Saints and Devils

Chapter One

FRIDAY – 18 OCTOBER 1918

U.S. Army Sergeant Edward W. Scarburg remembers the words of Civil War General William Tecumseh Sherman: War is Hell. ‘How right Sherman was,’ thinks Edward diving headlong into one of the dozen bomb craters filled a few inches with dank, putrid, water that peppers the French landscape.

The Germans on a small, tree-shrouded, hill, named for its elevation: 233, are laying down a murderous hail of machinegun fire at the approaching U.S. soldiers. One bullet is so close it glances off the side of Edward’s steel helmet. It jars his head, but the only damage is a dent in the metal and a ringing in his ears.

Alvie? Abner? he yells for his two buddies thinking his squad is right behind him. He gets no answer.

Edward lies with his back against the dirt, listening to the bullets zinging over his head. He becomes aware that lying across the bomb crater is a decomposing German corpse covered in mud. Looking at the dead soldier’s appearance Edward knows the soldier has been in that hole for some time. His blood floats atop the pink tinted disgusting water; maggots and other foul substances cover his dead remains. One arm is missing and the remaining bits of his uniform are covered in dried blood. It appears obvious that this enemy soldier met his end during an artillery barrage. And from the sickening odor the remains emit, the barrage has not been recent.

* * * * *

Edward does not want to die like his rotting partner across the way. His life snuffed out in this rancid, muddy hole in the eastern part of France. A part of France, even he, doesn’t know its name.

Lying in the mud, he thinks how his mother will never know how, or where he died, and his mind drifts back to his mother and the happy days spent on their farm so far, far away. His family was poor, but so were all their neighbors; they did not realize the impoverished condition in which they were living. It was just life on a forty acre Alabama dirt farm deep in the rural south.

He remembers as though it were yesterday, his dear old mother with tears streaming down her wrinkled, sun-bronzed face standing in the front yard waving her handkerchief as he walked down the dirt road from his house heading to the nearest U.S. Army recruiting station thirty miles away. Of course, his mother had cried for days since he announced his decision to join up.

He had tried to explain to her how, as a young boy, he sat on his grandpappy’s lap listening to him tell of his daring exploits in the southern army during the War of Northern Aggression, as Pap called the Civil War. He thought as a child he would never get the chance to smell the cannon’s smoke, hear the bullets whiz or charge the enemy with fixed bayonets. Pap told his tales so well little Ed could almost picture in his mind the things Pap described. To a young lad, these were all glorious and wondrous events. He just needed a war, someway, somehow so he could experience the same thrill of battle. Now he had one – The War to End all Wars, The Great War. Later it will be known simply as World War I.

Today as he lay in the stinking water of the bomb crater eyeing his dead neighbor, the real war did not seem as glorious or as wondrous as he had remembered when Pap told his stories. Now that he was experiencing ‘real’ war all he only wanted to do was stay alive. To a soldier, living just one more day was a lifetime.

ONE DAY EARLIER - THURSDAY – 17 OCTOBER 1918

Sergeant Edward White Scarburg filthy, thirsty, and dead tired lies in the cold, wet earth of France, staring up at the gray, overcast sky of... is it October? Or still September? It doesn’t matter. Time passes endlessly living like rats in these hellholes in the ground. The Big Brass in the American Army’s Allied Expeditionary Force (AEF) have given a name to these muddy slits in the dirt, they call them ‘trenches’, and the time is, in fact, October. It is the middle of the month, the 17th to be exact, the 17th of October in the year 1918, autumn on the edge of ‘No Man’s Land’.

Four years have passed since this terrible, death-filled War to End All Wars began in July 1914; however, the United States is a Johnny-come-lately to the killing and mayhem. The American Congress declared war on Germany, 6 April 1917, and appointed General John J. Pershing the AEF commander.

All during the fall, it is one day of rain after another, but in September the rains let up and the open ground separating the American troops from the German soldiers dries a bit. A series of attacks have gained the Americans of the 82nd Division little or no advancement toward the enemy. The war has become virtually a stalemate for the All American Division. This name comes from their shoulder patch – a red square, with the letters ‘AA’ in a blue circle in the center. And the fact that GIs from all walks of life, creeds and religions make up its ranks.

