Buck's Story: A Marine in the Great War

By Wayne A. Pettyjohn

Buck Adams, a young farm boy, joined the Marine Corps in the spring of 1917.
After boot camp at Paris Island and advanced training at Quantico, he was sent
to France with the 97th Company, 3rd Battalion, 6th Marines.
In June the Marines were sent to Belleau Wood for their fi rst battle where they
suff ered many casualties. Later they fought at Soissons, Saint Mihiel, Blanc Mont,
and in the Meuse-Argonne area. Th e Marines and several Army units were sent
to Germany as occupation troops, fi nally returning home in 1919.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456817688

Wayne A. Pettyjohn

Wayne Pettyjohn's interest in writing and military history began as a cadet at Carson Long Military Institute in Pennsylvania. Following graduation and a hitch in the Marine Corps, he received the BA and MA degrees at the University of South Dakota and a PhD at Boston University, all in geology. While with the U.S. Geological Survey in North Dakota, he read law and was admitted to the North Dakota Bar in 1968. Thirteen years were spent as a Professor of Geology at The Ohio State University. This was followed by 15 years as Head of the School of Geology at Oklahoma State University. He retired in 1995. Wayne and his wife Phyllis, also a geologist, are avid collectors of militaria. Their home is a private military museum.

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Copyright © 2010 by Wayne A. Pettyjohn.

ISBN: Softcover    978-1-4568-1767-1

ISBN: Ebook        978-1-4568-1768-8

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Contents

Prolog

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1. Home On The Farm

Chapter 2. Sergeant Mack’s Story

Chapter 3. The Urge to Enlist

Chapter 4. Paris Island

Chapter 5. Quantico

Chapter 6. Off to France

Chapter 7. Belleau Wood

Chapter 8. Rest and Runners

Chapter 9. Soissons and the Second Battle of the Marne

Chapter 10. Walk Over at Saint Mihiel

Chapter 11. The Killing Ground at Blanc Mont

Chapter 12. Meuse-Argonne and the Armistice

Chapter 13. Germany and Home

Epilog

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Prolog

This is an historical novel, a combination of fiction and fact. The main characters are fictitious, but the activities of 97th Company, 3rd Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment in France and Germany are based on fact. This novel reflects stories related to me by former Marines who served in the Great War, by my father who was a corpsman in World War II, and my own experiences as a youth in Michigan and as a Marine. Many of the descriptions of locations in France are based on visits to those specific sites along the Western Front.

In the United States few people know much about the Great War, when it occurred, how long it lasted, or where the fighting took place. When the United States declared war against the Central Powers on April 6, 1917 our forces were exceedingly small, poorly equipped, and hadn’t served in units much larger than a regiment since the Civil War. Our combat experiences were limited to small actions against poorly trained troops, bandits, or revolutionists in the Philippines, China, and islands of the Caribbean.

The lack of experience, equipment, and logistical knowledge caused great hardship for our citizen soldiers, and far more casualties than an experienced and prepared army would have expected. But the Allies and Central Powers, particularly during the early years of the war, also had to deal with similar problems, much to their cost.

The Great War changed the world for future generations. As in nearly every major conflict, great improvements were made in technology, communications, and medicine, to mention only a few. But the costs were millions of dead, the disappearance of monarchies, and a continuing burning hatred between some of the adversaries. The armistice signed on November 11, 1918, and the peace that followed, was only an interlude, a breathing spell between rounds so to speak. Round 2 began in 1939, only 21 years later, when the world again burst into flame.

Semper Fi.

Acknowledgments

Although this novel is one of fiction, the activities of the 6th Marine Regiment are based on historical fact gleaned from scores of sources, such as official publications, unit histories, and personal accounts. Of these only a few will be mentioned.

