How We Destroyed Hindenburg’s Impregnable Trenches

Friday, November 1

Daylight found us alive and well, but we did not get up until late. We will never forget what we saw last night. A shell landed on the few branches of the splintered tree with the roots that covered our heads. The explosion destroyed our little fort, and big pieces of shrapnel dug into the boxes that then fell on us. This happened while Barrera was on his feet. A splinter slightly bigger than a needle struck him on the back of his neck, reminding us that we were not free of danger. Of course, Gómez and I had a good scare because we thought we had lost our friend. While Gómez stood guard, a huge shell had landed close to the foxhole where Barrera and I were sleeping. We do not know how many minutes we were unconscious. Although we were fine, we did not realize until Gómez woke us up that we were covered in dirt. The explosion had killed soldiers sleeping next to us.

We had expected the sight that was before us in the morning. Large numbers of German prisoners began arriving. The wretched men looked relieved because they had managed to survive. What more could one expect? The prisoners included old men, young ones, and even younger boys. One of their artillery officers was drunk and could hardly walk. The others were ready to answer questions. They discovered that we did not hate them like soldiers of other races would have. We do not harbor significant resentment because we have not been subject to the outrageous actions they have taken on the Poles, French, Belgians, Italians, and British.

It broke our hearts to see this part of the war. Many of our wounded soldiers were arriving without having received any medical treatment. Many had bled all night and were very weak. One of them took off his jacket and shirt to show us two wounds on his back that reached all the way to his chest. Although the wounds were not critical, they were very dangerous. Another soldier was missing his entire lower jaw. The others had missing feet and supported themselves on the shoulders of their companions, as Sergeant Darnell had done. Several had head, arm, and leg wounds. They have suffered all this and maybe more at the hands of the Germans, who were trained to wage the cruelest war in the history of man. The point, however, is that the lowly private bears it all, or the worst of it. Moreover, he is not the cause of these infernal wars that are pounding mankind. Demented human race, you exalt the martial spirit instead of suppressing it!

A group of German artillerymen confessed that they had never seen anything like our cannon fire and that the barrage did not give them time to find a foxhole. Their commander had disappeared into his foxhole to drink wine and avoid the inevitable pain of death. He had ordered them to do as they pleased. They waited to die or be taken prisoners by our soldiers. This is corroborated by the large number of men who gave up without a fight. They say their only hope for survival was to fall into our hands. They were really scared of the British and the French. Why? What had they done to those people? Behold the history with its bloody pages that they wrote in Belgium and northern France. They understand everything all too well and, consequently, fear these aggrieved peoples.

Soon thereafter, our brothers charged the enemy positions. A line of machine guns next to us had been directing heavy fire since around five in the morning. The firing suddenly stopped and we heard the clear and distinct voice of the officers, “Over the top and forward.” What a terrible order. We were to jump out bare chested and into the clutches of death, to attack an enemy that was barricaded in his impregnable trenches, and to brave the curtains of machine gun and rifle fire and all the other modern inventions of war. Our advance was noticeable as the enemy’s fire declined and their major hellish offensive lost steam. We also noticed that their cannon grew increasingly silent, mostly because our own guns were hitting their mark. The cannon from hell that had fired on us all night were being silenced, perhaps forever. May God make this true! Our soldiers carried out the glorious offensive against a thousand obstacles. The selfless act of our zealous youth made everything possible. Von Hindenburg’s trenches were either destroyed or seized. Victory was ours. Nothing could deny our complete success. Germany will have to surrender.

I was ordered to get some water in the afternoon and left for the kitchen and the stream at Romagne. I had crossed the crystal-clear stream on several previous occasions. I was now able to see what had transpired the night before. What was the full measure of our formidable attack? Several of our patrols were picking up the dead and burying them. A few German soldiers were helping them. I approached a pit being filled with the dead who were to be covered with dirt. The soldiers wrapped the bodies in blankets and placed dog tags on them. Many of the bodies were mangled and unrecognizable. Others could not be pieced together. Parts from different bodies were going to be buried together. Who could take issue with this? They will have to remain here until they are exhumed at the end of the war and buried in a better place. What better place for burial than the fields of honor they defended? I believe that we have the legal right to take our own to America, although the expenses will prevent it. It would be best if the government used the money to help the widows and orphaned children.