Word is passed down the line of soldiers of Company G (G for George), 328th Infantry Regiment, informing them that another all-out offensive is to begin soon. The Americans, British, and French are finishing a massive barrage of 155-millimeter (mm) cannon fire, giving the men reason to believe another brutal assault is coming. At sunrise, the soldiers know they will have to crawl over the edge of the trenches, go ‘over the top’ as they say. They will then run as fast as their legs will allow, dodging and weaving hoping the bullets of the German machineguns will somehow miss them as they pray to live a few minutes longer. Unfortunately over half of these gallant, courageous young boy’s prayers will not be answered.

‘No Man’s Land’ between the American and German lines obtains its terrible name for just this reason. It is littered with the extinguished hopes and dreams of thousands of dead boys, whose lives were shortened by the bullets of both armies.

It takes more than will and courage to stop the hail of German 8-mm bullets, bullets issuing from their Maxim ‘MG 08’ machineguns. Guns firing at the fierce rate of five hundred rounds a minute; with merciless, metal projectiles that can reach out almost two thousand yards and cut huge swatches of death in the ranks of the advancing young American boys.

The sulfides in the artillery shells created by the enormous amount of explosions cause the rain to fall. No man’s land is a quagmire of mud. No, quagmire is an understatement. The stinking, sticky, blood-drenched swamp is more akin to glue than earth, but time after time orders have come to ‘Go Over the Top’ and the men bravely follow these commands. They will run, crawl and claw their weaken bodies into this muddy hellhole of eastern France.

The men anxiously wait in the trenches knowing this next attack will be no different. The only difference is many of them will be dead lying face down in this odoriferous mud when the attack is over.

Lying in the dirt next to Sergeant Scarburg is his best pal, Alvin York. Edward and Alvin, or ‘Alvie’ as the men call him, first met at Camp Gordon, Georgia back in September of ’17 as the 82nd Division was being formed. Both are part of the men that are drafted from Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee. Edward’s home is in Alabama and Alvie is from Crab Apple, Tennessee. They have remained together since that first day in Georgia. The War Department inspects the several camps in February and March of ‘18. The report on the 82nd Division is favorable enough to make it the second American Army Division to leave the United States, and the first combat Division to go overseas to the war.

Division Headquarters moved from Camp Gordon in early April 1918, traveled by train to Camp Upton, New York, the military post selected for mobilization and embarkation. The infantry and machine gun units left for Camp Upton at the rate of two battalions per day. Division Headquarters sails from New York City, on 25 April 1918, heading to England and the last infantry and machine gun units follow on 3 May.

These elements of the Division arrive in Liverpool continuously from early May through late May 1918. They proceed by full Battalions after short halts in various English rest camps to embark at Southampton, England, for Le Havre, France.

At the beginning of April, they board a transport ship from Southampton to Le Havre. While aboard ship Edward and Alvie meet another Tennessee boy – Abner Hatfield. Abner’s five-foot-four-inch frame quickly causes the men to dub him Lil’ Abner, same as the comic strip character of the same name. Abner’s family is the family that is feuding with the McCoy clan back in the hills of Tennessee. When asked about the feud, Abner, having fun with Edward and Alvie, says he has never shot a McCoy that didn’t need killin’. Adding he says he figured them Germans needs a healthy dose of the same lead medicine. Wetting his finger, he grins and rubs the front sight of his rifle, saying he believes he is the man to do it too. Abner is from Bulls Gap, Tennessee, a distance close to a hundred miles east of Alvie from Crab Apple. Edward from Alabama is another couple of hundred miles south; however, to three lonely, homesick doughboys, riding a wet, rocking, transport ship in the middle of the English Channel, these distances seem as though they are next-door neighbors to each other.

Edward, recently promoted to Corporal, meets with Captain Tillion, the Commander of George Company, to request assignment of Private Hatfield to his squad. Knowing the boys are close, Captain Tillion, allows the transfer. Abner becomes a member of Edward’s Second Squad, Company G, Second Battalion, 164th Infantry Brigade, 328th Infantry Regiment, 82nd Infantry Division. The men of George Company are quite fond of their leader Captain Tillion. At age twenty-five, the Captain is called the old man; however, to their dismay and sorrow their old man is killed leading a valiant attack during the Battle of the Argonne Forest a few months later.