The most detailed history of the 4th Marine Brigade is George Clark’s Devil Dogs, a well-written work that required a great deal of research. Other important sources include 2d Division Summary of Operations in the World War and American Armies and Battlefields in Europe, both of which were prepared by the American Battle Monuments Commission. History of the Third Battalion, Sixth Regiment, U.S. Marines, published in 1919 and reprinted by George Clark, provided the basis for the activities and movements of Buck Adams’ 97th Company. Many other sources were used, several of which are out-of-print.

Several trips to the European battlefields of the Great War, organized by the Western Front Association, peaked my interest in the role played there by the Marine Corps. I was able to visit all of the areas in which they fought.

Last but not least is the editorial work by my wife, Phyllis. Long suffering as other things went undone, she was pleased when I finally put my pen aside. But her encouragement over the months of preparation of this manuscript led to its completion. She is not anxious for me to start another.

Chapter 1

Home On The Farm

I opened my eyes to another dark, miserable day in Michigan. It was early March 1917 with several weeks of winter remaining. Little drifts of snow were lying on the windowsill, blown in through the cracks of the ill-fitting frame. The window glass was coated with a quarter-inch thickness of crystalline ice, all of which was on the inside. I could see the condensing vapor of my breath. It was cold.

The only source of heat in my leaky farmhouse bedroom was from an old pot-belly stove in the living room directly below. A hole cut in the floor, covered by an iron grate, allowed the rising heat to drift into the bedroom, but it didn’t amount to much. Fortunately, the brick chimney, once covered by stucco, extended through the room and provided most of the heat as long as there was fire in the stove, but that always burned out by early morning.

My bed was covered by two or three heavy comforters. Just before bedtime my Mother would fill a Mason jar with boiling water and wrap it in a towel to serve as a hot water bottle. Through the night as the water cooled, I’d strip the towel with my feet to acquire the last vestiges of warmth. By morning, the jar was ice cold and touching it would cause even the deepest slumber to disappear.

My Dad got a big thermometer from the creamery where we sold our milk. He nailed it to the barn, but it only went down to -30 degrees and broke just a few days after Christmas when the temperature dropped below -40. It was at least 20 below that morning, and I hoped the wind wouldn’t be blowing when I left for school.

How could one stand this continual miserable cold for a lifetime or even a few years? I didn’t want to. I wanted to live in a place where it was warm, but how could I get there?

I reached over to an adjacent chair on which hung my clothes. These I pulled under the covers to warm them. Hopping out of bed, I dressed quickly, but my farmer shoes were stiff as a board. Leather gets like that when it’s cold. Finally, stamping them on I trundled down the steep, narrow stairs, bouncing from one wall to another, and fought my way to the barn for morning chores.

Mother, up early as usual, had the normal bowl of oatmeal ready after I stumbled in from the barn. Fortunately, the cooking stove had warmed the kitchen to some extent. She had also prepared two big roast beef sandwiches, wrapped in newspaper, for my school lunch. And together with an apple, they were stuffed into my coat pocket.

It was about a 2-mile walk to school across a flat snow-covered land that was interrupted by deep drifts. At least the wind had died with only an occasional gust that caused the trees to crack like a pistol shot. The road was marked by the tracks of wagons and buggies, except for those made by Ed Jones, another farmer from down the road, who married the rich widow Mary Arneson. He had a new Ford truck that he drove to town nearly every day. We figured his trips were mainly to show off his new found or married wealth. Anyway, it wasn’t easy to walk in the tracks, but it was better than trudging across the fields.

Up ahead about a half mile on the section line corner I saw a figure that resembled my friend George Granger. Sure enough, that’s who it was standing there in the cold with his red rawboned arms extending from coat sleeves far too short. Below the cuffs of his overalls I saw neither boots nor overshoes, but rather on one foot was an old worn-out tennis shoe and on the other what resembled a crude moccasin fashioned from a cast-off baseball glove. I pretended not to notice, knowing the depth of his pride.

