I wrote “My Personal Diary” as the near complete account of the lives of a special group of frontline soldiers who served among millions of others in the Allied army and shared in the misfortunes and dangers of the Great War. I especially wanted the Mexican-origin people to know and claim the deeds and suffering of the soldiers who defended the reputation and good name of la raza on the honor-testing battlefields of France.
History teaches that we forget and fail to repay the sacrifices of the men who fall in combat. It is a thousand times better for the veterans of the inevitable, destructive, and horrific wars that plague humanity to die forgotten than to have their sacrifice disregarded and unappreciated by the very people they defended in horrible battles far away from the safety and sweet tranquility of their homes.
The common American soldier continues to face misfortune, horror, ingratitude, indifference, and neglect. How could the humble Mexican Americans expect recognition and fairness in light of this hopeless and pervasive situation? Obviously, no one was going to record his glorious deeds and publish a reliable account. The “slackers” committed an unfortunate and regrettable mistake when they failed to answer the call from a nation in crisis and encouraged the public to think the rest of us did not want to make the sacrifice. We are glad and proud to know that our soldiers acted responsibly and bravely when the moment of truth arrived. It was wonderful to see them charging against enemy positions through “curtains of machine gun fire.” As always, the Mexican American gave free expression to a daring and indomitable courage that he inherited from the stoic Aztec race.
The acts of heroism on the battlefields of the Great War were not reserved for one group of men. Everyone who received the order to make the sacrifice responded. The British, the Belgian, the Italian, the French, and the African also shared in the sacrifice. All of us were brave fighting men, subject to the same vicissitudes of military life, exposed to the same dangers, fighting together and defending a common cause during those terrible days of anguish and sorrow felt around the globe. Nevertheless, I have not addressed all experiences so men of other races can have the opportunity to narrate and judge us fairly, hoping they recognize the true heroism of men of honor.
Almost fifteen years have passed and no one has said, “This is what the Mexican American contributed during the war, this is how he conducted himself at the supreme hour of the bloody battles, and let this ‘act’ of recognition be our sincere tribute to them, if only to remember that they fell believing they were dying for a just and sacred cause.”
We must reveal that truth. Today, more than ever, we must recognize their accomplishments so that other loyal citizens may be encouraged to join in the civic and military battles of the future.
Our people have formed a negative opinion of the current unfavorable circumstances. The wounds that many of our veterans carry in their souls are as serious as the ones they sustained on the battlefields and took to their graves. The veterans and their children have been wounded by the sad and disappointing failure to extend to them the just recognition of met responsibilities. Nothing less than the acknowledgment of their contributions can correct past mistakes and the long-standing prejudice against us. It will also provide a clear understanding of the true meaning of loyalty, the right of citizenship, and the love of flag and country.
Our unwavering loyalty in the desolate fields of Flanders, Château Thierry, Verdun, and Saint-Mihiel may serve us well. We expressed it at the most critical time, when we had to respond in the name of our people and help raise the morale of the dispirited Allies. We did this during the final push to rescue our civilization and restore the global peace that is necessary for establishing understanding and respect among the races, including our own.
The great American military lived up to the trust the world placed on it. Our soldiers took part in that glorious armada and they also lived up to their reputation as brave men. This is why we should be proud of the final Allied victory that removed the threat of the horrible world war. Our sacrifice was the last drop that made the cup run over. It made the armistice possible and offered us the opportunity to set the conditions for the end of the human hemorrhage . . . and it brought peace!
Without our help, the Allies would never have achieved victory. This will become more evident with the passage of time.
We never thought that ordinary soldiers like us should have to understand the cause of the war and why it started as it did. It was enough to hear the clamor for justice by the suffering humanity against imperial despotism and cruelty. We only had to witness the offense against the honor of nations. We are glad to have made the contribution of exposing our lives and sacrificing ourselves until we finished with the hostilities and achieved a clear and favorable conclusion to the war. Only time could tell if the treaties would bring lasting peace and that justice would prevail.
Those were the feelings and the spirit that filled our hearts. They emerged out of meeting our major responsibility to our nation during the horrendous hours of bloody battles.