Hundreds of soldiers and tons of equipment cover every inch of the transport ship. There is hardly a place to find a spot to sit and rest; however, this day Edward, Alvie, and Lil’ Abner find a suitable place to take a break. They sit in the shade of a large, 155-mm howitzer. Their talk turns to their participation in the war.

Lil’ Abner, asks Alvie, have you never been no place besides yer farm in our hills of Tennessee?

I’ll tell you what Alvie if it had’en been fer this here confounded war, I don’t believe I’d have ever set foot outta Hawkins County, says Abner.

You’s right Abner, and you’d never got to meet me and Edward neither, replies Alvie.

You know Alvie; I don’t reccomember if I had ever been outside the county afore in my whole life ‘til I jined up. You know fellers, ever since I left Tennessee, I’ve done seed some wondrous things, and you’s right I’d never had sech good friends like you two.

Yer welcome Abner, said Alvie.

But y’all being my onlyest friends I’ve been aiming to tell y’all somethin’ that’s been troubling me, says Abner.

What ‘tis, asks Alvie.

I’ve done been havin’ this here terriblest dream, night atter night, and it bothers me something awful.

Edward, leaning back against one of the howitzer’s large tires with his eyes shut, sits upright suddenly. What kind of dream Abner? he asks.

Fellers, I don’t believe I’ll be goin’ back to them beautiful hills of Tennessee, my dream keeps tellin’ me I’m gonna rest my bones in that dirt of France, says Abner.

Don’t go on that way Abner, we are all worried about not getting back home. Your dream don’t mean nothing, don’t give it another thought, you are goin’ to be fine. You stick close to Alvie and me, we’ll take care of you. Pointing toward the front of the ship, Look out over the bow Abner that is Le Havre on the horizon, that’s France. Just think of this as a great adventure. Something you can tell your grandkids about, Edward says trying to comfort his friend.

I’m reckonin’ grandkids ain’t in my future. I jez hope I gets to tell you all about this ‘great adventure’ when we’s is leavin’ France to go back home, Abner says head down looking at the deck.

FRANCE

Following the arrival in France, the 82nd Infantry Division, less the artillery, engineers, and field signal battalion, proceed to the Saint-Valery-sur-Somme training area. Here the 82nd trains with the British 66th Division. Saint-Valery-sur-Somme is over one hundred miles east of the port of Le Havre, but not too far from the fighting along the French and Belgium border.

Just on the outskirts of town is a large tent city. This town, consisting of mangled and dying bodies, comprises the largest field hospital supporting the fighting on the Western Front. The majority of the injured returned from the fighting suffer from the inhalation of poison gas. Gas, which the Germans first introduced in a large-scale attack on 22 April 1915. Most of the gas now being used consists of chlorine or phosgene. Within seconds of inhaling chlorine vapors, it destroys the soldier’s lungs, throat, and nasal passages, bringing on severe choking attacks. Phosgene is more potent than chlorine. The latter is potentially more deadly since it causes the victim to cough violently and choke. Inhaling Phosgene causes much less coughing with the result that more of it is inhaled. Both the German and Allied armies consequently adopt it. Phosgene often has a delayed effect; apparently healthy soldiers will collapse with phosgene gas poisoning up to 48 hours after inhalation. The worst gas the Germans use is mustard gas. The gas masks the soldiers carry provide some protection from the chlorine and phosgene, but mustard gas is a terrible substance, which the smoke masks (as the soldiers call them) offer no defense. This dreadful gas attacks the wet moist skin of the face, arms, eyes, armpits, and groin. The gas causes searing blisters accompanied by excruciating pain.

Casualties arrive daily from the front lines – wounded Americans, Frenchmen, Canadians, Englishmen and other western allies come in by the truckload, most will later die suffering an agonizing, unbearable death.

One such horrible day Corporal, now Sergeant Scarburg’s squad, is detailed to help unload the wounded from the transport trucks and horse-drawn wagons and carry them into the hospital tents. While attempting to lift a stretcher containing a severely wounded boy Edward’s hand gets caught between the litter and the side of the truck as they try to move the injured soldier to the ground. His hand is not broken, but a sizable portion of his thumb and forefinger is cut causing a generous amount of blood to drip from his fingers onto the bed of the truck. A nurse standing close by sees the accident and immediately rushes to Edward’s aid.

