LETTERS FROM FRANCE

1st Lt. Claude Hendon, Battery D, 51st Artillery, CAC



LETTERS FROM FRANCE
By William S. Hendon

Over the past few years I have been working on various parts of the history of our family. With the aid of John and Kent Hendon, much material from my dad and mother surfaced after the death of brother Claude. Because he lived the closest to our mother of all the three sons, Claude kept a good deal of family historical material that my mother had gathered and retained during her lifetime.
What I want to do here is let the family know of the few letters that my dad, Claude Hendon, wrote to his family during 1918 when he was stationed in France and serving in the Coast Artillery. This piece is dedicated to my children, Anna, Willie and Claude and my nephews John, Kent and Dana. I must say at the outset that these letters appear to have been collected by my Aunt Grace Hendon and they represent, but are not all of the letters that Dad wrote home.
INTRODUCTION

Claude Hendon was born on November 9, 1891 in Eastman, Indian Territory (now Oklahoma). Claude and his younger brother Robert R. Hendon, Jr., who was 3 years younger, graduated from law school at the University of Oklahoma and then in the spring of 1917 America went to war in France. Both brothers enlisted in the Army at the same time and Robert made a career in the US Army and retired as a Brigadier General.Claude became a 2nd Lt. commanding Battery D of the 51st Artillery, U.S. Coast Artillery Corps. Lt. Hendon served with Battery D in battle in France and was promoted at wars end to the rank of Captain. Upon his return to America he transferred to the Army Judge Advocate General and served in that agency until 1920. Upon his discharge from the army, Claude returned to his former profession of a lawyer.
After Claude returned from France and was out of the Army, he and Robert rented a place on Pennsylvania Avenue N. W. in Washington, D.C. and were still both single at the time. By January of 1920, both of the Hendon brothers worked as partner in their own law firm and lived together in Washington. By 1921, Claude had turned to politics and moved back home to Oklahoma where he was elected and served 5 terms as the County Attorney of Pottawatomie County, Oklahoma. Claude married Dana Glass Fairchild of Lufkin, Texas on February 4, 1928. At the time of their marriage, Dana was teaching at the College of Industrial Arts (Texas Women’s University). Claude and Dana made their home at 522 W. Ford Street. in Shawnee, Oklahoma. In June of 1929, Claude and Dana had their first son, named Claude after his father. In 1933 Dana gave birth to twin sons.
During his career, Claude also worked as Special Counsel to Oklahoma Governor William H. Murray, served in the Oklahoma Tax Commission and later was Head of the Oklahoma State Industrial Commission. Between appointments, Hendon practiced law with his brother, Scott Hendon in Shawnee, Oklahoma. Claude Hendon passed away on September 30, 1963.

SERVICE IN FRANCE IN 1917 AND 1918

Claude received his commission as a second lieutenant at Fort Monroe, Virginia. Posted overseas in September of 1917, he left Fort Monroe, Virginia and traveled to Hoboken, New Jersey where on September 12, 1917 he embarked for France.
What follows is an excerpt from my book Ouster, The County Attorney and the Klan. In these pages, I have tried to describe some of Dad’s experiences and feelings about his service in France. First, a few pictures of the family and then some of Dad at Fort Monroe and later at Fort Hamilton, New York.



