Through a Soldier's Eyes:

The writings of an F&M graduate provide a window to the Great War

TOM KNAPP | Dec. 2, 2014 | Franklin & Marshall College

Shells fell right up to the end, J. Reah Hollinger recalled in his diary.

"About 5 minutes of 11 a dud fell near," he wrote. "War stopped at 11. Wounded came in until 2. Went up to front lines & crossed over & talked to Boche."

The "Boche" were German soldiers who, hours before, had been firing on Hollinger and his mates in the U.S. Army, and whose missile at 10:55 a.m., had it exploded, could have ended his life. The date was Nov. 11, 1918 -- a Monday -- and 23-year-old Hollinger, a 1917 graduate of Franklin & Marshall College, was caring for the wounded with the 111th Army Ambulance Company of the 103rd Medical Battalion, 28th Infantry Division.

Hollinger -- "Beeper" to his classmates, according to the 1917 Oriflamme -- was pictured in the yearbook as a dapper, bookish young gent with round spectacles, a smirking grin, a passion for literature, bacteria and trombone music.

He was one among 161 young Lancaster men -- many recent F&M graduates -- who joined the National Guard medical unit under Brig. General Charles P. Stahr, for whom Lancaster's Stahr Armory was named. They were mustered into the Army and sent to the battlefields of France in May 1918, seeing several months of hard service as front-line orderlies before the war ground to a halt.

Years after the war had ended, Hollinger -- retired from a career that included working in his father's store, J.P Hollinger's Grocery at 227 N. Prince St., and serving 10 years as business manager for Lancaster Theological Seminary -- remembered that final day of hostilities in a conversation with local columnist Jack Brubaker.

Hollinger told Brubaker he chatted with two Alsatian soldiers who'd been impressed into the German army. He traded socks for sauerkraut, a German delicacy of fermented cabbage that reminded Hollinger of home.

His daughter, Barbara, a former F&M employee, recently loaned a collection of her father's photographs, documents and diaries from his time in the war to the college. The photos show that same young man from the Oriflamme, now hardened by his experiences overseas. Photos -- worn, but well cared for -- show Hollinger and his comrades in training and in the trenches in France. In one photo he stands proudly at attention, rifle in hand, those same round spectacles perched on his face, baggy trousers and gleaming black boots. In another, he's running across a battlefield with a wounded man on his back. Others show scenery, monuments, tourist traps -- the sort of snaps any sightseer in France might take -- as well as his pals lounging around camp, boxing, airing their tents, digging trenches, posing in shell craters, dreaming of home.

His diaries provide keen insight into the daily routine of a soldier, the mundane activities of his day, the things Hollinger deemed important.

It wasn't so bad at first. Hollinger arrived in New York at 5 a.m. Sunday, May 12, and Camp Mills, Long Island, a few hours later.

"Taxi trip to N.Y. with the boys," he wrote three days later. "Chased around the town." He slept most of the day Thursday, he wrote, then was back in New York "seeing the show at the Winter Garden. Al Jolson in Sinbad."

On Saturday, he boarded a Union-Castle liner camouflaged in red, white, blue and green, one of nineteen ships being loaded with troops that day.

"Pulled out to Statue of Liberty," he remarked the next day. "Not allowed on deck. Very stuffy down below. Plum duff for dinner. Eng. cooks are pretty poor."

A day later, it was stewed figs. "Also English," Hollinger wrote. "Feeling a little sick."

Food dominated his thoughts. "Stewed cat for dinner," he wrote one day. "Maybe rabbit."

"Ate too much candy last night, don't feel well."

"Eats are pretty poor."

"Stewed cat again for dinner."

He wrote about seeing porpoises, rough seas, needing a bath. On May 28, the ship had a submarine scare ... but it turned out to be a floating barrel.

On May 30, they spied land, steamed down the North Channel in a destroyer convoy to Liverpool, then took the train cross-country to Southampton. On June 1, he wrote: "Rest camp. Good place. Took clothes off first time since May 17. Bath, etc." He found a canteen and had an ale, then "walked around the park looking the ladies over." Then he turned his attention to the war. "Transport Abe Lincoln sunk. It's up to us to win the war for the British are at an end."

With that thought, Hollinger on June 2 boarded "a small side wheeler" to cross the English Channel to France. "Boat was so crowded that there was no room to lie down or even sit. Got a place to sleep on floor when rats chased another fellow away."