The nurse, a young, French girl by the name of Nicole Leblanc moves him into a nearby aide tent and begins to dress his injured hand. As she holds his hand, applying the bandage, Edward looks into her dark brown eyes and thinks to himself that he has never seen such a beautiful girl. Her long, black, silken, hair glosses in the light. He thinks for a second - she surely must be an angel! Nicole can speak enough English to communicate with Edward and asks as she finishes dressing his hand if there is more she can do for him.

Edward is dumbstruck; he is so mesmerized by this enchanted being he cannot answer. Once again she asks. This time, he responds by saying if it might be possible for him to return to see her tomorrow? Oh, to have his dressing changed he quickly adds.

For the next couple of weeks, Edward makes one feeble excuse after another to come each day to see Nicole. His hand has long healed, but she playfully agrees to see him on the following day, also pretending that his hand needs careful watching. Each day they meet for longer and longer periods of time. One eventful day Edward summons up enough courage to ask Nicole if she would like to accompany him that evening to a musical concert performed by the British YMCA for the troops.

At the outbreak of the War in August 1914, the YMCA, an international philanthropic association, turned its attention to providing support for the troops. Originally providing soldiers with food and a place to rest, the organization began providing musical entertainment to the fighting men on both the Western and Eastern Fronts.

Of course, Nicole is eager to attend but does not want to appear so forward. At first, she suggests she might be busy, with the wounded and such, she adds. After a round of wishful prodding by Edward, Nicole pretends to relent, agreeing to go with him to hear the music that night.

During normal times, romances can take months to develop and blossom, but this is wartime, and time seems to speed up. In the short period the two spend together a budding romance develops. What an odd pairing, a doughboy from the American south and a French Mademoiselle from the town of Sainte-Mere-Eglise in the Normandy region of northern France. From almost their first meeting, he calls her Nicki and she pronounces his name Edward as the French do – Edvart. It is a whirlwind affair, but Nicki and Edvart are in love! The days seem to pass slowly as Edvart waits for Nicki on the banks of the Somme River where each evening they sit holding hands watching the sun slip below the western horizon.

These are happy days, but they pass swiftly. The war calls and Edward along with the rest of the 82nd Division, at last, has orders to move out. Headed to confront the Germans or as some call them the ‘Huns’, ‘Boche’, ‘Jerry’s, ‘Krauts’ or ‘Fritz’, on the Western Front. On the day the Americans leave, Nicki stands in front of her hospital tent watching intently at the convoy of soldier-filled, Army trucks pass by, hoping to get one last glimpse of her Edvart. After what seems like hundreds of soldiers have passed, she sees a brown, woolen-sleeved arm waving from the rear of one lumbering truck. It is Edvart – leaning out as far as he can to see his Nicki, for the last time.

Nicki, Nicki, he yells as his truck passes.

Edvart, Edvart, she waves back with a tear in her eye.

HILL 233 ON THE WESTERN FRONT

October the 17th, thinks Sergeant Scarburg as he lies watching the October sky. He and the rest of the 82nd Division have only been in France for six months, but it seems a lifetime. A light rain is beginning to fall. Slow at first but it is starting to pick up.

Edward, said Alvie, you reckon we’re in for another fight?

Yeah, pretty sure Alvie, they have been shooting them big guns for a mighty long time. Something’s up, I’ll wager, says Edward.

As Edward finishes speaking a runner comes up and tries to deliver the company commander’s latest order. The runner is so out of breath he can barely speak. Gaining his composure; the soldier tells the sergeant when the Battalion attacks, Edward’s squad is ordered to advance on a machinegun emplacement that is laying down heavy gunfire from Hill 233. In addition to the men in his squad, Sergeant Scarburg is instructed to carry as many men as he deems necessary to accomplish the mission. It is imperative Sergeant Scarburg reduce this fire, or the Battalion will suffer heavy causalities.

Grabbing Alvie and Abner, Sergeant Scarburg picks four non-commissioned officers and twelve privates to assist in his assignment to knock out the machinegun.