My book does not pretend to be a work of art or a literary jewel, but it is a sincere and reliable account of my ideas, based on what I saw, what I did, and what I felt during the sixteen months when I answered my nation’s call to duty. We are at peace now. Our country was once in danger, but it no longer faces the sinister and disquieting days, the difficult trials, the unimaginable anguish, and the terrifying uncertainty. The fear of universal ruin that enveloped everything and that seemed to be pulling us into the abyss faded away, and the brilliant rainbow of the sweet and coveted peace has returned.
We invoke memories that are like yesterday’s deeply etched dreams and carefully set them aside for future use.
My favorite time to work on the diary was the twilight hours, usually with the reliable help of the flickering light of a paraffin candle. I wrote as the events unfolded, as the scenes that I observed were moving me. I wrote in the “barracks” where we enjoyed the gift of electrical light and at French “billets,” far from clear danger but within earshot of the constant artillery rumble from the horrendous front. I wrote in “dugouts,” our covered underground holes. Sometimes, I simply wrote with the sky as my cover, sometimes blue, sometimes covered with thick clouds yielding the unrelenting rain that often fell over France.
Although my ability may limit me, I wish to sketch true accounts of scenes we witnessed as we met our most sacred duty. I have done this while at Camp Travis, as we rode a Pullman train toward the port of departure at Hoboken, New Jersey, on our steamship voyage across the Atlantic, when we arrived in Great Britain, as we crossed the English Channel, upon our arrival in the glorious France, while in French towns and villages where we maintained ourselves in strict discipline, at the old and memorable battlefields and ruins from the times of the Crusades and of the Moors, in the fields and towns that had been laid to waste, amid the scattered bodies in battlefields cratered by powerful explosives, all through the difficult and weary marches along muddy roads on the way to German territory, as we bade farewell to Europe, during the public receptions in our country, while we waited for our discharge at Camp Travis, and, finally, during the joyful arrival at our homes.
We should not overlook why I sought to serve or the circumstances that explain my views and judgments that may appear to reflect my personal partialities, especially when I complain or indict people who did not treat me as the companion in arms that our shared responsibility required. I returned safe and sound to my family, and with the passage of time and the experience of living, I have forgotten the bitterness of that difficult life. I merely recall it as a chapter in my past.
May it please the heavens that the still-open, bleeding wounds call on humankind to rid itself of petty and personal resentments and that the memory of the war, the most destructive in our history, discourage the egotistical behavior that has a hold over nations.
Not long ago, we heard the nations of the world clamoring for peace. They were suffering, they complained of hunger, pestilence, misery, and the ravages of war. On the other hand, we have seen with our own eyes that as soon as the war ended and the spoils of victory were divided, nations rose up again, more arrogant, egotistical, prideful, and cunning than ever. The hope for better, permanent relations between nations fades away as haughty ideas enslave people again.
We learned to recognize the smell of fresh smoke from the powerful explosives, paid the bitter price of the supreme sacrifice, and saw at close range the destruction of modern war. We do not want more wars. Despite everything, wars will come again. Witness our restless youth with a spirit more eager for unknown adventures than our own ever were and be assured we will not be lacking for leaders who know how to manipulate human passions. We will once again see the laborer’s son march alongside the young man of the “slums,” clutching the rifle, leaping over the trenches, and braving the barbed wire and the asphyxiating gases as they are ordered, “over the top” and “forward, boys.” Meanwhile, others will be enjoying life’s pleasures and good fortune thousands of miles from the front, or they will curse the delayed victory or the war and its high cost. War! War! Future generations will continue to be spectators, tolerate the atrocities and barbarisms, and endorse the horrors and desolation. We expect justice for the soldiers who fell to make this world better, and we hope that history gathers their names and tells of their deeds with accurate reckoning. Those of us who despaired alongside the thousands of unknown and forgotten heroes will also have the moral responsibility to proclaim their acts of bravery and to do something to remember and honor their acts of self-denial. We will have to work at this until we reach our final hour, when we leap over our “last bulwark.”