America's Youngest Soldier

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AMERICA’S YOUNGEST SOLDIER

On the Front Lines in World War One

Ernest L. Wrentmore

Introduction by Steve W. Chadde ©

America’s Youngest Soldier, by Ernest L. Wrentmore, was first published in 1958 by Greenwich Book Publishers, New York, as In Spite Of Hell: A factual story of incidents that occurred during World War I, as experienced by the youngest soldier to have seen combat duty with the American Expeditionary Forces in France—As a member of the famous Company I, 60th Infantry, Fifth (Red Diamond) Division.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

INTRODUCTION 5

FOREWORD 7

Chapter I: I LEAVE HOME 8

Chapter II: IN THE BIG CITY 13

Chapter III: MY ENLISTMENT 19

Chapter IV: IN TRAINING—GETTYSBURG 21

Chapter V: IN TRAINING—CAMP GREENE 25

Chapter VI: CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 29

Chapter VII: FRANCE 31

Chapter VIII: BRUYERS 38

Chapter IX: THE ANOULD SECTOR 41

Chapter X: A TASTE OF HELL 45

Chapter XI: HADOL-BESSE 49

Chapter XII: ON THE MOVE 54

Chapter XIII: ST. DIE SECTOR 55

Chapter XIV: HEADED FOR TROUBLE 63

Chapter XV: ST. MIHIEL OFFENSIVE 71

Chapter XVI: THE ADVANCE CONTINUES 74

Chapter XVII: FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH 79

Chapter XVIII: CROSS COUNTRY TO THE ARGONNE 91

Chapter XIX: THE MARCH OF SILENCE 96

Chapter XX: A SURPRISE APPOINTMENT 100

Chapter XXI: THE MEUSE-ARGONNE OFFENSIVE 103

Chapter XXII: OVER THE TOP 118

Chapter XXIII: WOUNDED 127

Chapter XXIV: TOO YOUNG TO DIE 134

Chapter XXV: HOME AT LONG LAST 137

PHOTOGRAPHS 140

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 145

INTRODUCTION

America’s Youngest Soldier is the gripping account of Ernest L. Wrentmore, the youngest soldier in the American Expeditionary Force during World War One. Wrentmore served with honor despite his age (two months shy of his thirteenth birthday at the time of his enlistment in September 1917), and despite the horrors he witnessed in the trenches in France.

It was not flag-waving, or bands playing military marches, that inspired Wrentmore to leave his Ohio home and enlist when only twelve years of age. With ancestors of military prominence dating to the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, this young lad was driven by a deep patriotic desire and ancestral heritage to place the love of his native land above all else. Serving gallantly in frontline service on three battle fronts, he was cited for bravery for delivering a message, under fire, that made it possible for his unit to advance.

The gallantry of these critically important messengers—runners—was noted in a history of the 60th Infantry, concerning their activities during the Meuse-Argonne Offensive:

...the greatest difficulty was experienced in maintaining liaison between the widely separated units; that the integrity of the command was maintained during this arduous period was due mainly to the loyalty and perseverance of the Regimental, Battalion and Company Runners. In the vicinity of Cunel, and prior to crossing the Meuse, these Runners already had demonstrated their fearlessness and devotion to duty by bearing messages hour after hour and day after day, often without sleep, food or sufficient rest, and always through shell fire. No body of men were more subjected to the danger or to the miseries of war than these Runners, who kept up Battalion liaison when the ordinary mechanical means of communication had broken down under fire.

He was wounded twice and severely gassed; and on the night of October 17, 1918, he was evacuated from the field of battle during the first phase of the Meuse-Argonne offensive.

Because Wrentmore participated in combat when so many years a minor, it is the consensus of opinion that this combat duty was beyond the call of duty, and during the 1st Session of the 76th Congress, H. R. 6562, a Congressional Bill dated May 29, 1939, to award him the Medal of Honor, was presented by Mr. Anderson of California. This bill was rejected by the War Department on the premise that recommendations had to be made before May 26, 1928—this, by Act of Congress.