At precisely six a.m., whistles sound up and down the line of nervous men hugging the wet walls of the trenches signaling it is time to ‘go over the top.’ The appointed hour has come to ‘Attack’. Up the ladders the doughboys scramble, some never make two steps into ‘No Man’s Land’ before German 8-mm bullets find their deadly mark. The others press on, stepping over their friends and comrade’s dead bodies. Sergeant Scarburg, with Alvie and Lil’ Abner sticking close behind, scamper up the side of the trench and into the mud, gore, and blood of the battlefield. Bullets being fired by the Huns buzz all around; giving the impression to the men they are being attacked by a swarm of angry hornets. In addition to the rifle and machinegun fire, the Germans are laying down a heavy artillery barrage. Sergeant Scarburg is so overwhelmed by the bullets, earth-jarring blasts of artillery, smoke and the awful, dreadful, nauseating smell of death; he does not have time to get scared.

Edward, along with a couple of his men, crawls through the first obstacle of barbed wire. The wire’s sharp barbs dig deeply into their arms and tear long, dark brown, woolen strips of their uniforms from their backs. Alvie and Abner veer right and are lost to Edward’s sight as they disappear into the smoke and haze caused by the heavy, cannon fire.

Edward continues, thinking some of his men are following closely behind. Little does he realize no one is back there; he is alone. Edward tries to scramble to his feet, but the rain of German machinegun bullets is too intense. He yells for his men, but it is impossible over the din of the battle for anyone to hear his voice. Hill 233 is somewhere to his front, just how far he is not certain. Sergeant Scarburg will continue crawling until the smoke abates somewhat so he can get his bearing. He desperately wants to pull out his map, but the onslaught of bullets keeps his face pressing against the muddy ground.

Off to his right, unknown to Sarge, Alvie, Lil’ Abner and the rest of his men slip around the southeastern side of Hill 233. Later Sergeant Scarburg will read the official 82nd Division’s report, which said in part, how a detachment led by Sergeant Edward Scarburg along with Corporal York, came upon a German battalion of about 250 men. Another, roughly 75 enemy soldiers, are gathered around their commanding officer receiving instructions. Surprised by the Americans who the Germans believed was a large advancing force began surrendering. A number of machine gunners trained their fire on the Americans killing six and wounding three of the detachment. Alvie attacked the Germans with his Model 1917 Enfield rifle in their trenches and after shooting many of them he used his pistol and forcefully persuaded the remainder to surrender.

On Alvie’s return from the far side of the hill, he picked up more and more German prisoners from the north and northeast slopes of the hill.

When he reported to Lieutenant Woodward, the Battalion Adjutant, Second Battalion, 328th Infantry, the LT counted the prisoners and found that they totaled two officers and 129 enlisted men. The three wounded Americans were brought in with the column. The six dead Americans were buried later where they had fallen.

The official report of the engagement to take Hill 233 is totally accurate except for two discrepancies, first: the statement, ‘The six dead Americans were buried later’ was wrong. As Alvie and the rest of the men are returning with the German prisoners, they come upon the six dead Americans. Alvie stops, order the prisoners to bury five of his fallen comrades. Alvie himself digs the grave and shovels the dirt over the one remaining dead boy. Alvie sticks the soldier’s rifle into the ground, places the doughboy’s helmet on top and adds his one dogtag to the other five he had already collected. With the one remaining identification tag, he hangs it suspended by its cloth neck tape, over the rifle. Before releasing the tape he tilts the tag slightly so he can read the name:

HATFIELD, ABNER, PVT, 45948

328 INF

U.S.A.

Turning to ‘Lil’ Abner’s grave, Alvie pitches a handful of dirt saying, Goodbye old friend, guess that dream of yours was right after all.

And the second discrepancy: Sergeant Edward Scarburg, was indeed, in command of the mission to take Hill 233 and silence the machineguns; however, entirely unknown to him, Corporal Alvin York had led the attack and captured more than one-hundred thirty German prisoners. For the action taken at Hill 233 Corporal York, would be later promoted to the rank of sergeant and be awarded America’s highest military commendation, the Medal of Honor, for his heroism.

At the time of Alvin’s heroic deed, Edward lies pinned down in a bomb crater on the other side of the hill and has no idea what is happening.