Claude began by saying, “The trip over was pretty much like the trip coming back. When I left Fort Monroe, I caught a ride on a ship from Norfolk that was going to New York. As we set out, it was night, and we passed through Hampton Roads where the Monitor and the Merrimack fought. We passed Fort Monroe, Virginia the headquarters of the Coast Artillery where I got my training and my lieutenant’s commission. I felt strange passing those old ramparts and seeing their new gun emplacements around the old star shaped fort. Fort Monroe and the Chase Hotel, where we were billeted, were part of me after the months I was there. The fort is where they held old Jeff Davis for two years after the Civil War. At first, they kept him in a cell in chains, but they finally moved him into a house on the grounds of the fort.
“Once in New York, I had to go over to New Jersey to get the ship I went over on, the USS Kroonland, a 12,241 gross ton passenger steamship, built at Philadelphia. Completed in 1902, they told us she was operated commercially for the next fifteen years, mainly trading between New York and Antwerp, Belgium, until the outbreak of World War I in 1914. In 1915, she transited the Panama Canal to the Pacific, and in 1916 began service between the United States and Great Britain. In 1917, some weeks after the U.S. had entered the war, Kroonland was en route to Liverpool when she was damaged by a German submarine's torpedo. Following repairs, the ship returned to service. Transferred to the Navy later in August, 1917, she was placed in commission as USS Kroonland.
“On September 12, 1917, just after I came back from leave home, we embarked and sailed from Hoboken, New Jersey. The voyage took about three weeks. We were part of a convoy of ships that left under escort to go to England. There were some 108 officers and 1750 enlisted men on our ship. It took a bit of getting used to because even though I was an officer, the quarters were very crowded.
“When we arrived at the gangway of the Kroonland, before embarking, we were handed a slip of paper. This paper, called a "billet" proves that you have the right to be on board that particular ship and you are supposed to carry it with you while on board. It tells you where you live, sleep, and eat. In addition, it contains a few instructions on how to get around on that particular ship, for there are hardly any two ships that are constructed alike except of course, sister ships.
“During the voyage each of us had to turn in a post card that would, assuming we arrived safely, be mailed back to the family to let them know that we had arrived across the Atlantic and were safe. Dad, you and Mother received such a card as you later wrote. On board, they assigned us bunks or “berths” as they call them and this became the area where we ate, slept, and lived, if you can call the crowded space, a living. All the men in my battery of six guns were together. It was a bit different for us because there were marks and signs around so you knew you were on an English ship with an English crew. Like, what’s a water closet, a W.C.? Where’s your kip? How about a toes-up? Want a cuppa’?”
Claude went on, “Where we slept was on a bunk that was really like a cot; it was only a strong canvas stretched down the sides of fitted pieces of iron pipe. These berths came three or four together, one over the other. Each bunk had a number, and this number corresponded to the number on the ‘billet.’ Each bunk contained one life preserver that I used as a pillow. The bunks were okay but only six feet long, so if you were over that, it was hard to stretch out. Washrooms were equipped with washbasins and toilets, and as fresh water was very scarce aboard ship, it was given out daily in small quantities. After the first day everything smelled bad, the air fetid and humid, but after the second day you stopped noticing. Smoking was absolutely taboo in the berthing spaces, for obvious reasons, both bad for you and the source of a possible fire. In case of