When World War II began, the author was recalled to active duty from a successful business career, and served as an officer with the Air Force in the North African and Mediterranean campaigns. He continued his service in the Korean War and retired as a Colonel in the U.S. Air Force. Wrentmore passed away on December 11, 1983, and is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. The back surface of his tombstone reads:

"Youngest soldier to have served with

American Expeditionary Forces in WWI,

12 years of age."

FOREWORD

It was early November—the year was 1918. The great conflict overseas was rapidly drawing to a close—World War I would soon be history. Tension ran high in the small village of West Farmington, Ohio. Not all of the young men who had offered their services for this worthy cause would return. But, there were many whose lives had been spared, and who would soon be on their way home.

Uncontrollable excitement predominated in the home of the town’s leading physician and surgeon. Dr. Ernest L. Wrentmore and family had been officially advised that their son, Ernest, while still suffering from wounds received during his participation in the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, was holding his own, and would leave for the United States as soon as practicable. Friends and relatives from the surrounding countryside joined the Wrentmores in rejoicing over the wonderful news, which had lifted the doctor and his family out of the chasm of grief to the brink of happiness. It had been long and terrible, this torture and agony, awaiting some word about, or from, their son, who had vanished so completely more than a year before.

Shortly after the opening of the fall term, in September 1917, young Wrentmore, affectionately known as Doc to all his school mates and friends, left home one morning, apparently on his way to school—but, in reality, to take his first step toward a final objective: that of effecting enlistment in the United States Army, thence proceeding overseas as a member of a highly trained fighting unit and one destined to become famous Company I, 60th Infantry, Fifth Division of the Regular Army.

After months of deliberation, this young lad, who was born on November 9, 1904 (he had reached the ripe old age of twelve years and ten months), adopted a plan of action.

This, followed through exactly as conceived, resulted in his official entrance into the service without detection.

It is therefore a fact of military record that Ernest L. Wrentmore, under the alias of Henry Earl Monroe, giving his age as eighteen years, did, on September 28, 1917, enlist in the United States Army at Altoona, Pennsylvania, and was immediately assigned to the above organization, then in training at Gettysburg.

Dedicated to my dear Mother

Chapter I: I LEAVE HOME

The day I stepped into an Army recruiting office to tell a tough-looking individual of my desire to enlist, I was twelve years old.

The date was September 28, 1917...

Months later, I was in hand-to-hand combat in the Meuse-Argonne. While my Company was pinned down with devastating fire from its right flank in one of the most severe combats of the war, I was, my citation reads, dispatched to carry a message across a bullet-swept field to the unit on our right, urging them to advance and close the gap—that even encountering withering crossfire from German machine guns, and having his gas mask destroyed by bullets while in place on his chest, he continued on to his destination in continuous danger of his life, delivering the message which resulted in relieving the pressure on our flank, thus permitting the Company to advance.

And this is how it all got started...

What’s your name?

Henry E. Monroe.

Age?

Eighteen.

Your father’s name?

I have no parents, I mumbled. I’m an orphan.

Uh, huh. Well, you’ll damn soon be a member of one big happy family—Uncle Sam’s Regular Army. I was in, without a hitch! Unbelievable? Yes—but true!

Little did I realize that this conversation would lead to the most eventful and exciting period of my life. It would lead me to a foreign land and indescribable horrors, horrors that tried the hearts and strength of strong men, men accustomed to meeting life in the raw and never flinching. I was to be thrown in with this noble body of men, and, with equal fortitude, I would share the dangers and hardships to which we were exposed during the strenuous training ahead and the months of combat that followed.

It comes to mind, momentarily, that there was a chap in our outfit, during the training period, who was found to be only sixteen years old. He was promptly discharged and sent home!

