A Soldier’s Manuscript [Illustrated Edition]

By Cornelius Winant

Includes The Americans in the First World War Illustration Pack - 57 photos/illustrations and 10 maps
“THE narrative of adventure, travel, combat, and escape, which composes this volume, is the straight-forward work of a straight-thinking young American. Cornelius Winant gives a clear assessment of the great movements in which he had so chivalrously borne a part. Perhaps he had no thought of the manuscript ever going beyond his family, which now, in response to the natural wishes of many friends, privately distributes the account in printed form.
“Four boys with their mother and father composed the Winant family. The house on 71st Street must have re-echoed to the gay laughter and happy comradeship of these four devoted brothers.
“That was in 1900, when our soldier-narrator was but a little child; it was long ago, before the boy had left the endeared home for boarding school, before they had graduated from Princeton, before the catastrophe, in which each bore a distinguished part, shook the world.
“The reader will quickly become involved in a narrative which takes him, with Cornelius Winant, after his prompt will-to-enlist, through the early ambulance days, through a winter at Monastir, to the western front in the French Army, and twice into the harrowing experiences of German prison camps.
“The quality of the account is an utter fairness, as utter an uncomplaining courage, marked throughout by a boyish, naïve, selfless delight in the game. Of his terrible journey to the Dutch frontier he writes: “I remember thinking, as I was going along this road, that in spite of the hardships it was darn good fun, and I appreciated it at the time.”-Foreword

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781782894810

Cornelius Winant

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Text originally published in 1928 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2013, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

A Soldier's Manuscript

CORNELIUS WINANT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

Introduction 5

A SOLDIER'S MANUSCRIPT 6

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 46

THE AMERICANS IN THE FIRST WORLD WAR ILLUSTRATION PACK 47

Introduction

THE narrative of adventure, travel, combat, and escape, which composes this volume, is the straight-forward work of a straight-thinking young American. Cornelius Winant gives a clear assessment of the great movements in which he had so chivalrously borne a part. Perhaps he had no thought of the manuscript ever going beyond his family, which now, in response to the natural wishes of many friends, privately distributes the account in printed form.

Four boys with their mother and father composed the Winant family. The house on 71st Street must have re-echoed to the gay laughter and happy comradeship of these four devoted brothers.

That was in 1900, when our soldier-narrator was but a little child; it was long ago, before the boy had left the endeared home for boarding school, before they had graduated from Princeton, before the catastrophe, in which each bore a distinguished part, shook the world.

The boy at St. Paul's School was ever eager and his virility, shining through a somewhat slender frame, his great personal charm, and his ardent family affection all made him a cherished companion. Though as a small boy he had a fine physique and excelled in all athletics, he later must combat the drag of a defective heart, so that his school and college careers were somewhat interrupted. At the time of his death, Dr. Hibben, the President of Princeton, telegraphed to his mother: Your son has brought great credit and honor to his Alma Mater and commanded the respect and affection of all who knew him. His school comrades, masters and boys, make similar tributes, recalling his markedly affectionate spirit which surveyed the world with trusting friendliness.

The reader will quickly become involved in a narrative which takes him, with Cornelius Winant, after his prompt will-to-enlist, through the early ambulance days, through a winter at Monastir, to the western front in the French Army, and twice into the harrowing experiences of German prison camps.

The quality of the account is an utter fairness, as utter an uncomplaining courage, marked throughout by a boyish, naïve, selfless delight in the game. Of his terrible journey to the Dutch frontier he writes: I remember thinking, as I was going along this road, that in spite of the hardships it was darn good fun, and I appreciated it at the time.

From 1916, Neil's life was one of tremendous strain and later of disability, increasing to discouragement. In his brief career, he tasted the crowded hour of glorious life. He loved not his life unto the death,—indeed it was his prevailing disappointment that he had not given more, though he had risked his all. We, his friends, find consolation in the belief that the eager, wistful boy, so bruised in this transitory world, has moved on to God's nearer presence in a fairer and freer realm.

S. S. D.

Concord, New Hampshire.

A SOLDIER'S MANUSCRIPT

EARLY in June, 1916, I took the old Rochambeau sailing for Bordeaux. We had a very pleasant, uneventful crossing and on arriving in Paris I joined the American Ambulance Field Service. For some reason I was at that time in an awful hurry to get to the front, and could not enjoy the few days I spent in Paris getting my papers and waiting for an opening in one of the sections on active service.

William Barbour had been wounded at Verdun in Section Three, so I was sent out there. I took the train to Bar-le-Duc, arriving there in the afternoon. I went to the automobile park and got a ride for a few miles toward Verdun in a French ambulance. No one seemed to know where Section Three was or to care very much about finding out, as it was late in the afternoon. I spent the night on the floor of some newly-built barracks, listening for the first time to the distant roar of cannon. It would die down for a while and then burst out with renewed violence. The next morning the French ambulance took me over to Section Four of the American Field Service. At that time they had the Mort-Homme section on the left bank of the Meuse. Their chief, Frank Perry, was kind enough to drive me over to a hillside near Nixéville where Section Three was camped.

It was a beautiful day, with many planes in the air and numerous observation balloons of both sides. They were a pretty worn-out Bunch of fellows I met in the section, and well they might have been. The work was extremely hard and they had to do it under the constant nervous strain of bombardment.

That evening I sat for a little while on a hillside just back of Verdun, which commanded a view of a large part of that semicircle of front. When far enough back to be out of range, a modern battle at night is quite beautiful and thrilling: the continual flashes of guns, the different colored rockets and starshells shooting up—some of which remain in the air unbelievably long, lighting up the lines—the great red bursts of arriving shells which during a barrage fire seem to make one great continuous flame, and with it that fearful but exhilarating roar of battle. It is a grand spectacle but when one thinks of what actually happening there, it is too appalling to seem real.

Those last few days of June saw the final desperate drive of the Germans in their great offensive against Verdun. I believe that in that offensive the German army was at the height of its strength. The Russian campaign had been a series of triumphs, Serbia had just been annihilated, great tracts of land and enormous numbers of prisoners taken, and all at comparatively small cost—due to the fearful lack of fighting equipment among the troops opposed to it. The division we were attached to —the 129th, mostly Chasseurs Alpins—held the Fleury secteur. That town had been taken and retaken until only a few loose bricks remained. It was the nearest the Germans ever came to Verdun; they never succeeded in breaking through. The division was in action there only about a week, but the casualties on both sides were enormous.

Verdun itself gave one a glimpse of what happening on that desolate semi-circle of front. Deserted streets, houses gradually crumbling under the bombardment, and at night the streams of wounded and dying coming to the emergency hospital in the northeast corner of the city. Formerly this building was a large residence with a courtyard. After dark that yard would be quickly filled with row after row of stretchers, each with its human burden, many in agony, some beyond that, and me cheerful at the idea of being out of it for while a while. Shortly after we left that secteur a shell made a direct hit in the courtyard, which was filled with wounded awaiting treatment.

I found afterwards that the quiet patience of those wounded French soldiers was equaled only by their bravery in action. The section was carrying the wounded back from a subterranean dressing station at Bras to Verdun, and from that temporary hospital on back to a regular field hospital at Balecourt. The shelling was very heavy on the road to Bras and as it was about the only way to bring up ammunition and supplies to that particular section of the front, the road was often very much congested, especially when something was hit and blown all over. As the Germans were on the outskirts of Bras and as the road was in plain view, everything had to be done at night—and without lights.

Our French