a fire, we had some small fire extinguishers and, of course, they told us where our exits were and the lifeboat station to which we were assigned.”
“What did you do on the ship to pass the time?” asked Lillie.
“Mostly we played cards. As officers, we could engage in target practice, shooting our side arms at whatever we could see off the ship. There were also prizefights that people engaged in and bet money on the outcome. There was a ring set up on the deck for the purpose. Whenever possible we spent most of our free time on deck, because if we got seasick it was easier being out in the breeze than down below. As officers we were allowed to move around more; the enlisted men were more often limited to where they could go on the ship. I got seasick but fought it off. The Atlantic was rough from the minute we got away from the land at Halifax until we got near Great Britain.
“On our voyage there was fear of U-boats so we put in at Halifax, Nova Scotia, and then later on the south coast of Ireland, before going on to England. After remaining in the Halifax harbor for four days, we started on our way across the Atlantic. The convoy consisted of our three troop ships, three freighters, and an auxiliary cruiser. On the evening of September 25, five hundred miles off the Irish coast, we met a convoy of eight torpedo boat destroyers of the British Navy and on September 30, we stopped at Bentley Bay, Ireland, while the minesweepers swept the channel for us. We continued on the rest of our journey, arriving at Liverpool, England, on the second of October after a long trip across the Atlantic looking for and worrying about submarines.”
By now, the women had come out from the kitchen and sat on the porch steps eager to hear the tale of the sea.
“Because the Kroonland was a passenger ship, it was designed to carry people, but not nearly as many as we were. They had knocked out walls that had been cabins and made dormitory-like rooms where our bunks were. The navy has its own language. Our bathrooms are called the ‘heads’, our floors, the ‘decks, A, B, C’ etc, the kitchen, a ‘galley’ etc.
“I did not sleep that first night on the ship; there was too much to see, to think about, and to wonder about what would follow. Allowed on deck, I found the air cold but more pleasant than down below. Everything was calm and chilly as our ship gathered with other ships to form the convoy. I thought also about all the rules we had to follow. They absolutely forbade us to throw anything overboard because doing so would leave a trail for the enemy to follow. Smoking was forbidden on deck at night because of the lights. I said we couldn’t smoke below but there were brief times each day when you could. They controlled those times by a smoking light that came on when you could and was off when you could not. Imagine how it seemed to be on a huge blacked out ship, running on to Lord knows where with no lights at all. Because a glowing cigarette can be seen as far as a half a mile on a clear night, matches and cigarette lighters were forbidden at night while on board the ship.
“Early morning came, and I could see ships around us as we got under way. When I went down to the mess for breakfast, I found Charlie Dierker who was on the same ship with his battery. We palled together throughout the voyage. What got me were the huge pots, just like at camp from which cooks shoved stuff that rather looked like food onto your plate. However, we were hungry and on that first smooth morning, Charlie and I ate very well, actually better than I had at Fort Monroe.
“While on board, the crew, and all the enlisted men had to serve as lookouts. A lookout stationed on some particular place on the ship observes and reports the movements of other ships, and anything he sees floating or submerged in the water. No matter how trivial it may seem, anything has to be immediately reported. We were told that the periscope of a submarine could be concealed by a barrel or a log of wood could have a mine attached to it. I noticed that at each lookout station they had these disks with a numbered scale that had pointers attached so the lookout could give precise information as to where the things reported could be seen. They really told us all to be lookouts anytime we’re on deck. Charlie and I talked about submarines and we both agreed that if one got us, there was little chance we could survive if we were below decks, so we stayed up until it got too cold and we always had our life jackets at hand. They probably would not have done much good unless we were picked up. Being in the water for a few hours would probably kill us because the water was so cold.
“As the days passed, the seas got rougher as a storm developed in the North Atlantic about the time we passed the Newfoundland coast. From then on, it was pitch and roll and thank goodness, we were in the middle bottom of the ship so we were tossed the least. I never got really sick but I had to spend a lot of time above decks in the cold wind to keep myself going. Most of my men and most of the men on board seemed finally to come down with it and they took to and stayed in their bunks. If you lay on your stomach and held on tightly to your bunk, you seemed to manage the seasickness best. At any rate, those of us who came to the mess for meals were like Mark Twain’s Heavenly Host, a constantly dwindling minority. All of us were happy to see the Irish coast, and all of us were very glad not to see a U-boat. Our convoy passed safely across the ocean, in part by taking those two precautionary stops, and we were told that that was very unusual; that normally we could expect a U-boat attack. We docked at Liverpool and I had two weeks in England before we went on to Le Havre, but not really as a tourist. That first morning in England, we unloaded and were taken by trucks to a nearby temporary camp. Our large guns had not yet been assigned so we did not know what they would be, mortars or regular artillery. Whichever, they told us that some were to be mounted on rail cars; it took about two weeks before they caught up with us. So we got to spend some time in England getting ready before the crossing over to France.”
Claude went on, “England was very beautiful in the early fall; we did get to take some good walks and look around; there were great pubs and often someone would buy our ‘bitter’ for us, the English beer. People were nice and once you got used to their accents, you saw that they could have a good sense of humor. There was one story I heard there in a pub. It was about a cow going to a movie. Escaping from the yards of the railway station at Ross on Wye, England, the cow entered the open front door of a moving picture theater during the film, walked to the front, and stood blocking the screen in the front row of the main floor. People in the theatre called for the cow to sit down but it wouldn’t. They called for it to serve a cream tea. It ignored them. They shouted for beefsteak. Apparently tired of the movie and the insults, the cow left by the emergency exit walked carefully down twenty steps until it startled a woman attendant, who fell from her chair as the cow walked slowly out the emergency exit.”
“Boy, two plus weeks on a ship doesn’t sound like what you read about it in the magazines,” said Gordon. “I think I’d rather have a private suite if I went over, maybe with servants and a large stateroom.”
Claude went on, “We left the evening of the 15th of October, from Southampton, where we took the Steamer Londonderry, to Le Havre, France. In crossing the English Channel and arriving at Le Havre on the morning of 16 October 1917, we suffered through one of the worst nights that we had for rough seas. The ship was crowded and the channel was terrible. We spent the day and then got on trains for the mobilization camp known as Camp Mailly, arriving there on the evening of October 18. This camp was well equipped and well laid out some thirty-five miles behind the lines and about fifty miles from Paris and where we trained on the big 270mm French mortars.”




