Chapter I: How I Came to Go

If you like excitement I’d say take a steamer for France—and join the Ambulance Corps on the French front overlooking Verdun. A few steps forward to the front-line trenches and you’re in the zone of what the lamented Charles Frohman described as “The Great Adventure.”

I was there and I bless my lucky stars that I’m home again for a while with a whole skin and a large and growing appetite that I brought back with me. I served as an ambulance man, a sort of scene-shifter in the wings of the greatest tragedy ever staged. Now, as I write, it is running in its fourth year. My duties required me to bring back from the battlefield the maimed and dying, and deposit them in places of comparative safety. Also to the sheltered huts, further back, where first aid could be given.

If anyone had told me, on January 1, 1917, that in less than sixty days I would be over there on the French front, taking a minor part in the biggest show on earth, I probably would have slammed back at him, “Quit your kidding.” Nevertheless, it all happened—I went, and of my own volition, joined the Ambulance section of the French Army, and stayed in the game until my own country took over that service. Then I came home for a visit, having served practically nine months, but I am going back soon, this time with Uncle Sam—I have already enlisted.

Just how I made up my mind to go in the first place is yet something of a mystery. Here I was in New York, holding down a good position at generous pay. New York is always entertaining, and at intervals my work took me out over the country to other cities, under first-class conditions. Therefore, it was not from lack of novelty or interest in my own affairs that I went forth in search of trouble.

As I think back upon it I presume I must have talked myself into going. Notwithstanding that we, over here, were seemingly out of the war, everybody I knew, at home or on my travels, talked war, and I did also.

While dining with a friend one evening in a New York restaurant we got into the war talk game rather earnestly. He was sure he would go over were it not that he couldn’t possibly pass the test.

“If it was Uncle Sam that was fighting I might try to go anyway,” said he.

It was at this point in our conversation that I heard myself say:

“Well, I think I’ll go and help France; she was always good to us.”

My voice sounded strange to my own ears as I said this, and the next instant our eyes met. Bing! I realized that I had started something down deep within me. Also that a hand reached forth across the table which I took into my own. It was the hand of James A. Gilmore, “Fighting Jim,” as he is affectionately known to millions of baseball fans all over the world.

“Bully for you!” he shouted. “What part of the service will you go in for? Army—Navy—Red Cross?” There was a wistful look in his eyes.

“Red Cross, I think.”

I heard myself say this, but, as a matter of fact, I had no thought whatever of what I would do. To tell the honest truth, I felt as if I had jumped off of the Brooklyn Bridge. Not that the idea frightened me. Nothing like that. If I had made a real decision, and I began to feel that I had, it didn’t seem to disturb me unduly. There was no reason why I shouldn’t go. If there was a reluctant feeling it was on account of my Mother—but I knew her too well to believe that she would hold me back from such a righteous cause. As to my Father, why he’d boost the game. I was sure of that. Anyhow the conviction grew that I had cast the die, and by the look on the face of my friend I knew that I had committed myself.

For the next half hour I sat quietly munching my food and listening the while to my good friend opposite. It was during this time that he showed his loyalty to the great cause. I was told to outfit myself and spare no expense—he would help foot the bill. A few days later, when I was all but on the point of sailing away toward the great whirlpool of disaster, he and other good friends presented me with an auto-ambulance, fully equipped.

Proud! grateful! I thought I’d drop dead with joy before the day came to walk the gangway of the big ship that was to bear me away from peace to war.

Recalling my sudden decision to enter the war, on many occasions I have asked other Americans why they volunteered. In no instance did any of them give a solid reason right off the reel. I believe the answer given by a young Philadelphian, who was a member of our party on board ship, fairly sums up most cases of volunteer enlistment.

“Damifino,” said he, with a shrug of his well-set shoulders and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

Same here—his answer is mine. I don’t know why I went, but I am glad I did. I’ve seen things that horrified me—that terrified me. I have been within arm’s length of the Grim Reaper many times, but I got used to it all. It became a part of the day’s work, but never to the point where I failed to shoot the gas into my motor in order to get out of reach of the “big ones” that flew my way.

But I’m getting ahead of my story. After making my decision to go I did as everyone else had to do—saw Eliot Norton, a New York lawyer who contributed his time in passing upon the qualifications of the men desiring to enter this branch of service in connection with the Red Cross. He seemed glad to have me go; therefore, I soon found myself busily engaged in purchasing supplies and equipment generally. I also started to “pulling the strings” for my passport. In fact, I went to Washington in order to get quick action, so that I could sail on a French liner, along with forty other volunteers. My auto was to follow on another boat.

On shipboard all hands fraternized at once. It was a gay party withal, and democratic in spirit. Big family names didn’t count for a cent, much to the relief of the fine fellows who bore them. There was a general realization that we were bound on a serious mission and that there was no better time possible in which to get acquainted. Therefore, the time passed quickly enough on our way to the port of Bordeaux, our gateway to Paris. A surprise awaited us there—third-class coaches, instead of luxurious Pullmans, to which we all were accustomed. Bare wooden seats for an all-night ride were not so soft as a feather-bed, but at that we were lucky, for we were told that this long ride was usually made in freight cars. It was a mighty rocky ride, though. There was compensation in the fact, however, that we journeyed through the celebrated Jardin de France, the most beautiful landscape in all that beautiful land. But our legs and bodies ached, almost unbearably, as we came to the end of the journey.

Arriving in Paris we went straight to headquarters, No. 7 Rue Francois Premier, French Headquarters of the American Red Cross in Paris. There we signed up for voluntary service with the French Army, and then started out to complete our equipment and obtain uniforms. Four glorious days followed, for Paris is great, even in war times, and we realized that we would not get back there for at least six months.

Then came preliminary training at Sandricourt. This took ten days, and from thence we were hurried forward to our Division assignment for training near the Eastern front. No use to go into detail concerning the red tape necessary to enlistment. It is enough to say that there is plenty of it. After every little thing had been attended to I found myself tagged for identification as follows:

VIII Army
9th Corp
17th Division
French Army
Edward R. Coyle.