George’s was a hardscrabble family, but closely knit. They slaved from can see to can’t see on land owned by Deacon Jones with whom they shared the miserable returns. George was about 16 or so, his brother, John, about six or seven years younger, and his little sister was only about three. One evening several months past, they had cold-packed green beans for dinner. Neither George nor John ate any because they thought the beans smelled funny. Within an hour or so both his folks and sister were seeing double and felt poorly. By morning they were all dead. The doctor said they were killed by a germ called botulism or some such.

The boys lived in their old falling down sharecroppers shack for awhile until the Deacon told them to leave because he needed the place. The banker, Harry Ferguson, told George they would adopt John, but there wasn’t enough room for him and besides he was old enough to make do on his own.

Gid Spink, whose wife had died some years past, took pity on George and told him he could bunk in his old smokehouse until something better came along. So George spread out a couple of old horse blankets on some cardboard on the floor and that was his home. I think he lived mainly on deer, squirrels, rabbits, and pheasants he shot with his dad’s old .22. George was a crack shot. He scraped by doing odd jobs for anyone who could afford to feed him or pay him. He had but little time to spend going to school. His life and survival were a real struggle.

Now and then my folks would invite George over for Sunday dinner. One could see the hunger and loneliness in his eyes, but he never whimpered or complained. Earlier this winter Mom gave him one of my old coats, worn but warm. It didn’t fit too well, but he was as proud as a peacock, and he surely needed it. A day or two later, George showed up with a couple of rabbits as sort of payment. He didn’t like to owe anyone anything and, although a little rough around the edges, was always polite and friendly.

On your way to school, George?

Nope, I’m goin’ to town to join the Marines. More than a little surprised I asked why. With a sort of embarrassed look, he told me that the Marines would give him two sets of new clothes, three meals a day, a place to sleep, and $30 a month. Considering the circumstances, it seemed like a reasonable thing for him to do.

You ever meet Sergeant Mack? He’s a Marine recruiter set up in the post office. He talked me into joinin’, although it wasn’t hard to do. Besides, there ain’t nothin’ left for me here no more anyway.

George kept telling me about Sergeant Mack as we trudged through the snow. He looked kind of pale around the gills and I suspected he hadn’t had much to eat lately with hunting being so bad in the cold weather. Trying to find some way to approach him and not hurt his feelings, I said, George, as usual Mom packed a lunch too big for me today and it disappoints her when I bring some of it home. Would you take part of it? I know you’re all fixed up yourself, but if you don’t want it you could give it away. That way, Mom will never know I didn’t eat it myself.

George didn’t say anything for a while and I could see he was again fighting against that stubborn pride of his. Finally he said he’d be willing to help me out, and knowing what a fine cook my mother was, he would eat it himself and keep his lunch for later.

Pulling one of the sandwiches out of my pocket I handed it to him and then, feeling the apple, I pulled that out too. Take this. I’ve had about all the apples I can stand for a while. He took both and stuffed them into his pockets.

Entering town George said he had to talk to Sergeant Mack and perhaps he would see me after school. As we went our separate ways, a backward glance showed me that George was greedily wolfing down the sandwich with one hand and holding the apple in the other. I hoped that I would never get that hungry.

While George was on his way to the post office, I continued on to school. On entering, I saw one of my favorite teachers, Emma Woodford, who offered a smile and a Good morning. She taught English and writing. A woman of indeterminate age, she was a spinster about 5 feet tall, packing about 100 pounds of toughness on her tiny frame. She was demanding but fair. And she didn’t care whose kids they were when they acted up. She would let them know in no uncertain terms that they were doing wrong.

Miss Woodford was a fine teacher and insisted we improve our vocabulary. Every week during my four years of high school she required us to learn 10 new words, selected at random from the big classroom dictionary. As our speech and vocabulary improved some of the town wags thought we were getting uppity using such big words. We weren’t getting uppity, we were getting educated.

