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The Indian Magazine
Volume 1, No. 4 — May 6, 1919

Siegfried At Drachenfels

"This country sure was THE place for a fightin' man, way back many years ago, before Caesar set the styles in Armies of Occupation," remarked Grumpy Baldwin, as the You-Tell-'Em and I-Believe-It Club settled down for their weekly session.

"Take this here Siegfried fellow, f'r instance. Here he was, as strong as an ox, an' as good-lookin' as a furlough to the States, with a tender, lovin' mother, an' a rich dad who gave him anything he wanted, just so's it didn't cost more'n a mark, wholesale. But no—he wasn't satisfied—he wanted to see the world, an' there bein' no American army to join, he has to see the world at his own expense.

"So he hot-foots it up the Rhine, looking for small change an' adventures. Nothin' much happens in the adventure line, as business is rather dull, until he reaches the Sebenbrugen, which, for the ed-i-fi-cation of the ignorant, means Seven Mountains—only they ain't mountains, they're little hills.

"Among these hills is a blacksmith named Mimer, who was famed for his sword makin', an' as Siegfried had taken the first few lessons in Mimer's I. C. S. Mail Order Course in Sword Makin', he thought he might as well finish an' get his money's worth.

"But ol' Mimer, seein' as how Siegfried was much stronger and more intelligent than he was, is afraid that Siegfried will take his best customers, an' bein' too yellow to fight it out, he schemes as to how he can get rid of Siegfried without the coroner gettin' wise. So one day he sends Siegfried to the woods on a mountain top in the Sebenbrugen, overlookin' the Rhine, where Drachenfels ruins are now, to fetch some charcoal, an' on this peak was a dragon that ate nothin' but meat, an' preferred to kill it himself.

"Siegfried didn't know about this here dragon, so he went, amusin' hisself along the way by uprooting trees an' big boulders.

"Well, as Siegfried was standin' by a fire, waitin' for his charcoal, an' thinkin' nothin' but what a good time he'd have in Cologne on his month's pay of five pfennigs, and seventy groats fer overtime, this dragon sneaks up on him with the intention of havin' a square meal at our hero's expense—but as Siegfried has different intentions, they fights it out.

"Advancin' to the center uv the ring, they sparred for position. Siegfried, by some clever side-steppin', gets the sun in the dragon's eyes, an' also his right fist. He follows that with a left to the stomach. The dragon blocked, an' countered with a swift hook, but was stopped by a uppercut from Siegfried's left.

Dragon clinched, an' only the gong saved him from a knockout. The end uv the twelfth round found the dragon groggy, but still goin' strong, despairin', however, uv winnin'.

"Hitherto he'd played fair, but his appetite got the better uv his sense uv fair play. Now, all dragons has very fiery poisonous breath, an' this one was no exception, so he tries to gas Siegfried, but Siegfried gets his mask on in the regulation six seconds, picks up a burnin' branch from the fire, advances on Herr Dragon, an' just as the dragon opens his face to holler liamerad!' Siegfried jams the burnin' branch down Mr. Dragon's throat, an' that finishes him.

"Siegfried's first impulse was to twist off the dragon's head for a souvenir to send to his girl. So he jerks it off an' to his astonishment a stream uv blood pours outa the dragon's corpse. A little bird tells Siegfried to bathe in the blood, as it will make him invulnerable to sword points an' bullets an' everything. So he plunges in, but a leaf from a tree drops on his back, an' so one little part of him fails to get this novel life insurance. But Siegfried isn't wise to that. Pickin' up the dragon's head he beats it homeward, so's to get in before taps.

"Friend Mimer doesn't see him comin' till it's too late to run, an' Siegfried, realizin' what a double-crossin' hound Mimer was, up and belts him a rap alongside the jaw, killin' him, thus savin' the hangman a job. Believe me, that boy was SOME scrapper.

"So you see the Huns wasn't so very much different in them days from what they are now. Right there is where they got their ideas for poison gas an' flame throwers an' double-crossin', an a lot of things too numerous to mention. Ain't I right?"

"Correct," said the bunch, and the club proceeded to other business.

