Dad was drafted into the Army in 1917 when he was about 21 years old. World War I had been raging in Europe since 1914, but it was not until 1917 that our country declared war against Germany. After basic training at Camp Funston, Dad was sent by troop ship to France where the worst fighting was then going on. He had been trained as a machine gunner, and was assigned to Company B, 129th Machine Gun Battalion. Our mother and father had met by this time and were corresponding, very platonically with the letters signed, I remain, your friend, Pvt. Swantie Swanson." In a letter to her he described his progress from the first campaign at Alsace, on to Toul, next was Metz and finally the battle of the Meuse-Argonne which began on September 26th, 1918.

It was on November 1, 1918 that a Western Union telegram was sent from Washington D.C. to Dad's parents: "We deeply regret to inform you that your son was reported killed in action on September 29th". This was followed by a letter from the Secretary of the Interior urging the family "to rejoice because your son had so glorious an ending. For what can be finer than to die in an effort to save the lives and make happier the lot of others?"

In the meantime, Dad and the rest of Company B had begun their push up the valley toward the Meuse-Argonne forest. They were under constant bombardment, both from German planes and machine gun fire, and in three days, half of the men had been killed or wounded. One bullet whizzed so closely by Dads nose that he felt the vibration, and reached up to feel if his nose was still there. At one point they passed a white mule that was dead and still standing in its tracks, held up by the staves of the vehicle it was pulling. At various times they captured German prisoners and released the French soldiers being held by the Germans. A Company officer was killed while talking to Dad. Much of their progress was made by jumping from one shell hole to another, advancing to barbed wire entanglements, then passing through a few at a time.

Dad was wounded at 10 A.M. on September 29th, when he was hit by four shrapnel fragments and a machine gun bullet. At the time, he was carrying his machine gun, doing double time, with his buddy Pvt. Snodgrass following behind him carrying the tripod. Pvt. Snodgrass was killed by the concussion of the shell that hit Dad. He crawled to an abandoned trench nearby and lay there from 10 a.m. until dark. All day, while lying on his back in the trench, he watched the German planes above - he counted 27 - as they "laid eggs on us and the men who had gained the woods edge."

At about 4:30 p.m. a Red Cross man appeared and gave him a drink of brandy to ease the pain. This medic said he would return at dark, which he did, and then took Dad and several others to a nearby brick building. But this building soon came under enemy fire, and the wounded were told to get out on the road and walk. Later that day they were picked up in carts, and about this time a friend and medic, Paul Beatty from Oxford, came by and recognized Dad. He cried when he saw how badly he was wounded. They were on the road for 2 days with no food but one cup of hot chocolate, before they came to a tent, which was the Evacuation Hospital. There, he lay on the floor for "a long time before one night when they started to operate on me at 2 a.m.". More operations followed, including one on November 11th, the day the Armistice was signed. At that time they removed part of his O. D. uniform from a wound. The pieces of shrapnel had been given to Dad to keep as souvenirs. He kept them under his hospital pillow, but threw them away one night when he was delirious.

Back in the States, Dads parents and also my Mother had received letters from him in the Hospital near Nevers. They knew for sure that he was still alive, and after four months in the Hospital, he was sent home to America.

But these violent events stayed with him until his death in 1986 at age 91. He had recurring nightmares, fighting "the enemy", just as the Veterans of more recent wars have.

If you would like to read what the Gazette said in an interview with dad in November 1982 click on the next two words. Newspaper story!

©Mary Poore 2000