Hiram Hart was born in the middle of ten children near Mary's Home in Miller County in 1892. His oldest sister Margaret, recorded many stories about Hiram and his brother Eldo growing up on their farm: "Once the boys captured lizards to start a lizard farm with plans to tan the hides and sell them to make ladies handbags and shoes. Another time Hiram's mother sent him off to school, only to discover him in the top of a shade tree. After exhausting every effort to persuade him down, she went to the house and returned with a double-barrel shotgun. 'For the last time come down out of that tree,' and she raised that empty muzzle-loader to her shoulder. You never saw a squirrel come down so fast or so frightened. Mother had a hard time keeping a straight face as she marched him back to the house."
Hiram gained bits and pieces of a grade school education at Pleasant Ball/Bald School. He said he "finished the fourth grade."
On May 18, 1917, Congress passed the Selective Service Act. The following month Hiram registered for the WWI Draft. Hiram was inducted at Tuscumbia on April 26, 1918. A letter directed him on the date and time to board the train at Eugene. For the first time in his life he left Miller County, to travel to Camp Funston in Kansas.
insert troop train loading at Eldon picture
Hiram and his fellow recruits were in Kansas for only a few weeks before heading overseas. The actions of the 89th Division in World War I were described by Lt. James E. Darst and published in the St. Louis Globe-Democrat: On a Saturday in late April the camp officers were told: “Gentlemen, the day we have worked for and prayed for has come," the major said. "We will leave for France within the next week." The officers "fell to" with all the "pep" they had. They drilled the men of the new draft. The officers rushed them, feverish with enthusiasm. They responded. It was in the air. Within a week of the first order came another, canceling the first. They were not to go. Back to drudgery. They plugged along. Within another week came a second order to go to France, apparently final this time, for exact schedules of departure were given. They spent the next week packing. The recruits got little consideration. One officer would take them out and drill them and the others would supervise the packing. Finally it came. They hiked to the station in full packs, got on the train in remarkable quick time and pulled out. No fuss and feathers. Only friends in the division were there to see them go. They shook hands, swung aboard and were off.
Hiram Hart, Company A 354th Infantry Battalion 89th Division
It was a wonderful trip east; weather just right in that early June and accommodations all that could be desired. As they went through Kansas City, Chicago, Ohio, Detroit, Niagara Falls, Rochester and Syracuse crowds met them at the station and pressed gifts of chocolate and cigarettes on them and told them to bring back the Kaiser. A million times they said the last. The youngsters swarmed about them, and if they had time they would parade through the town with the kids running alongside or carried on the shoulders of some husky "buck."
New York: A real adventure right there for the Middle West "doughboys" to see the Statue of Liberty and the Battery and Brooklyn Bridge. They docked in Brooklyn and took a train to Camp Mills. They stayed there five days, subjected to numerous inspections. One bright Monday afternoon, June 4, they boarded the ship Tennyson, an English vessel that had just been impressed from the Argentine beef trade. She was sound enough, but the men were frightfully crowded. It took them seventeen days to cross, too. German submarines were operating just outside New York harbor at this time. From the moment they stepped on board they were in the war, with strict safety rules, submarine guards, no lights.
They landed at Tillbury Docks, Gravesend, London, the morning of June 21. As they stepped from the boat they were handed a card bearing greetings from King George. Their look at London was short, for they immediately went aboard a train and whisked away to Winchester. They spent five days there at a "rest camp." The men always italicize this term when they say it. There wasn’t much rest. Still, there was relaxation and a change from the monotony of ship life. After five days they went to Southhampton by train and took a small channel steamer for Le Havre, the famous French port in Normandy. Past the English fortifications they dashed, one small ship, packed to the gunwales with men, accompanied by two destroyers, The moon came up, absolutely full. Toward dawn they fell asleep. When they awoke they were snuggled alongside a dock, in France at last.
They disembarked a little later and then started trudging with full packs to a British rest camp at the outskirts of Le Havre. It was a peculiar place, inhabited by troops of a dozen nations, French, English, Scotch, Canadians, Australians, Portuguese, Italians, Sengalese, Moroccans, Indo-Chinese. The boys fell in with them like veterans. They made themselves at home in the barracks and tried to get used to the "chow."
The roads they sped over were camouflaged with chicken wire nailed to poles, the netting being laid between the German lines and the road. The village of Minorville was brigade headquarters and was occupied by troops in reserve. It must have been the dirtiest, most unkempt village in France. Shell had taken off about half the roofs, but it was not the ruin that impressed but the neglect, the dirt, the debris. Soldiers lounged along the streets – Yanks. They were of the Eighty-second and had been "up front." They had been put in to hold the lines against Fritz and they had held.