—0. J. Anderson, First Field Signal Battalion.
Company C, Fifth Machine Gun Battalion

First Sergeant Maroney feels that after twelve years in the army there is no real reason why he should not re-enlist. Sergeant Maroney wishes it to be known that all the old soldiers are not gone. He has found 15 in Company C.


With the increase in aspirants for a liberal education, comes new trials for the "top" and company clerk. They find a real job in furnishing a guard detail without a roar of protest from all sides. More grief.

Company H, Twenty-Third Infantry

Just before the advance at St. Mihiel, some new replacements from the 163rd Infantry joined this organization, this being their first experience at the front.

We were preparing to go over the top about 5 o'clock on the morning of September 12, 1918, when one of these replacements asked this question of one of the old men of the company: "What kind of birds are they, singing so early in the morning?" Upon being told they were machine gun bullets he sustained a terrible shock. Since that time he has a habit of taking the prone position every time he hears a bird sing.


Upon the signing of the armistice at 11 a. m., November 11, H Company, Twenty-third Infantry, was ordered to leave its position and relieve a detachment of the —th Division.

As we did not start until late, we did not reach our new position until about 10 o'clock at night the same date. No trouble was encountered until our mess sergeant, Charles F. Schultz, came along with his rolling kitchen.

This sergeant, being very particular, struck a few matches to see if it was a fit place for his kitchen. Two gallant recruits of the —th Division came charging down upon him with fixed bayonets, ordering him to "Put out that light."

Sergeant Schultz, being a mess sergeant (enough said"), wanted to know what they had to do with it, when one of the gallant warriors replied: "Well, if you fellows had been under fire as much as we have, you would be more careful about your lights."

The funniest part of it was the Boche on one side, and the troops on our side, had fires burning all over the country, while we could hear the marines singing: "The Second Division went over the top, parlez vous."


Upon arriving at Engers-on-Rhine, about the 15th of December, Company H, Twenty-third Infantry, was stationed at that place for about four days. One of the sergeants of this company was billeted with a German family which tried to make things pleasant for him.

About the second day one of the children started to talk about a bomb. The sergeant was quite pleased they at last were talking about something he could understand, and started to tell them all about bombs, but did not make much of a hit with the child. The boy called his mother and sister, and they also began talking about bombs, pointing to the corner of the house.

The sergeant got up and looked out of the window, and at the house, but for the life of him could not see where any bombs had fallen. The funniest part of it was, he could understand enough of the language, with quite a few signs mixed in, to understand they expected him to be there when the bombing came off. The sergeant, having been at the front for quite a while, made up his mind if there was going to be any bombing he would be elsewhere.

This went on for three days, when at last he met a friend who understands the wig-wag well enough, and had him interpret. The Germans were going to have a Christmas tree, which they call a bäum, and they were trying to invite him to attend.

—Cpl. H. C. Schouter.
The Sergeants' Mess

Gunnery Sergeant Gavin, the treasurer of the sergeants' mess, has a job now that parallels his prewar occupation—that of a cop in Haverill—and once again finds the "kale" blowing his way.

"Bill" asks the boys for their "kick-in" with the easy confidence of a rabbit asking a bulldog for its pet bone; but he makes a noise like the screech of a lost prairie wolf when he sees First Sergeant V—coming in for chow, for it is reported that the "top kicker" has not "dug down" since the scrap in Belleau Woods.

Gunnery Sergeant Krieg is the noisiest man in the mess, going around with his muffler cut entirely out all the time, and seeking places where the acoustics are good. Several of the neighbors have spoken to the treasurer about the Detroiter, but Gavin can't do anything towards suppressing the effervescent sergeant. Besides, most of the members are so quiet that Bill raises the average of the gang to a respectable attitude. He wins almost all the arguments because he can talk the loudest.


Corporal Merland A. Kopka, Forty-ninth Company, Fifth Marines, who has worn out 11 chairs, 50 pairs of "specs" and a thousand pairs of pants in his former capacity as head of the department of business administration in Ypsilanti High School, is still up to his old intellectual contortions.

