the village, which is about ten minutes 
walk from the barracks. This evening I walked down with 
some laundry to the Flaubert's, a French family, who do my 
linen. I spent an hour in the kitchen, talking and explaining 
the advertisements in the Saturday Evening Post. We buy 
grapes, apples, figs, chocolate and English walnuts at these tiny 
little shops run by a mother and daughter. There are few men 
and everyone looks now to us. There's a general feeling, felt 
more than expressed, that they would have closed shop over 
here if we had n't come in. The grey color which one sees every- 
where is monotonous and rather depressing; it would be even 
more so if it were home and we had three years of it. 

We did n't have a smell of a submarine. I don't think so 
much of the unter-see-boten. Either the Germans are not mak- 
ing use of it, through lack of supplies, or else it's not an omnip- 
otent weapon, but rather one which can be fairly well foiled 
by proper protection. 



November 2, 1917. 

I am well and pretty happy and content. We are gradually 
getting used to rain and mud. 

The last ten days have passed quickly and soon our term 
here will be over; what will happen then, none of us know. lam 
thinking of trying to get into the machine gun school — this 
branch of the service attracts me about as much as any. I have 
been taking bombing and trench raiding; also automatic rij3e, 
following the courses I was assigned to, because they're good and 
also because I did not care for any one enough to try to be trans- 
ferred. I am not sure even now about which branch I am more 
fitted to go into. While things are unsettled and shaping them- 
selves, it is a good thing to go into as many classes as possible. 
Opportunities for special assignment come up every day and soon 
I '11 get some sort of a job, but there 's a good chance of our going 
back to the States, so I am going to let her go for a while. 

[After a "permission" in Paris] 

November 25, 1917. 

The jeunes filles are thick as flies and about every other 
officer, French, British, and American, has one hanging on his 
arm. This trip has made one thing clear, you either play 
around with them or you leave them alone; I'm going to leave 
'em be; don't worry over me in that respect; in fact you don't 
have to worry unnecessarily about me for now I'm billeted 
and have an old woman to take care of my things. 

I am now in an old peasant's house; two rooms in front, my 
bedroom and the kitchen, and the stable in the rear. As I sit 
writing I can hear the horses stamping and the old woman talk- 
ing with her granddaughter and a couple of soldiers in the 
kitchen. The old woman sleeps in a cupboard which opens off 
the kitchen. The hay-loft runs over my room and I can hear 
the rats at night, in fact I think there's a nest of mice in the 
mattress of my bed which is one of those big, thick heavy af- 
fairs. The old girl is a widow with a couple of sons in the war; 



her husband fought under Maximilian and was a prisoner four 
years in Mexico. She was in the siege of Metz, being a native 
of x\lsace. The other night she had an old crony of hers for 
supper who's from Lorraine; they looked picturesque sitting 
near their little fonrneau with bowls of chocolate and bread. 
Madame Fringant takes pretty good care of me; she cleans my 
boots and brushes off the mud from my clothes, mends, etc. 
Of course I am lonely and miss you a lot. The only compen- 
sation is the knowledge that this is a wonderful experience and 
one it will be most pleasant to look back upon; it's also a pleas- 
ure to be taking part in a big game. 

February 8, 1918. 

I am liaison and intelligence officer of the 2d Brigade M. G. 
Bn. and therefore a member of the Bn. staff. Major Chester 
Arthur Davis is our commanding officer and a fine gentleman 
into the bargain. The staff, in addition, consists of the adjutant, 
Lieutenant Butts; the doctor. Captain Bisbee; the dentist, 
Lieutenant Arbuckle; the gas officer. Lieutenant Paulson; the 
supply officer, Lieutenant Kimberley and the interpreter, M. 
Lacrosaz. We all get along well, which makes it most pleasant. 

When we are in billets I have a good many jobs, for I am 
Provost Marshal, Police and Prison Officer, Fire Marshal, Bat- 
talion Headquarters (Bn. H. Q.), Officer's Mess Officer and 
Survey Officer. We are in a little French village and acting 
under the various titles given above I look out for the place; 
for instance in every cafe there is posted an order signed by me, 
of the hours the enlisted men are allowed to frequent it. I am 
in charge of the guard house and the prisoners who police up the 
town; a couple of wagons go from billet to billet every morning 
and the prisoners load in the refuse. My first experience with 
enlisted men has been in handling prisoners who are the out- 
laws of the different companies, and they together with the 
teamsters, the hard guys, have led me quite a dance. I have not 
yet learned how to bawl a man out, that's one way you failed 
me, my dear. All the stuff one reads in the papers, magazines, 



etc., about "we are all men, etc.," is rubbish. To be any good 
an officer has to rule with an iron hand, of course justly, that 
goes without saying. I have a room in the Bn. H. Q. building 
with Captain Bisbee, the medico, and believe me it's some 
change from the school; a stove with a big wood box (I am in 
charge of the wood so we always have enough; a wagon for 
each company for H. Q. goes out each morning and the men cut' 
wood as marked by the French forester), and also a big bed with 
sheets, etc. Also I have a big lanky sorrel horse who is a rough 
old devil but strong and sound which is rarity over here. I 
have enjoyed riding immensely; this is a great country for 
riding, not a single fence; it is wooded and hilly and I often 
ride up out of the valley and look down on our little town four 
hundred or five hundred feet below on the banks of a small 
river which feeds a canal that winds in and out like a snake. It's 
most picturesque and makes one forget the war. I have en- 
joyed this last month immensely. The work with troops is most 
interesting and pleasant because I am with a good organization. 
Today we were out six hours and I was five hours in the saddle, 
something like the days out west. I wonder often as I ride 
about especially at dusk whether you are taking any relaxation 
from your work. Don't run your legs off in that sooty town; 
remember that I don't want to come home and find a nervous 

wreck or a lame Mother. 

April J^, 1918. 

We are staying for a couple of days in a delightful little town 
before starting for "Somme where in France." Being on the 
Bn. Staff and on good terms with the Major I am in the chateau 
with him. Formerly the word chateau would bring before my 
mind's eye a huge Gothic pile; but experience has taught me 
to expect otherwise; for every small town and village has its 
chateau, i. e., the home of the prominent family; it is an old 
country house of stone and plaster something on the order of 
those in Libertyville, although nowhere near so dry, sunny, or 
sanitary. We may have progressed in the art of war, but we 



certainly have gone back into the ways of our forebears as far 
as personal hygiene. 

I visited Archie Roosevelt in the hospital day before yesterday 
and he is getting along in good shape. At present he has a stiff 
leg and can't bend his left wrist, but they expect him to limber 
up. He was standing on the parapet in front of his dugout 
when the Boche put down a barrage and an H. E. shell exploded 
near by and caught him just above the elbow; he said it did n't 
pain much so he stayed up until another went off and a frag- 
ment pierced through between the kneecap and knee and then 
he was down and out. The next day when they (the Red Cross) 
started to take him out the trenches were narrow so they tried 
going over the top, but the Boche immediately opened up on 
them with shrapnel and the Red Cross jumped into the trenches 
and left him lying on top (he had quite a few people to thank 
for a pleasant ride) and came out afterward and took him in 
without further mishap. 

I have just been out in the garden and in the fields near by; 
it is a wonderful spring night and it 's great to be out alone and 
hear the frogs and night birds, the peace and quiet here is won- 
derful after the front. The nights up there are n't much. There 
is a steady stream of ration wagons and ammunition trucks on 
the road until about midnight and then, of course, is the time 
that each side is busy shelling the roads and communicating 
trenches in the hope of putting a crimp in the other fellow's 
style. I have had a couple of interesting experiences (I just 
asked the Major and he said it would be all right to write about 
it, so here goes). Well to begin with. It was not a dark and 
stormy night, it was just a plain night, not dark nor was it 
light when the Major and I embarked in the General's car to 
visit the Commandant du Secteur on our left; we were going to 
take over from the French another sub-sector, therefore prelim- 
inary arrangements had to be made; hence the visit. There 
were two ways of going to the French P. C. (poste de commande), 
and we tried both. Going out we took the roundabout way 



through the woods which are about six kilometres from the front, 
but the going was bad, so when we had finished our job we decided 
to chance the short way home, a good road (one of the Routes 
Nationales) which parallels the front about three kilometres 
behind the lines. Well, we left the town about eleven o'clock 
and in about fifteen minutes were on the main highway. For 
two hours previous there had been heavy shelling away to our 
right, and it had gradually worked down to the left toward us, 
but in a comparatively mild degree until it took the form of 
ordinary counter-battery work and did not appear to be worth 
any thought. But when we approached one of our towns we 
stopped, because the Boche had been throwing incendiary and 
the H. E. shells into it; the place looked as if a row of bonfires 
had been built around it (it had originally been shelled to pieces 
at the outbreak of the war). We decided to go through and 
as we went ahead a couple of 77's (3-inch) dropped in the ruins 
on either side of us. I was pretty darned scared because we 
were in one of those enclosed nationals which are all glass win- 
dows just like a fish tank, and I could just see a big one landing 
near and the concussion splintering the glass. But we got 
through the town all right and were just coming out on the 
other edge where we had to pass in front of one of our batteries 
against which the Boche were doing some counter-battery 
work, when I was really scared green. For just at the place 
where we ought to have put on full speed ahead, we were held 
up by a ration wagon with a four-mule team which was directly 
across the road with one mule, the off-wheeler, down, and no 
driver (the driver and mule I afterward learned had been killed 
by shell fragments). I got out of that car like a shot out of a 
gun (it was a relief to be out of that plate glass palace which 
may be good as the pictures show in the Saturday Evening Post 
to protect the family from dust and rain but which ain't much 
when "Fragments from France" are flying around) and ran 
after that mule, stick in hand and heart in mouth. For some 
reason or other they were scared of me and after chasing them 



all over the road I finally ran them off far enough to let the car 
pass and then in I pops and off we goes to bed. It is n't very 
thrilling to read about, but there are the thrills in the doing. 

June 3, 1918. 
Dear Mother: 

Well, I am safe and sound, and experienced. 

If you have the papers and look at the maps, you can at 
least know what we were doing during the last week. I was 
with a barrage group of machine guns in a wood, and it was our 
job to fire into the Boche, well behind his lines and break up 
his reserves. We did not go over the top, but even so we had 
our share of attention from the Hun, who played continually 
upon our support lines with artillery. 

I could see our men go over the top with the tanks; it was 
interesting and a fine sight : a quiet steady movement, more im- 
pressive than spectacular, something like the slow steady prog- 
ress of line plays down a gridiron. 

Our artillery preparations were magnificent. One really has 
to see an artillery show to appreciate the noise, smoke, dust, 
and terrific confusion. 

Barrage machine guns have a hard time, even if they are not 
right up on the line. The enemy takes pains to locate them, 
because they do great damage, and then goes right after them 
with his artillery. 

W^e were out for three days and nights under heavy shelling 
all the time. It is wearing, because, even if the greater part of 
the shells are wide of one's position, everything is constantly 
jarred so that one cannot get any rest. I spent most of my 
time in a small trench about six feet long, two feet wide and 
four feet deep, which was good protection against fragments 
but of course nothing against a direct hit. We had one early 
morning hot and heavy. I was in a trench directly behind a 
couple of our guns when a shell fell out in front so close that the 
gun crews even tumbled back into the trench, one man wounded 
in the thigh and another in the shoulder, neither of them seri- 



ously. Shells falling closely sort of thin and terrify one. It was 
only a miracle that we all got out. Of course we lost a few, but 
the Boche artillery was a little off in the range, overs and shorts. 

You must have been pretty well upset by the last drive, 
which I believe now is stopped. The Hun certainly has made 
it hot for the British and French this spring. It seems highly 
improbable that the end of the war is any nearer and yet one 
cannot believe that Germany can make such sacrifices, which 
have gained her relatively so little, without cracking. 

It's fine that you are doing so well with your canteen. I 
hope that I can come back and have a look at it in the near 
future. There probably will be some sort of provision made by 
which those earliest in France may go back to the States after 
a year or so over here. 

I have n't been to Paris since November, and the Lord only 
knows when I'll be there again; when one is forward and condi- 
tions are such as they are, leaves are mythical. But I am in good 
health, happy, and, considering the fact that we have been in 
small towns with nothing to do, in fairly good spirits, 

June 15, 1918. 
Dear Father: 

I am now temporarily on duty with the 2d Brigade Head- 
quarters and consequently^ live in style in an old chateau. We 
are right out in the country and the fields are wonderful. They 
have loads and loads of poppies and daisies which make big seas 
of colors. Yesterday afternoon I stumbled on a patch of wild 
strawberries, and although our own 75's were sending them over 
I could not resist them and we had a very delightful fifteen 

Life has gone smoothly for us, although we have had scares 
which have made things uncertain. I have n't had much work 
to do as my job has gradually, owing to its uselessness, dwindled 
to nothing of importance. When we go into rest I shall prob- 
ably go to a company. I have enjoyed staff work but don't 
mind going with troops. The only unpleasant part of staff 



work is in the contact with the rest of the members. About 
half a dozen Hve, eat, and sleep together and stay in dugouts 
doing office work without exercise, so that it 's easy to get scrappy 
when we are under a strain for a couple of days. AV ith troops one 
has a certain amount of exercise and being in the open naturally 
is not so tiring. 