Where did this leave me? Not a day passed that I was not concerned over the fact that somewhere along the line I might make a slip—find myself kicked out—returned home—left with nothing but an attempt to save face.

I was faced with a real problem. It was a wide gap to bridge—this jump from twelve to eighteen years of age. Impossible, you will say! But it was accomplished. I was thrilled, but scared to death. I had cut out a rough row to hoe. However, I made the grade, and the records prove it! Furthermore, while still a battle casualty in Base Hospital No. 1, Vichy, France, I celebrated my fourteenth birthday—just two days before the signing of the Armistice, November 11, 1918!

How was I to know, when I had finally mustered the courage to face a hardboiled Army recruiting officer, that my efforts to lower my voice and stick out my chest (when my face had never been introduced to a razor) would be overlooked, completely unnoticed, as I stood among a group of anxious young men, answering the usual questions, awaiting an opportunity to sign on the dotted line?

Sure, it sounds crazy, absurd! Can’t believe it myself! That a youngster twelve years old could so completely fool a trained recruiting officer, pass the medics, and end up properly enlisted and joining a gang leaving for training camp is, in itself, fantastic!

Still, there was much flag waving in those days. The entire country was teeming with excitement. America had finally broken through the curtain of desire, and was now actually a part of the drama of war that was taking place across the Atlantic.

Uncle Sam was faced with the huge task of building a modern fighting machine—almost over night. It is, therefore, readily understandable that a certain amount of laxity prevailed within the recruiting teams, which were working around the clock, signing ‘em up. No doubt, recruiting officers had reached the point where they put the o.k. on all men who had both arms and legs, and could see. Thus, extenuating circumstances, all created by the dire need of a huge army, served to dull the eagle eyes of these Regular army officers and, unquestionably, made it possible for me to be numbered among the millions wearing the olive drab.

I was a husky kid—five feet, six inches tall, and weighing about 140 pounds. Much outdoor living—fishing and hunting plus hikes and camping trips as a member of the local Boy Scout troop—had built a strong body. However, West Farmington offered no special environment for building up twelve-year-old kids for Uncle Sam’s military might. The town was no different from hundreds of like communities throughout the country. With a few hundred staunch home folks, all of whom knew one another, the village, about sixteen miles from Warren, Ohio, had countless beautiful trees shading the streets and homes and was known for its simplicity and charm. Many years before this, a fire had completely destroyed the one landmark of which the townspeople had been proud, an institution known as Western Reserve Seminary.

Father was a typical John Bull, his father having pioneered the Western Reserve of Ohio. He had come over from England with his three brothers, and they had settled near what is now the great metropolis of Cleveland.

Because of his ancestry, Father was greatly disturbed by the many stories of the brutality that befell helpless women, children, and old men, as the German horde, lustful for world power, crushed its ponderous way through villages and cities, plundering the countryside of France and Belgium.

Daily he would burst forth with vehement condemnations of these inhuman monsters, always expressing his keen desire for an opportunity to aid in the avenging of the helpless beings who were the victims of this horrible war monster. In addition to my father’s fury, there were the newspapers, full of blood-curdling stories, and the magazines, which carried actual photographs of the raging war and of Heinie atrocities.

Listening to my Father’s outbursts, reading again and again these unbelievable stories, and seeing page after page of pictures of the German military machine, tearing asunder all in its path, naturally influenced my thoughts considerably. The tension grew within me, until I realized that a chance to do my bit in this great war had become uppermost in my mind.

It was the spring of 1917—April. April, with all the beauty the season could bestow upon the countryside. I was not moved by this beauty. The Lusitania had been sunk, without warning, by German U-boats, taking many American lives with her to the bottom of the ocean. This was more than our country could endure, and the President declared war against Germany.

It is now 1958; World War II, through which I again served my country, is now history. The world was once more the scene of great battles that blanketed the earth with untold misery and destruction. More recent conflicts across the oceans, of localized nature, have taken a further toll, and the world is still held in a grip of nervous tension. Leaders of all nations are alert, poised for immediate action at the slightest indication of aggression.