“Did you see any schools while you were there?” asked Kate. “I’ve read that children can’t go to school because of the war.”
“Good question, Katie,” said Claude. “In general, in the war zones of France, assuming you were not in an area where there were trenches filled with soldiers facing each other across an active war zone, the French tried to keep life much the same as before the war. If the schools were not destroyed in some long-run military campaign, children attended school when their parents thought it safe enough to do so. One thing about a war zone is that when people are in it and cannot leave, they will try to carry on their lives as before; it is a way of getting through the bad times. However, where we were in the St. Mihiel sector, some villages were completely destroyed. Some of them, like the villages of Montpacourt, Flirey, and Fresnes en Woevre, were so leveled that no one could have survived in them, much less conduct school. Some towns up in the Belleau Wood area, like Bourshes, were obliterated, with all their buildings knocked down. In these cases and many like them all through that part of France, the people had to leave or die, and they could not return until after the war ended.
“However, in some places, towns that were in war zones but not fought over were not destroyed at all. One town called Thiaucourt in our area of the St. Mihiel was held by the Huns, but, when we struck, we struck so quickly by such a fast-moving American infantry that the Germans near the town simply retreated through it, leaving the town intact. Therefore, it suffered far less than a town that actually saw street-to-street fighting or heavy bombardment. In towns like Thiaucourt, schools went on as best they could even with the upset of occupation by an enemy army. On thing I learned, Katie, was that people are so brave and so resilient that they can endure a great deal and still find ways to carry on with their lives.”
“In France did you have to be retrained to use your guns?” asked R.R., “because you said U.S. guns didn’t go with you and you had to use French guns instead of American ones.”
Claude replied, “That was true, they didn’t go with us, because there were simply not enough guns in the U.S. to supply all the A.E.F. soldiers who went over, “answered Claude. “When we got to France, we trained on 155 MM French howitzers, and once qualified on them, some of our batteries were actually sent down to Bordeaux to train incoming troops on those guns and on the big 270 MM mortars. My battery was assigned French 270 MM mortars that really looked like fat, large bore cannons. Our brigade was sent to the Toul area in the spring of 1918 because the Germans had nearly overrun the French and the English there. It was so desperate that we were hastily assigned to the French command even though General Pershing, our commander, wanted to keep the U.S. troops in one U.S.-commanded army. However, the situation on the western front was so bad in the spring of 1918 that we fought under French command in the April campaigns. When things eased up, we were then moved a bit south into the St. Mihiel sector where the Germans had created a salient or a bulge. We helped stop them from coming further by providing artillery bombardment for the April 21st raid at Secheprey.”
“Did you lose men? Did you have casualties?” asked Belle.
“Not really,” said Claude. “When artillerymen are hurt it’s usually by being hit by opposing artillery or from being overrun by enemy infantry. We were never overrun but some batteries were. We had only one serious injury, from enemy fire one night. Several of us were sitting around an open fire having coffee when a German shell came in that we did not have time to react to and one of my gunners was badly hurt in the explosion and later lost part of both legs. However, we did get him to an infirmary quickly and he survived and did get to go home.
“The only narrow escape for me was that same night when shrapnel blew up our coffee pot next to where I was sitting and I was burned by flying coffee. Generally, we coast artillery people had few casualties except by injury in operating or moving our guns. The field artillery people had far more risk because they were closer to the front, but at least their guns were relatively portable. For us, had an enemy gunner ever zeroed in on us, we could not easily move the guns and would have had little luck in trying to do so. We emplaced the guns in as much earth and wood protection as we could manage, so unless we got a direct hit we were reasonably safe.”
“It sounds like it was dangerous just to be there,” remarked Lillie.
