The INDIAN

VOLUME I, NUMBER 11. JUNE 24, 1919 NEUWIED-ON-THE-RHINE

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The German fights for elbow room and ambition; the Frenchman fights "pour la Patrie;" the Turk to see life blood flow, and the American and the Englishman, the greatest sportsmen in the world, fight for liberty.

According to the Germans, however, the American [f]ights for souvenirs. He really doesn't, but it must be admitted that he is always keen about gathering them in when opportunity affords.

Many tales, both sad and humorous, both true and fictitious, are told of what the interesting doughboy used to do under fire, but here's one about a squad of engineers that is hard to beat, and it's true:

On the night of June 12, 1918, in Belleau Wood, an officer of the first battalion of the Sixth Marines was in the act of verifying the consolidation of positions after the second battalion had attacked on his left, when he came to a gap in the line. As expected, he noticed two Boche trying to work their way back to their own lines from a machine gun nest which had been passed unnoticed in the attack. The Huns fired at him.

Wise enough not to attack them alone, and fearing there were many more close by, he went to the nearest group of friendly troops he could find, and as it happened they were from the Second Engineers, who had been acting as infantry throughout the Belleau Wood attacks. There were about forty of them, and they were busily engaged in "digging in" alongside the marines.

"Would you like to go with me to get some Boche?" the officer said as he approached them.

"I say we do!" chorused the gang, dropping their tools and rushing at the officer.

Eight was all he wanted, so he chose a corporal and had him pick seven men. The rest, grumbling, went back to their work.

While leading the men back to the spot where the two Germans had been seen, the officer found a Luger pistol, which he strapped to his body. The men noticed the pistol, and everyone of them was heard to say that he just had to have one.

When the spot was reached, the men were deployed and told to lie down and not fire before the signal was given.

In a short time a lone Boche appeared. He was creeping along, dodging from tree to tree, and from one rock to another. Occassionally [sic] he would signal to others hidden behid [sic] him.

This Hun and his comrades were in the rear of the American line, and their presence there constituted a grave menace. The Americans waited, watching their commander for the word to act. Nearer and nearer crept the German, until he was within 40 paces.

"Halt," called the officer commanding the Americans. The Hun dropped to the ground and fired. A demand was made upon him to surrender. The only reply was another pistol shot. He was given one more chance to obey, and then the command to fire was given. Several bullets found their mark.

Every man in the American squad, although fully aware that other Germans were coming up, made a dive for the dead Boche. One of the men obtained his pistol and belt after a scramble, and the Americans waited for the next to appear.

Eleven Germans came up, and a hot little fight ensued. They fired at the Americans, and the Americans, creeping from tree to tree, and rock to rock in true Indian fashion, fired back. After eleven of the Germans had been killed the sole survivor surrendered.

The fight lasted half an hour, and a dangerous little Hun patrol was put entirely out of action. Every man in the squad of engineers made a rush, for the positions held by the little band of Germans, and another scramble for souvenirs ensued. Some of the men obtained automatic pistals [sic] , others got iron crosses, caps, and other trophies. Then the engineers hid themselves again.

A long wait and no more Boche. The officer thought it was time to clear out, so he issued orders and they started away. A moment later he noticed that there were two who were not with them. Looking back, he saw them lying there "all set" for the next pistol carriers. They went with him, but reluctantly. He thanked them for their services; they thanked him for taking them with him, and he went on to battalion headquarters with his prisoner and his report.

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Ernie, in the days I first knew him, was a big-voiced, big-hearted fellow—the best pal I ever had. He was of German birth, and in those early days, back in 1914 and 1915, before America had awakened to her part in the great war, he was a tireless orator for Germany.

We were very blind then, we college lads, and all of us were half willing to listen to a word of justification for the so-called horrors in Belgium, which we did not fully believe because we had not seen with our eyes.

Most of us were pacifists, and Ernie was our leading spirit—and a master of argument for kaiser and Fatherland. Surely "there are none so blind as those who will not see."

But a new vision was in store for us. In April, 1917, America entered the struggle, to justify her rights against the wholesale murders of the Hun, and to rescue the cause of freedom for the world. One by one, Ernie's friends enlisted, either in hospital units, officers' training camps, or for immediate service overseas. It was then that he began to see as with new eyes, that America was on the side of right, and that his Germany was his no longer. He, too, must "do his bit."

But he was still a pacifist at heart. Like the Quakers, who from the beginning of the war have been engaged in the hazardous service of mine-laying in the North Sea and elsewhere, his principles forbade him taking up arms against his fellow-man.

A "conscientious objector" they called him, and as such he was classified and criticized. Yet he wanted to do something, no matter what the sacrifice might be. "I shall bear no arms," he told the officials, "against my fellow-being, but my life is worth no more than any other man's; therefore I shall accept whatever else is offered me, no matter where I be sent, or how dangerous the task."

They made him a first-aid man, and he proved himself a fearless worker under fire on the St. Mihiel and Champagne fronts. He won the admiration of his comrades for his indifference to danger, and his willingness to go to any extreme of service in order to bind up the wounds of victims of bullet or shrapnel. And he was always smiling, no matter how heavy the fire or how wearying the burden on the stretcher. They called him "Happy," because he was always singing or whistling some crazy tune.

