More diary entries -

August 23, 1918, Frid.

Left Chile farm - through Abeele [Abele (also spelled Abeele) is a small village or hamlet in the city of Poperinge, in the Belgian province of West Flanders.] to Watou, where we went into the same camp we left Aug 12th. Arrived after noon - had good meal. Jeal & I in pup tents - rained in night - feel rotten - diarrhea and sore throat. [perhaps from gas exposure] Bed & asleep early. Some peaceful place, this!

August 24, 1918, Sat.

Slept until 10 a.m. Sick - didn't make formations - felt slightly better at noon. Sewed, wrote mother & Anna in p.m. and played cards. Were paid after supper - 265 francs - Jeal & I went into town - bed rather late. Felt pretty bum all day. Rotten night.

Letter to Aunt Nell -

Somewhere "over here?

August 24, 1918

Dearest Aunt Nell -

After asking me so many times of my impressions of the life of a soldier in the front line trenches, I believe the time has come when I can tell you something of what it is like. Of course I can't say when I went in, or how long I staid, or how many times I've been in, or where - but - the little incidents that have been my own experiences or witnessed by me are typical of the whole Western front so - give no valuable information and I trust you'll enjoy, or appreciate what little I can say. Of course, I am a senior Sergt. in my company. I might go to a school for 3 months and come out a 2nd Lieut. in the N.A. [National Army] but, as I told my C.O. [Commanding Officer] I'd rather be a Sergt. in a volunteer outfit than an officer in a draft unit. I had dreamed of and had hopes that the day would come when I could command a platoon in the line - but little did I dream that the very first time my little old platoon, forty-odd strong, picked their way across country, swept by machine gun & rifle bullets - constantly upturned by shelling and treacherous walking, even by day - that I should walk at the head of the line as its commander. But - my men were glad to go in under me - they were in excellent morale and I was very proud of them. We reached the front line and my sections were immediately dispatched to their positions in the line. My little administration corporal Roger --- And I stood on a high piece of ground watching their shadowy figures file away when - I had my first real taste of war's cruelness. A Boche machine gun began to spit and we could hear the bullets crack around our heads. I stepped down into thr trench and put my hand up to help Roger in when - crack, crack, crack - the Jerry opened up again - and down poor Roger came with an explosive bullet through his chest. I helped him on a stretcher, gave him aid, cheered him up and sent him to the rear. As I completed my inspection I told my men about it and asked them to revenge his death. The next day it was my personal job, between hours required for executive work, to lay in a sniper's post and watch for a Jerry. In the afternoon a Boche sniper appeared over his parapet to take a shot at one of our fellows, somewhere, and - well - I pressed my trigger and saw my first kill! I was satisfied - yes - pleased - and - with sniping rifle and bomb - have accounted for a few more since. Truly, dear Aunt o'mine - the revenge of my little pal's death means a good many Huns as I shall kill - constantly and steadily until I am a casualty! And - the Boche is a tricky, sneaking, foxy opponent that taxes even Yankee ingenuity. He will play dirty, low tricks - he'll shoot our stretcher bearers, he'll bring his own machine guns in action in a stretcher, he'll poison water, set bear traps in paths, use dum - dum bullets [Expanding bullets, also known colloquially as dumdum bullets, are projectiles designed to expand on impact. This causes the bullet to increase in diameter, to combat over-penetration and produce a larger wound, thus dealing more damage to a living target.] and violate all rules of fairness and humanity. He's a curse and a swine - and our only duty is to exterminate him as such. Wish I could tell you all of his low down tricks - but I've seen so much I can't now. One night I laid in a shell hole - out in no-man's land - which we were using as a listening post and five of his men came creeping along. I threw a bomb (hand grenade) among them - killing four. The fifth pretended to be dead - so I let them lay there. As I crept out to get papers & identifications off them the fakir crept up behind me and - in another second would have stabbed me - but I heard him & turned with leveled pistol and he threw up his hands - "Kamerad". [used by German soldiers in World War I as a cry of surrender]. Possibly I could have taken him prisoner - but, I figured some of the other 4 might be faking so one pistol bullet smacked him in the face and blew the whole back of his head off.  [I may be wrong, but since none of this appears in Clyde's diary, I don't think this account actually happened - rather, I think it was something he thought to avenge his buddy's death and may be linked to survivor's guilt. Of course, this is only my opinion and I may be completely wrong.]  Cruel - I'll agree - but - well - I feel none the worse for doing it - and - the only good Hun is a dead one. I really find pleasure in killing. As to artillery - it's a cat & mouse game. A shell either strikes far off so you don't notice it, near enough to jar you up or throw dirt over you, or close enough to kill or wound you. I saw one shell strike a stretcher - with a wounded man on it and blow the whole party all to pieces - they just melted. A shell struck near a tambeau I was in and blew my sentry right through the door - and never drew blood on him - just shook him up. I was crossing a bend in no-man's land to my platoon one night - with a bag of mail on my back. Bullets were striking the dirt all around me - and - when I reached my platoon - one bullet had gone through the pack of letters in the bag. In fact - a man walks among flying death all the time up there - and awaits his hard luck. Some men never get it - some the first time in.

Will close for now - next time I'll tell you of a patrol (fighting) I was on and a job I did with my men - with bayonets fixed. For now - good bye - write me soon - as ever

With much love,

Clyde 

Up next - More diary entries - Looks like Clyde leaves the front.