“About the war, let me say that it is quite different from the description one reads in the Saturday Evening Post,” explained twenty-five-year-old 1st Lt. Ed Lukert to his wife, Mabel, back in Philadelphia. “In print it reads: ‘A shell burst close at hand. A patrol met resistance. A raid was repulsed …’ etc., etc., Oui, Oui Madame! But what a different story I shall someday tell if called upon.” In fact, Lukert was able to tell much of his story to his wife through his correspondence, which, unlike the letters of the enlisted men who served under him, were more forthcoming about the graphic details of war. Lukert, as an officer in the Fifth Division of the Allied Expeditionary Forces, was responsible for censoring the mail, and it was therefore easier for him to send home observations others could not. On June 18, 1918, Lukert wrote to his wife after having been gassed—but only mildly, and in training. (Dan Boone, mentioned in several of the letters, was a friend who served with Lukert in France.)
June 18, 1918
Dearest Girlie:
Do you smell gas also? We were all subjected to several different kinds of it today, with and without masks, and as usual, I cannot rid my clothes of the odor. It is sure awful stuff, honey. Deadly and usually insures a slow horrible death. There is one kind which kills quickly, Chlorine, but I do not prefer any kind or brand myself. I’ll use the gas mask if possible, with all its discomforts and smell.
I had to have a photo taken today for another “Officer’s Identification Book” which every officer must carry. It provides for a small size bust, without head-gear, so when I receive same, I will send you copies. I believe they take the book when your body is found and send the photo to the War Dept to be placed on the Honor Roll. Won’t you be proud to have your Hubby’s picture on a nice magazine page, all fringed with black? Ha! There’s no danger tho. You’ll have me back soon. The war cannot last forever, you know, and even if it does, I will return to you safe and sound eventually.
Unlike the majority of other boys, I am not over here to “die” for my country. I came over to live for it, and after I have helped make it possible for others to live in peace and happiness, I’ll be back to continue living for you. Then we’ll be happier than we would have been had you not sent me over. You know it too! Just like Dan Boone said today, “It’s a great privilege, gentlemen, truly a great privilege to be able to assist in making the world safe for Democrats!” Hurrah for Bryan, yes, and all the party.
That fellow Boone is a funny duck, you know that tho without my saying so.
Heaps of love for you wifie dear—
Ed
“My health? Great! It never was better and never could be,” Lukert once again tried to assure his wife. “There really isn’t any more danger here than at home. There are no big buildings to fall down on us, neither are there any trolley cars to grind us to dust. There are lots of shells, true, but really they are harmless. All you do is duck when one comes anywhere near.” Mrs. Lukert didn’t believe a word of it; nor, for that matter, did her husband. Only a few days earlier during a routine training exercise, Lukert witnessed an accident that jarred even him.
July 1, 1918
Dearest Girlie:
Our “Big Show” yesterday was quite a success tactically, but had a very bad ending.
At the very beginning of the Artillery Preparation, the Red Boys had a short burst of shrapnel wounding one man a mile back of the lines and killing three horses. The man’s wound was not serious, so everyone began boasting that this had been the most successful show yet. Especially so did they boast when our contact Aeroplane seemed to get hit, and in falling, shoot “everything OK” rocket.
The Pilot claimed engine trouble and later told me that he had a strenuous time keeping from falling in the enemy trenches which were at that time under heavy fire from our big guns. Anyway, he pulled out of it, and managed to land in a nearby wheat field. When the attack was finally over, Boone and I walked over to see him make repairs. It was then he told us about the apparent engine trouble and his brave attempt to keep from falling—not that he minded, but “Mac there (observer) wasn’t used to it.”
The pilot was a fine looking chap, and since I knew “Mac,” I lingered quite awhile, and was even invited over for a party at 8 o’clock. It was 3:30, so we turned for home. Near the bridge, we met Watkins, who stood watching the attempt to get the aeroplane to rise. He wagered that “Mac” was sure scared by this time, and we all laughed. An instant later, the machine took the air and went sailing away real low. About a hundred yards further on, the plane seemed to stop suddenly. The tail went up, and the next second it crashed to earth. It no sooner hit the ground before we saw flames shoot up and envelope the entire frame.