Conscious of the ever-present world strife, and trusting in the leadership of our country, I am again carried back through the space of time, returning to the day when I planned to leave my home and wonderful family...

The summer of 1917 brought with it, for me, many trials and tribulations—indeed, absolute turmoil. I was torn between the love of my home and family and the deep desire to become a part of the vast military machine Uncle Sam was building. America was now engaged in a world conflict—the country was rapidly becoming a huge military camp—everywhere you saw men in uniform. Factories were humming, producing the destructive tools for modern warfare; trains, loaded with soldiers and munitions, rolled through the countryside. Yes, America was totally all out for victory!

And I was in the middle of all this hustle and bustle. Each day that passed, throughout the long summer months, brought me nearer to the day of destiny. Yes, I had fully decided my course of action; it remained for me to have the courage to carry out my plans.

My father had always shown a deep interest in my boyhood activities. His advice, help, and actual participation in many of these activities had taught me much—much that a growing boy should know, much that, through his companionship, would be so worthwhile to me in later life. Little did he realize that this interest, during the formative days of my early youth, had laid the solid foundation that would carry me through the trying experiences ahead.

The hot summer wore on. Many late afternoons found me deep in the cool shade of some nearby woods, fighting my desire to leave home, then battling for my desire to enlist; the end of each day brought reactions beyond my control, both mental and physical, that left me badly shaken. This leaving home was a tough decision to make! But I could not give up the idea—something stronger, something more powerful urged me on. I fought this continual urge as hard as I could, but the desire persisted until I was unable to think anything through clearly.

Finally, I was convinced that destiny was shaping my course. My best plan would be to leave home during the opening of the fall term of school—steal away, and try to reach my objective. I was to enter the service of my country; I was to go to a foreign land, there to suffer all the hardships that went with this service. No power on earth could prevent my going. I now realize that it was not so much destiny— it was a fixed determination that drove me on.

The entire family sensed a change in me, since my actions denoted a troubled mind. My maternal grandmother, who had arrived for a visit, realized that I was fighting something. My grandmother was very close to me, and many times during those days she would place her arm about my shoulders and ask me what was bothering me. I evaded her questions, but a knowing look in her eyes told me that she understood that something weighed heavily on my mind.

The days were filled with anxiety, but the nights became a time of dread: I hated to see the day end and the night come. During the long hours of sleepless nights I would reproach myself for even thinking of taking a step that I knew would bring sorrow and tears to those who loved me. I was in the stranglehold of something greater than myself, something told me that my duty was not to myself, my loved ones, or my home, but to those millions across the sea, who were giving their all to make the world safe. It is most difficult to make myself clearly understood concerning my emotions during this period of my life. I sensed no fear for the future—no \ fear of the dangers that might come. The fact that I might find death awaiting me over there or that I might be seriously wounded never occurred to me. Nothing of any consequence deferred me except the thought of leaving home and loved ones.

Fall had arrived. I was tense with the knowledge that I would soon be on my way—into the unknown! Following Labor Day, school would begin. My last year at High meant nothing to me. I’m going to war! I’m going to war! was the thought that pounded through my brain.

Shortly before school opened, Mother took me to the city to shop for a new outfit. This was to be a momentous trip for me—Mother had promised me a new suit, my first long trousers! This fitted right into my plans no more shorts for me. We saw many soldiers that day. Mother noticed the way these soldiers affected me and, turning to me, she said, I’m so happy, my boy, that you are not old enough to go to war. I quickly replied, So am I, Mother. At that very moment I was trying to form a mental picture of how I would look in a uniform.

My last night at home! I had decided to put my plan into action the next day. But I was beset with a heaviness such as I had never before experienced—as if a cold hand had been laid on my heart—as I looked, perhaps for the