Another teacher I remember was Clyde Flick, a bachelor about 40 years old who tended towards being pudgy. It seemed like he always walked on his tiptoes and would scratch his head, covered by thick, wavy black hair, with his little finger. He taught art among other things, and was quite effeminate. I always wondered about him. He liked the girls, especially if they had wealthy or influential parents. He didn’t care much for me, probably because I was one of those farm boys.

Harvey Johnson, our school principal, taught math, geography, and history, among other things, and he coached football, baseball, and track. He was a good coach and an outstanding teacher, but he allowed no foolishness in his classes or on the athletic field. Everyone called him Captain, a rank he held when he was invalided out of the cavalry several years past.

Captain Johnson, who must’ve been in his 60s, was an impressive man, always neatly dressed, and as straight and tall as a pine tree on parade, but he walked with a slight limp. It seemed like he knew about everything worth knowing, and he could talk for hours on almost any subject. Captain Johnson had an incredible memory and was very well educated, having graduated from that military academy at West Point.

His standards were high, but he made geography seem like places we had visited, and his history lessons were strongly flavored with military events. At times we were able to divert his lectures to his experiences in the cavalry. That was when we learned he had spent several years in the West and Southwest fighting Indians and Mexican bandits. It was while chasing Geronimo and his Apaches in the White Mountains of Arizona that he was stabbed in the hip with a lance, which ended his military career, and that was what caused him to limp.

His stories sparked a flame in many of us and we all wanted to join the cavalry. Last year, at our urging, Captain Johnson formed an after-school club with a membership of 12 made up of those who had a special interest in things military. We met once a week. Sometimes a whole meeting was devoted to learning the various commands for the manual of arms and close-order drill followed by marching around the football field. We acted and felt as though we were really in the Army.

At other times, Captain Johnson described the campaigns of Caesar, Hannibal, and Napoleon, as well as Washington, Grant, and Lee, among several others. We learned not only about tactics, but also some of the political reasons that led to invasions and battles. But to prove that we were really interested and appreciated the knowledge that he shared with us, we were required to prepare reports with maps and conclusions about each campaign. These he carefully examined, making marginal notes and raising questions. This made us work harder because we wanted to please him.

Captain Johnson also talked at length about the war in Europe. We carefully examined detailed maps of Belgium and France, tracing the routes of German advance and locations of several important battles. The Marne, Verdun, and the killing fields of Flanders, all became familiar to us. He talked about the German U-boats, and of the toll they were taking, particularly on British merchant ships, as the Germans tried to starve England out of the war. We discussed unrestricted submarine warfare and the 1915 sinking of the passenger ship, Lusitania, when 128 Americans were lost. He thought President Wilson might get us into the war against Germany because of the death of American citizens and the treatment of the poor folks in Belgium.

He was especially concerned about our military, believing our forces were exceedingly small, poorly equipped, and totally unprepared for a major conflict. We hadn’t had large forces in the field since the Civil War, and the Spanish War and other minor conflicts were mere skirmishes with outgunned guerrillas, poorly trained troops, or bandits along the Mexican border. It was a dark picture he painted if we were to go to war.

Not surprisingly, the high school and the town, in several ways, had much in common. Our community of Tustin, numbering around four thousand individuals, had a distinct social system. It was not, I suppose, unlike many other small towns. The social ladder consisted of several rungs. At the top were the professional people or otherwise wealthy families, such as the larger business owners, doctors, lawyers, or owners of extensive tracts of timber. The next level consisted of those with smaller shops, members of the clergy, and individuals who held important positions in business. Next were mere laborers, many of whom lived in the vicinity of the gas plant. The bottom rung of the ladder consisted of farm people and families barely above the level of poverty. The bottom two groups were generally ignored regardless of their personal characteristics. The only way for the less fortunate to be accepted by the higher levels of society was to be exceptionally talented in music or a gifted athlete. The town was crazy about sports.