This is his account of a subway accident in Paris last month in which he figured, and which, happily enough, turned out to be a mere false alarm:

"Then stygian darkness ensued, momentarily interrupted by fitful gleams of weird electricity that rose and fell with ghastly effect. Men stood rivited to the spot; women screamed in abject terror, and pandemonium reigned.

To increase the realism of living death that seemed to be enshrouding the sepulchral aspect of the place, a demonical guard of barbarous foreign countenance, with accent in gutteral tones, ordered the transoms closed.

I knew the end was nigh, and with calm indifference, devoid of hope, awaited the last gruesome catastrophe."

It is easily seen that the professor's powers of observation are in a well-oiled condition.

—Sgt. John T. Dillon, 49th Co., 5th Marines.
If Only They Could Realize

German: "What do you mean by driving over a corner of my lawn? It's an outrage."

Corporal Flannigan (who drives Major L. B. Clapham's car): "You don't know when you are lucky. It's a doggone sight better than shell holes."

We're Going Home
(By A Marine)

In an ancient cottage facing the dawn, I located old Father Time without difficulty. I found myself in a great, plain room, severely gray. On a massive oaken settee before the brightly burning coals of the quaint old hearth sat one of many years, clear-eyed, stern, quiet-featured—the guardian of the ages—the object of my interview—Father Time, himself.

"Sir, do I intrude?" was the first query, the opening and closing of the heavy iron door having failed to bring attention to the entrant.

"In no way, my youth," he replied. "I am but marking time. Fresh young life brings me joyful hopes of the future. True, all must age. Even I once believed 1 could see slight changes in myself, but only for a time was I so deceived. I am a husky lad myself, not different than three or four thousand years ago. Can I aid you?" Abruptly was the pleasing personal conversation thus concluded. "Nothing about going home, however," he warned, in a calm, decisive tone, emphasized by gestures of the wrinkled hands.

"That's the topic of the day," I said. "What else is so much worth talking about? And my young fellow, you are the one supreme, conclusive autnority on that subject. Bound to no military silence, awed by no stale visions of military necessity, the one uncensored recorder of this volcanic day."

The harvester of the days had laid himself open to flattery in the opening conversation, and eagerly I followed that lead by addressing him as a "young fellow." But not a bit of it. I rather guess my host put off flattery along with his knickerbocker trousers about the time of tue first war, when Cain, manifesting greed, began butchery on his nearest neighbor—Brother Abel—which has been duplicated now and then since.

"Marine," said the old man, "the trouble with you and all the people of that great country of yours is speed. You want to breakfast in New York, lunch in Paris, and sup in the Holy City. Your trains are not swift enough. You will gain such speed soon that you will be going in circles. You seek short-cuts to knowledge. You expect, it seems, to have fortunes appear overnight. You are not, indeed, alone, in desiring results before they are duly earned by long-sustained efforts and sacrifice—the world leans that way—with you energetic Americans in the lead. Pay the price.'

"My God! As if this old world has not paid for a bit of peace; after this long dark night of sacrifice, stretching over the past four years and a half. Has there not been patience? Has there not been persistence?"

"Ah," replied Father Time, "but don't expect a new world to appear magically from the wreckage. It never has been so. The millions of allies and you Americans fought for principles. Principles which necessitate a new world. The world's premier statesmen are concluding your fight by aiming to assure permanently the victory. Patience, the world-making business was ever slow."

"Patience is all very well, but will our humble acceptance of an unambitious life on the Rhine contribute greatly to that new order you expound?" I came back quickly. "If so, for how long?"

"It must be done right. Your task is not over. Perhaps your sacrifices, and especially the ones of those in the homeland, are not yet equal to the benefits you will receive. I'll not argue that. Sit on the German lid a bit longer, lad.

"Individually," he continued, "the American soldier will improve little by an extended sojourn in Bocheland, I would say. He's not adapted to the life. His heart is in a land of energists not cluttered up with soulless human machines. Animals! Reptiles! I know, and have known, that herd from the beginning, and I do not advocate the expenditure of promising young life among them, but again—not too much speed. Patience."

"Father Time," I cried, "I own no Rollys-Royce. 1 am not a food profiteer, a world-beating millionaire; nor a government contractor. I merely have a healthy interest in this homegoing date. Please, what year will it be?"

