Veterans Day tribute: War tales fight through disbelief
Charles W. Carman was a young man working in a blacksmith shop in Madison, Wisconsin, when World War I erupted 100 years ago. Tall and handsome, Charlie had left school and moved away from home when he was a teenager. He was a hard worker, a natural-born storyteller and a charmer, and he managed to support himself shoeing horses, doing odd jobs around town and serving in the National Guard.
By the time I knew him, he was mostly retired from a series of sales jobs. He chewed cigars and reminisced endlessly from his seat on the porch in my grandparents' home on Baldwin Street. He made legendary Manhattans and loved to argue politics with my father.
I had heard his World War I stories dozens of times during my childhood and assumed they were, if not outright fabricated, at the very least embroidered to be more colorful than the truth. I'm not sure even my father believed them, but both my dad and my grandpa are long dead, so I'll never know if my dad's indifference to the tales was disbelief or merely fatigue from a lifetime of hearing them.
Then at a family reunion several years ago my aunt brought out a scrapbook with a cracked spine and pages that had turned brown with age.
It was grandma's collection of news clippings, photos, letters and memorabilia from World War I. It was Exhibit A that grandpa was telling the truth (mostly) all those years.
Charlie Carman was a member of the 32nd Division, created when President Woodrow Wilson called the Wisconsin and Michigan National Guard units into federal service.
It's hard to tell how Charlie, always an opinionated guy, felt about the war before he became a part of it, but once he was involved, he was all in.
Photos from the training camp in Waco, Texas, show a young, fit Charlie Carman with his uniform pants stuffed stylishly into knee-high stockings and a wide-brimmed hat on his head. A long line of canvas tents comprised the division's home; the bathroom was a latrine with water buckets on a wooden bench for bathing.
A clipping from the camp newspaper includes an optimistic forecast from grandpa about the battles to come:
"Chase (Horseshoer) Carman predicts the war will be over in six months. He is covering all bets to the contrary and has explained his reason for so thinking in a plain way. He never held a job for over six months. Am afraid his job now is permanent though."
The 32nd Division made its voyage to Brest in January and February 1918.
After a few weeks as replacement troops in various locations, the 32nd was sent to the front line in Haute Alsace. They were the first American troops to go to battle on German soil.
The combat was intense.
The 32nd went on to fight for six months with only 10 days rest in battles on five fronts along the French-German border.
By November 1918, the division reported approximately 14,000 soldiers killed, wounded or missing in action. Maj. Gen. William Haan reported that they "met and vanquished" 23 German divisions, capturing 2,153 prisoners, 2,000 rifles, 200 machine guns, 100 pieces of artillery and thousands of rounds of ammunition.
(Some of those German weapons came home with my grandpa, who stored them in an old footlocker in the basement until a handyman stole them years later.)
Upon completion of the six-month campaign, the French nicknamed the 32nd "Les Terribles."
The scrapbook features a copy of a letter from Theodore Roosevelt, dated Sept. 18, 1918.
Addressed to Haan, the letter was an expression of thanks for his efforts to find the grave of his son, Quentin, a pilot who was killed in combat in France.
"I am very much touched indeed by the trouble that you have taken in the middle of your absorbing work. I appreciate your letter. I appreciate the sketch of Quentin's grave. It was dreadful to have Quentin killed, but I would not for anything in the world have had him not face death and take his chance.
"I most heartily congratulate you, my dear sir, on the great work of your division. By George, your men have hit hard. Will you thank the division for me? … My dear general, I admire, and I fear I envy, your record."
Also among the maps, poems and newspaper clippings in the scrapbook is one long letter written to my grandmother, Vera Breitenbach, on Oct. 19, 1918.
"My dear:
"This is to be a thriller, the first one that I have let myself be responsible for since I came to the sunny shore (?) of France. …
"Up here we see fights and never do we tire of them. Thrills and thrills galore, an air duel never makes you weary. Sleeping in a German dugout until some officers decided it was to be theirs, then nights in the open with shells whining through the air, artillery a banging all night and all day long — and with it all the stream of ambulances bringing in their loads of wounded.
"This is the life of the so-called non-combatant member of our family in the Army. You should, my dear, see these boys as they come in. Tired out, bleeding, wounded, yet always with the best of good nature and all thankful for the slightest service, be it only a cup of water or the eternal cigarette. On the operating table, they are more of a soldier than on the field. But it is only the spirit of the bravest people in the world, the calm indifference to self and suffering that makes them the product of America, who always was and always will be America, the unconquered.
"We see the German soldier in his pain. For that reason, we cannot despise the individual. He received the same treatment, other than a curiosity interest, that is accorded to our own boys. I do not believe that anyone need worry that this war is going to make beasts of the men. I believe that it will have the contrary effect."
Among the other letters in the scrapbook was one from William F. Lorens, commanding officer for the field hospital. It was dated Jan. 4, 1919.
Six soldiers were recommended for the Medal of Honor, including Sgt. Charles W. Carman.
"This soldier rendered exceptionally faithful service as N.C.O. in charge of ambulances at triage. His duty called for cool judgment and discrimination. For 21 days, under direct artillery fire and under the most trying conditions of inclement weather, without let-up or halt, he undertook and performed the lion's share of work. On many occasions his service was continuous for 18 to 20 hours."
Charlie returned to Madison, where he registered Republican, opposed women's suffrage, struggled through the Great Depression and reared three sons with Vera.
In 1973, when I graduated from college, I visited my grandparents on Baldwin Street to tell them of my planned summer trip to Europe. I mentioned that I would be meeting a friend in Aix-en-Provence.
Grandpa leaned back into his recliner and launched into a vivid description of the Fontaine de la Rotonde in the center of Aix. It was a beautiful old fountain, he told me, and the women bring jugs to fill with water that comes from artesian wells below the city.
He said he'd seen it during World War I.
I feigned interest in his ancient story as I had my whole life.
Weeks later I arrived by train at Aix and walked to the center of town. There before me was the famous Fontaine just as he'd described.
As I stood there gaping at the sight, a woman walked to the edge of the fountain, leaned forward and slowly, carefully filled her jug with water.
Clearly I'd underestimated the old man.
Well, except for the Manhattans.
Read more in Michigan History: The Red Arrow Division, fierce fighters of the first World War
About the author
Diane Carman offers this tribute in honor of her grandfather, Sgt. Charles W. Carman, who regaled her family and friends with many stories of World War 1. Carman, who died in 1978, heroically served in the National Guard unit from Michigan and Wisconsin that would become the U.S. Army's 32nd Division and make history fighting on the frontlines in France and Germany.
She is editor of Health News Colorado, a nonprofit health journalism website, and a former editor and columnist for the Denver Post.