“Oh it was certainly,” said Claude. “Look at the thousands of men who died and the many more who were injured and maimed. The thing with us was that most bombardments were in flurries and predictable. In addition, if they were during the day, you could actually see the rounds coming over, so you had some chance of getting to safety before an artillery shell actually hit you. Most of us felt lucky that we did not spend endless days in the trenches and that we did not have to suffer the fact that the Huns might be fifty feet away from us. The poor infantrymen who had to go “over the top” were the ones who really suffered. However, once we went into combat, we were in combat continuously from late April until the armistice on November 11. It was dangerous just to be there, but not nearly as dangerous as for the infantrymen.”
“How did you spend your leaves while you were there?” asked Bryan, always looking for the enjoyable part of any experience.
“Aside from our trips to Paris from Mailly Camp, the best thing for me was two weeks in the south of France, the French Riviera, and Monaco. Four of us went down to Nice, Cannes, and Monte Carlo in late 1917. These were beautiful places where you could eat, drink, dance, swim, even though it was too cold, and spend all your money either on entertainments or in the Casino. The casino at Monte Carlo was splendid and while I spent some time there, I did not gamble much because the odds were always with the house. The food and wine were wonderful; I even developed a taste for snails steamed in their shells with garlic and butter and good French wine to go with them.
Claude thought later about talking with his family and describing his war experiences. There were some he did not care to repeat. He recalled the flat, desolate countryside in France in that last fall with his battery. He said to himself, “On the night that my only casualty occurred, it was snowing like this and we were all huddled by our fires outside the flap of the tent. He remembered the sky was a dark and uneven gray and the snow powdered our coats as we sat and drank hot boiled coffee before turning in. The village near us and down the hill was a tangled mass of rubble that the snow was beginning to smooth and whiten. Here and there were fires burning in the ruins that revealed some Frenchman still keeping his hopes alive in the midst of his destroyed town. Around us, our burning fires reminded me of the scene in Henry V on the eve before the battle of Agincourt as Henry made his way from fire to fire testing his men and thinking about St. Crispin’s Day. God, what a romantic notion, but snow and a cold night in front of a fire makes us poets all.”
“Yet,” Claude remembered, thinking, “those who sit here in France tonight cannot help but imagine the many before us who have sat by fires and whose thoughts of mortality and the morning to come, rose above their circle and fell back onto them like snow. As soldiers, we are a ‘band of brothers;’ we carry the burden of each other as we slog our way through the mud of what used to be roads lined with the battered trunks of once stately poplars. We follow our commanders whom we admire because not to admire them would dampen our hopes and open the thought that they may, in fact, be the clumsy persons we fear them to be.”
Claude went on with his memories, as if was telling the story. “That night was cold but still so not as bad as some nights. Yet, knowing our friends the Huns were only a few hundred yards away chilled us and made us wakeful. It’s best not to think of that. If we know where they are we have to assume the Huns know where we are. I cannot see much but around us the world looks gray and drab, the camp fires the only bright spots in the desecrated landscape. The road just beyond us looks like a rough snow coated frozen river winding down into the village and out beyond, towards the Huns. Will they try to overrun us today, or do we have a go at them?”
As if to answer his own question, Claude saw a group of gray mud caked shapes rising and moving on the road behind him. They came towards us like crabs sidling through the frozen mud, the stickiness of snow outlining them in white. Passing Claude’s battery the troops moved off down the road towards the village though a light that only dimly hinted a dawn, but the column was discernable as a clanking trudging kind of machine passing into the communication trenches and aiming itself toward the German lines. The communications sergeant ran to Claude waving an order from Command. Reading the order, Claude called to his batteries, “We are to provide supporting fire for the troops below,” he said giving commands to his batteries to prepare to fire their 270 millimeter French mortars at predetermined targets. It seemed odd to Claude to be giving artillery support after the troops had already set off, but he did as he was told and readied the battery to fire on German positions out beyond the marching troops below him.