Americans have done well over here; of course on a small 
scale and under supervision. The French are fine and their 
higher commands have the technique of military art. The 
front is divided into sectors, generally about two miles in width 
and varying from five to ten miles in depth. Each of these 
sectors has to be organized in respect to infantry, machine guns, 
artillery light and heavy. It's like laying out a golf course and 
at the same time organizing a business house with its minute 
details in regard to shipping, accounting, and general policy. 
So far I have had the same kind of experience as I had with the 
Central, visiting different departments and working a bit in 
each one. It's been instructive but not conducive to promotion 
in that, if one is in one branch and stays there, the way up comes 
gradually by the fact of just being there. The Army has no 
fascinations for me; I am willing to work and do the job, but 
there's nothing inspiring, at least one does n't feel that there's a 
future to be worked up to — get it over with and then clear out. 

The mass of people in the States will never appreciate the 
war, in fact one has to go through a bit of it to grasp it. Life 
at the front is not as exciting as behind the lines. Here there's 
a sameness that's universal; a new sector offers new features 
of the same terrain and makes new dispositions necessary, but 
life soon simmers down to a regular cadence with few distrac- 
tions, and after a few readjustments we are down to the same 
existence. Behind the lines there is continual change and the 
uncertainty of what is happening, and also politics. Here we 
are interested in what 's going on on our own front and that of 
the divisions on our immediate right and left, the mail, food, 
and a chance horseback ride. 



Of course it 's a pleasure to realize that you are making airons 
and boats instead of talking them. Air planes are very impor- 
tant; having them is like seeing the hole before driving, one has 
a better chance of getting there. 

The other day a Britisher read his map wrong and flew over 
us with his machine gun playing and dropped half a dozen 
personnel bombs. The rest of his flight got after him and we 
peppered him until he finally came down with a broken leg. 
He kept us going for about half a day, we could not tell when 
he would light on us again because his plane could not be dis- 
tinguished from the rest so we had to be ready to let anyone 
have a dose that came by. 

July 10, 1918. 
Dear Mother: 

I am now with the Headquarters of the 2d Brigade and am 
filling the bill as intelligence officer. I read the Bulletins of 
Information issued by the First French Army and by our own 
G. H. Q. These reports give the latest information concerning 
what is going on in the German side of the lines, which is infor- 
mation picked up from letters and documents found on pris- 
oners or dead men and from deserters and the prisoners who are 
all quizzed by the Intelligence section at the Division Corps 
and Army Headquarters. I am in charge of the brigade maps 
and airon photos. It is interesting work. 

We have had fine weather for troops but poor for crops, that 
is, no rain. If I had arrived in France say the first of March 
instead of the fifth of October, I would take the nickname 
*' Sunny France" for granted and think I was lucky to be away 
from our disagreeable spring. Over here all the bad weather is 
apparently concentrated in the fall months from October on 
into the winter to February. 

I have been very homesick — there is so much time when one 
has nothing to do. When things are stirring we may be up all 
night several nights during the week but when we are en repos 
there 's lots of time to wish one were home. 



I am going to take up riding again and get more exercise 
which I need badly now that we are able to stay away from 
Headquarters a bit. My French gets better, but of course I do 
not make the progress I would if I were with them regularly. 
I only talk a couple of sentences a day which keeps my hand in 
but does not make for fast progress. . . . 

I certainly would like to be home with you at present. I 
need your good influence, this life is too primitive, we have 
nothing of the finer things at hand and unless one has ideals con- 
stantly in the foreground why it's easy to act like an animal. 

After the fighting south of Soissons on July 21, Mc- 
Kinlock was reported missing in action. For some time 
thereafter the circumstances of his death were unknown; 
but the events that immediately preceded it, and the 
impression produced by McKinlock's character and ac- 
tions upon those who had the best opportunities to observe 
and know him, may be found in the following letters to 
his father, two from General Buck, one from Colonel 


Hq. 3d Division, 
American Expeditionary Forces, 
France, September 19, 1918. 
My dear Sir: 

Today I received a cablegram from you inquiring about your 
son. Lieutenant George A. McKinlock, Jr., who was a member 
of my staff when I was in command of the 2d Infantry Brigade, 
Am. E. F. 

We had been engaged in a four days' battle, the culmination 
of which was the capture of Berzy-le-Sec, just south of Soissons, 
July 21, 1918. I sent your son, one hour after the capture of 
the village, to definitely locate our lines in advance of the vil- 
lage. He did not return. I sent another staff officer late that 
evening to make a diligent search and inquiry about him. Your 
son was traced to the village. He had been seen going down the 



Ploisy ravine accompanied by two French officers. All three 
entered the village together. As they were passing through 
the eastern edge of the village there came a burst of machine 
gun fire from long range, one bullet taking effect in your son. 
He fell, apparently dead. The two French officers hastened to 
cover. The body lay in the street all day, as the enemy con- 
tinued intermittently to sweep the town with machine gun fire, 
also to bombard it. That evening, about dusk, an American 
ambulance stopped near where your son's body lay, the attend- 
ants picked up the body and depositing it in the ambulance, 
drove off. I had several officers search the aid stations, hospi- 
tals, etc., hoping to find your boy, and to learn that he was only 
wounded, but no trace has been found of him. The above was 
told by an American soldier who was posted in the eastern edge 
of Berzy-le-Sec with a party of soldiers whose duty was to hold 
a certain post there. He was not relieved from this duty for 
several hours after your son was carried away in the ambulance. 

I have hesitated to communicate the foregoing to you be- 
cause in the search made for your son a soldier was found who 
claimed to know that one of my staff officers was taken prisoner 
just as he entered Berzy-le-Sec on the morning in question. He 
claimed that some Germans who remained in hiding in the town 
after it was captured by my troops pounced upon my staff 
officer as he entered the town and made him prisoner. 

As we could not find him or his body, I have been hoping to 
learn that he is a prisoner. The battle was still on when these 
two accounts were given and in the rush of events the officer to 
whom they were given failed to get the name and organization 
of the soldiers who told the stories. We have been unable to 
learn anything further. 

I need not tell you of the deep sorrow which fell upon me and 
the surviving members of my staff in the loss of your son who 
was loved by us all. I had selected him as a member of my 
staff on account of his splendid qualities and ability. In send- 
ing him to make a sketch of the position of our troops I had no 



idea he was to be in any danger, as I and another staff officer 

had come from the immediate vicinity only an hour or two 

previously. Please accept my sincere condolence and share the 

hope that he may be a prisoner and may safely return to you 

some day. ^^ . , 

very smcerely yours, 

B. B. Buck, Major-General, 

U. S. Army. 

Headquarters, Camp Macarthur, 
Waco, Texas, 
My dear Mr. McKinlock: December 27, 1918. 

I have not written to you, or to Mrs. McKinlock, or to General 
Barry, on the subject of your son's disappearance because I have 
hoped there might be some new development in the case. The 
case was very puzzling to me from the start. I never put much 
faith in the rumors about his being captured or being seen in 
company with two French officers. All I can say definitely is 
that I last saw him at the advanced telephone station of the 26th 
Infantry in a little gully by the side of an unused road. This 
was a very dangerous position, but the telephone being located 
in a little scooped-out place there was the reason of Alexander's 
being there where he could receive information from the front 
promptly. I left him there early on the morning of July 21 
for this purpose, and the place having been discovered was kept 
under heavy shell and shrapnel fire all day. 

When I returned to this place from the capture of Berzy- 
le-Sec at about 10.00 a.m., I found Alexander there. I then 
went with Lieutenant Pearce and two orderlies to the right 
flank of my brigade and from there up to the front of the 
fighting just south of Berzy-le-Sec and made a thorough recon- 
noissance of the field, sending the last of my reserves to secure 
the line running southeast from Berzy-le-Sec toward Buzancy. 
After I considered the situation along this front satisfactory 
and stable, I returned to the advanced telephone station of the 
26th Infantry. Alexander was still there. He showed me the 



information he had accumulated. I made a telephonic report of 
the situation to Division Headquarters and learned that the 
Division Commander desired a sketch showing definitely just 
where our advanced line was holding and the units occupying 
various positions, their strength, etc., so I sent Alexander into 
Berzy-le-Sec via the Ploisy ravine, and Captain Parris and 
Captain Fleet to that portion of the line southeast of Berzy- 
le-Sec with orders to make the sketch required. This must have 
been about 1.00 o'clock p.m. I then returned about 2.00 o'clock 
P.M. to my Headquarters at Missy-aux-Bois. Captain Parris 
and Captain Fleet returned to my Headquarters about 5.00 
P.M. Alexander never returned. . . . Our rule which has been 
established in the brigade for several months and which was 
well understood by us all was that under no circumstances should 
an officer ever go into the battle zone unaccompanied, so I gave 
no instructions whatever on this subject at the time. 

Today I have found among my papers on Berzy-le-Sec my 
memorandum to the effect that "General Buck, Lieutenant 
McKinlock and Lieutenant Pearce visit front line battalions 
verify number of men and positions of the 26th and 28th In- 
fantry," etc. You will remember that in our conversations I 
could not remember whether Alexander accompanied me on 
that perilous trip or not. 

I am enclosing a sketch showing the ground in the vicinty of 
Berzy-le-Sec and Ploisy, with important points marked. xAlso, 
among my papers, I today found a copy of my citations and am 
sending you a copy of Alexander's citation. 

Now, I am also sending today, through the War Department, 
a recommendation for the Distinguished Service Cross for Alex- 
ander — not only for the service recited in the citation, but for 
his service in accompanying me between 2.00 and 4.30 a.m. on the 
morning of July 21 and for his duty at the advanced telephone 
station of the 26th Infantry during the attack on Berzy-le-Sec. 

I did not recommend this award earlier than the present 
time, because of our law that the Distinguished Service Cross 



cannot be awarded for acts in which the person is taken prisoner, 
and I have waited until now to see if Alexander would show up 
as a prisoner. ^ g ^^^^ 

Major-General, U. S. A. 

American Expeditionary Forces, 


,r ,^ -r^ December S9, 1918. 

My dear Mr. McKinlock: 

I have desired for a long time to write you frankly and fully 
concerning your son, but inasmuch as he has been officially 
carried as "lost or missing in action" I have been precluded 
from doing so. Our regulations prohibit officers and men from 
writing to the relatives or friends of missing soldiers and sug- 
gesting that they were killed or even establishing proof of same 
until the casualty list is published changing status, for instance, 
as from missing in action to killed in action. I am informed that 
your son is now carried as having been killed in action; there- 
fore I propose to relate to you all that I have been able to find 
out concerning him. 

Your son was my intelligence officer for many months while 
I commanded the 3d Machine Gun Battalion (previously called 
the 2d Brig. M. G. Bn.). Shortly before the ofl^ensive operation 
southwest of Soissons, General Buck, then Commanding Gen- 
eral of the 2d Brigade, lost his brigade intelligence officer through 
transfer and believing that your son would and could hold that 
comparatively important position I recommended him and he 
was appointed. During the aforementioned operation his 
Brigade Commander sent him forward to Berzy-le-Sec to verify 
the position of our first lines and according to Chaplain O'Flarity 
of the 28th Infantry he encountered three French officers who 
were on a similar mission and the four men went along together. 
In the town of Berzy it seems that, according to the story 
of the French officers, a single bullet fired by a Boche sniper 
killed George instantly, having penetrated his heart. The 
French officers, immediately following this one shot, took cover 



and while running from the scene encountered Chaplain O'Flar- 
ity or O'Flaherty, and to him they related this story. They 
described your son with great accuracy, so much so that my 
description exactly tallied with theirs, and O'Flaherty had never 
seen your son. They told the chaplain that a young lieutenant, 
a liaison officer of 2d Brigade Headquarters, who spoke excel- 
lent French, had just been killed and related what I have stated 
above concerning George. That evening the chaplain went to 
the spot and looked for the body but could find no trace of it. 
He inquired of some enlisted men where the body had lain and 
they indicated the spot stating that the body of the lieutenant 
had laid there all day and that they believed an ambulance car- 
ried the body away shortly before the chaplain's arrival. I got 
this statement from O'Flaherty personally and asked him to 
put it in writing but this good man was killed almost in my 
presence just after I had made a request for the statement. 
Another young man had heard that a brigade staff officer had 
been killed near his outfit at Berzy and unfortunately he (Cap- 
tain Hawkinson) is also dead. 

Frankly, I believe that your noble son is dead and that he was 
killed as I describe. The story about the ambulance is con- 
fusing, as dead bodies are never carried in such conveyances. 
I have tried to ascertain from the Graves Registration Bureau 
whether they have any record of your son's grave, but they 
have none — he is not a prisoner in Germany, else the records 
would show it, neither is there any record of his being or ever 
having been in any of our hospitals. My conclusion is that he 
is dead and was buried near Berzy-le-Sec. 

George joined my battalion in January, 1918. I at once 
noted his fine qualities and detailed him for duty on my staff. 
We were very closely associated for many months, during which 
time I learned much about his past life. I have never known 
a man who so thoroughly loved his home and his parents. 
Many nights we rode our horses well out into the various sec- 
tors and never will I forget our conversations or rather his as 



I was quite content to ride silently and listen to this exceedingly 
clean and noble-minded young man who loved his mother as 
a sweetheart and longed for the day when he would go into 
business with "dad" as he called you and pal with his mother 
as he had before. It was an inspiration to me, and I became 
tremendously fond of him. His loss was a cruel blow — such 
men are an asset to the army and to the nation. 