He disembarked at 2 a.m. and marched to camp. The next several days involved a lot of travel, by foot and by rail, sleeping when he could -- sometimes along the road or in a barn. He saw the Eiffel Tower in the distance. He began learning French.

Days passed, and Hollinger logged his meals, his baths, the drills, loading and unloading supplies. He practiced his bugle and wrote letters home.

***

In the months that followed, Hollinger moved a lot, from camp to camp, often within earshot of gunfire at the front. "Big shell burst nearby," he wrote July 25. "Big air battle took place overhead." That night, he slept in a stable "in dirty straw full of horse manure."

He loafed when he could, played music and logged his food. "Peach shortcake: Canned peaches, evap. milk & biscuits." He watched a village burn near the front lines and saw observation balloons shot down. A plane fall to the earth; he didn't say whose. He sheltered in dugouts through air raids and shellfire. He wrote letters and postcards. He talked with wounded German soldiers. He helped bury the dead.

Hollinger wrote little about his medical duties beyond noting ambulance assignments and bearing litters. "Handled some bad ... wounds and had some die on our hands," he scrawled on Aug. 17. "Bit shaky."

On Sept. 5, he noted that the Army had advanced past Fismes and ambulances were busy evacuating "beaucoup blesse" (many injured; sometimes, Hollinger made entries in French). The next day, he made four trips to Coincy with "badly wounded," at times driving in darkness, without headlights, to escape detection. On Oct. 1, he drove down a corduroy (log) road "over what had been No Man's Land for 4 years. Got stuck for a while in mud." On Oct. 2, someone stole his coat while he was in the latrine.

***

Although the war ended Nov. 11, Hollinger and the 111th weren't on the first boat home. He had eight months of service ahead.

His days were varied:

"Played soccer. Got a bloody nose & much winded."

"French general gave decorations. Was in band."

"Party at the shoemaker's."

He took classes at a French university and performed with a local orchestra. A few days after the shoemaker's hoedown, he describes walking to town and finding a bed in an empty house, struggling to keep warm.

Many days he simply "called on sick" or "visited man with bad feet." On March 29, he "received word of death of mother."

On June 1, 1919, Hollinger boarded USS Henderson, a ship bound for home. It wasn't a great voyage for old Beeper.

"Good grub," he wrote June 2. "Rocked a bit. Lost supper."

"Ate some hash," he wrote June 6. "Lost lunch. Continued to lose it. Feeling rotten."

By June 10, fate took a turn. "Feeling fair. Meals rotten. Eating cold canned beans and candy." The next day, Hollinger was philosophical. "Existing," he wrote.

The ship sighted land on Friday, June 13. The soldiers disembarked, got deloused and received new clothes. Over the next few days Hollinger was examined, inspected and relieved of equipment. On June 19, he gave up his blankets and mess kit, received discharge pay totaling $91 and headed to New York City.

That's all he wrote.

SIDEBAR

Courses and lectures, artwork and films -- the Franklin & Marshall community has plenty of opportunities to explore the history and ongoing impact of the Great War.

Because World War II dominates the American cultural imagination, World War I has often been forgotten, explains Jennifer Redmann, associate professor and chair of German and Russian and member of the WWI steering committee.

And yet, the First World War shaped the course of the 20th century, she says. Harsh peace provisions enacted against Germany in 1919 contributed to the rise of the Nazi party and the outbreak of World War II twenty years later; the German, Austro-Hungarian, and Ottoman empires fell and the map of the world was redrawn, with battles over borders in the Middle East continuing today.

Women in the United States, Britain and Germany gained the vote, and the U.S. became the dominant world power, Redmann adds.

Activities this fall included two exhibits, Beyond Rosie the Riveter: Women & Work in World War I and Building Memory: Architecture & the Great War, at Phillips Museum of Art, and a special production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night Dream, presented Oct. 30-Nov. 2 at Roschel Performing Arts Center and set during the Great War era.

The series culminates March 28 with Perspectives on the Great War in the 21st Century, a Central Pennsylvania Consortium Joint Conference featuring Jenny Waldman, creative producer for the 2012 London Olympics cultural festival and official director of Britain's commemorative program for World War I.

"We hope the commemoration will spark in students a curiosity and desire to learn more about a critical moment in world history, one that continues to resonate today," Redmann says.

She says nearly 100 students are taking classes to sharpen their focus on the war era.

The War to End All Wars spotlights the political, social and cultural life of the combatant nations. Other courses dissect the era's literature, art, poetry and film, the war's impact on American politics and German culture, and architectural interpretations of the war.