Battery D, Position, Ravine St. Jean, near Fliery. Lt. Hendon has also written,
"Return to 1st Lt. Claude Hendon, 51st Art, CAC, Ft. Hamilton, NY" on both of these photos.





This photo was identified by 1st Lt. Hendon on the back in his handwriting as, "1st firing
in action of Battery D, 51st Art., 270mm mortar, Ravine St. Jean, near Flirey. Firing on a
casemated 150mm German Battery."

Suddenly, it was the fourth of July. Claude recalled, “As German star shells began to burst overhead, they revealed the infantry column slogging down the hill. In bright light, I could see the men looking up as more star shells burst and then within a few minutes, I heard the first shells being fired across the way and we returned them with as much or more. Artillery can kill troops, it can kill the enemy artillery, and either way, it makes one’s own infantry more powerful. We fired for effect on the Hun’s artillery sections before us and while they launched shells towards our infantry, they did not neglect us either. However, shelling us meant less fire on our infantry, so when we were under attack, we always felt that there had to be a balance between firing on the infantry and the supporting artillery. We had the better of it now because our men were not yet nearing the actual German line, so we could use all of our energy on the Hun artillery. Then as our boys advanced, we sought out the German infantry trenches, again to try to help our fellows move forward.”
What had been a peaceful night Claude remembered, became a kind of bizarre celebration of fireworks, but one in which the participants could expect to be blown up or severely wounded. As a celebration, it lacked pleasure. Smoke filled the early morning air and we fired some smoke shells to cover our infantry, but we heard the German shells striking their ranks and we heard the shells seeking us out as well. Our mortars could not be easily limbered and we all felt a bit like sitting ducks, but the German artillery did not appear to have it right as their shells fell behind us; they couldn’t seem to get the right deflection and trajectory.
Down below, the rattle of increased rifle fire could be heard as the Springfields begin their reports answered by the Mausers on the other side. The noise rose. The rattle of the Brownings cracked the air. The shots became more insistent and the artillery shells more frequent and we knew that our job was about over, just as the German artillerymen knew that their role was about over. Neither side could risk firing into their own men as the infantry on both sides engaged. As the last shells were sent on their way a slackening return fire indicated that they too were about to call it a day. However, one of the last shells they fired came right at us and while we heard it coming, we could not escape it. Norton, my God, Norton! The shell took off the legs of Gunner Norton and threw the rest of him out and beyond his mortar. None of us could react at first, none of us. Norton, our first (and only) casualty had shockingly brought the war to us and we could not react. Finally, in what seemed like a long pause, two men near him jumped forward and began to minister to Norton’s injuries. One leg was gone above the knee and the other leg mangled above the ankle. He had not yet cried out and only moaned softly between gasping breaths. In just a few minutes, medics arrived, checked on Norton, applied bandages, and tourniquets, gave him morphine for the pain, put him on a stretcher, and took him to the rear field hospital.
While all of the events surrounding Norton’s injuries went on, it seemed the war had shortly stopped and all was quiet, but as soon as he was carried away, the shelling resumed. “Let’s get back to it, men.” As the mortars once more opened on German positions, the order came to stand down and shelling from the enemy seemed to lessen. Claude worried that there would be more “incoming” but none came. In fact, the shelling quit altogether. Either the German artillery had been overrun by our infantry or firing into the battleground meant shelling their own men. For the moment, it was over and the gun crews sorted themselves out, serviced their weapons, and prepared for when they would be called upon to once more mount a barrage. Ironically, none of us even worried about the infantry battle and its outcome. We were so inured to just “doing our job” that we had lost sight of whether the job had any meaning.
Two days later there was a lull in the war and Claude spent the day visiting Jim Norton, who by now was in hospital and being well cared for. The hospital was adequate, but barely so; located near Flirey, it was really too close to the front, but given the scant number of suitable buildings in the district, the decision to put the hospital in Flirey had been unavoidable unless they wanted a tent hospital. Claude borrowed a motorcycle from Regimental and motored into Flirey through roads that were really a series of connected muddy holes.
Claude entered the ward and noticed that Jim had regained his color and some of his humor as he carried on banter with the nurses and doctors. Claude could not look at the empty space at the foot of the clean white bed without a shock.
“Doesn’t the condemned man get his choice of last meals?” asked Jim of one of the nurses who brought his dinner tray. “Am I gonna’ eat that or did I?”
“If you don’t want it, there is a handsome German in the next bed who would be happy to have it,” said the nurse in retort to Jim’s comments, “and he is a gentleman.”
“That’s not a handsome German,” Jim said looking at the mass of white bandages in the bed next to him, “that’s a runty little Englishman and they don’t know how to eat anyway, sticking their food with their forks.”
“How are things going Jim?” Claude asked as he came into the room. “Are they treating you well?”
“They’re treating me well enough, but they have not brought my legs back yet, so they may have given them to someone else.”