I deeply sympathize with you and Mrs. McKinlock in the 
loss of your splendid son. Please be consoled in the knowledge 
that he died for his country and left a name among us which 
shall ever be honored. . . . 

Faithfully yours, 

Chester Arthur Davis. 

After a long search for McKinlock's grave it remained 
for his mother, acting upon her instinctive knowledge of 
the workings of his mind, and therefore of the directions 
of his last footsteps, to find the spot where he had fallen 
and was buried. 

For his conduct on the day of his death he was cited in 
general orders. Headquarters 2d Infantry Brigade, and 
received the posthumous award of the Distinguished Serv- 
ice Cross. His citation read: 

For exceptional gallantry under heavy artillery bombard- 
ment and severe machine gun fire in proceeding along the front 
lines near Berzy-le-Sec to verify the position reports of the ad- 
vanced locations of the front lines, and was killed while so doing. 

The Distinguished Service Cross was awarded in these 
terms : 

In the attack of Berzy-le-Sec, France, July 21, 1918, he 
showed noble disregard of self and devotion to duty by travers- 
ing the front lines for information necessary in connection with 
his work as intelligence officer, and while fearlessly perform- 
ing this work was killed. 



Law School 1913-16 

XVALPH GuYE White, born in Osceola, Clearfield 
County, Pennsylvania, September 18, 1883, and thirty- 
five years old when fatally wounded in action as second 
lieutenant in the army of the United States, was one of 
those maturer citizen-soldiers whose spirit and valor must 
have had their sources in something besides the eagerness 
of youth. 

His parents were Alonzo White and Annie (E.) White. 
He received his earlier schooling at the Ramey (Pennsyl- 
vania) Grammar School, and the Osceola Mills High 
School, from which he graduated in 1902. From that 
time until 1913, when he entered the Harvard Law School, 
he was principal of the Ramey and Osceola Mills High 




School, and taught, besides, in the Irwin and Beaver 
Falls High Schools, all in Pennsylvania towns. Through 
this period he was pursuing college studies, and in 1910 
received the degree of Bachelor of Arts, after three years 
of residence, at Grove City College, Grove City, Pennsyl- 
vania, followed by the degree of Master of Arts from the 
same institution in 1912. 

When he entered the Harvard Law School at thirty in 
the autumn of 1913, it was after a serious consideration 
of the ministry, rather than the law, as the profession for 
him to choose. He was a member of the Presbyterian 
Church at Osceola, and took an active part in the religious 
and social betterment affairs of the place. As an altruist, 
therefore, he felt the appeal of the law in its legislative 
more than its executive aspects. 

While he was pursuing his law studies at Harvard he 
carried the double burden of his work in the school and 
of meeting his financial necessities by teaching at the 
Huntington School in Boston. It was a grievous disap- 
pointment to him that these circumstances prevented the 
completion of his course with his class in 1916. Here for 
the first and last time he did not win his objective. But 
his qualifications as a teacher gave him a place immediately 
at the Abbott School, Farmington, Maine, and with the 
troops of that state he began his military service. 

White had been a member of the National Guard of 
Pennsylvania, and during his course at Grove City had 
risen from the rank of private to the command of the col- 
lege battalion, with the rank of major. As early as July, 
1915, apparently with a premonition of the coming oppor- 
tunity to serve his country, he caused his name to be 



enrolled on an OflBcers' Reserve list. Before the United 
States entered the war in 1917 he offered his services to 
the adjutant general of the state of Maine, and again on 
April 13, 1917. On April 20 he received his commission 
as second lieutenant of infantry, and from that time until 
September 24 was stationed at Camp Bartlett, Westjfield, 
Massachusetts, where the 2d Maine Regiment, of which 
he was a member, was merged in August with other New 
England troops, in the creation of the 103d Infantry, 26th 
Division. With this organization he sailed, September 25, 
on the Saxonia from New York. On August 21, he was 
married to Sarah Hart Ross, of W' ilkinsburg, Pennsylvania, 
now living at Juniata in the same state. 

For ten days from his arrival at Liverpool on October 9, 
White, with his regiment, was at Borden in Hampshire, 
whence they proceeded to Villouxel, near Liffol-le-Grand, 
Vosges. For all but a part of January, 1918, when he 
attended a British Military School near Amiens, he re- 
mained at Liffol-le-Grand until February 5, when his 
unit entered the Foret de Pinon sector of the Soissons 
front. Here for five weeks his regiment joined in holding 
the line under fire. On March 5 W^hite was detailed to 
advance headquarters S. O. S. at Langres, where, except 
for several days' illness in a hospital, he worked at the 
mail and motor dispatch service and censorship until 
June 30. Then at his own request, made some time be- 
fore in response to a call for officers for front line duty, he 
was assigned to Company C of the 23d Regulars, 2d Divi- 
sion, and via Paris proceeded again to the Soissons front. 
Mortally wounded near Soissons July 19, he died July 21, 
1918, at Field Hospital No. 1. 



Such a military record was typical of many in the 
A. E. F. Each such record is individualized, however, by 
the details of its making, and the personal quality of 
White's service was strongly marked. One of his fellow- 
officers at Langres recalls him, for example, there: "Ralph 
was in charge of the Motorcycle Dispatch Service and as- 
signed to the Adjutant General's Department for duty. 
The establishing and perfecting of new routes for the 
M. D. S. were his chief duties. On duty he was a tireless 
worker and a very efficient officer. Off duty he was to be 
found always surrounded by mobs of French children, all 
gleefully crowding round him and trying to 'spick An- 
gleesh' with 'mon lieutenant.' So popular was he that 
he came to be called 'father of the flock.'" One boy, 
whose father was killed at the first battle of the Marne, 
became in particular an almost inseparable companion, 
took most of his meals with White at his hotel, and es- 
tablished an affectionate relation which has been main- 
tained through correspondence with his widow. 

Then there are White's letters. A few passages written 
in the brief interval between his return to the front and 
his death are typical: 

July 2, 1918. 

My heart is high at the courage and fortitude of the heroic 
race that inhabits this romantic land. . . . There is no spot 
on earth outside of America where I could die so peacefully, so 
willingly, for right and justice as here on the heroic fields of 
France. I have stood on the streets while "Gothas" hummed 
overhead and watched this fearless people. Germany can never 
conquer their proud defiance. I thank God who called me to 
help in this sacred struggle. 



July IJf.. 
Today is the anniversary of the Fall of the Bastille, a day 
glorious in the history of the progress of human liberty. We 
Americans celebrate with the French today and feel that we too 
have a part with them because our army stands like a mastiff, 
head and eyes to the front, shoulders squared, and feet planted 
firmly on this sacred soil, threateningly facing the Boche, who, 
dismayed and affrighted, stopped on May 28, gave ground and 
guns on June 6, and felt the full force of an American bayonet 
charge on July 1. I am proud of our soldiers. I am proud that 
I am one of them, that I have "stood to" in the trenches and 
would, with every American in France, gladly leave office and 
comfortable billet for the front before we would permit the 
Boche to capture the goal on which he has set his vandal heart. 

And only two days before receiving his fatal wound: 

July 17. 
My country, the cause of right, and these American boys of 
my platoon needed me. I came. Tomorrow we attack. God 
strengthen the right. 

The letters of military comrades make a further con- 
tribution of detail. One of these, Ralph M. Eaton (Uni- 
versity of California, '14, Harvard, Ph.D. '17), also a 
lieutenant in the 103d Regiment, now instructor and tutor 
in philosophy at Harvard, has written: 

I first knew Ralph White at Camp Bartlett, Westfield, 
Massachusetts, where the 26th Division was mobilized in 
September, 1917, for service in France. At that time he held the 
rank of second lieutenant in Company F of the 103d, to which 
company I had been assigned. The fact that we were both from 
Harvard drew us immediately together, and mutual duties, 
mutual joys, mutual grievances, together with the irresistible 
good humor and brightness of White's personality, soon made 



us fast friends. We were the junior officers of the company and 
the attitude of our seniors toward us was very distinctly that 
we had yet to prove ourselves. It was to be White's fate that 
he should prove himself more completely than any of us, juniors 
or seniors; he was the only one among the group who did not 

On the old Saxonia [Mr. Eaton had previously said], during 
the fourteen days of our tossing about the Atlantic, we met the 
initial difficulties of young officers together and between times 
pored over a volume of Walt Whitman. 

I shall not forget how Ralph cheered the miserable week we 
spent in the mud at Borden, Hampshire, England; we were in 
need of cheer — with no blankets to sleep in ; the rain coming 
down in torrents through the tents, the men taking pneumonia 
on every hand from sleeping in the water; and so very little 
to eat. Ralph did n't mind; and helped us all not to mind, to 
see it as a romantic adventure. 

We went to London together, bought trench boots and Sam 
Browne belts in Regent Street, stood above the graves of Brown- 
ing and Chaucer in Westminster Abbey; ate lamb-pie at the 
Cheshire Cheese with the shade of Samuel Johnson and Boswell 
— what a great day it was, rushing wildly from one end to the 
other of the town, to see and feel and understand it all! That 
day with the "nasty English drizzle that wets the marrow in 
your bones" is a bright spot in the memory of our war days. 
France was ahead of us — and how we longed for it! At the 
end of the week we went — crept out of Southampton one still 
moonlight night across the glassy channel — thousands of us 
packed above and below and between decks; past the mine 
fields; past the hidden U-boats that did n't come that night, 
till in the morning we saw through the fog the white houses of 
Le Havre. 

I remember the tenderness with which Ralph spoke to the 
chap — a soldier from his platoon — whom we left behind at 



Southampton with pneumonia; we knew the boy could n't Uve. 
Ralph always eared more than anything else for the human side 
of the business — and that quality of caring for them as human 
beings was sensed at once by his men. They loved him for it. 

When we reached France in October, 1917 [to revert to the 
interrupted letter], White and I settled to the long winter of 
training and waiting in a small paper-box of a barrack at the 
edge of the tiny hamlet of Villouxel in the province of the Vosges, 
many miles from any city, the nearest village being Neuf- 
chateau; and there we drilled in the snow and the mud, and made 
merry when we could, with the distant noise of the guns always 
coming faintly to our ears night and day, and waking in us 
questions as to how long we should have to wait, when would 
our turn come, and what would it bring us. In those times we 
often spoke of death, and White, I remember, said many times 
that life had already given him a great deal, that he was grateful 
for it, and willing, if it must be, not to return. It was impossible 
not to reflect during those cold and endless winter evenings. 

At the earliest beginnings of the French spring we went to the 
front. White and I very queerly dressed, because our barracks 
burned the day before we entrained and left us without cloth- 
ing, so that we had to depend upon the generosity of our men 
for uniforms. In the darkness of the night of February 5 we 
crawled through odd holes and tortuous communicating trenches 
into our first dugout, a vast quarry, just behind the ridge of the 
Chemin des Dames, and there we stayed, except for sorties at 
night to dig trenches in the mud under the glare of white flares 
and betraying rockets, for two weeks till it came our turn to 
hold the front line outposts. It was at that time, I remember, 
that we began to appreciate White's nerve, and often when some 
of us were trembling in our boots he was calm and unmoved by 
the general alarmingness of things. White not only fought the 
Germans, in those days, but also fought for his men — which 
was often the greatest battle of the junior ojfficer when majors 



and colonels made unreasonable demands. And I think he 
found his greatest joy in the confidence and friendship of the 
enlisted men whom it was his duty to command. In this re- 
spect he was like many of the younger American officers in that 
wholly un-European army, the A. E. F., whose standards of 
respect were more often built on men's quality as men than on 
the number of stripes on a sleeve. 

It was after our return from the Chemin des Dames sector 
that White went to the General Headquarters of the line of 
communications at Langres. I bade him good-bye as he went 
off to Soissons, from the crushed little village of Nanteuil-la- 
Fosse, in one of those rattling, primitive vehicles so well known 
to the army — the "escort wagon"; and I was to see him only 
once again. He wrote me, after the great German offensive of 
March, 1918, that the general at Headquarters had asked for 
volunteers among his staff to fill the gaps left in the 2d Division 
after its fight at Belleau, and he, not being content at Langres, 
far from his well-loved doughboys and the smoke and uproar 
of the front, had begged to go. He was lying in a "fox-hole," 
under a rain of shrapnel, when I saw him again, and I had only 
a few minutes to talk with him; but he had his wish; he was 
again at the front and in action. That was a week before the 
offensive of July 18th, when his regiment was at so-called rest, 
just behind the Chateau-Thierry front. On the morning of 
the 18th he jumped off with his platoon, as his regiment began 
the attack on the salient to the south of Soissons; and he was 
among the first to fall, seriously wounded by a machine gun 
bullet, as he was gathering his men together for the second rush. 
He was carried to the rear and died the following day. 

We of Company F of the 103d, when the news of his death 
came to us many weeks later, knew that Ralph White had 
proved himself. 

