Tales from a Dugout

by Arthur Guy Empey

"As the dead horses were dropped over the side, a resounding splash was heard and the water was churned into a foamy white as the body momentarily sank from view. Then it would reappear and disappear in the wake of the ship, the sea gulls hovering and screaming above it.

"Just outside the entrance of the river leading to Bordeaux, a small, rakish boat, flying the tri-color of France, came alongside. We hove to and up the gangplank came three French officers. They were closeted for about twenty minutes with the Captain of the ship and our foreman. Then we continued on our course. In some places the banks of the river were only about twenty feet away. We could see the French women tilling their fields and as we went by these workers stopped and waved their hands in the air to us, and we waved back. It was my first sight of France, and I was not in any way disappointed. It lived up to my expectations.

"A little farther up the river we came to a large dock where ships were loading and discharging cargoes, and a thrill passed through me as I saw my first batch of German prisoners at work. They were immense fellows, nearly every one being six feet or over, and they were guarded by little French soldiers, averaging about five feet five inches, with long rifles and fixed bayonets. As we passed, the German prisoners scowled at us, and we, feeling quite safe on the deck, yelled back insults at them. One big Irishman, right near me, took great glee in jumping up and down on the hatchway and running his finger across his throat. This seemed to enrage the prisoners and they yelled something in German. The Irishman must have understood it, for he let out a volley of curses in return. The French sentry seemed to enjoy this barrage of insults and did not in any way attempt to curtail the prisoners' remarks.

"Pretty soon the prisoners faded out of sight and we came alongside the dock at Bordeaux. I was all eagerness and strained my eyes so as not to miss the least thing. The dock was full of French Cavalrymen, hurrying to and fro. Huge Turcos, black as the ace of spades, with white turbans on their heads, were majestically striding about.

"After we warped into the dock and made fast, our work was over. We had nothing to do with the unloading of the horses. The French Cavalrymen came on board with a bunch of Cavalry halters hanging over their arms. It was a marvel to see with what ease and efficiency that ship was unloaded. The condition of the horses was pitiful. They could hardly bend their legs from stiffness. They hobbled down the gangplank and stood trembling on the dock, stretching out their necks and taking long breaths of the pure air. Then they started to whinny, calling backward and forward to each other. Even though I did not understand horse language, I knew exactly what they were saying. They were thanking their horse God for their deliverance from that hell ship, and were looking forward to green pastures and a good roll in the dirt. Pretty soon you could see them bend their forelegs and lie down on the dock, and then try to roll over. Some of them did not have the strength for this and only feebly kicked. Pretty soon the whole dock was a mass of rolling horses, the Frenchmen jumping around, gesticulating and jabbering.

"After getting the horses up, the Frenchmen divided them into classes according to their height and weight. Then each horse was led into a ring chalked out on the dock and the army inspectors examined it. Very few were rejected. From this ring of chalk the horse was led into a portable stall and branded. You could hear the sing-song voice of the brander shouting out what sounded like 'Battry Loo.' As he yelled this, a French private came over, got the horse which had been branded, and led it away. An interpreter I was talking to informed me that the average life of a horse in the French Army was three days. These poor beasts had only left that hell ship to go into the worse Hell of bursting shells and cracking bullets.

"I, after passing a rigid examination as to my nationality, and being issued a cattleman's passport, inquired my way to the Prefect of Police. I delivered to him the sealed envelope which I had received in New York. Upon opening it, he was very gracious to me and directed me into a rear room, where an interpreter put me through a grilling examination. From there I was taken to a hotel, and the next morning, in the company of a Sergeant and a Private, got into a little matchbox compartment on the funniest looking train I ever saw. The track seemed about three feet wide, and the wheels of the cars like huge cogwheels on an engine, minus the cogs. After bumping, stopping, and sometimes sliding backwards for twenty-six hours, we reached a little town. Supplies were piled up there as high as houses. Officers and enlisted men were hurrying to and fro, and I could see long trains of supply wagons and artillery limbers always moving in the same direction, to the front.

"I was ushered into the presence of a French officer, who, I later found out, was a Brigadier-General of the Quartermaster Corps. I could hear a distant booming; they told me it was the guns of France, striving to hold back the German invaders. I trembled all over with excitement, and a feeling that I cannot describe rushed over me. I was listening to my first sound of the guns on the Western Front.

"Two days afterward I returned to Bordeaux, and shipped to New York on the French Liner Rochambeau. When I arrived in New York I reported to the Frenchman who had sent me over. He was very courteous and, as I reached out to shake hands with him, he placed both hands on my shoulders and kissed me on the right and left cheek. I was dumfounded and blushed all over. I think I could have borne another trip across with horses, but that being kissed upon my return completely got my goat.