Texas Jane told a beautiful story of her Grandmother’s sister and it reminded me of a story about my Grandfather. Not wanting to take away from her story, I’d like to share mine.
World War One, "an awful war".
My grandfather, a private, Medical Detachment, 4th Infantry, 3d Division. For extraordinary heroism in action near Cunel, France, October 5, 1918. Having been wounded and ordered to the rear, nevertheless continued to administer first-aid treatment to other wounded men under constant shell fire, until he was wounded a second time, when he was evacuated, despite his protests. Residence at enlistment: Fayetteville, N. С.
(Source: Congressional Medal of Honor, The distinguished Service Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal Issued by the War Department Since April 6, 1917 up to and including General Orders, No. 126, War Department, November 11, 1919. Compiled in the Office of the Adjutant General of the Army. 1919. Page 532)
My Grandfather only acquired the rank of private in the Army during World War One. He served in the Medical Detachment of the Fourth Infantry, and he wrote an interesting letter to his sister when he was recovering from his battle wounds. Below are his words as transcribed by me of the letter he wrote.
Dearest Sister,
Have been having some very lively times this month. Had many narrow escapes as shell and shrapnel burst around me and often I was showered with earth and fragments as they returned from high in the air whence they had been thrown by the high explosives.
One morning about daylight we started “Over the Top”, and with the aid of tanks, we were soon well into the midst of the Huns first lines, which lay just beyond the summit of a small hill. Just as we started over we were met by a heavy barrage from the enemy’s artillery, and take it from me, that was one of the warmest receptions I ever received. Our men pushed steadily forward, facing machine guns which were furiously sprinkling our lines with lead.
After we had routed the Hun, we drove him from one position to another, until he was forced to find cover in the distant wood, and we had gained the ground which he was forced to abandon. My bit, of course, was to care for the wounded, which fell on the battlefield. I did not have much time to think about myself or the danger I was in. There was too much to do to think about other things. There were wounded men on every side, lying here and there patiently waiting their turn for first aid. I ran from one to another dressing their wounds and sending them back to the medical aid station, the ambulances could take them back to some evacuation hospital, which was done in fine order.
Fortunately, I passed the day without a scratch, although I had many close calls. Once while dressing a wounded soldier, a shell burst at a short distance, and about that time I felt a little sting as a very small piece struck me on the leg. It didn’t even cut the clothing and only stung for a few seconds. Another piece of shell cut through three pieces of clothing but did not scratch my person. Machine gun bullets clipped the bushes and plowed the ground about me, and you may bet I usually hugged the ground pretty close or kept very low when those savage guns poured forth their lead on every side. Oft times, one had not the opportunity to keep low, as urgent calls made it necessary to move forward.
On October 14th, I received a slight injury when a piece of shell penetrated my right shoe and slightly cut my ankle, and another hit my leg, but it did not penetrate my clothing. Finally, my turn arrived to share the pain, (caused by this awful war) along with my comrades. ‘Twas about 6 o’clock on the morning of October 16th, we were preparing to “chow” when a shell burst near, and hearing the call for first aid, I rushed to the trench where a wounded man had entered. Just as I reached the entrance, another shell burst about six feet from me, and the result was a portion of it entered my left upper and forearm, and left leg below the knee, going through same. Thus I was rendered unable to apply first aid to my comrade. A number of others was wounded at the same time, some of the boys got busy dressing our wounds, and in a few minutes, we were ready to go to the medical aid station. My comrades who were wounded in the upper extremities at once hurried away, and scrambling to my feet, with the assistance of another, I climbed from the trench where I had been lying and started forward, but found I did not have the strength to walk, so two of the boys carried me on a litter to a nearby aid station, where I was placed in an ambulance and hurried away to an evacuation hospital.
Was operated on both arm and leg to remove the pieces of shell, which did not go all the way through. Woke up after the operation feeling fine. At the earliest convenience, I was placed on a Red Cross train and removed to a base hospital, where I am now receiving the very best of medical aid. Am getting along nicely.
Once my grandfather was released from the Army, he and his young bride moved to Atlanta in search of work which was hard to come by during those hard times. They struggled as did many and years later a newspaper article appeared.
WAR HERO DOWN AND OUT.
Was Hero Six Years Ago and is Now Peddling Bananas.
Atlanta, Ga., Dec. 9. 1925—
Sightly more than six years ago, Private (my grandfather), United States Army shell-shocked and all but dead, was telling with pride the officer of Fort McPherson about the distinguished service cross which he wore. Yesterday, found by a reported by the Atlanta Constitution to be peddling bananas on the streets of Atlanta in order to ram support for his wife, little daughter and baby son, the latter born Monday, his income was found not to exceed $15 a week. The case was called to the attention of the American Legion officials here who are putting machinery in motion to make things “break better” for him’ from now on. “In addition to his $15 a week, he made peddling bananas, (my grandfather) receives $20 a month compensation from the veterans bureau, he said. He told legion officials he had been unable to obtain employment because of his physical condition. The certificate accompanying his medal shown that it was awarded for "extraordinary heroism” October 15, 1018, while serving as a private in the medal corps of the Fourth Infantry, A. E. F. A subsequent citation told of his “having been wounded and ordered to the rear but he continued to administer to the other wounded under constant shell fire until he was wounded a second time, when he was evacuated despite his protest. Fillyaw is a native of Fayetteville, N. C., and married (my grandmother), in April, 1918 shortly before he went over.
My grandfather was born in 1889, and died in 1972 living a total of 83 years. He was not only a war hero, he was my hero long before I learned any of this. I remember growing up and he sat next to me at his kitchen table. He use to joke and tell me after school that school wasn’t out until I had my final lesson of the day and it was to take place right there at his table. He would teach me the scriptures and we would pray together. At the time I didn’t realize the importance of what he was doing but years later the light bulb came on. Thank you, Granddaddy!
Tags: Hero Letter Army Medic Preacher