Another letter, from Lieutenant Joseph B. Earl, at- 
tached with White to the 23d Infantry at Langres from 



March 11 to June 30, 1918, recalls the closing scenes of 
his life: 

About the middle of May the Headquarters Advance Sec- 
tion S. O. S. moved to Nogent-en-Bassigny near Chaumont. 
He and I were both pretty tired of the S. O. S. and yearning 
for the line. I applied for front line duty and my travel orders 
to report with Ralph came through on June 26 (1918). They 
read "Hqtrs. First Corps" which was then at La Ferte-sous- 
Jouarre. We both set off on June 30 for Paris and left Paris 
the following day for First Corps Hqtrs., where we arrived on 
the 2d of July (1918). 

We were assigned to the 2d Division through the courtesy of 
Major Llewyllan, whom we both knew very well at Langres. 
We went on the next day, July 3, to join the 23d Infantry, then 
in sector support in the Chateau-Thierry salient. It was just 
after the Vaux attack, the 23d Infantry having been relieved 
after winning its objective. 

Ralph was assigned to C Company, and I to L Company. 
We were in a woods called Buzy until about July 10 when we 
marched back to the woods near Montreuil where we stayed 
until July 16, when we marched back into the latter town and 
loaded in camions, which swung due east through La Ferte- 
sous-Jouarre, Meaux, Dommartin, Crepy-en-Valois, and were 
dropped near Vaumoise at 10 a.m. We then started hiking east 
through Villers-Cotterets Woods. At about 6 p.m., still in the 
woods, a national forest, by the way, we halted. 

The 3d Bn. major (Elliott, badly wounded in the attack on 
the following morning) called the 3d Bn. officers together at 
8 P.M. and smilingly remarked, "Gentlemen, here is the plan of 
attack. We move out at 8.30 p.m. and must reach our starting 
point at 4.30 a.m. tomorrow" (July 18), 4.30 being the zero hour. 

I can't take the time now to tell of that awful all-night hike, 
hungry, exhausted nearly, over a pitch dark road, jammed with 
every conceivable thing on wheels, rain falling; and God bless 



our doughboys. They pushed forward knowing what was com- 
ing, and uncomplainingly over all. 

We reached the ammunition dump which had been provided 
for us and had to double time in order to reach the starting 
point, which we reached at 4.25 a.m. July 18. The barrage came 
down at 4.30 a.m. and then we "went over." 

At about 10 A.M., after a wonderful advance, I saw Ralph 
over to my left about 200 yards. The advance was held up and 
I called to Ralph. He was standing surrounded by his platoon 
and joking with his men. He turned and exclaimed, "Why, 
there's my old friend Earl," and came forward with outstretched 
hand. His morale was 100 per cent. We parted again quickly 
with, "Best luck, old man," That is the last time I saw him. 

The new advance started at about 5.30 p.m. that same day. 
We captured Vierzy and dropped through a ravine and up on a 
plateau, or rather a smooth stretch of land. We halted at 2 
am. July 19, and dug in and took up a support position. . . . 

During the day I dropped back to where C Company (Lieu- 
tenant White's company) was dug in and inquired for Ralph. 
I was informed by Captain Griffin (later killed in action) and 
Lieutenant Ristine, who went home with the 369th Infantry, 
of Ralph's having been hit pretty hard on the preceding day 
(July 18, 1918), just after we left Vierzy. 

They told me that Ralph's " striker " had stayed with him and 
had finally got him back to a first aid station of one of the bat- 
talions. I learned that Ralph had been hit by machine gun 
bullets through the chest and head, that he had spun around 
without making a sound and had fallen unconscious. 

The same officer, in a letter to Rear-Admiral Bradley 
Fiske, quoted the lieutenant in command of White's com- 
pany as saying, "He was a fine young fellow and I never 
saw a platoon hang so closely to its lieutenant as his did 
to him," and proceeded: 



I understood he was to be cited for his work at Soissons. 

One is incapable of rendering sufficient praise and credit to 
the Ralph Whites of the late war. When things looked most 
hopeless, causing a lessening morale, they were to be found 
working cheerfully and harder than any one else to bring order 
out of chaos until every one was imbued with the spirit of 
"Americans all, we can't be beaten." 

I'll always think of Ralph White as I saw him on the morn- 
ing of July 18, 1918, "smilin' through." I'll always believe he 
died that way, the finest of young fellows, the best of friends. 

I'll always remember my first meeting with him. I left him 
feeling as though we were old friends, and I have had others tell 
me that they experienced the same feeling. He had a wonder- 
ful personality and one could not be gloomy in his presence very 

He was a slim, clean-cut chap, and just as clean in speech 
and living. I honestly believe he had n't an enemy in the world 
and that every one who knew him wished him the best in life. 



Class of 1916 

J OHN Shaw Pfaffman acquitted himself with credit 
in three capacities — as a tennis player, an ambulance 
driver, and an aviator - — the first of which bears no ac- 
cepted relation to the second and third. His record, how- 
ever, should go to confirm the place now taken by tennis 
in general athletics, and, but for its tragic ending, is typi- 
cal of the leading Harvard tennis players of his college 

He was born in Quincy, Massachusetts, April 27, 1894, 
a son of George Eaton Pfaffman and Mabel Abigail (Shaw) 
Pfaffman, an older brother of Karl S. Pfaffman, '24. 
After attending the public schools in Quincy, he proceeded 
from the Quincy High School to Phillips Academy, An- 



dover, for his final year of preparation for college. At 
Andover he played on his class athletic teams. At Har- 
vard he took a conspicuous place as a tennis player. He 
was a member of his class team for three of his under- 
graduate years and of the University team in his senior 
year. In 1916 he was runner-up to G. C. Caner, '17, in the 
intercollegiate championship tournament, and with an 
inexperienced partner was also runner-up in the doubles, 
A memorial article on "Jack" Pfaffman in American Lawn 
Tennis for September 1, 1918, contains these words: 

The Editor well remembers the intercollegiate championship 
of 1916. He had gone over to Philadelphia for the last day of 
play, and reached the Merion Cricket Club in time to see the 
two final matches. Both were well played in the afternoon, and 
Pfaffman was up for almost certain defeat in both. Caner was 
the better player, with greater tournament experience, and in 
every way the logical winner. Pfaffman knew this as well as 
everybody else did, but that did not prevent his fighting from 
beginning to end, with never a falter or an approach to giving 
up. He won the third set, staking everything he had on it; 
but Caner came strongly in the fourth and won it and the match. 

In the doubles match on the same day, Pfaffman was 
observed to do "everything he could to coach and en- 
courage his partner." 

In addition to tennis, he was interested at college in 
dramatic and musical affairs, and was a member of the Pi 
Eta Society and the University Glee Club. He belonged 
also to the Theta Delta Chi fraternity, and served on the 
sophomore finance committee. 

Before the United States entered the war Pfaffman en- 
rolled, March, 1917, in the Norton-Harjes Ambulance 
Corps, and in the summer of that year served with the 



French Army on the Aisne front. There were annoying 
delays in Paris on the way thither, but once there Pfaffman 
encountered experiences of a Hveliness matched by his 
description of them. Witness the following passages from 
one of his letters. 

At last I was sent out to an old section, No. 11, run by a fine 
man, a Mr. Hoskier, and containing some fine fellows. We are 
in probably the most active sector of the French line; person- 
ally, I wouldn't want it much hvelier. Ten minutes after I 
arrived in camp Fritz planes raided us. You see we are in the 
midst of lots of reserve camps, about six miles from the trenches, 
and as it is territory retaken from the Boches they know it 
pretty well. The planes dropped bombs three feet by eight 
inches, and killed two men and wounded thirty, about a couple 
of hundred yards from us. Too close to be comfortable. It 
was quite an initiation into the secrets of war. 

All around us are anti-aircraft guns, and there is a machine 
gun fifty feet behind my tent. Air raids are most unpleasant, 
especially at night, and we've had one every night. The anti- 
air and machine guns can't hit the planes, and when you hear 
their motors over your head you certainly feel uneasy. Also 
our own guns shoot bullets and shrapnel somewhere up in the 
air overhead at the planes, and of course the pieces come down. 
Thus it is most unpleasant to lie in bed with a steel helmet on 
and listen to the shrapnel come singing down and drop around 
your tent. I 've sat up on the top of the hill under the crest of 
which is our camp, and watched both German and French planes 
sail over the lines, with the guns popping at 'em and they never 
get hit. I saw one Frenchman observe for two hours, till finally 
the Germans got tired of shooting at him and let him go. The 
best plan the U. S. has got is to send over hundreds of planes, 
so as to have the odds five to one against the Boches. The only 
thing that can stop a plane is another plane. 

Our advance evacuating post, where we get our wounded, is 



about half a mile from the trenches. It is under a railroad in 
the embankment and about fifty yards from a canal and the 
bridge over which a railroad runs also. It's quite an important 
bridge, so the dear Huns take a shot at it every so often. After 
supper one night we were sitting outside the dugout, when 
whiz-z-z-bang! and over came the first shell, landing on the 
other side of the canal. Believe me, we got inside that dugout 

Sleep among rats, which gallop like ponies and run off with 
your shoes, and lice and fleas! Oh, it's a great life; but as the 
French say, "C'est la guerre." On the way back next morning 
we saw the remains of a horse ambulance hit by a shell that 
night — a beautiful sight, not. 

When I started from home I was firmly convinced that the 
war was going to end by fall. But when I arrived in Paris and 
had talked with ambulance drivers and Tommies and poilus, 
I was most upset, for I could n't see then how the war was going 
to end within three years, and could easily see how it could go 
on much longer. It's not a matter of fighting ability; it's 
science; and the Boche are pretty good at that, you'll have to 
admit. And now they're on the defensive, and, oh boy, how 
those suckers can dig. They burrow like ants. If now they 
can get the old Boche going on both fronts at once they ought 
to prove something. But you never can tell. 

The French have certainly sacrificed themselves nobly — not 
a man to be seen on the streets of my age, or a little over, unless 
he's minus a limb or blind. They're shot to pieces. It's piti- 
ful to watch their heroic "old man" army around here. Few 
physical qualifications are needed. I don't know what differ- 
ence America will make in this war — except to prolong it, and 
finally make Germany give up by mere matter of time. It's 
impossible to gain much. I heard from a young member of the 
American embassy recently in Berlin that they 're really pinched 
for food, and now, with the United States cutting off food from 
Germany through neutral countries, they '11 be worse than ever. 
I pray it's so. 



The worst of this war is, as H. G. Wells says, the "boresome- 

ness of it." Work like for twenty-four hours, and do 

practically nothing for a month. Half the men who have been 
killed or seriously wounded never saw the enemy. 

It was no uncommon thing for an American ambulance 
driver in France, after the United States entered the war, 
to turn to aviation. This was what Pfaffman did. On 
October 1, 1917, he enlisted at Paris as a private, first 
class, in the Aviation Section, Signal Corps, and was de- 
tailed to the 2d Aviation Instruction Centre at Tours. 
Here he remained throughout the remainder of the year. 
In January, 1918, he was transferred to the 5th Aviation 
Instruction Centre at Saint-Maxient. After five months of 
training there he was ordered, in June, to the French 
Flying School at Voves. In June also he received his com- 
mission as second lieutenant. Air Service, Military Aero- 
nautics. At Voves he had nearly finished his training for 
the front when, on July 22, returning from an altitude 
flight of one hour at 6000 feet, which would have given him 
his military brevet as a pilot, he met with the accident 
which caused his death. In his descent he had come to 
about 200 feet from the ground. At this point the lower 
wing of his plane was caught in an air pocket. A counter- 
current hit the upper wing at the same moment, resulting 
in a crash and his instant death. Observers declared that 
at a higher altitude he could easily have regained control 
but that under similar conditions the most expert pilot 
could not have avoided disaster. 

Pfaffman w^as buried at Voves with full military honors. 
"The procession to the cemetery," his father has written, 
"was led by the firing squad, followed by officers from 



Headquarters at Chartres, the officers and cadets of the 
Voves flying school, veterans of the War of 1870, the Mayor 
of Voves, and many villagers and children. As the proces- 
sion passed through the village, Annamite troops from 
Tonkin stood at salute, and peasants and villagers with 
uncovered heads lined the way." Lieutenant Mayeur, of 
the Headquarters staff, delivered an impassioned address, 
full of the French spirit of the summer of 1918, and ending 
with the words: "Dear Pfaffman, sleep here thy last sleep 
in the earth of France, thy second country. She will guard 
thee in her breast as a precious gage of noble and valiant 
America, thy mother country. Thou hast become her 
child, and she envelops thee in an aureole of glory and of 
light. The Allied flags mount their guard above thee unto 

In simpler terms it is written of Pfaffman in the Me- 
morial Report of his class: "He had the faith of a Chris- 
tian, the valor of an American, the courage of a warrior, 
and the heart of a white man." 

At the Harvard Commencement of 1920 the war degree 
of A.B. was awarded to him as of the class of 1916. A 
square in his native city of Quincy bears his name. 



Class of 1918 

A PRIVATELY printed memorial volmne, "Lieutenant 
Malcolm Cotton Brown, Royal Air Force: 1897-1918" 
(Chicago, 1919), contains the material from which this 
memoir is drawn, and shows how deeply its subject, 
through his character and abilities, impressed the elders 
and contemporaries with whom his twenty-one years of 
life brought him into personal relations. 



