
A haunting excerpt from a book I’m rereading:
“Reese Russell, a tall, slender, fun loving, and handsome young man with jet-black hair and dark brown eyes, was thirty years old when the United States entered World War 1 in April 1917. He came from the little Appalachian mill town of Ceder Bluff in Tasewell county, Virginia, a place of quiet mountain charm where community picnics, summer bandstand concerts, and church revival meetings were the order of the day. He and most of his friends had never been more than 20 miles from home. Why travel, people joked, when they already lived in the most beautiful place on earth? Russell registered for the draft in the Summer of 1917, and the US Army called his number soon afterward. Putting down his banjo and straw hat, he kissed his girl good-bye and joined the 317th Infantry Regiment of the 80th 'Blue Regiment' infantry division, a unit made up of draftees from rural Virginia, West Virginia, and Western Pennsylvania. He went to France and fought in the Battle of the Meuse-Argonne, at obscure places like Béthin-court and the Dannevoux. After less than a week in combat in the fall of 1918, he was evacuated to the rear, with poison in his lungs and demons in his mind. Neither ever left him. In 1919 he came home to Ceder Bluff to spend 'the rest of his life', as his daughter remembered, 'traveling a lonely road, out of step with his family, his friends, and his surroundings.' His lungs ruined, he could no longer breathe properly and collapsed periodically into uncontrollable spasms of coughing. He never spoke of what he had seen in France, and forbade his family to mention the war in his presence. His uniform, helmet, gas mask, rifle, and bayonet stayed packed away in a trunk, strictly off-limits to his family. When he wasn’t looking, his children secretly opened the trunk and fingered the mementos. To them, he had become a remote presence. As they handled the items, the children tried to guess what their father had experienced in the foggy, shell-torn fields and forests of the bloodiest battle in American history, the Meuse-Argonne. Russell began drinking as soon as he returned home. He drank through the economic recession of 1919, which an ex-Doughboy could not find a job, and the boom years that followed. He drank through the Great Depression, and during Franklin Roosevelt’s presidential administrations, when New Deal’s Promised Land always seemed just a step away. In 1941 America entered the Second World War, Russell drank even more, as if in sympathy for the GIs about to die, or in realization that his war — the so called 'War to End All Wars' — had been fought in vain. And he never slept. He went through the motions — lying down in bed between midnight and 5 a.m. — but he never closed his eyes in sleep, 'unless', his daughter recalled, 'one could call the stupor he fell into when he drank in his later years, sleep.' Perhaps he feared that his dreams would take him back to the war. He died a broken man at age sixty-one. As his daughter Heard- taps played over his lonely country grave, a sense of relief enveloped her. At last, her father’s torments had ended, and he could sleep”
Source: "To Conquer Hell: Meuse-Argonne,
1918 the epic battle that ended the First World War"