Ten minutes later we got a message saying that the only human remains were several blackened bones, including one skull. Think of it! Isn’t that dreadful! Since I have been over here I have seen several dead men, but never before have I been so impressed with the uncertainty of life’s length here, and the necessity of keeping the lamp filled with oil, at all times.
I suppose I was impressed the more because I was in conversation such a few minutes before with the men themselves. Even to this minute I can see the Pilot’s advice as to air service, burning bright in my mind. I mentioned the fact that his must be a great life, so full of exciting incidents. He laughed and said “You too? They all get that way when they see us tearing around overhead, but it’s not so wonderful after all—after you’re in it.” Here he laughed again and continued. “I’ve been in it some time now, and of course, since I’m in I’ve got to see it thru.” And he did, poor chap. He saw it thru some ten minutes later.
With love in heaps From your hubby,
Ed XXXX
Lukert often became philosophical in his letters, and touched occasionally on matters of faith and justice. On July 18 he wrote with extraordinary impartiality: “The War must end soon, so pray real hard, dearest, for a speedy and just peace, irrespective of which side it is. Do not pray that we win the war, neither pray that my life be spared. Our enemy prays likewise, you see, and likewise his wife prays that his life be spared…. Some of us say we know God is with us, but who knows? The Germans claim the same thing. Pray God to have mercy upon us and grant us peace.” Several weeks later Lukert watched a battle being fought in a distant valley, which prompted the following:
August 19, 1918
Dearest Wife:
Last night there was a terrible bombardment downstairs, which might have been a raid or a small attack. I could see the flash of German guns all along the line from here, but I could only hear our own. It surely was a pretty sight. What impressed me most, as I looked down upon them, was the insignificance of man and all his terrible weapons of war. They looked like toys, down there, and I am no where near as high as Heaven. Wonder what we poor creatures and our murderous guns look like from up there?
We are a poor people, know it? It makes me feel sorry for everybody, but “we two,” that they must settle differences by going to war. Why in the dickens should we have to kill each other to settle a matter of opinion or a matter of liberty or rights? We should have these things, and when they are denied, it should only be necessary to call attention to the matter of injustice to have it rectified. Don’t you think so?
Sometime ago I told you about capturing a Hun. Remember? Well, I’m mailing you his cap today, after having had it washed and cleaned up a bit.
Heaps of love xxxxx Your Hubby,
Ed
On Friday September 13, 1918—“the most luckless of unlucky days”—a twisted shard of metal slammed deep into Lukert’s right thigh after a shell exploded during the offensive at Saint-Mihiel. “This morning,” he wrote from the hospital, “I woke up to the fact that I occupy bed 13 in Ward 13, and am attended by a Safety Valve of a nurse who wears the number 13 on her tunic. Can you beat it?” In fact, Lukert considered himself extremely lucky. Many around him—some of them close friends—were killed. Those who survived Saint-Mihiel were still fighting, and Lukert, racked with guilt, felt he should be with his men.
October 13, 1918
Dearheart:
Here I am, still lounging around at the Hospital when I should be with the boys at Verdun. I’m beginning to feel as if I were “beating” something, especially so, since my wound has entirely healed up and I am once more able to walk without a rheumatic limp. Of course, it is still a bit tender, but I cannot see why I should stay here longer, unless it’s because I complained the other day of sharp pains near my knee. Now I suppose, they’ll attribute this to the tiny piece of metal left in me which they did not get during my last operation. They’ll probably want to take another X-ray—hope not. It hasn’t bothered me very much since tho, and I’m going to insist that it will be all right if left alone. That’s what the Chief Surgeon told me after the last attempt.
You know, dear, some of the boys here are in terrible shape. I feel awfully sorry for them. Yesterday I went thru several wards to see if there was anyone there I knew. Several boys I saw had lost both legs, others had all sorts of compound fractures which caused them to be strapped down, while others had shrapnel wounds as big as a dinner plate. Fragments of shell do make horrid wounds. Bullets are not bad, clean and small, but chunks of iron from high explosives are dreadful. I am very, very fortunate to have escaped so lightly from such a hole as I found myself in that Friday night. At one time, I gave up all prospects of coming back. But I made the mistake of figuring them as courageous fighters as my own men.
