Upton to France—April 6th to April 20th
On the night of April 5th we were ordered to roll packs. We stacked our bunks and drew ammunition. And we were posted on a vigil of waiting. April 6th, 1918, Saturday, was the first anniversary of America's declaration of war. At two-thirty on that morning, in an air pleasantly crisp and flooded with moonlight, we marched to the railroad and entrained. Leaving Camp Upton at three-fifteen, we pulled into Long Island City just in time to be greeted by the usual six o'clock factory whistles.
A waiting ferry engulfed our battalion and we were transported down the East River, around the Battery, and up the Hudson to Pier 59, at the foot of West Eighteenth Street, Manhattan. A methodical transfer was accomplished from the squat and stunted ferry to the gigantic but little known Justicia.
While still under process of construction in the shipyards at Belfast, in Ireland, for the Holland American Line, the Statendam was commandeered by Great Britain at the beginning of the European war and was operated as a transport under the name Justicia by the White Star Line. She was at the time the fifth largest vessel afloat and that she was the especial prey of the German undersea navy is indicated by the fact that a submarine attacked her on a subsequent trip from England to the United States, on July 20th, and after a dramatic engagement lasting some twenty-four hours, she was sunk. Fourteen of a crew of seven hundred were lost.
All day men and equipment poured onto the decks and into the hold of the giant transport. Our entire regiment and one battalion of the 308th Infantry were quartered between decks. Next morning, before reveille, the Justicia slipped quietly down New York Bay, thru Ambrose Channel, and into the Atlantic.
B Company had no quarters de luxe. We were crowded into small space—Section K—far down on D deck, with sleeping hammocks slung over our mess tables. And our mess, served by the British, was a sorry series of meals. We were compelled to wear during the day, and to sleep with during the night, ungainly life preservers. But discomforts were subordinated to the interest in our new surroundings. The mysteries of the big ship, its spotless engine-room, the intricacies of navigation, the precautions against possible attack,—all held us.
On leaving New York we pursued a northerly course, and at nine o'clock that night anchor was dropped in lower Bedford Bay, at Halifax. Early next morning we steamed up into the inner harbor and before us lay the sadly devastated city of Halifax. Immense areas of the city had been totally destroyed by the explosion resulting from the collision between a Belgian relief ship and one bearing a cargo of explosives.
That day and the next, while waiting for our convoy to assemble, was spent in practicing with lowered boats.
Late on the afternoon of April 9th our convoy of ten passenger and cargo ships passed out of the harbor, sped by the cheers of the crews of two American battleships. We were escorted by U. S. S. St. Louis and H. M. S. Victoria.
Boat drill, a well-ordered scramble for life boats, took place twice daily. Each morning we indulged in strenuous setting-up exercises in order that we might remain in trim. Practice with depth bombs and smoke screens helped to relieve the tedium of the long trip.
As we neared our unknown destination, our escort was increased by ten British torpedo boat destroyers. Veritable sea dogs they were, darting every which-way, breasting wave after wave, ever watchful for the tricky Hun.
And then, on Friday. April 19th, land! Just a ridge above the horizon—the blue hills of Wales—but already we could feel in our imaginations the solidity which our unsailorly legs had missed.
As the day waned we sighted the lighthouse at the mouth of the River Mersey. With cheers of relief we were permitted to doff our bulky life belts. Just before dusk we entered the Mersey, passing closely by the beautiful seaside resort of New Brighton.
Forging up the river we reached Liverpool and, at nine o'clock that evening, after almost fourteen days afloat, our transport was moored. The city, as we saw it from the decks of the Justicia, lay quietly, with lights beginning to twinkle in the increasing gloom.
One by one the companies formed and debarked, and at 11:15 P.M. B Company marched down the gang plank, thru half-lighted sheds, into those curious side-door railway cars so peculiar to Europe. Exactly at midnight our train pulled out of Liverpool. At 3:00 A.M. a short stop for hot coffee was made at Rugby. We passed thru the outskirts of London at 6:00 A.M. and at nine-twenty the train rolled into the terminal at Dover.
The private yacht of Belgium's Queen Elizabeth had been pressed into service as a cross-channel ferry and in this royal craft, under escort of destroyers, aeroplanes, and dirigibles, we crossed to Calais in an hour and thirty-five minutes. The crossing was enlivened when two riflemen of the crew took to firing at mines that endangered our passage.