As they left Minorville they came to a sign along the road: "Gas masks will be worn at the alert position from here on forward," read the sign. They squirmed around in their crowded positions and adjusted the masks snugly up on their chests, about 4 inches below the chin.
The sky was cloudless. The French countryside was fair, with only an occasional pockmark that told of the burst of a shell. It was a picnic, not war. Here they bowled along, day perfect, lunches tied up in their packs, spirits joyous, interested hugely in every passing clump of trees or ditch or house. They came into the clear and the graceful rockets showed No Man’s Land ahead of us. Farther north there was the rumble of thunder-heavy artillery. They disembarked from the trucks and staggered up the road.
Guides were ready for them and they followed theirs into the communication trench that led to their position. From the road to their position was a sweet little jaunt of a mere two miles, loaded to the exhaustion point. They had to hurry, else dawn would be on the people they were to relieve before they could get back to their positions, and yet frequent stops to catch their breath were imperative.
Trenches abound in odors, but half way to their position they detected one they had been taught to watch for – gas. Down went the guns, the tripods and ammunition and everyone slid into his mask. Traveling had been hard enough before – now it was next to impossible. Somehow they made it to their positions. The men they relieved looked that way. All along their sector the men of the Eighty-ninth were slipping into place and the men of the Eighty-second slipping out. A good two hours before dawn all their sentries were posted, all their machine guns emplaced. Nervous doughboys were gripping their rifles and excitedly peering over the parapet as a rat scampered by and dislodged a clod; whispered consultations were being held as to the exact nature of some dimly outlined shape in front of the trench, and debate was hot as to whether it moved or did not move; feverish second looeys were poring over maps and endeavoring to figure just where the Boche were; staff officers were making reports to those higher up. The Eighty-ninth was holding the line at last!
The infantry regiments were to hold the trenches. The raid that they had been told to expect did not materialize, so they had their trenches to themselves that night. It was better that way, for no one wishes guests on the first night in a new home. Everyone was nervous. In the chilly hours just before dawn a man’s imagination is running top speed and the barbed wire post just in front of him moves if he looks at it long enough and the whisper of the wind through the long grass deepens to the guttural mutters of a German patrol. Occasionally some "doughboy" would be unable to stand the strain and would fire wildly, bringing a hurried visit from a sergeant.
Finally dawn came, and as the light grew they could make out the ground in front of them, the valley, shrouded in mist, the ruined town of Limey to their right and Flirey to their left, the Metz road leading over the hill into Germany and mystery. Even before the sun was up they could discern a "sausage" hovering like a suspended elephant far back in the Boche lines. Someone else made out two planes winging their way across our front. Everything was still, and not a human being was in sight.
The vast majority – enjoyed the first tour of the trenches. It was a free unhampered sort of life. Of course discipline was strict, orders were numerous and the work never seemed to have an end in sight, but it was healthy, albeit dirty; interesting, although with the spice of danger; comfortable, even in the crude sort of comfort of a hunting party. The men lived in holes burrowed toward the enemy. Every man took a great pride in his particular "home", usually shared with one of two bunkies. They would scrape the holes clean, enlarge them, line them with "shelter-halves" and then tastefully dispose their packets, blankets, mess kits and shaving apparatus. A man had to insert himself into his "home" with just the right degree of care, else his foot would lodge in his mess kit.
They also took pride in being shaved daily, although water had to be carried three miles. However, if a man goes about it right he doesn’t need much water. In fact, we used captured German beer at St. Mihiel, and while it was sticky, it worked up a lather.
They also saw to it that the trenches were kept clean. One would no more throw a piece of paper into the trench than he would throw it into his front yard. Orders were to keep out of sight when planes passed over and the doughboys developed considerable ingenuity in twisting out of a hole to look at a plane without exposing themselves.
"Chow" was supplied from the company kitchen twice a day. The kitchen was located in a grove of trees on the reverse slope of a hill, about three miles away. Sometimes the Germans were unkind enough to shell the kitchen and since cooks are only human they were bound to cease their ministrations and seek cover. Carrying parties went for the "chow" in the morning and in the evening and staggered up two miles of trench, loaded with marmite cans, suspended from poles. These cans kept the food hot and there was always plenty. Rations in the front lines were all that could be asked, fresh meat, vegetables, bread, syrup, and coffee. Often bread pudding would intrude its hideous presence, and canned salmon – the "submarine turkey" of the "doughboys" anathema. Tobacco was a part of the ration, and they could get cigarettes from a near-by Y. M. C. A. hut, also cookies, of a French persuasion, and chocolate.