He was born in Chicago, March 26, 1897. His father, 
Charles Albert Brown, a Chicago lawyer, traced his de- 
scent from George Brown, a Scottish Covenanter, who 
came to Perth Amboy, New Jersey, from Leith in 1685. 
His mother, Caroline May (Cotton) Brown, counted 
among her American ancestors one of the four Johannes in 
Eremo, the Rev. John Cotton, who emigrated from the 
English to the Massachusetts Boston in 1633. Whether 
from this extremely Protestant inheritance, or from other 
sources, Malcolm Brown developed early what the rector 
of Grace (Episcopal) Church at Hinsdale, Illinois, de- 
scribed at the memorial service in the young soldier's 
honor (August 4, 1918) as "a singularly balanced and 
accurate mind, not only penetrating and curious, but one 
that when the truth presented itself judged it almost 
unerringly, as by a sort of secret and sure instinct." At 
fourteen he sought, of his own initiative, what the church 
has to offer to such as he, and was baptized and confirmed. 
Meanwhile the secrets of machinery — the mechanism of 
watches, talking machines, and motors — were constantly 
challenging his successful study. "Through all his 
younger years," his parents have written, "we can now 
perceive there was always in him the pathos of a noble 
curiosity and keen understanding struggling against the 
handicaps of youth." As he went on, "music, art, and 
literature yielded to him many of their deepest treasures, 
but science, naturally, became to him the piece de resistance 
of the intellectual banquet which he selected for himself." 
A list of the books in the small library he carefully chose 
for himself — biography, poetry, drama, philosophy — 
testifies to the broad catholicity of his tastes. 



For the four years immediately preceding college, he 
attended St. Paul's School, Concord, New Hampshire. 
The rector of that school, the Rev. Samuel S. Drury 
(Harvard, '01), wrote of him after his death: 

I can see him now: not a robust athlete, though spirited in 
play (he was captain of a hockey team, a member of a boat 
crew, excelled as a swimmer, and was an excellent tennis player) ; 
nor the typical popular hero, though beloved and appreciated 
by all; an alert, intense boy — pure you felt confident — intel- 
ligent obviously — tingling with life — thinking about and 
leaping onward to whatever is honorable, lovely, and of good 

Malcolm won scholastic honors in plenty. Each year he was 
called to the platform on Last Night for a First Testimonial — 
our highest award. To the school orchestra he gave a talented 
allegiance. I can see him bending in boyish enthusiasm over 
his violin. My last remembered picture of Malcolm the school- 
boy is of one singled out from the entire group to carry the Cross. 
A boy's school is critical, and intolerant of sham. A real per- 
son, therefore, it must be for this high duty. . . . 

Into young manhood Malcolm carried over the best of boy- 
hood — a spirit unsmirched and a body unsullied. Thereto he 
had added the beautiful strength of broad vision and a com- 
plete willingness to give his best and his all. Malcolm gave 

Entering Harvard in the autumn of 1914 he remained a 
member of the Class of 1918 for only one year. In that 
year he became a member of the Pierian Sodality. His 
growing interest in science then caused him to enter the 
Institute of Technology, where he took up electro-chem- 
istry and, later, physics. Of the work he did there one of 
his teachers. Professor Henry P. Talbot — whose oppor- 
tunities for observation were the better from Brown's 



joining the Phi Gamma Delta fraternity, of which he is 
himself a member — has written: 

Among the many fine fellows whom it has been my privilege 
to know during more than twenty -five years as a teacher, few 
stand out in my memory as men of such promise as Malcolm 
Brown. He brought to his work at the Massachusetts Institute 
of Technology a native alertness of mind and earnestness of 
purpose which soon made him master of the subjects included 
in what is accounted one of the most exacting of the professional 
courses offered at that institution. His earlier experience at 
Harvard University served to strengthen his preparation for 
work at the Institute, while his deliberate choice of a scientific 
rather than a general college training accentuated his deter- 
mination to make the most of his opportunities. 

Among his fellows, Malcolm displayed the qualities of com- 
panionship and of leadership which are so important for the 
highest success in the work of life, and which, when associated 
with accurate knowledge and capacity for clear reasoning and 
power of initiative, make a rare combination, and are full of 
great promise. 

Although he carried the work of probably the severest course 
in the Institute, Malcolm's attention was not limited to his work 
to the exclusion of such recreation as music and other interests 
afforded at different periods of time. He was a member of the 
Tech Orchestra, and occupied the position of Associate Editor 
of the Institute's official periodical. The Tech. He also took an 
active part in the presentation of the annual "Tech Show." 

In the life of his fraternity, in which he took a keen in- 
terest, Professor Talbot has said: "His attitude was one 
of manliness without prudishness." 

For the summer vacation of 1917 Malcolm Brown, with 
a restless band of companions, went to Camp Cunning- 
ham, the engineering camp of the Massachusetts Institute 



of Technology, at Gardner's Lake in Maine. Their dis- 
content was such that towards the end of August, as one 
of them afterwards wrote, "things became so that we felt 
too much like slackers for endurance." Brown's family 
had been hoping that he would continue his engineering 
studies in order to be of service in the work of reconstruc- 
tion that must follow the war. But when the summer 
camp was ended, he visited Toronto, and, on receiving his 
parents' consent to his joining the Royal Flying Corps 
before he was twenty-one, enlisted as a cadet in that or- 
ganization, September 15, 1917. 

His training for aviation began at Toronto, and was 
continued at Fort Worth, Texas. He quickly acquired pro- 
ficiency in flying, and on January 12, 1918, was commis- 
sioned second lieutenant. Royal Flying Corps. "In his 
work in aviation," as his parents have said, "he met a 
challenge that evoked all his powers. Competition, peril, 
a new field of science, the zest of flying, all combined to 
stimulate him to the utmost. His large, full notebook 
of work on aviation, gunnery, wireless telegraphy, and 
photography, is a remarkable exhibition of industry and 

In February he sailed for England, where he was de- 
tailed to flying camps at Shotwick, near Chester, and 
Brockworth, near Gloucester, for further training, and 
assigned to Squadron 90, made up largely of Americans. 
In June he was promoted lieutenant. Royal Air Force. 
One of his letters illustrates well his joy in the very act of 

I had a new experience yesterday in flying above the clouds. 
It was the first day we have had flying when the clouds were 



fairly heavy, so I took the opportunity to get above them. It 
necessitated about seven minutes of bhnd flying in the clouds 
to get through them, and those seven minutes were about 
the longest I ever spent. The cloud shuts you in and off from 
everything. You can scarcely see the tail and wing tips of the 
machine and, alone in the cockpit, you seem to have no more con- 
nection with the earth than with Saturn or the moon. With no 
horizon to steer by, flying becomes a matter of guess work. You 
know that if you start to dive the engine races; if you are climb- 
ing, you feel the pressure from the back of the seat. If you are 
falling, either to one side or the other, you feel the air against 
the cheek corresponding. You watch for these signs as anx- 
iously as you can, and feel relieved when you suddenly burst 
out into the sunshine. 

You find you are in a cloud canon, with white cliffs towering 
high on each side. They look solid and imposing and white 
and very tall. The machine seems lost in the gullies. 

When you finally climb up above them, you have a fine view 
of a white landscape. Everything seems so much like winter, 
with snow upon the ground, that you wonder you don't feel 
cold. But you don't. You have all the beauties of winter with 
deep blue sky and white ground, but not the cold. It was the 
most brilliant sight you could ever hope to see. 

Once in a while there comes a slight rift in the clouds, and you 
see the ground disappointingly muddy and close beneath you. 
One of the strange things about flying is that, no matter how 
high you go, the earth never seems any farther away. You can't 
get away from it except by climbing above a good thick bank 
of clouds, and then you are in a new world. 

At the end of another letter, written to his mother on 
June 18, this significant passage is found: 

I have read your excerpt from the Atlantic, called "The New 
Death." It is very nice, but too cloistered and highflown, if 
these are synonymous terms, for me. I don't want anything 



better than to be killed, if that is necessary, while circling about 
the blue in my old bus when already half-way to heaven in more 
ways than one. 

Were such an end to come, he would of course have 
chosen it at the front, which he was eager to reach. "You 
never get over this impatience at delay," he wrote his 
father on July 15. On July 23, still detained in England 
through the lack of planes, he was flying from the Brock- 
worth field in a machine that proved defective and col- 
lapsed, causing a crash to the ground and his instant death. 
One of his friends, attached to the staiT of Admiral Sims 
in London, visited the field immediately after the accident, 
and wTote to Brown's parents: 

The officers of Malcolm's squadron wish me to write and ex- 
press to you their deepest sympathy, and to say that in the 
loss of Malcolm they are suffering the loss of one of their keenest 
and best officers; that he was a gentleman and a credit to the 
British uniform; and that he was beloved by all the officers 
and men with whom he came in contact. 

A graduate fellowship in physics, established by Brown's 
parents at the Institute of Technology, perpetuates his 
name at that school of science. 



Medical School 1899-1901 

Olark Richardson Lincoln, a son of Moses Lin- 
coln, Jr., and Martha M. (Morrill) Lincoln, was born 
in Boston, February 9, 1878. He attended the Boston 
public schools, graduated from the Dorchester High 
School and for two years, from 1899 to 1901, was a student 
in the Harvard Medical School. Compelled by misfortune 
to give up his medical studies, he turned from the saving 
to the insuring of human life, and in 1901 entered the 
Boston insurance office of James T. Phelps and Company, 
with which, except for a short time while he engaged in a 
business of hat manufacturing in Boston, he remained 
until war changed everything. 



Ten years before that change came he testified to his 
behef that all young men should interest themselves in 
military service by enlisting, May 7, 1907, in Troop A, 
First Squadron Cavalry, Massachusetts National Guard, 
of which he was continuously a member until the organi- 
zation was federalized in July, 1917. He answered all 
calls made upon this body, including strike service at 
Lawrence, Massachusetts, in the winter of 1912 and duty 
on the Mexican border from June to November, 1916. 
Before going to Mexico he had passed through the various 
grades of non-commissioned officers and obtained the 
rank of first sergeant. On October 7, 1916, while still in 
Mexico, he was commissioned second lieutenant and as- 
signed to Troop A. 

Meanwhile, on May 29, 1913, he was married to Maude 
S. Andrews, of Augusta, Maine. In the following year 
he settled in Wollaston, Massachusetts, and afterwards 
moved to Wakefield, where he was living when he entered 
the national service. A daughter had already been born 
to him; a second was born in October, 1917, after he had 
reached France. 

The cavalry troop to which he had so long belonged be- 
came, after its federalization. Company A, 102d Machine 
Gun Battalion, 26th Division, and with this unit he sailed 
overseas as second lieutenant, September 23, 1917. From 
that time until his death at Chateau-Thierry, July 24, 1918, 
he bore his part in the work of his battalion, with its record 
of engagements in the Chemin des Dames and La Heine 
sectors. On April 1 he was appointed battalion supply 
officer, and April 24 was promoted first lieutenant, in- 
fantry. The nature and value of his work may be clearly 



inferred from the following passages in a letter to one of 
his former office associates: 

June Jf., 1918. 

About the war, which of course you and all are the most in- 
terested in, I am afraid I can give you but little information, 
if any, more than the papers give you daily except regarding 
our own sector. Here we are holding up the reputation of the 
26th Division. We have our quiet days so far as fighting is 
concerned, and then of course we have the active ones. By 
days I mean the twenty-four hours. The greatest activity gen- 
erally comes at night, thus disturbing our rest, but if weariness 
alone is ours we feel extremely fortunate. Permission and rest 
for us seems as far distant as ever but the men who are doing 
the fighting seem not to mind so long as they can get at the Hun. 

The new German offensive is, I presume, holding the atten- 
tion of all in America as it is ours here, both, in our case, as to 
its possible outcome and our participation. 

With the French everything is serene. Never have I seen a 
Frenchman who is at all doubtful about the outcome of this 
struggle. Every new advance of the enemy brings forth the 
positive assurance that it is soon to be checked and to great 
disadvantage to the enemy. 

As for me I am in my usual good health. My work is varied 
and keeps me busy providing food, clothes and all equipment 
for about 800 men and looking after and providing for about 
240 horses and mules and 128 vehicles of all descriptions. My 
work also includes the paying off of all these men with monthly 
payrolls, the making out of which I have to supervise, which 
amounts to between $24,000 and $30,000. All discarded prop- 
erty, which includes even tin cans, has to be salvaged and that 
also is included in my work, and last but far from least the 
munitions. It is my business to see that ammunition is always 
on hand, ready to be rushed anywhere at a moment's notice. 
I must always have on hand at least 425,000 to 450,000 rounds. 
You must appreciate all this work when you stop to think the 



amount of ground covered by this division of over 30,000 men 
and my present mode of transportation being a horse. Much 
time is lost and I am patiently waiting until the government 
awakes to the necessity of supplying all their supply officers with 
motor transportation. 

June 10, 1918. 

I regret the interval which has elapsed since I started this 
letter, but so goes the war. To conclude with my work. When 
reenforcements are required I have to get them, and therefore 
have to keep fully informed as to the location of all my com- 
panies and their gun positions by frequent visits all over our 
sector. Sometimes I do this at night, and sometimes during 
the day, depending upon the visibility. 