The serene old figure arose, waving me with authority toward the door. Disappointed, I hesitated in the archway for a second, but sufficient to see a gentle expression spread over the face of Father Time. Catching hold of my arm, he whispered in my ear.

"Truly, you don't mean we are going home so soon?" I was saying, when the heavy door snapped shut with an air of finality.

Ammunition Train Jottings

There are many wild rumors flying around these days. The most recent is that the Ammunition Train show troupe is going to spring a big surprise when they come across with their new production, under the direction of the new manager, Chief Mechanic Weitzell. Whoop 'er up, boys! Maybe if you give us a good show we will put your names in the paper.

Johnny Newhall of the Y. M. C. A. was present at our first dance the other day. Have a good time, Johnny? And did you notice the lovely time Harry Clinkenbeard and Chandler were having? And did you see Snuffy Powers go up for fourths on the ice cream? Come again, John, only next time bring a few more ladies with you.

We wonder if Bollotto had anything to do with the withdrawal of Italy from the peace conference?

Headquarters, Fifth M. G. Battalion

The members of headquarters were all pleased to hear that their commander, and battalion adjutant, First Lieut. J. E. Quivey, had been promoted to the rank of captain, but now comes the sad news that they will lose Captain Quivey, who is to take command of Company C.


Our battalion surgeon, Lieut. Joseph J. Meyer, is now on his way home. He is succeeded by Lieut. Frank Schubert, who promises to be as popular as his predecessor.

Dangerous Service

The Second Ammunition Train was slowly and painfully making its way over a shell-swept road leading into Somme-Py. German artillery had a perfect range and was scoring heavily.

During a lull in the rain of projectiles, the Engineers started to repair the damage. The hail of steel recommenced, but the engineers, with characteristic American courage, kept on with their work.

Far away down the road, a French camion was blown to bits. Then, as though placed by a huge, unseen hand, the spurts of smoke began creeping along the road at regular intervals.

A timid mule-skinner yelled: "Let's double tlme!" He was severely rebuked by one of his comrades.

A shell burst directly in front of the leading escort wagon. Two mules were promptly cut out of the harness, and once more the train moved on.

Another burst, and the bugler from the Ammunition Train, a German prisoner, and his French guard, were its ghastly toll.

There were many white, drawn faces now, but with grim determination the little cavalcade kept on its way—it's precious cargo still untouched—toward the distant slope of Blanc Mont.

"The marines and doughboys must get this ammunition by 5 o'clock," said the sergeant in charge, "and we must not fail them."

Another burst, and a corporal's horse was blown to pieces under him. The corporal jumped to his feet, his legs covered with the animal's blood. A passing ambulance driver, seeing the blood, called out: 'Hey buddie, don't weaken; here's an ambulance."

"Ambulance, h—l-" retorted the corporal. "What I want is another horse!"

At last Somme-Py was reached. The Germans were pouring a steady stream of gas shells into the town. Gas masks saved the day, although here another noncommissioned officer was left in the care of medical men.

On through the town and up the slope of Blanc Mont. Someone remarked: "Where in h—l are those Marines? Ain't they ever gonna stop?" Suddenly the air was rent by the sharp cracking of machine guns, followed by the whistle of bullets.

Familiar O. D. and forest-green figures were seen dodging through the stub pines. The rattle of musketry followed, and a marine captain stopped in his headlong rush to yell: "Hey, there, Ammunition Train! Where in h—l are you going—over the top? Unload that stuff and get out of here! Don't you know you're in the front line?"

The ammunition was unloaded and the teams clattered off down the hill at double-time—and then some! Many small holes in the wagons and covers bore mute testimony to the Hun's markmanship.

Such was the life of Company G, Second Ammunition Train, at Blanc Mont Ridge.

—Pvt. V. H. Burlingame.

The Chauffer's Story
(By Alderic Moineau)
Brillon, FranceWhile driving for Colonel Drury, on September 13. 1918, I saw a column of the Fifth Division being shelled by long-range guns.

The shelling started at daybreak, and lasted until 9 a. m. The first few shots fell short, and landed in a field. Whether or not anyone was killed there, I do not know.