The weather had been clear and the trenches comfortable, and artillery and infantry activity was light, so we were allowed to hold our positions for twelve days before a relief was made. Several times small German patrols got as far as their lines, but when they were discovered they did not linger long. Activity on the whole Eighty-ninth sector was confined to work on the trenches in the daytime and patrolling duty at night. A defense system was worked out and the machine guns placed to sweep the territory they would have to cross to get at us.
Waiting for the relieving party in the trenches is an exasperating job. You feel sure that they do not realize the importance of haste; that they must be loafing along the road somewhere in back of you. You watch the hours go by and the silence of the night seems ominous, for you figure that the Germans probably have the exact dope on the relief and are waiting to catch you on the roads going back. Slowly they work their way back through the communication trenches and find the trucks that are to take them to the reserve position. The road is dark and frequently a debate is held at a fork as to the proper course, but eventually every one finds his way to Manonville just as the dawn is breaking. Billets are ready and every one tumbles in.
Most "doughboys" will tell you that they prefer the front lines to the reserve and support positions, because the enemy artillery seldom goes after the front trenches unless a raid is imminent, but prefers to strafe the roads and lines of communication further back. Enemy planes locate the position of ammunition dumps and supply dumps and mark villages where troops are billeted and their artillery shells these frequently.
Soldiers of the Eighty-ninth, who were not holding the front lines, were called on to dig an elaborate system of trenches, laid about two kilometers in back of the positions they were holding. After eight days in reserve they moved up to the support positions in a woods. Life here greatly resembled existence in a hunting camp. Drill was, of course, out of the question and their vigilance during the day could be relaxed because another line of "doughboys" was between them and the Boche. Deep dugouts were plentiful and except for fleas and rats were tenable. The woods abounded in wild blackberries and when the men didn’t have anything else to do they gathered them and the cooks made them up into pies.
At night they grew more watchful, especially for gas, because Jerry had figured that troops inhabited these woods and knew that gas would linger in the foliage. Every five nights seemed to be his rate of giving a gas attack, for in this, as in everything else, he was methodical. They caught theirs the third night in and one platoon got most of it. The orders were to withdraw to high ground and this they did, at midnight, loaded with the guns. Four men were severely gassed and sent to the rear.
After ten days in the support position they moved to the front lines for the second time. They knew every foot of ground there and dared the Boche to come over. It’s funny how a man’s attitude changes. During the first few nights a person only hopes that the Germans will delay their attack until he is better prepared for them. After that he wishes they would come, because he feels sure everyone is prepared and he would like to see how well the preparations would avail. Then comes the third stage when the "doughboy" gets tired of waiting for the other fellow to start something and hankers to get over and start things himself.
The Germans put on a beautifully-timed raid on the third night back in the front lines. The raid was preceded by a box barrage that was a marvel of accuracy. The trench they were in was in the line of resistance and the outpost line was ahead of us. Two parallel communication trenches, about 800 yards apart, ran forward from their trench. The German box barrage was designed to hit their trench and the two trenches leading forward, to prevent them from going forward to join the advance party.
The German airmen certainly had given their artillery men the exact location of those trenches. The barrage started at 4:30 in the morning and lasted until 5:30. Behind the barrage came the German raiding party, about 200 strong. They filtered through the American advance outguards, and got behind the trench occupied by the outposts, and from a position in a cemetery threw hand grenades. The men replied with grenades and rifles and formed for attack in their trench. At a command they leaped out and ran at the Boche, yelling like Indians. This took the fight out of most of them, and the others were bayonetted or retreated.
During their last stay in the front-line trenches in the Toul sector they gradually were made aware that they would not be relieved, but would hold where they were until the order came to go over the top. Since the weather had changed and it now rained every night and every day, almost continuously and their trenches were a mass of mud, they fervently hoped that the attack would be ordered soon and give them a chance to take the dry hills in front of them.
The weather was both favorable and unfavorable for the preparation for a drive. The constant rain and overcast skies made German airplane and balloon observation impossible, but it also made the roads bad. Darkness would gather by 7 o’clock and the cold rain increase in violence. Life in the trenches at this time lost considerable of its joy. Even an approximation of comfort was out of the question. The trenches were knee-deep in water in many places and everything a man possessed soon became coated with mud. Even sleep was scarce because of the increased night vigilance.
A constant stream of trucks, marching soldiers, artillery caissons, machine-gun carts, rolling kitchens lumbered by. In sheltered fields great tents were going up, reminiscent of circus day at home. Soon the operating tables and shining instruments would be laid out in those tents and surgeons and nurses would wait for the trickle of wounded that would start almost with the first shots of the barrage and swell in volume as the drive got under way. The confusion seemed complete, and yet every one was bending to the one task allotted him, and every one would get there on time–somehow.