Another detachment was gathering the backpacks of the dead. It is difficult to see so many of these backpacks without their owners, the same soldiers we engaged in conversation with yesterday afternoon. Once we arrived at Romagne, I recognized the place that Sergeant Schwarz and I shared for five nights. Artillery fire had blown the roof away. Out of curiosity, I checked for the ruinous signs of war and, sure enough, I found some. The soldiers who had taken our place the night we left had died. Their lifeless bodies were resting where we had slept five nights in a row, one in each bed. No one can imagine how I felt when I saw this. I thought that others could have witnessed the same scene with us as the victims. I wanted to investigate further and entered the sleeping area; the door was open. The place was such a mess. Garbage and objects of all kinds were scattered next to the dirt and rocks and the black soot from the explosion. All of this covered the dead and made them barely recognizable. The bodies were not in pieces and little blood was showing. They may have died from the blasts of the exploding shells. They were blackened from the horror-causing smoke of the explosions. Deeply pained and saddened, I left that place of rubble and misery.

Our artillery force is large and moves fast toward the front. We are occupying more German ground and have to fortify the positions we have overtaken to discourage counterattacks. The Germans have shown that they can also move quickly. On some occasions, our soldiers have been unable to catch up with them.

Our office has not moved. According to Barrera and Gómez, the messengers maintain contact between the command post and its forward-moving units. They now have to run longer distances with their messages.

I should provide some background on these humble men—all friends and brothers—with whom I share the misery of war.

Eulogio Gómez left his parents and brothers in Brackettville. I know nothing about his past, but a buddy knew him as a civilian and speaks well of him and his family. He is like many of our men who come into this world without noise or fanfare and grow up alone without anyone ever taking notice of them, except for people who are close to them. They belong to our great nation but are never recognized as such until misfortune and calamity come knocking on their doors.

Society finally decided that the descriptor “100 percent American” could be extended to races that had been thought unworthy of such consideration. This occurred with the arrival of the devastating threat of the Great War, when it became necessary to send men as cannon fodder, when studies determined that only citizens should be sent to fight, and when it became known that 95 percent of them would probably never return.

We were all to act like Americans, but some people sought easy jobs in government and business in order to stay in the United States. No one seemed to be claiming the honor of serving on the front lines, but we needed men to meet this responsibility. Where would they come from? At that point, they remembered the uneducated and ignored masses that are stuck in the agricultural fields of the South where “cotton is king” (king of slaves). Everyone should recall that newspapers published copies of a law claiming that people who could not read, write, or speak the national language would not be bothered to go overseas. We were happy to hear this, and many of us thought justice would finally prevail because many of our people do not meet these qualifications. They were not to blame for this; our schools had denied them equal access.

In many towns, racial prejudice is solely responsible for denying our children the opportunity to attend a school. Instead of teaching them love of country, they have injured their racial sensibilities. They became resentful, and this explains their behavior.

For one reason or another, society concluded that the more ignorant the soldier, the better for him to face the bullets. This is why hundreds, perhaps thousands, of poor men of our raza are wearing the good uniform of our nation and are in the line of fire in the trenches. More than that, they have been serving with honor.

Gómez could not read or write Spanish or English, nor could he even write his name. I had him order a book from New York so that I could teach him enough to write brief letters in Spanish to his parents during our rest breaks in the Saint-Mihiel sector. He has told me that, “As far as schooling is concerned, I owe nothing to our native state.” He did not know anything about geography, not even that it existed. Gómez, nevertheless, carries out assignments that require some knowledge of geography. It is so demanding that even soldiers who have studied it have made mistakes. Gómez is so adept he does not need a compass to find the hiding places of the officers of our regiment.