The photo on the left is also identified by Lt. Hendon as, "Driving; 1st Lt. Claude Hendon, On
right; 1st Lt. Walter G. Miller, On running board; 1st Lt. Louis M. Coln, 51st Arty, CAC."
.


LETTERS FROM FRANCE, 1918



The letters are presented in chronological order. The first letter was written to Claude’s parents, and was written in May of 1918. By this time he had been in France since October of 1917 and had received his training and his battery had served with the French army. In this letter Claude talks about his halting knowledge of French and his desire to be more fluent in his cursing.




In the next letter, Claude writes his brother Wheeler (and wife Grace) on June 7, 1918. Claude’s battery and the entire AEF is still attached to the French army but the threat to the French in the north seems to be over. Claude cannot report where he is but he writes and expresses some hope that he will be promoted. He reports seeing two German airplanes shot down. He has been somewhat ill, but is now better.







The next letter came to Wheeler five days later, written on June 15, 191l. Claude is still in northern France. This is a particularly difficult letter to understand. Claude refers to Wheeler’s wife Grace when he says “Your letter came today also your wife’s, from Missouri. (Mo?) Then the puzzling part in which he says, “I have a wife in Mo.- also. However, I have no fine daughters or any marital relations- as yet- openly-“
I recall in 1963 when our father died, Mother told us that there was some evidence that he had been married earlier and that he may have had a wife in Missouri. This letter must have been the item that alarmed her and prompted that comment. I have found no additional references and neither had she, so one must surmise that Claude was not serious when he made that remark to Wheeler. Nonetheless, it is an interesting family mystery.
Claude also grouses in that letter about not getting a promotion; he remarks that he has heard that his brother Bob has already been promoted and he is still in the US. Obviously, there is some envy in the tone of this letter as he complains that he has not been promoted nor have other officers around him in France.





The next letter we have is dated July 23, 1918. In this letter to his “folks”, Claude writes that he has received letters from both Wheeler and Grace, and is happier with the one from Grace. Claude is pleased that crops seem to be good and he mentions the “death of a frier” (fryer) that he was sorry to miss. He mentions that he will be going to the south of France for a 6-7 day leave and looks forward to the female swimming garb. He also discusses Lloyd? “getting into the “machine game”, a reference to a friend or relative. In his references to the war and their “work”, he is referring to the coming St. Mihiel offensive.




Prior to his trip to Nice, Claude also penned a letter on July 23, 1918 to his brother, Scott. Claude is still hopeful of a promotion and also tells Scott that he is comfortable in the well built German bunkers that they have taken. He expresses a wish to be back in the U.S.A.





When he goes on leave, he goes south to Nice and arrives in early August of 1918. It is “all quiet on the western front,” and he enjoys his week there, with the wine, the food, the scenery and the Mediterranean..






The above items are representative of the kind of tourist photos packets available to Claude during his visit to the Riviera. For an American soldier, a handsome young officer at that, the French were delighted to have them. The “Yanks” were considered by many to be the “saviors” of the War. The French and the English were exhausted after three long years of war and the fourth year, 1917-18 brought relief when it was sorely needed.
He claimed to have a good time and that he did not gamble. While in Nice, he found time to write to his mother. He certainly appreciated the swim suited girls.