Late in the afternoon of September 11 it grew lighter and the rain ceased. The slow-moving procession toward the front still went on. Back in support positions doughboys were getting a final hot meal, all ready to surge forward over the roads to their jumping-off places as soon as it was dark enough to travel.
In the front trenches every one was getting ready to go. The packs were stripped of everything but mess kits, iron rations and an extra pair of socks and toilet articles. It was optional with the man whether he slept in a blanket or not. Slickers were left out of the pack because they expected rain again any minute. Rifles and pistols were given a final polishing, ammunition was counted and arranged over the person, gas masks given a final test.
Shortly after dusk they got their orders from brigade headquarters. They learned that the barrage was to start at 1 in the morning of September 12 and would concentrate at first on the German rear positions, pounding roads, dugouts, villages. The zero hour, or "H" hour was just at 5 a.m. and an hour before this time the artillery would shirt to the positions just in front of them trying to smash trenches and cut barbed wired. At 10:30 the night of September 11, they lined up in their trenches preparatory to making the hike of half a mile through a communication trench to the jump-off position. The rain had started again and it was pitch dark. One could not see 8 feet in front of him. He could barely make out the walls of the trenches he was standing in. The trenches were knee-deep in mud and slime and they stood in them, motionless, for an hour and a half, waiting for the road ahead to clear so they could move. Finally they got out onto a road, leading up the front.
The road was being used by the men of three divisions, packed shoulder to shoulder across its breadth. Men of the 90th were on the right edge of the road, working forward in columns of two. In the center were the marines, of the Second Division, and the 89th had the left edge. Men kept their free hands on the shoulder of the man in front and stuck with him. If someone slipped or the line became broken the word passed up front:
"Halt!"
Back would come a query from the company commander as to the cause of delay. Then the line would jostle forward again, sloshing through the mud, rain trickling off tin hats onto burdened shoulders.
At 1 o’clock they were cutting across a bit of open field to the jumping-off trench, when the barrage started. Every gun along the 30-mile front seemed to open at once, on the tick of the second hand.
The battery of the 75s behind them was firing directly over their heads and the short, crisp bark sounded right in their ears. The sound was magnificent. After the first shock of the sudden blast had died away they became accustomed to the concentrated turmoil and they could note its pulsations. It would swell and recede, like the roar of the sea.
The murky sky was rent by innumerable flashes, like summer heat lightning multiplied a thousand times. There was a low undercurrent of throbbing noise that persisted through the sharper blasts. That was the bursting of the projectiles far back within the German lines. As it grew lighter, smoking was permitted and everyone pulled excitedly at cigarettes. They worked forward until we were in place to climb out of the trenches and go over.
They had an hour for meditation, or low-toned conversation, prayer, memories – whatever a man desired. Now the barrage had come close and was playing on the barbed wire and trenches, just in front of them. The shells were bursting as few as 200 yards in front, and the din had become terrific. One had to shout in the ear of the man next to him to be understood. The rat-tat-tat of machine guns now became apparent. They were their own, laying down a close-in barrage. As the bullets passed over their heads, each one cracked, exactly like the snap of a whip. When they hiss it means they are much closer.
Everyone’s eyes constantly re-returned to the dial of his wrist watch to note how the hands moved slowly to 5 o’clock. Five minutes more – a hasty survey of pistol belt, ammunition clips, rifle, pack; two minutes – the German machine guns were opening and the bullets had a new sing as they passed over the trench; one minute – everyone ready? Then the platoon leader, or company commander, would make a leap at the parapet, swing himself up on top, turn to the men and yell: "Let’s go!"
They would swarm after him, helping each other up. Those up first pushed back the strands of barbed wire and waited for the others before they formed. The Infantry spread into open skirmish formation and moved forward at a rapid walk. One hundred yards in front the creeping barrage was moving. In the uproar no one could distinguish one shell from another until the sudden upheaval of the earth in front told
where one had landed.
They knew only one thing, to go ahead. "The command is forward." The sun had come out now and the fog had lifted and they could see their planes zooming up and down over their heads as they advanced. It was the pilots’ job to show the artillery how far they had gotten. Not ten minutes after they started they saw one plane crash, riddled with bullets from a German machine gun. The day grew warm and they were covered with grime. The doughboys were scouting ahead, cleaning out dugouts and machine-gun nests. Then they ran into the German counter barrage and took squad formation as the best protection of a moving body of men against shell fire. They penetrated the Bois de Mort Homme and found the advance party of doughboys there. They had traveled too fast and their own barrage was tearing into the trees then.