I asked Gómez how he avoided getting lost like the other messengers during our advances across so much barbed wire. The “runners,” or messengers, were always losing their way when we moved forward. Many of them were clever and hid in foxholes to avoid danger. Gómez was the only one who never got lost or went missing during the critical moments of the fighting. When he was not running messages, Gómez could be found at the colonel’s office awaiting orders. He explained in his uncomplicated manner how he avoided getting lost in the constantly changing battlefield. (We know of the changing terrain because our planes are always taking aerial photos of the battlefield.) He pointed out that, “When I go from here to there, I place small stakes along the way until I get to the place I am going, and, when I return, I remove them.” I then asked, “Why do you remove them, could you not use them again?” “No,” he replied, “that would be a mistake. Since the command posts are always changing, I have to do a lot of moving, and I would be in real trouble if I were to come across some of those old stakes. You see, I really do not know where I am going. I find the command posts after walking for a long time.” Everyone should know this intimate part of the life of the small fair-skinned Gómez. As God is my witness, this small man is very important. Many others have been so frightened they have lost their way. Since I am always dealing with maps of our operations (this is another responsibility I have despite my rank of private), I have asked him about some important places at the front. Based on his responses, I know that he has exposed himself to grave danger many times, often without knowing it. Sergeant Baton is his friend and hails from the same hometown. The sergeant treats him well because he knows him.

Eduardo B. Barrera is from San Diego. I do not know anything about his family except that he left his good mother behind. Barrera has good insurance coverage. If he dies in battle, the insurance may not make her happy or help her adjust to his passing, but it would allow her to live well for the rest of her life. I think that Barrera has a small ranch. At any rate, Barrera’s mother will be in better shape than most. Barrera obviously lacked influence in his hometown. If Barrera had the same “pull” as others, he would not have been sent to the trenches. He never thought of leaving for Mexico or seeking citizenship in that country. We have rebuked the men who did this to avoid the weight of the backpack and the delight of breathing gases on an empty stomach.

Barrera immersed himself in a country school. This is how he learned to write his name and write letters that our mothers do not understand but figure out with “sweet” tears in their eyes. Barrera is kind and passive and he has a country boy demeanor with a farmworker appearance that wins him friends wherever he goes. He knows how to ride a horse. This is why he has been assigned to a cavalry unit. Under other circumstances, Barrera would never have done what we have seen him do, assuming the awesome responsibility of “fighting to the death.” He is not as sharp as Gómez, but he is not less responsible or unwilling to meet his responsibility, even to the point of risking his life if necessary. He has been brave and resolute.

I have studied this humble man very closely and with much interest. My hope is that if he returns to civilian life, the difficulties and the despair we have faced in the new and old world may serve him well. I have no doubt that he will build a happy home and that he will devote himself completely to it, and that if he has children, he will zealously guard their education. We have already said that when the next world war comes, we do not want our children to follow our footsteps because we are illiterate or cannot understand the whites.

San Antonio, Texas

October 1918

Mr. Sáenz:

I was so happy to receive your letter of September 16. La Prensa published one of your letters. Your eyewitness account was amazing. I read it to my brother’s family. Do you know Lieutenant Jorge P. Knox of the 538th Infantry? He is my nephew. The war looks like it is going well from here. The allies are winning everywhere.

Thousands of new soldiers are still being recruited here. The influenza has hit pretty hard. Many people have died. We appreciate and do not forget the sacrifice and devotion of “our soldiers.” Many Mexican Texans are at the battlefront. The uniform suits them well and I believe that in the future they will be able to better appreciate their homeland and thoroughly understand the meaning of their flag. This is going to be an education for all of you. You will learn a great lesson about “world issues,” “an appreciation for the world,” and “patriotism.”

You have displayed a very noble outlook and we appreciate you for that.

Look for Lieutenant George P. Knox, Intelligence Department officer with Colonel Kavannaugh’s general staff.

Sincerely,

W. J. KNOX

P.S. May you return safe and sound to enjoy the honors extended to active duty soldiers.