An enemy plane was flying high over us, directing the artillery fire, and it was not long until the shells were dropping right into the road, where the traffic was jammed.

Vehicles and troops were going to the front. Many were killed here. One soldier's head was practically blown off, and strange as it may sound, he remained on the horse for some time before falling to the ground.

In the afternoon I drove Colonel Drury and Colonel Derby across a large open field between Thiacourt and Jaulny. Colonel Derby was trying to find a decent place to establish a first-aid station. He had decided upon a place under a concrete bridge, but, while on our way there that afternoon, we were followed by an enemy plane, flying quite low over us and firing on us with a machine gun. The bullets would fall all around us, lifting up bits of earth, which reminded me of a heavy rain storm. The location for the station was excellent, but the great difficulty was in getting to the place.

Colonel Drury directed six ambulances which were standing at the edge of Thiacourt, waiting for emergency calls, to go to the new first-aid station he had established. Had he not given this order the ambulances would have been riddled, for they had hardly gotten away when the place where they had been standing was severely shelled, several piles of small arms ammunition being set on fire.

These six ambulances were soon sent back, for it was too hot for them there, and Colonel Derby didn't approve of keeping them in such danger.

Here in this field two Germans were carrying a wounded American soldier across the field on a stretcher, when a shell burst on the litter, or so near that the soldier was badly torn up by this bursting shell that it was impossible to identify him, or even find his dog-tag. This soldier was being carried to a dressing station at the edge of the small wood back of Thiacourt.

This aid station was also hit squarely by an exploding shell, and several men killed.

We went back to headquarters, and later returned again, as Colonel Drury wanted to see how things were getting along. This time we did not stay long, for the Germans were sending over gas shells. We were lucky, for it seemed as if we had just gotten safely past when places were hit.


Sergeant Ramsey: "Gee, I am all in. At the house where I live, the pig is sick, and we were up all night with it."

First Sergeant Lee: "Ahem! The watch on the swine!"

With Battery F, 12th Field Artillery

Pvt. Glen Strickland is running around the outfit with his head and left eye bandaged up. The other night a couple of Heinies ran into him in Hönningen. He looks bad, but you ought to see the two Teutons. One is in a serious condition in the hospital the other is in the "mill."

The Thirty-second Division, moving out, gave us a little change. On April 22 we moved from Hönningen to Gönnersdorf. The boys like it much better here.

All attempts to have Sergeant Beans O'Neil photographed have failed. The sergeant says: "When Ireland takes her place among the nations of the world, then, and not until then, let my photograph be taken."

"One minute, there, Sergeant Beattie! Where are you going with that chocolate?"

Sergeant Erickson and Sgt. Paul Hanlon were inspecting our new bath-house here in Gönnersdorf. when Erickson remarked: "This is a helluva bathhouse! A fellow is liable to get wet all over."

Mess Sergeant Paul met Supply Sergeant Etzler, who was wearing a nice shiny chevron. Said the mess sergeant: "How do you get all the new chevrons, Buck?" "How do you get all of your chocolate?" was the reply of the supply sergeant.

—Sgt. F. 0. Billings, Battery F, 12th F. A.
A Last Resort

It was a U. S. 1917 model, instead of the regulation Springfield service rifle of the Marine Corps, that a certain rear rank soldier fell out for inspection with one Saturday in Segendorf. It had no sling. Nor is it to be wondered that the all-seeing eyes of the inspecting officer detected the absence of the floor plate.

Just why the culprit's address is still "Somewhere in France," probably with a labor battalion, may be divined by the following:

Inspecting Officer: "Where is your sling?"

The Gadget: "I haven't any, sir."

Inspecting Officer: "Where is your floor plate?" The Gadget: "I lost it, sir."

Inspecting Officer: "Well, what in h-l would you do if these Germans were to attack you?"

The Gadget: "Sir, I'd consider the butt-stroke."

—Pvt. G. A. Stroh, 51st Co., 5th Marines.
Second Supply Train

When the Second Supply Trains took up their residence in Heddesdorf, Company D was quartered in the school building. Now, all doors of public buildings in this section open outward, while those of residences open inward.