The doughboys had about 300 German prisoners collected. They ranged in apparent ages from 14 to 50. The wounded were collected under the trees for first aid and the unwounded Boche were being impressed into service to carry the wounded back.
They moved on again and staggered up to their first objective, beating the schedule by two hours. Every one heaved himself on the ground and panted. After five minutes of relaxation they nibbled at their canned "willy" and hard tack and took cautious sips of water, for they had not eaten or drank anything for well over twelve active hours.
They began to realize that they were in German territory. There were the sign posts, warning against gas or directing to some command post. There were the abandoned German helmets and pieces of uniform. They looked curiously at the country round and thought of the days and nights they laid their own trenches and wondered what was taking place over here. The German dugouts were elaborate. Most of them were lighted by electricity and had good stoves. Many were large and roomy and could easily accommodate 100 men.
The going was more difficult now, for they were getting out of range of their lighter guns and into the secondary German line of defense. German "whiz-bangs" were operating successfully against them. The "whizzer" is reputed to be an Austrian 88-millimeter rifle, with a very low trajectory and high velocity. The shells came exceeding fast, the scream of approach being followed immediately by the explosion. There is a brief second of time with other shells before they explode, and a man has a chance to throw himself flat, but there is no dodging a "whizzer."
There were numerous casualties before they got shelter in a depression. It was then about noon. The sky was clear, for the first time in eight days. They had reached their objective and were called on now to dig in, to consolidate the positions against a probable counter attack. They were dog-tired and went slowly about the work of digging in. All along the line doughboys and machine gunners of the Eighty-ninth were consolidating, getting ready to hold what they had just taken. Down below us in Boullionville some of the doughboys had found a German train on a narrow-gauge track, loaded with delicacies for German wounded. Everyone helped themselves to blankets, new underwear, socks, cigarettes and cigars.
Dusk came on and they began to get word of the entire drive. They learned that thousands of Germans had been captured, that their own casualties were light and that the high command was delighted by the showing of the First American Army in its first major operation. As the shades of night gathered they made ready to abandon their hurriedly dug fox holes and move forward to lay in wait for a counter attack. They had not slept the preceding night and little the night before that. They trudged down the slope into the village of Boullionville and noted where their artillery had smashed it. They toiled up a road to a plateau that lay on the north of Boullionville and passed many German dead, mangled by our shell fire. They were twisted in grotesque positions. They noted curiously the ghastly whiteness of their faces.
It was raining, cold, dark when they reached the plateau, and they got an order to lie down in the field and wait. They had donned their slickers, and wrapped in these they stretched out on the ground and let the rain soak in on us. Far in front of them they could see the flames of burning Thiacourt. They waited patiently until midnight, but the Boche didn’t favor us with an attack.
At midnight they moved to take up their positions for the next day’s attack. All night they marched by the compass and the north star, and at 3:30 came to a ditch beside the Metz road that was near to the position they sought. They threw themselves in the ditch, while their captain hunted brigade headquarters to get orders. He returned in an hour and they dragged themselves forward again. They stumbled up a hill and came close to the village of Beney. This had not yet been cleaned out and the attack was to start there at dawn. They were so utterly exhausted that they were numb. It isn’t the danger nor the pain that the soldier minds, but the hardships of the march, the digging in without shelter, the living in the rain.
At dawn the attack started. Beney was cleaned and the line swept toward Xammes. The going was tough. The day was cloudy, and their planes had difficult keeping touch with them and locating the German batteries that had been set up during the night. Furthermore, their mastery of the air was no longer uncontested, and the famed Richthofen circus had come to harass them. The advance, outside of Beney, was up a long, gentle slope, and the Boche had a battery of 88s placed at the top that could sweep the slope. Vainly their planes went over to locate the battery. As the doughboys walked up the slope, in squad columns, the battery fired point blank at them. The attack went forward three times, was halted half way by the rain of projectiles and fell back. It was an hour before the battery was flanked and its gunners bayoneted.
The lines through Xammes was their second and final objective and it was gained ahead of schedule. The Boche artillery fire was gaining hourly in intensity, as they rushed up reserves, and the artillery had not had time to catch them. Boche planes grew in numbers. The evening of the first day they saw a wonderful air battle, right over their positions, the wings of the planes gleaming silver in the evening sun. At least sixty planes were engaged in a "dog fight," every one for himself. It was at least a ten-ring circus. Three or four planes would go at each other, twisting, diving suddenly, side-slipping. The air was full of the streaks of tracer bullets and the putter of machine guns. Suddenly one plane far up in the air, burst into flame and began to fall. They watched it twist and turn, now dropping rapidly, now drifting down and they knew that the poor devil who had guided it was past help now. Blazing like a torch it crashed to the ground. Hardly had they raised their eyes to the struggling planes again than they saw a second plane go down in flames.