Enough of what I do, but thought you might be interested. 

It was in the performance of these very duties that 
Lincoln was killed, July 24, near Chateau-Thierry, during 
the second battle of the Marne. On the evening of July 24, 
while he was bringing up a wagon train to its new station 
at Epieds, and all but one wagon, which was unable to 
"make" a hill south of Verdilly, were safe under sheltering 
trees, he turned back to lend the needed assistance. In 
the bright moonlight an enemy plane began to drop bombs. 
One of these, finding its mark, blew Lincoln and his horse 
well off the road. Badly injured about the body and un- 
conscious, he was carried, with a wagoner and private 
injured by the same bomb, to a dressing station near 
Chateau-Thierry, where he died a few hours later. 

"Dick was well liked by all," a brother officer wrote soon 
afterwards, "and none of us, even in these times when 
death is constantly with us, failed to think of him as we 
always found him, sincere, generous, brave and lovable, 
always ready to help, to give an honest lift, a word of 



encouragement and a smile." Evidently he had carried 
into the army the qualities that marked him in business, 
for in a "tribute" drawn up by a committee representing 
the oflSce in which he had worked in Boston are found the 
words, "The sense of our personal loss increases with every 
day when the thought is borne in upon us that we shall 
never hear his cheery 'Good morning' again." 



Class of 1905 

X HE father of Philip Overton Mills was the late Briga- 
dier-General Samuel Myers Mills, at one time chief of 
artillery of the United States Army. His mother was 
Annie (Maison) Mills. Both parents were Pennsylvanians. 
He was born at Fortress Monroe, Virginia, December 10, 
1882. His preparation for college was made at St. Paul's 
School, Concord, New Hampshire, where his standing, 



both in studies and in athletics, was high. Spending four 
years at Harvard as a member of the Class of 1905, with 
which he graduated, he distinguished himself as an athlete, 
especially by holding a place on the Varsity football team 
in his sophomore, junior, and senior years. He became a 
charter member of the Varsity Club, and belonged to the 
Institute of 1770, Polo, St. Paul's School, Hasty Pudding, 
and Fly Clubs. 

Six years after leaving college he reported that on grad- 
uation he had entered the banking business, and was then 
in the New York real estate office of Pease and Elliman. 
Three years later he described himself as secretary and 
director of the Picture Playhouse Film Co., in New York. 
When he entered the army of the United States he was 
a member of the firm of Mills Brothers, bankers and 
brokers, in Wall Street. His brothers are Paul Denckla 
Mills and Samuel Frederic Mills (Harvard, '99). 

Before the United States entered the war. Mills had 
played an active part in it as an ambulance driver in the 
Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps and the American Red 
Cross, with the French Army. Out of this experience came 
an indignant letter to the New York Times for March 7, 
1917, denying the charge ascribed in a newspaper report 
to the German Minister of War, that German prisoners 
were tortured by the French and kept behind the lines 
under fire. "Night and day," he wrote, "I have been on 
the roads in the fire zone, and there is n't a prison camp 
or citadel that cannot be and has not been visited by our 
ambulance drivers. We have had eighty men in service 
with forty cars at Verdun during December, and never a 
tale from any man of any such atrocity as is quoted in this 



speech." The letter flames with Mills's devotion to the 
cause of the Allies. That he spoke whereof he knew, and 
was keenly sensitive to the pity of it all, appears with re- 
markable clearness in a letter he wrote, in April, 1917, to 
Eliot Norton (Harvard, '85), the American representative 
of the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps: 

Tonight I am sitting in a small underground cellar of one of 
the public buildings of the town, acting as a sort of timekeeper 
or starter for the cars going up to our most dangerous post and 
handling the reserve cars for wounded in the town itself. I 
wish I could describe the scene as it is before my eyes — for 
the whole world is passing here — French, Americans, living, 
wounded, and dying. 

A long, heavily arched corridor, with stone steps leading down 
to it; two compartments off to one side lined with wine bins, 
where our reserve men and a few French hrancardiers are lying 
on their stained stretchers, some snoring; beyond, a door that 
gives into a small operating room, and to the left another door 
that leads to a little sick ward, the most pathetic little room I 
have ever seen — with four beds of different sizes and kinds 
on one side and six on the other, taken evidently from the 
ruined houses nearby — and one tired infirmier to tend and 
soothe the wounded and dying. 

In the bed nearest the door, a French priest, shot through the 
lungs — with pneumonia setting in — his black beard pointed 
straight up, and whispering for water. Next to him a little 
German lad, hardly nineteen, and small, with about six hours 
to live, calling — sometimes screaming — for his mother and 
then for water. Next to him a captain of French infantry, with 
his arm off at the shoulder and his head wounded — weak, 
wounded, but smiling; and next to him a tirailleur in delirium 
calHng on his colonel to charge the Germans. The infirmier 
is going from one to another, soothing and waiting on each one 
in turn. He asks me what the German is saying, and I tell him 



he is calling for his mother. "Ah, this is a sad war," he says, 
as he goes over to hold the poor lad's hand. 

A hrancardier comes in with a telephone message — "a 
blesse at Belleville — very serious." This is a reserve car call, 
so one slides out and is gone like a gray ghost down the ruined 
street, making all the speed its driver can — no easy matter — 
with no lights. In twenty minutes he is back. The brancardiers 
go out —  they come in again bearing the wounded man on a 
stretcher and place it on the floor beside the little stove. One 
of them, who is a priest, leans over him and asks his name and 
town; then in answer to what his wife's name is, he murmurs, 
"Alice," while on the other side another hrancardier is slitting 
the clothes from his body, and I shiver with the pity of it at 
the sight I saw. 

The surgeon comes out of his little operating room. Weary 
with the night's tragic work — after so many, many other tragic 
nights — he douses his head in a bucket of water. Then he 
turned to the wounded man. He looked long at him gently, 
felt his nose, and lifted up the closed eyelid. Then, at his nod, 
the stretcher is again lifted and the wounded man carried into 
the operating room and soon after into the little room of sorrows. 

In answer to my eager question the surgeon shook his head. 
"Not a chance." A hrancardier and I gathered the soldier's 
belongings from his clothes to be sent to his wife, but even we 
had to stop for a few minutes after we saw the photograph of 
his wife and their two little children. 

An hour later, as our night's work was slacking down and 
several cars had driven up and been unloaded, the infirmier 
came in from the little room and said something to the bran- 
cardiers. Two of them got a stretcher and in a moment "the 
blesse from Belleville" came past us with a sheet over him. 
They laid him down at the other end of the room and another 
hrancardier commenced rolling and tying him in burlap for 
burial. As you looked he changed to a shapeless log. Then out 
to the dead wagon with it. 



Soon after I went into the little ward again to see how the 
others were coming through the night, and was glad to see them 
all quieted down; even the little German seemed less in pain 
though his breathing still shook the heavy little bed on which 

he lay. 

Through a chink I saw that day was beginning to break, and 
as I noticed it I heard the chief's car coming in from the "Sap" 
and knew the night's work was over. 

Nothing could have been more natural than for Mills, 
on the entrance of his own country, into the war, to offer 
himself for service. This he did by enrolling. May, 1917, 
in the Officers' Training Camp at Plattsburg. On its con- 
clusion he received the commission of captain, infantry, 
and was assigned to Company G, 308th Infantry, 77th 
Division. With this regiment he remained in training at 
Camp Upton, Yaphank, Long Island, until it sailed for 
France in April, 1918. Stationed first in Flanders and 
Belgium, the regiment was serving in the Baccarat sector 
of the French front when Mills, near Baccarat, met his 
untimely end, July 25, 1918. His company had been 
withdrawn from the front line trench, and was in reserve. 
A letter from E. Morgan Gilbert (Harvard, '09) to Mills's 
brother Frederic, describes the circumstances of his death 
and burial: 

He was killed accidentally by the explosion of a rifle grenade. 
It was shortly after the period of instruction that he had held 
for his men. They were firing a few grenades for extra instruc- 
tion. For some reason, the grenade, upon discharge of the rifle 
failed to leave the rifle, but exploded in the tromblon or the 
case the grenade is held in. Phil was standing back of the man 
who fired it, and received a piece right in the forehead, about 
the size of a quarter. He was instantly killed. The gunner, or 



rifle grenadier, as he is called, was unhurt, but another soldier 
standing near was seriously injured, right arm torn ofT and 
stomach wound. 

He was buried yesterday here in the xA.merican cemetery. 
Six sergeants from his company were pall- bearers and six cap- 
tains. Bert Cruger,^ George McMurtry,- and I, and three 
others whose names I did not get were honorary pall-bearers, 
and marched beside the casket to the cemetery. A full military 
band and a full company of infantry preceded the casket, and 
as we marched slowly through the town all the soldiers on the 
street came to a salute as the casket passed. At the grave a 
brief service was held and three volleys fired and "taps" blown. 
It was wonderfully impressive, and I think you will be glad to 
know that the ceremony was very dignified. 

A memorial address by Mills's classmate, the Rev. 
Palfrey Perkins, contained these words : 

It was part of the irony of his fate that he had never led these 
men into action, but you can well imagine what an ofiicer he 
made in the splendid power and magnetism of his personal 
presence. He was ever a fighter, and yet beneath that rugged 
strength and dominating will was a generous, even a gentle 
heart. We shall not soon forget the simple, forceful words in 
which he spoke to us three years ago of Williamson,^ and how 
he brought into that crowd of celebrating classmates a moment 
of true solemnity and commemoration. He was a soldier sans 
peur et sans reproche. 

» Harvard, '04. 

2 Harvard, '99. 

3 The first Harvard man killed in the war. See Vol. I of this series. 



Class of 1909 

JL HE distinctive quality of the 165th Infantry, 42d Divi- 
sion — the "Fighting Sixty-Ninth" which forms the sub- 
ject of "Father Duffy's Story" — has been indicated in 
the memoir of OHver Ames, Jr., a second Heutenant, and 
battaHon adjutant in that regiment. On the very day of 
his death, July 28, 1918, an officer of higher rank in the 



165th, Major McKenna, commanding its 3d Battalion, 
another soldier whose name is found in the Harvard Roll 
of Honor, fell also in gallant action. His identification 
with the regiment, both in point of service before it went 
to France, and in respect of his personal share in its Irish- 
American tradition and spirit, was complete. The Har- 
vard roll would have been incomplete and palpably poorer 
but for names and records such as his. 

He was born at Long Island City, New York, September 
24, 1885. His father, James Augustin McKenna, once 
postmaster of Long Island City, is now a certified public 
accountant in New York. His mother is Stella (Kelly) 
McKenna. He made his preparation for college at the 
public schools of Greater New York, including the Brook- 
lyn Manual Training School, and came to Harvard from 
Cornell, where he learned to row under Courtney. He 
was a student at Harvard only for the first two of the 
four college years of the Class of 1909. Here he rowed on 
the dormitory and graded Newell crews and took part, 
successfully, in boxing. He was a member of the Catholic 
and Newell Boat Clubs and the Historical Societv. 

In the reports of his class after its graduation, McKenna 
revealed himself as a man who was constantly using his 
body and mind to good purpose. At first he devoted him- 
self "to taking soundings, experimenting with sundry lines 
of business, and reducing the bump of self-esteem with 
which most of us are afflicted when we rush forth from 
college to astound the world." Thus he tested the work 
of a fire insurance broker, an ofiice systematizer, a whole- 
sale apple dealer, and an accountant — like his father — 
carrying on at the same time professional studies at the 



Fordham University School of Law, beginning his legal 
practice in New York before the United States entered the 
war. Through these years also he took a hand in politics 
and applied himself vigorously to athletics. He not only 
rowed, ran, and boxed himself, and for three years was a 
member of the rowing committee of the New York Ath- 
letic Club, but, as athletic director of the Ozanam Associa- 
tion of Boys' Clubs, an organization of the boys' club 
movement in the Catholic church, gave much time and 
effort to the coaching of younger athletes. "My final 
work," he wrote for his Class Report of 1915, "has been 
training the poor boys of our slums, the embryo 'gun men,' 
and in trying to give them a chance." He also wrote for 
the press on athletic matters. 

It is notoriously the busy men who can always do one 
thing more. In McKenna's case, this was the work of a 
militiaman. On October 1, 1908, he enlisted in the 7th 
Regiment, National Guard, New York. On April 19, 
1915, he was appointed corporal. Company F, in this regi- 
ment. During his term of enlistment his company had 
won a lion's share of the regimental athletic honors, in 
which his own abilities, notably displayed in wall-scaling 
contests, had played an important part. In June, 1916, 
he left the 7th and joined the 69th Regiment, N. G., N. Y., 
in which he was attached to Company I as first lieutenant, 
serving in this capacity on the Mexican border through 
the troublous summer before that in which our troops were 
first seen in Europe. On October 20, 1916, he was com- 
missioned captain, and held this office, commanding Com- 
pany D of the 69th, when the United States entered the 
war and he closed the door of his law office at 2 Rector 



Street, leaving upon it a sign that read "I'll be back when 
we lick the Hun." 