The smoke begins to dissipate somewhat, and Edward thinks the Germans are preparing to launch a counter-attack. He shoulders his rifle and squeezes off a few shots toward the area of the machinegun fire as he awaits the inevitable advance of the enemy.

He watches as grey-clad Huns run from the woods toward his position in the bomb crater. He quickly squeezes off another round killing one, but the others keep charging toward his hole. Partially obscured by the smoke, they are almost upon him when an artillery shell, whether friend or foe he is not sure, explodes with a thunderous blast, within a few yards of his position.

Before he knows what has happened the concussion throws him flat against the rear of the crater, and a German soldier blasted into the hole lands astride his chest. The good news is the shell explosion has temporarily rendered the enemy soldier unconscious. Edward feels something hot flowing down the inside of his shirt – touching it with his finger; it is wet and sticky – it is blood, his own, or the Huns? Pushing the German aside, he immediately begins searching his body for a wound. Looking at the German he can see blood oozing from a wound in Fritz’s right leg; that is good news. The bad, he realizes, is blood seeping from his own left shoulder. Evidently, he has taken a piece of shrapnel from the explosion also.

Within seconds, the enemy soldier begins to moan and becomes aware of his surroundings. Edward quickly snaps the bayonet on the end of his rifle and has the sharp, knife blade on the Hun’s chest about to pierce the young man’s heart when the enemy soldier hastily exclaims, Bitte! Bitte!

Edward understands enough German to know the soldier is pleading for his life; he hesitates for a second just as an artillery shell filled with chlorine explodes within a few hundred feet of his crater of safety. Edward sees the green cloud of deadly gas is being blown in his direction.

Quickly he opens his pouch containing his gas mask and hastily puts it to his face. He reaches for the German’s pouch, but it is empty, his mask is nowhere to be found. It must have ripped loose during the explosion. Edward peers over the edge of the shell hole to see the German’s gas mask lying a few feet from his hiding place. The machinegun fire has diminished somewhat during the attack, but now it fires unceasingly. Should he risk crawling out to retrieve the mask or stay where he is and allow the enemy soldier to fall prey to the odious gas mixture coming their way? ‘Why not just let him die,’ he thinks, ‘only moments earlier I was about to run this German through with my bayonet. After all, this is war, why should I get killed trying to save this enemy soldier’s life?’

Edward knows his dear, sweet, old mother did not raise him this way, giving it no further thought he slips out of his crater hole. Hugging the ground as closely as humanly possible, he retrieves the German’s gas mask. With machinegun bullets splattering up the mud all around he returns to the wounded soldier. Lifting the man’s head Edward slips the mask over his face tightly to ensure none of the poisonous vapors will get in. Once the gas dissipates, Edward removes his mask and then the young Germans, whose eyes are now open and seems somewhat alert.

Edward takes his one remaining bandage from his first aid pouch and wraps it snuggly around the wound on the German’s leg. The pressure applied by the bandage almost completely stops the blood from seeping out the bullet or shrapnel hole. Once Edward has attended to the German all he has for use to cover his shoulder wound is his handkerchief.

"Wie heist du?" asks the enemy soldier.

I’m sorry I don’t speak German very well, Edward responds.

"Ihren namen?" The enemy soldier asks again.

Oh, I see, my name? My name is Sergeant Edward White Scarburg, 82nd Division, United States Army. Pointing to the German, and you?

"Ah, Weiss. Heilige und Teufel, das Weiss und das Schwarz. Einige sagen, dass dies unsere Welt ausmacht.  Wenn es wahr ist, glaube ich eine weisse Heilige gefunden zu haben. Danke." (Ah, White. Saints and Devils, the White and the Black. Some say they make our world, if true, I think I have found a White saint. Thank you.)

Edward wishes he knew more German, but he does know Danke means ‘thanks.’ Nodding he reaches out and shakes the wounded German’s muddy hand. "Danke, to you too," was all he knew to say.

The German removes his oval identification tag from beneath his shirt and extends it for Edward to read. Edward sees it is imprinted with the soldier’s Unit Number 148, Company 1 of the Bavarian Infantry Regiment 16, but it bears no name. Edward is about to ask him his name when another artillery shell explodes so close it knocks Edward unconscious.

CASUALTY CLEARING STATION

Edward