When he returned to the St. Mihiel sector, there were forays into a bulge in the German lines, into German held territory in the so-called St. Mihiel salient. The American army was now acting as an independent army under General “Black Jack” Pershing. The AEF wanted to push through the bulge and made several forays in September and into October. This meant regular bombardment of German lines, much artillery action for Claude and his battery of 270mm French mortars. What with the spring offensive and now the fall action, the battery was in constant action.
In mid-September, Claude wrote Wheeler and Grace indicating that he sent her some sheet music. He refers also to “his girl”, but we do not know of whom he speaks. It may well be simply indicative of his fondness for Grace and refers to her in that way. He also tells them that of all of the artillery shells that come over, all are recognizable in sound and usually avoidable. He mentions the 77mm, the 150mm, the 105mm and the 210mm. He thinks only the “88” could “get him.”





A few days earlier Claude had written a letter to his father. This letter takes on a more formal tone than most of the letters. In this letter, he describes a major action in which his battery takes part. There is an enormous artillery bombardment at night that his description makes nightmarish. Then at 4 AM, the Oklahoma infantry go over the top, and during the action of the day, the allied airplanes were in constant action.. Claude and his men had no sleep for 36 hours. This kind of action was continuous through the fall.
The next letter is one Claude wrote to his mother on October 23, 1918. In this letter he tells his mother that since the big St. Mihiel offensive where they pushed the Germans back many miles, he has been living in a German made dugout that he had mentioned in an earlier letter. The shelling does not bother him because the bunker has a roof of six feet of concrete. He talks about walking in places where a few seconds later, a shell hits. He has lain in a gutter while shells hit all around him. He describes getting up from dinner and within 30 minutes the table and all the dishes are blown away by German shells.
He refers to a Christmas package that can only be 9” by 3” by 4”. He also mentions his Uncle Henry who came to visit the Oklahoma Hendons. Recall that Claude’s father was one of two boys and there were two girls as well. Henry is the brother who stayed in Alabama and the later went to Louisiana and married into a Cajun family (hence our cousin Curtis Hendon and all his family in Raceland, Louisiana, on the delta.)
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Perhaps the most poignant letter is one Claude wrote a few days after the Armistice was signed on November 11. He is writing to his father and mother and reflecting on his joy at the war’s end. It is a joyful letter, but there is a somber quality to it.






The ten things that Claude expresses thankfulness for include the fact that the war is over, that the Allies won, that his family is happy with the outcome and that there is a fall of eagles, the monarchy destroyed and the hope that democracy will be restored. He is also pleased that he is earning a living and that he was among those who served. He has been promoted and is happily looking forward to coming home.
The last letter we have is one that Claude wrote on December 31, 1918. It is addressed to his father. In the letter he refers to a friend with whom he spent a pleasant day in Nancy, France on Armistice’s Day, November 11, 1918. We know that on that day, at least, that he was on leave. He talks about spending eight months in torn and desolate country, a country with no sounds except that of shells and gas alarms. He hopes not to ever have to see that again. This letter takes a serious reflective tone. The year in combat has not been a picnic for him as he thinks about the eight months of constant shelling. The whole things seems so wanton and useless to him, and not to the Germans either. He seems to have learned the lesson that soldiers learn, that their war is a small sector of action, none of which seems to be anything but pointless. It was a time of exhaustion and nervous fear.



It is interesting to read through these letters, written as they were nearly 90 years ago and written by a man of 27 years who like so many of his fellows took on responsibilities that far exceeded anything they would have imagined, just a few years earlier. I think of the movie, “Memphis Belle” and how the men who flew that B-17 in WWII were all under 20 except the captain who was 21.
This man was important in all of our lives (particularly for myself and my brothers, Claude and Bob, and for Kent and John, who among the six of you, knew him best) I suppose we gain from these letters a little better bit of knowledge about my father and your grandfather and some of his experiences and thoughts. I cannot get over the fact that if any of us were in the same situation in which he found himself, our letters back home would sound the same. There are the ties that bind.
One thing I do regret is that when he was alive, I did not ask him any questions to speak of. I have had to get to know him through research into his papers and whatever things I can find. I hope that all of you, Anna, Willie, Claude, Kent, John, and Dana, will enjoy poking into this. Knowing where you came from helps you understand what you have become and where you are going.

MERRY CHRISTMAS. DAD - UNCLE





PS. On July 15, 1918, Claude wrote a letter that his father had published in the Daily Oklahoman. This letter follows: Note that it is the same letter that he wrote to his mother from France and displayed earlier. WSH