Memorial Day means remembering Grandpa Johnson to me. Every weekend when I was a girl we went with Grandma Johnson down to the cemetery to put flowers on Grandpa's grave. It was such a beautiful place, and I loved being with my family so much, that to me cemeteries have become synonymous with happiness, good times, and beauty. Some people think I'm crazy, but I love going to the cemetery.
Once a year, on Memorial Day, we would go with Grandma to the cemetery and watch a special program in honor of veterans. I loved seeing the soldiers in their uniforms, holding their guns to salute their fallen brothers. I also loved seeing hundreds of little American flags fluttering gaily over the graves of men who had served our country. It always made me proud when we walked over to Grandpa's grave and saw the flag standing next to his name.
Mom said Grandpa didn't like to talk much about the war. He said there were too many tragic things that happened. But he did like to tell funny stories. That's what I remember about Grandpa. I was only four when he died, but I can still see his big smile and happy face as he told us stories to make us laugh. Today, as I looked through his memoirs, I found some of those happy WWI stories. In his honor, and to honor Memorial Day, I'll share some with you. Perhaps next November, on Veteran's Day, I'll share the rest of his memories of WWI.
Grandpa came to America four years before the started. He joined the army on October 2, 1917. He remembered:
"While in the army, I never had to go on K.P. duty. Every time my name would come up on the list, I would be transferred to some other company. My buddies called me a 'lucky Swede'.
....we were sent to the southern part of France for a few days and then shipped to the front....We got to a big army camp built out of tin buildings without any floor. We were given straw tics to sleep on. Late in the evening after taps had been blown I was laying on my tic and next to me lay the company clown. The tics were very hard and he got down on his hands and knees and started pounding the tic, trying to soften it up. He was dressed in his B.V.D.'s, and as he beet the tic he'd say, "Here's another blow to you, Kaiser Bill."
Later I was sent to Columbia La Belle 1st Air depot where they loaded up planes with bombs to bomb the German lines. The third night there the German bombers came swooping in to bomb us. Less than a quarter mile from where we were stationed was a big ammunition dump which they were trying to blow up. One bomb dropped only 300 feet from the dump. When the first bomb was dropped we were all ordered to head for open country and the safety trenches. Right outside of the kitchen door was a five foot square hole of red clay used to dump dish water in. It was clear full of greasy dishwater. The first one out the door was our much hated top sergeant. Into the hole of dishwater he went where he was stuck fast up to his neck. He began to holler for help but we all hated him so much we could neither see nor hear him.
....The armistice was signed on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. After this time we had more freedom to move about. One Sunday a bunch of us decided to cross over "no man's land" and visit the German front lines. In our company was a little fellow from New York called Rubenston. He noticed a small metal plate laying on the ground and without thinking gave it a kick. It was a booby trap and sent out a cloud of white poisonous gas. One sniff would put you in the hospital for two weeks, two sniffs would put you there for six weeks, and three sniffs would kill you. The wind luckily was blowing the other direction and none of us were injured, but everyone was sure mad at Rubenston.
....I visited the place where Joan of Arc was born and saw the room she was born in. Over the fireplace the soldiers had been writing their names and so I added mine. Just as I finished, the man behind me said, "John, fools names and fools faces are often seen in public places." (Mom remembered and told us that saying every time one of us kids were tempted to add our names to the graffiti scribbled on places we visited.)
In the winter of 1919, I got an eight day leave and decided to take a trip to the Mediterranean Sea. Our passes stated that we had all the time we needed to get to the leave area, eight days leave, and all the time we needed to get back to camp. We were permitted to go three miles into Italy. .....After the eight days were up, we got on a train and headed back to camp. Our train was stopped at a de-lousing station where every soldier was supposed to strip and have his clothes put through a big steam mangle. I had on a new uniform and was sure I didn't have any lice. I asked my buddy who spoke French if he thought we could get out of going through the line. He said sure, so we crawled under the barbed wire and headed for town where we got a hotel and stayed two days. Then we boarded another troop train and headed back to camp. When we came into camp, our other buddies started hollering, "Guard house for you guys", because we were two days later arriving back than they were. I told them they just didn't know how to read their passes because they specifically said, "All the time you need to get to the leave area and all the time you need to get back." We just happened to need two more days to get back than they did. I was really wondering, though, if we might not get put in the guard house, but there was no trouble at all. The rest of the men were pretty disgusted that a Swede could read English better than they could.
.....At night in the barracks we would sit around and sing songs and tell jokes. There was one big, tall, red-headed Irishman who was always rubbing someone about something. One night he grabbed me by the shoulders and looking at my bald head (I had lost my hair while in France, probably from impure water) he said, "Say, John, where were you when the Lord was passing out hair?" I looked him in the eye and replied, "Well, it was this way. You great big guys pushed me back to the end of the line and when I got up to get my hair there was nothing left but red hair and I wouldn't have any of that." Everyone in the barracks just roared and the big Irishman left me alone after that."
Grandpa was honorably discharged from the army on the 26th of September, 1919, and returned to Utah to live. Perhaps he did loose his hair because of his service, although when he met his brothers after they immigrated to America years later they were also bald, so it probably had more to do with genetics than bad water or poisoned gas. Grandpa lost one eye and was legally blind in the other, perhaps also a result of WWI. He suffered from bad health and died young, and some people may have wondered if he was so smart, signing up and serving a country he had only lived in for such a short time, but I am awfully proud of my Grandpa Johnson, and all of the other men who have sacrificed so much so that we could live in this country - free, honorable, and blessed.
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