They had not slept for two nights and had not eaten anything except canned corned beef and hard tack for two days. To put it mildly, they were ravenous. When they got into Beney they were forced to wait for three hours. Beney was a village of perhaps 1000 souls. German officers had been billeted there and German soldiers had cultivated the gardens. The Boches were shelling the town constantly, but no one paid much attention to the explosions. A man soon develops the philosophy that if he is destined to get hit he will be hit and there is no use worrying about it.
Soon the men were foraging about the place for food. The first contingent explored the gardens and came back with arms full of carrots and cabbages. Pretty soon another contingent of explorers found a kitchen close-by. It contained everything a well-regulated German kitchen should contain – post, pans, spices, jams, potatoes, lard, two wood stoves, coffee, black bread. They didn’t see any meat but a muffled squawk came to them out of an adjacent shed and presently a soldier entered the kitchen bearing two speckled German hens. Some buck from the Middle West, who had administered the coup de grace to many a fowl on his native farm, effected the execution of this pair and willing hands fell to plucking them of their feathers. Someone else had brought wood for the fire. Another had pulled down a skillet and was greasing it. There were representatives of three divisions and numerous regiments gathered about, assisting in the preparation of the meal. It was a queer situation. Each party of doughboys rummaged busily among the pots and pans and went about the preparation of his meal quite unconcerned that shells were dropping in the fields near-by and might hit his shelter at any moment.
Digging in was a rotten job. They didn’t have enough short-handled picks and shovels for everyone, and a man had to work awhile with a pick and then turn it over to his neighbor, and scoop out the dirt with the lid of his mess-kit. They were racing like mad to get their holes deep enough to give them protection in case the Germans shifted their artillery fire to their road. As they dug they threw the dirt toward the enemy and built up a small parapet. Later they would connect the holes so a man could go along the line without leaving protection. As the days and nights passed each soldier would deepen and broaden his hole and extend it toward the hole beside him. When all were connected there was a continuous trench. Later, communication trenches were dug towards the rear to facilitate the bringing up of supplies.
They weren’t planning on any future trench system, but they were grimly in earnest about getting their own holes deep enough. Long after midnight everyone had scooped out a hole about 3 feet wide, 6 feet long and 4 feet deep. Blankets were spread in these, and everyone who could be spared from his vigil slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.
They knew that all along their line the Eighty-ninth had attained all its objectives ahead of time and were now strengthening those positions. Things become really heart-breaking when the advance is over and men are required to lay in shallow holes, pounded by enemy artillery, the ground swept by machine-gun fire, hostile airplanes sweeping through the sky, dropping bombs and turning their machine guns into the trenches. The Eighty-ninth remained dug in on the St. Mihiel front from September 13 to October 1, and on that date took over the sector held by the Forty-second, or Rainbow, Division, holding there until October 8, when they were sent to the Argonne forest to take part in the drive along the Meuse River.
Life along the front held a great deal of sameness after the first thrill of consolidating positions was over. Regiments and battalions relieved each other in the front positions and the outfits in the rear had the opportunity to relax a little, wash their clothing and get hot and regular meals. In the front positions the men still lived in foxholes. "Foxhole" was the doughboy’s name for the shelter he dug for himself in the side of a hill. Days were a great deal alike in the foxholes and yet filled with plenty of excitement. To the right of Xammes was a large and luxuriant cabbage patch, and many of the infantry dug in there because the ground was soft. The Germans shelled the town at about one-hour intervals and the cabbage patch always got more than its share.
A stroll down the road into Xammes was a high adventure, for the shelling might start at any moment and there was no protection against it. The terrain here was rolling and green. The foxholes were dug in the slopes of the gentle hills. Engineers were working desperately to repair the roads to enable the artillery and supply trains to come up.
As dawn came on a person could make out the figures of soldiers squatting in their holes near by. Usually two men occupied a hole together, and if they were both fortunate they were sleeping in utter exhaustion, huddled together for warmth. We had "borrowed" a number of mattresses from the German stores of supplies in Xammes, and these were placed in the bottom of the holes. When it rained all a person could do was wait resignedly and bail out his home when the downpour had ceased.
When it grew lighter most of the men would bestir themselves and take a bored view of the new day. A man then would go about making his toilet. If he were lucky his water supply would consist of a few drops in a canteen. The first process was a vigorous shaking. Rising cautiously, the "buck" would remove his "tin hat" and shake out the accumulation of clods that had lodged in his hair throughout the night. He would then "dust" his hair with his hand and set about seeking a piece of mirror. The mirror would be propped up in a niche and the soldier would cautiously survey himself. If he were a strong man he could survive the initial shock without losing the desire to live. For a man becomes exceedingly unbeautiful when his post office address is a ditch, dirt showing its strong affinity for the human countenance.