On July 16 the regiment was federalized and designated 
the 165th Infantry, 42d ("Rainbow") Division. When its 
training at Camp Mills was completed, it started, October 
25, via Montreal, for France, where it arrived early in 
November. The value of Captain McKenna's military 
work through the ensuing months — in the course of 
which, in March, Company D, under him, was the first 
company of the regiment to enter the trenches — may be 
inferred from the fact that on June 8, 1918, he was com- 
missioned major and placed in command of the 3d Bat- 
talion of the 165th Infantry. Meanwhile he had been 
serving as trial judge advocate in a manner which caused 
Major Hugh W. Ogden, J.A.G.R.C., to write after his 
death: "He continued to try cases for me up to the spring 
of 1918 with continuous success and to the entire satis- 
faction of the Commanding General and the Chief of 
Staff. Those cases which I referred to Captain James A. 
McKenna as trial judge advocate I dismissed entirely from 
my mind, knowing that every detail would be carefully 
attended to and that the trial itself would be conducted 
in the ablest possible manner." 

As "Father Duffy's Story" deals with the regiment as 
a whole, so "The Shamrock Battalion of the Rainbow," 
by Martin J. Hogan, deals with the 3d Battalion. The 
author of this book writes: 

We were now known as the "Shamrock Battalion," a name 
which we tried all along in the service we saw to make a proud 
name in America's military history. Major James A. Mc- 
Kenna, Jr., was in command, than whom no more fearless, gay- 



liearted, and lovable officer broke lances with the Germans 
during the more than four years of war. 

Major McKenna, a college man, a clubman, an athlete, a 
sportsman, and a deserved social favorite, was an ideal officer, 
and the men of the battalion would have followed him into the 
worst muss on earth. The battalion was satisfied with its major 
from the ground up, and I think he was satisfied with the bat- 

This bears out what Father Duffy wrote in describing 
the regiment while it was still at Camp Mills: 

Captain James A. McKenna of Company D is a lawyer — 
Harvard and Fordham produced him. He is a fellow of great 
ability, ambitious, energetic, and enduring. He will go far in 
any line he may choose, and as a soldier he will score a high 
mark. He has fine ideals and fine sentiments which he chooses 
to conceal under a playfully aggressive and business-like de- 
meanor. But his enthusiasms, patriotic, religious, personal, are 
the fundaments of him, and everybody feels it. He lets himself 
out most in his affection for his men who reciprocate his devo- 
tion. Company D under Jim McKenna will play a big part in 
our annals of war. 

At a later point in his book, under an entry dated Mori- 
ville, June 22, 1918, Father Duffy draws a picture in 
which McKenna appears as an attractive figure : 

Today is Sunday and I told the lads in church that I wanted 
a collection to give a poor old priest a holiday; and they re- 
sponded nobly. For a second Mass I went down to McKenna's 
town and found a new device, a green shamrock on a white 
background, over the door of his battalion headquarters. His 
is to be known as the Shamrock Battalion of the regiment. After 
Mass and another collection I took breakfast with him. I had 
brought with me some money that Captain Mangan owed 
him. ^Yhile I was at breakfast Mangan came in himself, and 



in his presence I handed the money over to McKenna. "If I 
did n't have you around, Father, to threaten Mangan with 
hell-fire, I'd never get a cent of it." "If you weren't such a 
piker you would n't keep a cent of it, now you 've got it. You 'd 
give it to Father Duffy for his poor old Cure." "All right, I'll 
give it, and double it if you cover it." That meant forty dollars 
apiece for my nice old gentleman. But McKenna was not satis- 
fied. "Come on, Cassidy, come across," and the Lieutenant 
with a smile on his handsome face came across with more than 
any Lieutenant can afford. McKenna shouted to the others, 
"Come all the rest of you heretics; you haven't given a cent 
to a church since you left home," and with a whole lot of fun 
about it, everybody gave generously. I could not help thinking 
what a lesson in American broadmindedness the whole scene 
presented. But the immediate point was that I was able to 
do handsomely for my old Cure. I went back to him, and 
from the different collections I poured into his hat in copper 
pennies, bits of silver, dirty little shin-plasters and ten franc 
notes, the sum of two thousand francs. He was speechless. 
The old housekeeper wept; even the dog barked its loudest. 

The warm-hearted chaplain goes on to express his doubts 
about the holiday the Cure will really take, and his belief 
that if he lives for ten years, "he will have some of our 
2000 francs left when he dies. In some ways it is a great 
handicap to be French." 

Some of the letters written by McKenna himself to his 
parents and friends at home found their way into print. 
One of them fell under the eye of General Pershing, and 
called forth the following letter: 

Alay 16, 1918. 
Dear Captain McKenna: 

I have just read the letter that you wrote your father which 
is published in the Chicago Tribune of May 15th. 



Of course I have no notion that you ever thought your father 
would publish this letter, but I am glad that he did, as it was 
just the tone that should be used in every letter that our men 
write home. It is most encouraging and gives a personal touch, 
to the people at home, of just what is going on here and the 
attitude of the entire command, which is no less than splendid. 
The clear picture you have drawn has appealed to me and 
prompts me to write you this personal letter of approval. 

I hope that I may meet you some time during some of my 

Sincerely yours, 

John J. Pershing. 

The first of these letters from McKenna, written on 
Thanksgiving Day to a member of the New York World 
staff, appeared in that journal on Christmas Day, 1917. 
It ran, in part, as follows : 

Yes, our Uncle Sam has taken fine care of us, and has fed us 
turkey, goose, cranberry sauce, plum pudding, apples, figs and 
good things galore. No Canned Willie (cornbeef) for us today, 
no scrawny turkey, no dried apples, but the real turkey, the 
real fat goose, fresh American apples, cranberries which we 
cooked ourselves — everything in the world fresh from the land 
of all that is good. 

Last night there were rumors of no turkey, and no "plum 
duff," but we took those rumors as we have taken everything 
else — with a grin and what-the-hell-do-we-care, for if it came 
to a pinch there is no lack of turkey in this outfit, and I am told 
the Irish turkey is a fine bird. At any rate, we did not worry, 
for we knew there was plenty of other good grub, so even if we 
could not be thankful for the food we used to get on this day 
at home, we could be thankful for being able to get the three 
squares we do get every day here. 

And when the rumors of no turkey were shattered by the 
arrival of motor trucks and good old army mules laden with 



everything from soup to nuts, the general comment was: Well, 
the chow is here on time. 

We are used to getting things on time here and we simply 
take it as a matter of course that things will continue to come 
as usual. Such is our faith in Uncle Sam and you folks at home. 

You might doubt me if I were to enumerate all the good 
things we had today. But I surely wish you could have smelled 
that sauce our mess sergeant made for that plum pudding! 
"Black Jack" had a wise grin all day, and if any one said "eaw 
de vie," he just grinned a little more. Some say it was made of 
cherries, plums, and apples some thirteen years ago, while others 
swear it was made of the hind leg of a Missouri mule. For my 
part, I don't know. All I can say is that it did have a pretty 
fine flavor, a healthy kick, and wonderful effect for demands 
for seconds of the duff ^ — "Aw, go ahead. Jack; a little more 

All through the village I hear men singing, playing the vari- 
ous musical instruments they carried from home, joking and 
discussing the news or work of the week. There's not a gloomy 
man in town, not a homesick or sorry soldier, and not the slight- 
est semblance of intoxication. 

We are all glad we are here, glad to have the chance to take 
a chance for our country, and sorry for only one thing — that 
you all, in the goodness of your hearts, are worrying about men 
whose only hardship is in your own minds. We are in great 
health, fit as a fiddle and mighty well cared for by Uncle Sam 
and our friends in France. 

Merry Christmas to you and your boy and to the rest of the 
bunch. I sincerely hope you are as happy as I am and will 
continue to be. 

The next may well have been the letter which attracted 
General Pershing's attention. The "Billy" to whom it 
refers was Lieutenant William F. McKenna, later pro- 
moted captain, a younger brother, also in the 165th. 



I suppose you hear all sorts of wild rumors about the regi- 
ment, for the Irish imagination is a fertile field, and I have been 
told that even before we were in any kind of scrap there were 
three or four rumors of dead and wounded, but you must not 
listen to any such tales. 

The War Department and the papers will give the facts long 
before anyone could write them, and you may always feel sure 
that the next of kin is notified of any mishap within a day or 
two. This is to quiet any misgiving. In order, too, to calm any 
one who may inquire at the office, I may tell you that to date 
there has not been a death in my company, and my wounded 
are doing well — hoping to get back into the game again as 
soon as possible. 

I noticed in the papers articles which indicate that certain 
news has been given full publication, so I shall recount a few 
tales for which I can vouch, and which I have already seen in 
print. Coming from me you will believe them and feel better 
satisfied, I am sure; furthermore, you will be able to spread 
the gospel of confidence among your friends, for surely the 
American soldier in France is worthy of confidence. Of course, 
I shall mention no names, dates, places or organization. 

One incident : I saw a German shell hit a place in which there 
were several men. The explosion was like all the rest, but not 
a sign of confusion among my men. Soon the shelling passed 
that point, but not until it had passed did the men who were 
hit have a word to say, and when the first man spoke all he 
said was: "Boys, I think I'm wounded." I'll never forget 
that piece of calm Irish grit — wonderful. That fellow was 
painfully wounded, but he never groaned — not a sound. You 
will be glad to know he will recover. 

Another day, while a group of men were out on a patrol, they 
were shelled by what we call the "Dolly Sisters." The men had 
never been fired at before in their lives, and you cannot imagine 
what an experience it was, but they kept cool, never dreamed of 
retiring, but just obeyed orders as though they were moving 



over a parade ground on practice attack. They went through 
the fire, accomplished their mission, came back in perfect order, 
and not a man wounded. That was another case of sheer 

I saw one of the shells land where a man had been just an 
instant before, and as the lumps shot upward I said to myself: 
"Too bad — that's your finish." But it was not, for my man 
was using his head, and will use it again and again before the 
Germans get him. 

An incident you have read about occurred recently while a 
party of five were out in No Man's Land between the lines. They 
bumped into nine Germans at about 4 a.m. By all the rules 
of war they should have retired. But they did not mind a little 
handicap of about two to one. They just sailed in, shot up 
the Germans, took two live prisoners and did not receive a 
wound. Not so bad. 

And just for variety, on the same night when the Germans put 
over a raid, a lot of Americans, instead of retiring from the dam- 
aged trenches, which the German artillery had pounded pretty 
hard, stayed right there and plastered the onrushing enemy 
with a lot of beautifully placed rifle, machine and automatic 
gun shots, which littered the ground with Germans and chased 
them back in disorder. 

These instances are not news to you, but I recount them to 
illustrate the type of man America has sent here, not in any one 
regiment, but in all — and to assure you all that you can de- 
pend upon us if you just feed us with supplies. Have no fear, 
dad, for if my turn or Billy's comes to take the trip, you need 
not apologize for the manner of our going. We wull give our 
best, and the count will not be against us — if the Germans get 
us, they must pay the bill in men, either to us or our pals. That 
is as it should be. 

The candies and the New York World continue to keep me in 
touch with things at home, and I hope they will not cease. 
Aside from them I ask for nothing save that once in a while 



you send me a tube of tooth paste and a packet of bouillon 
cubes. The tooth paste is my only luxury and the bouillon 
cubes are a wonderful help on bad days; usually the food is 
great, but when a cog slips and the stuff is below grade, or when 
we get in late after a bad day, a cup of hot water with a bou- 
illon cube to give it a little taste, and a good hunk of bread 
means more to us than a meal at Delmonico's means to any one 
in New York. Do not send quantities of anything, but try to 
send a little often. Mails are fairly good and things spoil if 
we keep them long, so we like little packets — in tin when pos- 
sible — to arrive frequently. 

In a short time I shall send you something which you will 
value when it arrives, as it should, for it is not in the prohibited 
class. It is a fragment of the first German shell to explode over 
this regiment. I picked it out of the hole myself within a min- 
ute of the explosion, so you need not doubt its authenticity. 
Incidentally it got two of my men, but both will recover. They 
feel highly honored to have been the first wounded in the divi- 
sion, and are eager to get back to us. That is the spirit which 
pervades this whole army and increases as we see for ourselves 
the outrages of which we had believed the Germans were not 
capable. You do not know how much we are envied by the 
others, but you can imagine how every company and every 
soldier hungered for the honor of being first in line and how 
pleased I am to have had my company gain the boon, and then 
exceed expectations. None of your friends has been hurt. 

Every man is working hard and doing well. As for me, there 
is nothing I like better than just what I am doing, and truth 
compels me to confess that although I feel sorry that my folks 
must worry about me, I love the life, and am actually glad to 
be here — partly because it is interesting, instructive, marvel- 
lous, partly because I would hate to think my parents would 
have to apologize for me. 

I am glad I am here, glad to be in the war, glad there are no 
glass eyes or conscientious objections in my system, glad there 



will never be a time in after life when the man who is making 
the money by staying at home can afford to look me in the eye 
— even if I should be a soldier all my life and never do another 
thing. But most of all I am glad because I feel that way down 
in their hearts, you, father and mother, take pride in my being 

The two following letters were also addressed to his 


Good Friday. 

