Lieutenant George W. Berriman
June 17, 1918.
This is the last letter you will receive from me for a long time due to a military movement. Last night as we were going to bed it started to rain and has been cold and rainy all day to-day. The roof of our shack managed to leak just over one of my shoes and this morning it was overflooding.
All of us (the officers) decided bed was the best place we could be in, for our stove (a hole in the ground covered with tin) was flooded and we had to go without breakfast. We managed a dinner of cornbread, turnips, and turnip-greens, but supper- – – well, it looks dubious.
It is so cold to-day that I am sitting in my mackinaw (I just received my bedding role day before yesterday) and trying to absorb all the heat that a lone candle can “put out”. I am through with patrol for a while and very thankful, although I hated to stop without ever getting a prisoner. But I feel that my duty was more than done for I know we killed over three of them and they never killed a man of my patrol.
Sunday, June 30, 1918- – -4p.m.
I am nearly all in due to two hikes we have just had. The former was 30 kilometres in length and took from 9 p.m. till 6.30 a.m. and the latter was of 20 kilos and took from 9 till 2.45 a.m. We are now in the “big show” and I guess we’ll learn a little about war. All that I hope is that we all receive the “curtain call.”
I am all puffed up now due to my platoon’s excellent record on the hike. I only had two men drop out and they had been marked “quarters” on the sick report the morning of the day we left. I was pretty well all in this morning myself due to hardly any sleep during our march, carrying tired men’s packs for them, and looking after my duties.
I would much rather fight this war up in the lines than behind them, for up there your hours may be hard but you’re at least settled for a week or so. It is so warm here now that we can obtain “swims” in the rivers around us every day. It sure makes one feel better and another thing: the dug-outs don’t smell like they used to.
– – – – -another thing that may interest you is the fact that I always hum to myself while patrolling and most of the time the songs are our old Canada favorites.
A. E. F., July 18, 1918.
Mrs. W. W. Berriman and Family, Tampa, Florida.
My Friends,
To me this is one of the hardest things I have ever done, and being a perfect stranger to you, it makes it still harder for me to summon courage enough to try and express my deep sympathy for you and your family.
Mrs. Berriman, I was very fond of your son, in fact I loved him as if he were a kid brother, and quoting from Shakespeare, “I came not here to bury George, but to praise him. He was my friend, faithful and just to me.”
I feel all in and am slightly downhearted tonight, sitting here in my dugout about thirty feet beneath the ground; the reason, I have lost a friend, and good friends are hard to find. Memory carries me back to a little town in Northern France, when he first joined the Company. And he was such a boy, always ready for fight or frolic. I was only five years his senior, but to me he was always the “Kid.” His nickname for me was “Dad,” he always said I reminded him of his father by my ways and actions.
Many an evening in the past winter have we spent together, talking of things in the past, College days, sports, home and our families. The “Kid” was very fond of his family, and as the days slipped by, I felt as though I knew his mother and father. Their pictures were always placed in some prominent part of his room, and he was never tired of looking, and talking about them.
Time drifted on. We were ordered away from our old front and came here; that was two weeks ago today. Really, I can not express the intensity of the bombardment which the Germans put over on us. It was a perfect hail of high explosive shells, falling down like rain. The ground rocked from the concussion, and the night was almost turned into day from the flash of those guns, spitting out their death dealing messages. This continued for eleven hours – but not for him. About six o’clock this same morning one of those high explosive shells fell in the trench where he was standing and – – well the “Kid” never knew what struck him.
He was not afraid, and he died like a soldier, his face towards the enemy performing his duty till the last; also he was not alone, for many a mother’s son gave his life for his country that same memorial morning. If it is willed that that I shall pay the supreme sacrifice, I hope that it will be in the same way, so there will be no suffering. His death was not in vain, the Germans have been thrown back with terrific losses; from our front line trenches you can see there dead piled up on the ground across which they tried to advance. They have gained nothing.
In a little pine grove which a few days ago brought back memories of my own dear Southland, but which is now torn and rent by the ravages of war, there still stands a few trees. Beneath these, we, his brother officers, have put the “Kid.”
There he sleeps, surrounded by his fallen comrades until this battle is over, when they will be removed, and you, his family, will be notified. I was with him until a few hours before he was killed, and it was his wish that I should write you. He would have done the same for me, if it had been reversed.
If there is anything that I can do for you over here, I will feel honored if you will only request it. Will assure you that it will receive my entire attention. You – his family, have my deepest sympathy and respect. To your son, I pay homage. He was my friend. He died honorably. You should feel honored that such a son gave his life for his country. It is useless and silly to ask you not to grieve, but my feelings can be better expressed in a few verses which you will pardon me for repeating. It’s title, “A Woman Speaks.”
Help me, O God, to keep before my eyes
The larger visions of this War; to be
Inspired each day by noble thoughts that rise,
Of duty, honor, country and of Thee,
Lest I forget, and think of only one
Who goes from me, to see his duty done!
Help me to think of War as one vast Whole
Of human effort, struggling towards the right,
Ever advancing nearer to the goal
Of freedom from the iron rule of might,
Lest I forget, and in my sorrow see
Only the face of him who goes from me.
Let me remember on the fateful day
When women send their men across the sea,
That with brave smiles on trembling lips they say:
“God Bless, and bring you safely back to me!:
Help me, O God, in that black hour, I pray,
Lest I forget to be as brave as they!
I have tried to express my feelings; if I have failed, please forgive me and remember me as your friend.
Very truly yours,
Henry L. Griggs, 1st. Lt. 167 Inf., A E F, Via N.Y.