My station was, of course, on the bottom rung. However, owing to some skill in sports and because a couple of my class friends represented the elite, I was more or less tentatively accepted by at least some of the upper crust.

Despite my social status I had two good friends from higher on the ladder. One was Walter Rand who also had some athletic ability and was smart. His dad was manager of a big manufacturing plant, and they lived in a mighty fine home in the best part of town. We were both on the football and baseball teams. In later years, Walter was elected judge, a position he held for many years despite his addiction to drink. Eventually all that alcohol killed him.

My other friend was Carol Pine, a pert little blonde and the most popular girl in school. She also represented the upper circles. We had been classmates since grade school. Why she accepted me I didn’t know, but I was often invited to her home for various gatherings and parties. Actually, I thought I was in love with her, but was far too shy to make anything of it. In my own mind I considered her my girlfriend, but that was as far as it went.

Walking down the hall after classes that day I saw Carol smile and wave at me. Some of her friends merely looked the other way. They probably didn’t want to be seen talking with some big farm boy wearing overalls and boots. I waited for Carol and we passed a few pleasantries. She asked about my folks. All too soon she was gone and I left, perhaps a little lightheaded, for the post office.

After school I always picked up the mail. Wandering through town toward the post office, I wondered what I would do after graduation. No jobs were available near home, and farming was something I didn’t want to do the rest of my life. Besides, I wanted to get out of that frozen country. The only good thing about that part of Michigan was that it was a fine land for fishing and hunting. Not for sport of course, but for food. Dad taught me to shoot at an early age, and I had to be accurate because bullets were hard to come by and expensive. Dad didn’t like it if I’d miss a shot, didn’t have a clean kill, or one that damaged the meat.

A deep gravelly voice, which sounded like it was coming from the bottom of an empty rain barrel, assaulted me as I came through the post office door. That was the first time I met Sergeant Mack. He was a big barrel-chested man dwarfing a straight backed chair behind a small table. Probably about 40 or so, his hair was cropped short on a bullet shaped head that rested on a thick neck. He must’ve been nearly 6 feet tall with a big frame that carried nearly 200 pounds. His nose looked like it had been pushed around several times, and the scars on his brow reminded me of an aging bare-knuckle prizefighter. His most distinctive feature was a long red scar that ran from his right ear down to his chin. He looked like a mighty mean and tough man.

Sitting at a table, he was trying to encourage anyone who came by to join the Marines. He was wearing a dark blue coat trimmed in red, with gold buttons and a white belt with a large brass buckle. The three yellow stripes of a sergeant and several diagonal yellow stripes on the lower part of each sleeve decorated his coat. I learned later that each stripe represented a period of four years in the Marines. His pants were light blue with a broad red stripe running down each leg, and his shoes were polished like patent leather. The sergeant was a mighty impressive looking man in that fancy uniform. But his face, showing the experience of decades, looked like he had been in a thousand fights and had come out on the short end of most of them.

What’s a big strapping young man like you going to do with your life? Have you thought about that? What do you want to do, where do you want to go, and what do you want to see? he asked. Now that bothered me some because I didn’t know what I’d do after graduation.

I grunted something in reply and walked past him to the post-office window to get the mail. While waiting I felt a growing sense of irritation at the Sergeant’s question. Who was he to ask what I was going to do with the rest of my life? I passed his table without a glance and, while trudging home through the snow and cold, I began to think about what he asked. Just what was I going to do in about three months when I graduated? The question worried me for days and I pondered my options.

I sure didn’t want to live on a farm where we got froze out or rained out nearly every year. Where men and women aged three or four years for every one. It was always hand to mouth with never a chance to get ahead. All those folks in town seemed to live far better than us. And none of them worked from dark to dark everyday like we did. Besides, it was always cold and I hated the cold. On the other hand, I had to admit that because of the farm we always ate well. It was mainly vegetables we grew or beef we butchered, as well as chickens, squirrels, rabbits, and