Sighing, the doughboy would resume his toilet. Fumbling in his pack, still on his knees, he would bring forth a rag that would make a skillet shudder. Carefully removing the stopper of his canteen, he would transfer a few drops to the rag and go about washing his face as cats and rabbits do, making up for lack of moisture by the vigor of the application. The drying would be done with the other end of the rag. Then he would part his hair with his fingers, readjust the tin hat and be ready for the day. Shaving was a much more intricate and painful process. Let whiskers grow for three or four days and mix them with grime and a razor meets stubborn resistance.
As the day would come on their chief duty would be to keep out of sight and on the alert. Soon the hum of airplane motors would come to their ears and a cautious survey of the sky would show half a dozen planes in battle formation, ranging above their lines. It was exceedingly interesting speculation whether they were Allied planes or Boche. Glasses would be brought into play, and finally a close scrutiny would reveal the circular markings of an allied plane—or the black Maltese cross of the Germans. If they were Boche every one would remain low and motionless. Whoever was moving at the moment dropped where he was and stayed there. At the same time every one kept a sharp eye on the invaders. Sometimes a plane would sharply disengage itself from the formation and suddenly swoop low over the rows of foxholes. A warning cry would run along the line, and every one would strain his ears for the first crackle of machine-gun fire from the plane. When the burst came every one would huddle in the corner nearest the direction of approach of the plane and draw in his legs and arms to the smallest compass. An anxious moment while the plane was zooming above, and then it was past. No one allowed himself the luxury of a breath of relief, however, for they knew how fast the plane could wheel in its tracks and pay a return visit. Usually the plane paid several return engagements, varying its angle of approach and making the men in the foxholes seek different positions.
Bombing always added to the delights of a perfect day. An airplane bomb makes a much louder noise than an exploding shell and gives a much greater feeling of danger. There is nothing to do but stick it out and hope to be lucky. As the day wears on the shelling grows in intensity. Doughboys, busily engaged in figuring where an approaching shell will land, have time to "cuss out" their own artillery. As a matter of fact, the artillery is having its hands full "back there" dragging up their guns over impossible roads, meeting a rain of shell fire, hurrying without rest to gain new positions and support their infantry. The doughboy doesn’t take his criticism seriously, but it is human nature to think the other fellow is loafing and having it easy while you are working hard.
Among the stores captured in Xammes were many kegs of German beer. It was dark and sweetish, evidently a kind of Muenchener, but of poor quality. However, with water scarce, it was decidedly welcome—and perhaps would have been welcome even with water abundant. Every so often one could see a strange procession coming down the road out of Xammes. As it came closer one could make out half a dozen doughboys in solemn escort of a keg of beer, mounted on a wheelbarrow. They would relieve each other at the handles of the wheelbarrow and never slacken their progress toward their own positions. That beer came in handy, for washing and shaving (and drinking). It was too insipid to tempt any one to drink too much.
With the beer the Germans had stored thousands of cartons of a compressed honey that seemed to be a popular article of their diet. It probably was a chemical, synthetic honey and had about the consistency of a paste. It came in cubicle boxes, about three inches in all directions and, served with German hardtack, it made an acceptable food. The German hardtack came in muslin sacks, holding about three pounds. They also captured hundreds of earthen jars of apple butter. This honey and hardtack and jam was their ration for three days until their kitchens caught up with them. Of course, soldiers are fond of sweets and they appreciated the Germans leaving them anything to eat, but you can bet it palled on the jaded appetite after the first day. Every one accumulated a store of jam, honey and hardtack in his foxhole and served his own meals whenever the fancy moved him. These "meals" and the shelling were the only diversions.
Of course most of the night was spent in vigilance, but occasionally every one got the chance to sleep. Sleeping in a foxhole is just one step better than never sleeping. The damp from the earth strikes through the blankets and clothing and thoroughly chills. Your pillow is the useful "tin hat," which doesn’t make a bad head rest, if it be pulled down on the back of the neck. It is almost imperative that a person sleep on his back because the gas mask is tied under the chin and prevents much rolling about. As you stretch your legs and carefully place your head in the tin hat you discover how much loose earth fringes the edge of your "home," poised to roll in on you. The slightest move brings down a shower of clods. Dirt finds its way into your eyes and you feel the insistent bulge of a large lump that has lodged just under your backbone. If you are sufficiently exhausted—and it is probable you are in this condition—you pass up these minor inconveniences and fall asleep.