To begin with, you will be pleased to know that my company 
was the first in this organization to go into the trenches. We 
had a little scrap and two wounded before the rest of the com- 
panies followed. That is not a very important matter, but it 
gave me a great deal of satisfaction to be sent in first, and I 
know it will please you. Since the first tea party we have had 
many little arguments, and although I cannot say that any of 
us love the music of the shells, I can assure you that we are 
always ready for more. I can truly say that all my men are 
veterans now; they have stood the test of every kind of fire 
and their courage has been remarkable. In my company twelve 
men have been awarded the French War Cross for conspicuous 
bravery in action, and I am absolutely sure that the only reason 
every man is not wearing the cross is because not every one gets 
the chance to do the heroic. 

And then, too, some of the finest deeds pass unnoticed. One 
of my lieutenants, for instance, did as fine a bit of work as I 
have ever seen, but I could not ask for the cross for him, because 
I'd have to ask for it for every man I have. The lieutenant 
took a lot of men through a terrible shell fire without any one 
getting a scratch and without overlooking a single part of the 
job I sent him out on. It was a rare exhibition of steel nerve, 
with shells crashing all around, but it was just such a thing 
as we see every day. We all look upon the decorations as fine 
things, but every one knows that, although it takes a good man 



to get one, it also takes a lot of luck, and many of the men who 
deserve the cross are hidden away among their fellows — but 
their turn will come. 

One of my men who got the cross did a fine piece of work. 
During some night fighting he carried in from No Man's Land a 
wounded French soldier at the risk of his own life. His work 
was particularly good because he need not have taken the chance, 
and when he did go out he went into a stretch of territory which 
was being swept by machine guns, grenades, and artillery. 

Many of our men have rescued wounded French. One big 
red-haired fellow named Ryan brought in three — two Ameri- 
cans and a Frenchman. 

With things of that sort happening daily the greatest feeling 
in the world has sprung up between the French and Americans, 
and the French are loud in their praise of our men. The most 
remarkable thing of all the fighting is that every American out- 
fit goes into the first fight with the cool courage of veterans, 
and every day there is recorded a fresh instance of Yankee 
pluck — that is not newspaper talk but cold fact. The Ameri- 
cans are really wonderful fighters; they are always doing the 
unexpected, always doing what the book says cannot be done, 
always springing quick thinking, quick shooting and slam-bang 
fighting. If we get half a chance, and if the folks in America 
keep the supplies and the men coming over in load after load, 
we will beat the Germans as sure as fate — not in a minute, but 
in the long run, where straight gameness is the issue. 

Some of our Irish friends in New York will be glad to know 
that although we have our share of killed and wounded, we have 
more than our share of crosses for bravery in action. My com- 
pany has twelve and in the regiment to date there are sixty- 
eight. The colonel was given one, and when I asked him why, 
he replied, "That is because I have such a good regiment." The 
old outfit is beating its Civil War record. You know what that 
means, and you may pass the good word to the Friendly Sons. 

Billy and I came through the big scrap O. K. I got a little 



gas, but beyond a little discomfort did not suffer — and did 
not have to leave the scrap. 

Of course you have read all about the fight, and I can add 
little at this writing. I will say, however, that we licked the 
Germans, and licked them badly. They had everything pre- 
pared and had a time table to a city well behind us — but their 
train was stalled on our line. We not only licked them, but we 
took a lot of prisoners, killed an enormous number, annihilated 
one whole battalion, wiped out a division and wrecked several 

The Kaiser watched our part of the fight from an observa- 
tion tower about fifteen kilometres away. Sorry we did not 
know at the time that he was there, but at that we gave him 
a good show. 

We are not crowing, but we are hopeful and confident. I 've 
often told you we could lick the Germans in a square fight. 
Now we've done it. All is not velvet, but from now on the odds 
will turn more and more in our favor. 

As for our regiment — well, we think we are the best; but as 
we look the facts in the face we are bound to admit there is no 
best; all are wonderful, and what one does depends solely on 
the opportunity. Bravery is taken for granted, and the great- 
est acts of heroism are looked upon as " in line of duty." Maybe 
we are not great soldiers, but I guess nobody will deny that the 
American is brave, strong, aggressive, and versatile. 

When we leave the chalk of Champagne we shall leave behind 
us some good comrades, but they died nobly and the Germans 
paid at least five times the price. 

Tom Blake and Bingham are O. K. So are all the boys you 

Shall write a longer letter descriptive of the fight if time per- 
mits and if I get through the next one. 

This last of the letters from McKenna, received after 
his death, was written only a week before it. A few days 



earlier he was reported, in a letter to the New York Sim, 
to have said, as he sat with a few comrades, before an 
empty fireplace at Headquarters: "Before the regiment 
to which 1 am attached loses its Irish-American complexity 
by infusion of other racial replacements, it is my dearest 
wish that we have a chance to uphold the traditions of 
this great Celtic military organization." 

"Bide your time, Jim," replied Chaplain Francis P. 
Duffy. "Our boys will have their innings. Don't be 

McKenna, according to the story, was silent only for 
a moment. Then he said, "We must show the whole 
world where Irishmen stand. Father. We must show that 
we are in this fight for liberty, heart and soul." 

His officers and his men had already shown it in engage- 
ments in the Luneville and Baccarat sectors and the 
Champagne-Marne defensive. In "The Shamrock Bat- 
talion of the Rainbow" there is a memorable picture of 
Major McKenna, in the last of these engagements, walk- 
ing with Father Duffy, whose "face was good for jaded 
nerves," along the line, on July 15, and pausing to speak 
a few words with each of the men waiting the command 
to go over the top. "The Major asked each man as he 
passed what the orders were, and each answered, 'Hold 
to the last man.' The Major then asked: 'Are you going 
to do it.f^' And each man answered, 'Yes.'" On July 17 
he himself was gassed, and advised to go to the hospital, 
but refused because he knew the division would soon be 
in action again. Early in the morning of July 28, in the 
course of the Marne-Aisne offensive, came orders for the 
165th to attack the enemy on the north bank of the 



Ourcq, to be crossed by the American troops. "The ad- 
vance," a portion of the orders read, "will be by infiltra- 
tion, with no artillery preparation. Greatest reliance will 
be placed on the bayonet. Your regiment will constitute 
the first line of the attack, covering the entire brigade 

In such an action it is difficult to follow the movements 
of an individual, but some paragraphs in a letter written 
after the Armistice to the father of Major McKenna by 
his battalion adjutant, Captain H. K. Cassidy, convey a 
clear idea both of the engagement, fatal to the beloved 
commanding oflScer, and of his personal part in it. 

Our battalion was in advance of any other unit of the division. 
We made the attack on the Ourcq at dawn on the morning of 
the 28th. We had advanced a distance of twelve kilometres 
in the afternoon and night preceding. The 2d Battalion was 
behind us in support. The 1st was on our right, the 166th 
Infantry on our left. We passed through the town of Villers- 
sur-Fere at about 2 a.m. on the 28th. The 2d Battalion entered 
the town which the Germans began to shell heavily a few min- 
utes later. We took position along a road about 400 yards from 
and parallel to the river — just beyond the edge of the town. 
Our patrols which went down toward the river drew very heavy 
machine gun fire, having several men hit. We had reached the 
objective which had been assigned us, so the major gave orders 
for company commanders to take advantage of all available 
cover and dig in. This was at about 3 a.m. 

In the meantime the C. O. of the support battalion had with- 
drawn his troops to a wood about a kilometre behind the town 
in order to avoid casualties through the heavy shelling of the 
town. At 3.30 the colonel drove up in haste with orders to 
attack at once, and continue the advance outlining new objec- 
tives. The units on our right and left had not yet come 



up. The support battalion had withdrawn. We knew from 
investigation what the enemy had before us and the trap 
our battahon would run into attacking alone. The colonel 
sent a protest which the general forwarded. Later the attack 
order was postponed but the postponement came just fifteen 
minutes too late — buglers sounded recall in vain; the calls 
could not be heard fifty yards away in the din of machine gun 
fire and bursting shells. 

The Ourcq along the line of our attack forms a natural basin 
with gentle slopes reaching up on either side and coming to a 
crest on parallel lines four or five hundred yards from the river. 
The river is but twenty or thirty feet wide and in most places 
about three feet deep. In the valley along the banks of the 
river ran a grove of trees — it was perhaps a hundred and fifty 
feet through this grove before we started the ascent of the 
gentle slope on the other side. Through the wheat field on this 
slope and over the far crest the first wave advanced. From the 
start it had been a glorious, if a sorrowful, spectacle. Wave 
after wave left the line of the road and advanced toward the 
river in perfect order. Here and there a man would fall, or a 
shell would burst getting several; the gaps filled automatically; 
there was never a waver. The rain of machine gun bullets and 
the rat-tat-tat was incessant; still they ciuickly passed the river, 
with what few Germans had not been killed in full flight before 
them. But after crossing the crest our limit was reached. With 
no one on the right or left and no one to push through us we 
could advance no further without the advance units losing con- 
tact with the rear and being cut off. Then came the slaughter. 
There had been comparatively few casualties up until this time, 
but the Germans, quick to appreciate our predicament, quickly 
placed machine guns on the flanks and we were nicely boxed, 
enduring a heavy and constant storm of machine gun bullets 
from the flanks and from the front. The wounded were passing 
in a constant stream to the rear. Constant reports came to the 
P. C. of first one ofiicer, then another wounded or killed; then 



came the aeroplanes in droves, in pairs, and single; flying over- 
head a hundred feet in the air they rained machine gun bullets 
down on the defenseless men in the open, dropping bombs by 
the score and soon clearing the far slope we had taken of what 
few men remained alive there. We now held a line along the 
edge of the trees on the enemy side of the river. In this grove 
we then had the battalion P. C. The first battalion advancing 
now instead of going to our right were forced to come upon the 
same line with us. The second came in on their left. But no 
one succeeded in crossing the ridge ahead, where we had gone 
so easily at first, until three days later. 

About ten o'clock the Germans began a heavy shelling of 
the woods along the river. They became almost untenable —  
still we hung on, the first battalion there too, now. Reports 
from our companies showed them depleted to an average ef- 
fective strength of about thirty men each. Two companies 
had no officers left. There were three officers, one of them 
wounded, left on the line. One company which we still had in 
reserve in the town was still all right. About noon the major 
and I started for the colonel's P. C. at the edge of the town to 
report, and receive instructions. We had progressed without 
mishap over half of the distance when the Germans located us 
with an Austrian 88 (whizz-bang) . We dodged along to within 
a hundred yards of the town; the major was a slight distance 
ahead of me, carrying my equipment. I, with a non-com, was 
carrying a wounded man whom we had found with his foot 
shot off. Captain Hurley was with us, too, a little way ahead 
and to the left. Suddenly with no warning a large shell lit just 
to our right, perhaps fifty feet away. We were all knocked flat 
by the concussion. The wounded lad was killed and seeing the 
major lay back rather stiffly instead of jumping up, I ran to 
him. He was unconscious but his pulse beat very faintly. I 
asked Captain Hurley to run for a litter, and tried artificial res- 
piration for a moment, but to no use; so we tried to carry him. 
He was dead outright, however, and the corporal and I were 



so weak, not having had food for three days that we progressed 
very slowly. Besides that whizz-bang still pestered around so, 
seeing a litter a hundred yards away, I left him with the cor- 
poral in a shell hole and ran for the litter. I pressed half a 
dozen men into immediate service, and we rushed back, placed 
him on the litter, and hurried him to the aid station, three 
hundred yards away. His pulse was still flickering, in that same 
faint way. The doctor immediately gave him an injection of 
strychnine, but two minutes afterward the pulse beat ceased. . . . 

The major had not been well since Champagne when, on the 
17th, he was slightly gassed. He slept poorly and ate little, 
even when he had the opportunity for either. The day of the 
attack, three days had elapsed since we had either had any food. 
AVeakened and run down, as he naturally was, the grief of see- 
ing his battalion shot to pieces was almost more than he could 
endure. Besides, he had a habit which I have seen in many 
men, over here, of resisting the shock of a shell explosion instead 
of relaxing and yielding to the shock. Many times I had no- 
ticed that when a shell exploded, particularly close at hand, he 
would tense himself as though to fight it. When I remonstrated 
with him about it he remarked that he "could n't help wanting 
to fight the things." No man, no matter how strong, can resist 
the shock of a giant shell. I feel, however, that he might have 
lived had he not been in such a weakened condition. . . . 

He died, as he lived, a man. Yes, the little smile was on his 
lips. On his face an expression of faint surprise, perhaps of 
wonderment. I am in command of the old company now. They 
have never failed him. There are not many of the original with 
the company now, perhaps forty. Fifty, three of them officers, 
who came over with him, have made the supreme sacrifice, as 
did he. The old men, who are left, strive with me to bring the 
company back to something like the standards of the old days. 
Whether or not this will ever be accomplished, we are all con- 
fident in the knowledge that the company acquitted itself nobly, 
as did the battalion he commanded. All that has been ac- 



complished by these, and much that will be accomplished by 
those who are left, singly and en masse, is the product of his 
influence and training more than that of any other one man. So 
his influence lives with us. He is still one of us, honored and 
revered. We are all proud to have known and worked with so 
brave and able a man. 

Captain Cassidy says the postponement of the attack 
order came just fifteen minutes too late. Father Dufify 
wrote: "Major McKenna had tried to recall his company 
when the w