CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WAR YEARS

So much for more or less current events. We will soon be coming to the bridge, but before we do, I want to go back and tell you about World War 1, and that glorious day when George came home, and let that end my story.

As you know, the war broke out in Europe in 1914. The German armies quickly over-ran Belgium, with devastating results. The American public was soon provoked to the rescue, and ladies everywhere were sewing like mad for the victims.

A song appeared which was soon very popular. It went something like this:

"Gosh, I wish I were a Belgian, They've got lots of things to wear; Gosh, I wish I were a Belgian, People sewing for me everywhere! With lots of clothes and a brand new shirt, I'd be a regular Gosh dern flirt, Gosh, I wish I were a Belgin!"

The first and third lines were to the tune of the first chorus line of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic;" the others were a corruption of other songs, appropriating the melody to fit the lyrics.

I never knew where this ditty was born; whether in Smithville or Nashville or Tin Pan Alley.

Thinking of Belgium reminds me of that beautiful Poem, "In Flanders Fields" by Capt. John McCrae. It came along later, and the first verse was:

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below."

The war moved along, as wars always do. The United States became actively involved early in 1917. The local draft board, in its infinite wisdom, early recognized George's unique talents for war, and soon had him in uniform.

He was sent to San Antonio, where he helped build Kelley Field on top of a huge rattlesnake bed. Get him to tell you that tale!

After basic training, his outfit was sent to England. There, they were loaned to the British Air Force, and they became the 337th Aero Squadron.

This was a terrible period for many families. We subscribed to the "Nashville Tennesseean," and read every line of war news every day. Mom began worrying about Pop having to go, as the available manpower pool of young men was shrunk by inductions, and the emergence of many virgin farmers so essential to the war effort.

In later years, Mom told me not to worry about things I couldn't help and that might never happen. I think she learned that for herself during the war. Pop was not inducted; George stayed healthy, and his letters came with some regularity.

In Late summer of 1918, it was apparent the war was winding down, and would soon be over. Then, one glorious day late in October came the news for which we had been waiting and praying -- The German Army had surrendered.

That night, the square was ablaze with fire and sound, as many hundreds swarmed to celebrate. Pistols popped, shotguns banged and anvils roared like cannons, to the dance of a dozen bonfires.

Citizens, staid and otherwise, shouted themselves into hoarseness. Some were abetted by occasional and others by frequent nips from half gallon fruit jars. It went on far into a night to be remembered.

As the community regained its sanity the next morning, horrible news reached us. It was all a mistake -- the Germans had not surrendered, and were still fighting. Calm heads tried to reassure the people that it was only a question of time; but gloom stretched like a black canopy over the town. From Zenith to Nadir we had plunged in just a few hours.

But pain and trouble pass, and on November 11, the blessed news that the war was over came again. This time it was true!

That night we had a second celebration. We tried to repeat the first night in every detail -- not more and not less than we did the first time around. We almost succeeded, ecstasy losing only a tiny bit to repetition.

Now the nerve-wracking wait began. We had two million men in Europe, and everyone wanted their husband or their son or their sweetheart or their brother to come home on the first ship.

The Empress of Britain was the first to leave Liverpool, on December 1, and the 337th Aero Squadron was aboard. She docked in Hoboken on December 10. There were many units and many wounded aboard; but for those who could walk, that march down Broadway was an event that defies description. These men were our conquering heroes, back on the blessed soil of America, where they were appreciated, and wanted and loved.

After several days, George and his unit were sent to Camp Taylor, Louisville, Kentucky, for discharge. From our standpoint, the wait was intolerable, as days crawled by, unhurried and uninspired by the holiday season. It began to look like Christmas was going to beat him home.

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