When Sergeant Varney was transferred to a billet in a private house, he arrived home the first night, twisted the handle and yanked. After tugging a while, the "hausfrau" came to his assistance and opened the door, explaining that he should have pushed in. "Oh," exclaimed Varney, apologetically, "I was pushing toward myself."

Motto Of The Transport Corps:

"It ain't the individual, nor the army as a whole; But the everlasting team work of every single soul."


There seems to be a slump in the players of African golf now that baseball has arrived in full force. "Let's go!"
       —Sgt. Ramsey, Co. D, Supply Train.


Fifty marks isn't an awful lot of money, but it is quite a little paper.



CAPT. JOHN R. MINTER, Asst. Editor.
Pvt. H. H. Watson,
Art Editor.
Mechanical Staff:
Pvt. James W. Caudle,
Business Manager.
Sgt. F. Busik
Pvt. W. Jenkins
Pvt. A. Diekmeyer

"By their fruits ye shall know them." From the "Daily Mirror," an English newspaper:

Official Decree.

The decree is proclaimed by the free association of Anarchists in the town of Saratoff.

In compliance with the decision of the Soviet of Peasants, Soldiers and Workmen's deputies of Kronstadt, the private possession of women is abolished.


Social inequalities and legitimate marriages having been a condition in the past, which served as an instrument in the hands of the burgeoise, thanks to which all the best species of all the beautiful have been the property of the bourgeoise, the proper continuation of the human race has been prevented. Such arguments have induced the organization to edict the present decree.

1. From March, the right to possess women of the ages of 17 to 32 is abolished.

2. The age of women shall be determined by birth certificates, or passports, or by testimony of witnesses, and on failure to produce documents, their age shall be determined by the Committee, who shall judge them according to appearance.

3. This decree does not affect women having five children.

4. The former owners may retain the right of using their wives without waiting their turns.

5. In case of resistance of the husband, he shall forfeit the right under the former paragraph.

6. All women, according to this decree, are exempted from private ownership, and are proclaimed to be the property of the whole nation.

7. The distribution and management of appropriated women, in compliance with the decision of the above said organization, are transferred to the Saratoff Anarchists' Club. In three days from the date of publication of this decree, all women given by it to the use of the whole nation, are obliged to present themselves to the given address, and to supply the required information.

9. Not included in "The Indian." (ed.)

8. Before the Committee is formed for the realization of this decree the citizens themselves will be charged with such control. N. B.—Any citizen noticing a woman not submitting herself to the address under this decree, is obliged to let it be known to the Anarchists' Club, giving the address, full name, and father's name of the woman.

10. Each man wishing to use a piece of public property should be the bearer of a certificate from the Factories Committee, the Professional Union, or the Workmen's, Soldiers' and Peasants' Council certifying that he belongs to the working family class.

11. Every working member is obliged to discount 2 per cent from his earnings to the fund of the public general action. N. B.—This committee in charge will put these discounted funds, with the specifications of names and lists, into the state banks, and other institutions handing down these funds to this popular generation.

12. Male citizens not belonging to the working classes, in order to have equal rights with the proletariat, are obliged to pay fifty dollars a month into the public fund.

13. The local branch of the state bank is obliged to begin reserve payments to the National Generation Funds.

14. All women proclaimed by this decree to be national property will receive from the fund an allowance of 115 dollars per month.

15. All women who become pregnant are released from their state duties for four months, up to three months before, and one month after, childbirth.

16. The children born are given to an institution for training after they are one month old, where they are to be trained and educated until they are 17 years of age, at the cost of public funds.

17. In the case of the birth of twins, the mother is to receive a prize of 100 dollars.

18. All citizens, men and women, are obliged carefully to watch their health.

19. Those who are guilty of spreading veneral disease will be held responsible, and severely punished.

20. Women having lost their health may apply to the Soviet for a pension.

21. The chief of the Anarchists will be in charge of the temporary technical measures relating to the realization of this decree.

22. All refusing to recognize and support this decree will be proclaimed enemies of the people and held strictly responsible.

(Signed) Council of the City of Saratoff, Russia.
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