One morning, during the last stage of the Argonne scrap, they sent him to headquarters for a detail of stretcher bearers. The road became congested, for one of those unexplainable reasons, although the Heinies had the range. The situation was one bordering on panic. He stepped from the ambulance to investigate the cause of the congestion, with his usual blindness to any sense of personal danger.

Suddenly there was a terrific explosion, as if the earth were rent in two. By some miracle the ambulance was untouched, but when the confusion of smoke and flying fragments of earth and steel was cleared away, Ernie's poor, mangled body lay beside the road —a mute testimony of his devotion and sacrifice.

When they picked him up, there was something brighter than blood on his lips—there was the old, fearless smile which all of those who loved him will never forget.

He had paid the price like a man, and he had carried that smile beyond the grave. In one brief moment he had proven his faith in his principles, and his loyalty to the American cause. Who is there to challenge the courage, or the convictions of this dear pal of mine, who has "done his bit," even unto death?

On the morning of June 10th quite a few American soldiers were surprised to see a queer procession wending their way through the streets of Heddesdorf. The main body of the processsion was composed of a band, of whose harmony, the less said the better, and eight young men mounted on ex-plow horses. with high hats adorned with all manner of ribbons and feathers. This is an old Heddesdorfer custom, dating back 300 years or more, known as the Pfingstreiters, taking its name from Pfingsten (Whitsuntide).

Several hundred years ago, the people living in Gladbach, Romerdorf and several other little towns above Heddesdorf were sheep herders. They would drive their sheep down the narrow country lanes, through Heddesdorf and its surronding farms to the Wiedbach in order to wash them. The roads being narrow and the sheep many, they would crowd over into the fields and cause considerable damage to the crops.

In order to adjust this matter so there would be no hard feeling, yearly at Pfingsten, the farmers living in Heddesdorf would mount their horses and make the rounds of the sheep herders' villages and collect toll, either of food or money, to pay them for the damage caused by the sheep.

Years after the last droves of sheep had gone the way of all good sheep, this custom was continued and it settled down into a ceremony. If at any time the Pfingst-reiters should fail to make the rounds the old-time sheep villages would be released from their obligation to pay this tribute, but so far the men of Heddesdorf have not failed.

In 1812, when Napoleon swept through, taking everything, food and livestock for his army, there wasn't a horse left in Heddesdorf when Pfingsten came around. That did not faze the Pfingst-reiters, for they made wooden horses and hobbled around on them.

Generally about twenty riders make the trip, a prize being given to the one who gets back to Heddesdorf first, but during the four years of war, just one man kept up this ancient custom. This year there were eight riders.

They go out in the morning quite sober, but, oh, boy, when they come back. The tolls now are paid in wine, beer and fine food, and the Pfingst-reiters are not in any special hurry to get home.

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Many questions are being asked concerning the Second Division Association, and what it was formed for anyway. Well, to begin with, the Association is working upon an elaborate card index system, that will preserve for all times the names of the men of this division. It will in addition keep close track of the members of the association, and at all times be able to give the latest address of any member.

This will make possible the tracing of any man who is a member of the association by anybody else. In otner words, if you join up, anybody at all can locate you easily. If you do not join, you can locate your "buddies" who are members, but will be unable to locate "buddies" of yours who are not members.

The Second Division Association publishes The Indian every week, and has collected and printed a booklet containing every commendation ever received by the division.

Then, also, the association is preparing to publish a book giving the names of every member of the Sec• and Division, and the name of every man who ever fought with the division anywhere.

Members of the association will organize little reunions in various cities after the war, and all members in the vicinity will receive invitations through the mail. Nothing is more pleasant than a reunion of this character.

Every member has a vote, and at the annual meetings to be held the president, other officers, and members of the board of directors will be chosen by the members. The present officers and directors are working hard to perfect the organization. When the annual elections are held, the doughboys and marines and cannoneers and mule skinners and captains and generals and majors and ammunition handlers and truck drivers and everybody else in the division will gather, and each one will have one vote, and any-body can nominate anybody for any job and then work as hard as he wants to to elect him.

There will be annual banquets, and annual picnics, and all sorts of festivities. But best of all, will be the valuable records of the war, and of the glorious part played by the Second Division.

Private Madcap, E battery tailor, is walking around with something that looks like a "tash," hanging on his upper lip. Likewise Corporal Kmetz and Privates Scureman and McNabb are sweating under the same burden. it seems Private MeGory wanted a meal with wine, and being minus the necessary funds sug-gested raising mustaches. Under the terms of the contract, the first one to shave the aforementioned mustache off buys the meal. Judging from the looks of things MeGory will have a beard before the other three get started.

Words of appreciation and gratitude cannot be bought. There must be an exchange. Thus our Knights of Columbus secretary, Mr. Charles Phillips. exchanges his hearty smile, tireless efforts and friendship for our esteem and gratitude, (which we well de-serve). The K. of C. clubroom, with Its cozy reading corner and well-supplied writing tables, is just where one can forget drill and fatigue in his spare moments. To say Mr. Phillips his accomplished his purpose is saying very little. He is always on the go, always ready to serve, to be of help and always satisfies. We all like the way he is doing his best to make things pleasant for us and we thank him heartily.

Pleasantly surprised was E battery the other day on having chicken for dinner and eggs the following .morning. Home was never like this, eh, what?

Army chow looks much better on the menu card than in the mess kit.

Whitney Reed: "What's the difference between the Rhine and the Statue of Liberty?"
Wilson: "Dunn."

Reed: "Why, an ocean and a discharge."

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