A. Judson Hanna, “There Were Many German Dead About,” September 20, 1918, in Pennsylvania Voices of the Great War: Letters, Stories, and Oral Histories of World War I, ed. J. Stuart Richards (McFarland, 2002), 162–164.; Ashby Williams, Experiences of the Great War (Stone Printing, 1919), 78–79. Available at https://archive.org/details/experiencesgrea00willgoog/page/n86.

September 20, 1918
Sergeant A. Judson Hanna
A.E.F.
Somewhere in France

The Germans as you know, had started their great offensive which was to end the war.¹ The Americans had driven them out of Chateau Thierry and some miles north of that the Huns made a stand.² Their guns stood almost wheel to wheel over some miles of the front. When the big barrage began the guns swept a whole valley from end to end, including some half dozen towns. The shells fell with surprising regularity some dozen yards apart, even closer in places. You can imagine the result. All the roads were swept. Where dugouts were available the men used them but there must always be a certain amount of traffic supply trains, ambulances, and couriers or runners as we call them.

The shell that killed practically all the personnel staff landed in the courtyard of a large house, where the staff was engaged in removing its valuable records to a safer place. The shell fell on the little group, killing the lieutenant and eight men.

When the fire slackened about noon of the 15th, and the Germans attempted to follow it up with the infantry, they were hurled back by our troops and have been on the go toward Berlin ever since.

There were many German dead here and about, especially one hill where the Americans attacked them with the bayonets and the fighting was ferocious. It would surprise you to know how courageous our boys are, many of whom are mere lads, just of the draft age. The German dreads the bayonet. It seems that he abhors the use of it even by himself. The majority of the dead Hun did not have bayonets on their rifles. Yet they had plenty of time to resort to bayonets had they so wished.

Two middle aged Huns were found on there [sic] knees with clasped hands and an American bayonet through the body of each. They had evidently been caught, and feeling death near, had taken each others [sic] hands. One of our men was struck by a piece of shell while marching in line. He walked deliberately out of line, and down beside the road, as though merely weary, and died a moment later, with a smile on his face. One Hun was plugged as he was climbing out of a trench and there he was found one hand grasping the top of the parapet, one leg up, like a figure in marble.

Yesterday a company of French men passed us for their fighting line. It was a sight that stirred my heart. Not a man I think was under 45 years of age. Some were gray-bearded, many were bald. The going was hard for the old chaps; you could see the terrible weariness on their faces. They had just negotiated a long steep hill and there wasn’t a smile on a face. I was glad they were going to rest. But France has youth yet. I saw some of them on my way up, travelling to the training camps. Their cars were chalked up with “Vive la classe 1919” and “A bas le Boche.”³

For three nights it has been quiet, no air raids even. These are particularly annoying. One simply has to lie doggie, helpless for a time, and wonder if the next bomb will light on his particular house or barn.

Some men who went through the big barrage still show the effects of it. Let a door slam, and a big healthy man will jump as if stung. Last night we had a band concert to cheer the men and make them forget if possible. I was sitting next to a friend who seems perfectly capable in every way. He had started to light a cigarette when the band struck up. The man jumped violently, dropped the match and looked around dazedly. It were all laughable were it not for the memory of those times.

One of our men, an unusually jolly fellow, has been sober since the big action. This is the reason: He had taken refuge in a dugout and was standing there when a shell crashed through the corner, just missing his waist. The shell dug into the opposite wall and the man waited for it to explode. Second after second passed. You may possibly imagine his horror, expecting every instant to be blown to atoms. As the seconds passed and there was no explosion, the man turned mechanically and went to bed. The next morning he remembered the shell and on examining it found it was a dud.

Another of our men were lying in a field under a small tree. The shells were landing all around him. One finally struck within a few feet of him covering him with dirt. He waited for it to explode, knowing the uselessness of trying to escape, and trying to prepare his mind for the bumping off of his body. Those seconds of agonized waiting for an expected tragedy may change a whole man’s character. This bomb was also a dud, but the man today goes around with a strained face and seems always listening for something.

“A Horrible Experience”
Lieutenant Colonel Ashby Williams

After the men had had their coffee—I remember I drank a good swig of it, too—I gave directions that the men should get in shape to move out of the woods. Then followed one of the most horrible experiences of my whole life in the war, and one which I hope never to have to go through again. The Boche began to shell the woods. When the first one came over I was sitting under the canvas that had been still spread over the cart shafts. It fell on the up side of the woods. As I came out another one fell closer. I was glad it was dark because I was afraid my knees were shaking. I was afraid of my voice, too, and I remember I spoke in a loud voice so it would not tremble, and gave orders that Commanders should take their units to the dugouts which were less than a hundred yards away until the shelling was over, as I did not think it necessary to sacrifice any lives under the circumstances. Notwithstanding my precautions, some of the shells fell among the cooks and others who remained about the kitchens, killing some of them and wounding others.

In about twenty minutes I ordered the companies to fall in on the road by our area preparatory to marching out of the woods. They got into a column of squads in perfect order, and we had proceeded perhaps a hundred yards along the road in the woods when we came on to one of the companies of the Second Battalion which we were to follow that night. We were held there perhaps forty-five minutes while the Second Battalion ahead of us got in shape to move out. One cannot imagine the horrible suspense and experience of that wait. The Boche began to shell the woods again. There was no turning back now, no passing around the companies ahead of us, we could only wait and trust to the Grace of God.

We could hear the explosion as the shell left the muzzle of the Boche gun, then the noise of the shell as it came toward us, faint at first, then louder and louder until the shell struck and shook the earth with its explosion. One can only feel, one cannot describe the horror that fills the heart and mind during this short interval of time. You know he is aiming the gun at you and wants to kill you. In your mind you see him swab out the hot barrel, you see him thrust in the deadly shell and place the bundle of explosives in the breach; you see the gunner throw all his weight against the trigger; you hear the explosion like the single bark of a great dog in the distance, and you hear the deadly missile singing as it comes toward you, faintly at first, then distinctly, then louder and louder until it seems so loud that everything else has died, and then the earth shakes and the eardrums ring, and dirt and iron reverberate through the woods and fall about you.

This is what you hear, but no man can tell what surges through the heart and mind as you lie with your face upon the ground listening to the growing sound of the hellish thing as it comes towards you. You do not think, sorrow only fills the heart, and you only hope and pray. And when the doubly-damned thing hits the ground, you take a breath and feel relieved, and think how good God has been to you again. And God was good to us that night—to those of us who escaped unhurt. And for the ones who were killed, poor fellows, some blown to fragments that could not be recognized, and the men who were hurt, we said a prayer in our hearts.

Such was my experience and the experience of my men that night in the Bois de Borrus, but their conduct was fine. I think indeed, their conduct was the more splendid because they knew they were not free to shift for themselves and find shelter, but must obey orders, and obey they did in the spirit of fine soldiers to the last man. After that experience I knew that men like these would never turn back, and they never did.