All afternoon we had been subjected to heavy artillery fire, while in the open digging trenches, and the knowledge of my tremendous losses in killed and wounded had the effect of shattering my nerves a bit. Then the wounded—they worried me too. I had them carried into a shelter where a first aid dressing could be applied. Some were bleeding to death, others were in terrible pain and groaning pitifully. At intervals, I would go in to cheer them up, and lie to keep their spirits up. I told them we would soon get reinforcements and then I could send them back. We had litters enough I suppose, for we captured quite a few in a German Ambulance, the day before, but I couldn’t spare the men. I had orders to hold that woods, and we held, while my strength was reduced from about a hundred and fifty to thirty in less than twenty-four hours.
All these things—wide-eyed dead men gazing at you with a cold stare, wounded men trying to suppress groans, the smell of sulfur and the sickening stench of blood in the shelter almost made me wish they would close on us and capture what few remained after the rush. But the men did act wonderfully. They never gave a single thought to retire, even when they knew the Huns outnumbered us frightfully, and had us penned in on three sides. I just gave one order when they offered a reasonably good target: “Fire at will—retire to edge of woods when they reach that abandoned field piece!” And we did give them H___. But the Huns were afraid to rush us. They dropped to the ground on the open side behind a small hill and from there opened up with their machine guns, waiting for the other Huns to get behind us in the woods. At that time I had no idea we’d ever get away, but later I picked up more hope, when I saw how afraid they really were.
“C” Company on my right, I hadn’t heard from, but I supposed they were almost wiped out. Early in the day I had sent them a reinforcing platoon of 30 men too!
But well, we got out, as you know when we got the order. But I hated to obey it. “Abandon dead and wounded. Withdraw to right rear and fight your way back. Support covers you in rear on crest of four-five.” Well, we picked out the wounded I thought might live, and we carried them back, or rather dragged them. Those I thought would die anyhow, we left where they were, and the others we piled in a shelter and closed the sand bag door.
Most of them survived and were sent for at dawn the next morning in the wake of our relief’s attack.
Other outfits had just as hard a time. I saw men who had been only slightly wounded dead after two days’ exposure to the cold and mud. They were further to the rear too, where the stretcher bearers could reach them; but in such odd corners they were never found in time. Just think of their suffering. Isn’t it dreadful? Considering all these things I suppose the boys here are lucky at that, but still I feel sorry at their suffering.
War is terrible, but with all we’re glad we’re here trying to stop it. After all, it is really the wives and mothers etc. of those boys with the glassy eyes who do the real suffering. They are thru suffering. They are laid away in countless graves but a telegram is dispatched to the “nearest kin,” who lives to remember and mourn and grieve.—It is not we who pay the price.
And then, the mourners. I could write pages on my own ideas in the matter, and I dare say I know of others who agree with me, but, well ….
With heaps of love & xxx Your loving Hubby
Ed
It was the grimmest of roll calls. Writing again to his wife from his hospital bed, Lukert began to reflect on the friends and fellow officers he had lost in the war. (Lukert himself would recover and return home in 1919.) “These men I saw myself and know were casualties. Lt. Gamble, killed. Lt. Airy killed by a shell. Lt. Horton, who used to live at the Dyer House in Chickamauga Park, killed by shell fire. His clothing was blown off his body, and his body was minus all limbs, but right arm. Lt. Jones, B Company (the funny fellow you liked to hear talk) shot thru the head by a machine gun. Lt. Boatwright, same. Lt. Adams killed by a bayonet thru the neck.” Later, Lukert thought back on the evening before the men left the States. “What gets me,” he noted gravely, “is to think of that last night at Camp Merritt, and the hopes of everyone present to return. Remember the party? Reeves, Newphur, Harting and their better selves? Mrs. Newphur and Harting are widows now. Pretty sad I should say. But that’s war I guess.”