Hours later you are snatched from a land of sunshine to the wide-awake realization that shells are bursting near. The detonations are rocking the ground around you and new clods are being dislodged and are tumbling in on you. You hear the zing of shell fragments cutting the air. Strange as it may seem, a man can sleep peacefully during a bombardment. As soon as you can assure yourself that the shells are not destined for your immediate neighborhood, you fall peacefully to sleep again. Shell fire has a lulling effect on the nerves of a tired man.
After several hours of sleep it is time to go on guard. The vigil in the foxhole differs from the vigil in the trenches. Lights and other of the pyrotechnics of No Man’s Land are taboo in open warfare and the blackness has no relief. The Germans were reputed to use "duck calls" or an imitation of the chirp of birds as a means of keeping in touch with each other when they came over in patrols, and it was easy to imagine this sound during the stillness of the night. During all this drive in the St. Mihiel sector and during the consolidation after the drive, men were being killed and wounded, gassed and overcome by the horrible fatigue of the thing.
The companies were to take up positions in the Bois de Bantheville at midnight of October 31. The attack that was to take place the next morning, November 1, was what was later known as the last phase of the Meuse-Argonne offensive. This attack had been planned for weeks and a date had been set several times and then abandoned. The Germans were well aware the attack was coming and were amply prepared for it. The Eighty-ninth was pressing on, the men who were left, and were holding the center of the forward curve in this drive, as they had held it at St. Mihiel.
On the night of November 10 they crossed the Meuse River under terrific fire of artillery and machine guns, located on the heights of the opposite bank. This has been described as the most spectacular incident of the war. The losses were very heavy, but on the fateful 11th they were dug in on the east bank of the Meuse, still going strong. It was for their deeds of heroism that the Eighty-ninth was chosen to form part of the Third American Army, the army of occupation that occupied German territory on the Rhine. They had gained a reputation as the division that never failed to take an objective and never was late in taking one. Col. Conrad S. Babcock, now in command of the Three Hundred and Fifty-fourth Infantry, summed it up: "I have seen my regiment go into an attack, get its objectives and then dig in and hold. They had taken along no slickers and few rations. Supplies could not be brought up. The men lay in the mud and the rain came down on them. What did they do? Why, they walked half the night to get enough warmth in themselves to sleep through the other half. Will their folks in St. Louis and the other Missouri towns ever realize how their sons fought and went through the campaigns? Will the people of any part of our country? I do not think it is possible for them to do so. Only the men who have been in France can understand."
"Mud? The man back home talks of mud when he gets the uppers of his shoes dirty, but mud will always be a horrible word for the returned soldier. The very day the armistice was signed I went through the regiment, telling them it was all off. I remember going through a field, when I found a lone doughboy. He was trudging along with his pack and his shoes and puttees were caked with red."
" ‘It’s all over,’ I said. ‘The armistice has been signed.’
" ‘Thank God,’ he replied. ‘Now we can get out of the mud.’ It was his first thought. He had been sleeping in it, marching in it, living in it for weeks."
The 89th Infantry in France two minutes before 11:00 A.M. on November 11, 1918
Insert pictures from Germany of destruction and men in Company A info about occupation
On May 22, 1919, Hiram returned from overseas aboard the Imperator.
Insert card given when they arrived
He was discharged on June 2, 1919, almost exactly one year from the day he headed overseas. Frieda Schulte noted his return in the Mary's Home items for the Eldon Advertiser.
Later that year, Hiram celebrated his engagement to Frieda, stating, he "had to wait for her to get out of diapers." Frieda was ten years younger than Hiram.
Hiram Hart and Frieda Schulte were married on February 16, 1920, two weeks after her eighteenth birthday, at 4:00 P.M. in Mary’s Home, Missouri, at Our Lady of Snows Church.
On March 3, Hiram left for Nebraska to work with his brother Eldo. Frieda joined him there in June. The couple returned to Mary's Home in September. The next spring he headed for Nebraska again but had bad luck. He went on to Kansas but was too late for harvesting the wheat. He found work threshing the wheat.
Waiting for a train home at the depot in Kansas City in July 1921, hungry and tired, he swears this will be his last trip without Frieda.
Hiram and his younger brother Bill walked from Mary's Home to Henley to work at a tiff mine. The dirt was taken out by mule and carts.
As Hiram and Frieda began their lives together, her father was trying to send help to his siblings struggling to survive in Germany. John Henry (Johann Heinrich) Schulte wrote this letter in 1923, enclosing money orders from him and his brother August.
insert letter and translation
Due to her parent's illness Hiram and Frieda took over her parents' general store and continued to run it for over sixty years.
