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| Sgt. Frank L. Carbaugh |
Frank Carbaugh was an American doughboy from Greencastle, a small town in central Pennsylvania. A non-commissioned officer with the 7th Machine Gun Battalion, Carbaugh was wounded at the Second Battle of the Marne late in July of 1918. While in hospital, he wrote a poem that looks ahead to the war’s aftermath.
The Fields of the Marne
The fields of
the Marne are growing green,
The river murmurs on and on;
No more the hail
of mitrailleuse,
The cannon from the hills are gone.
The herder leads
the sheep afield,
Where grasses grow o'er broken blade;
And
toil-worn women till the soil
O'er human mold, in sunny glade.
The
splintered shell and bayonet
Are lost in crumbling village wall;
No sniper scans
the rim of hills,
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| Battle of Marne (detail) by Harvey Dunn (Smithsonian) |
From blood-wet
soil and sunken trench,
The flowers bloom in summer light;
And farther down
the vale beyond,
The peasant smiles are sad, yet bright.
The wounded
Marne is growing green,
The gash of Hun no longer smarts;
Democracy is
born again,
But what about the troubled hearts?
—Sgt. Frank Carbaugh
The poem
imagines a time when peace has returned to the world, yet so many French soldiers have died
that women must continue to work in the fields. They till the land that has been fertilized by the
bodies of the slain. At the site of the Battle of the Marne, snipers, sentries,
and sounds of gunfire have been replaced by the song of
night birds and the green of newly grown grass. Though wounded and scarred by battle, the
land is healing, and Democracy rises like a phoenix from the ashes.
But
there are some hurts that can never be healed – the broken hearts of those who
mourn.
“The Fields of
the Marne” was first published in The
Stars in Stripes on August 16, 1918. A brief note under Carbaugh’s name
simply stated, “Written while lying wounded in hospital; died
August, 1918.” Franklin L. Carbaugh was twenty-two. Nearly three years later, in May of 1921, his
parents met the train that brought their youngest son's body back to Pennsylvania for burial in the family plot
at Cedar Hill Cemetery in Franklin County.
An anonymous
source has posted what appears to be an account of Carbaugh’s death and its effect
on the men who knew him. The details of the story suggest that it may have been
appeared in a newspaper or been sent to his mother by those who were with Frank during
the last weeks of his life.
Sergeant loses his last
fight.
Soldier wins admiration of comrades through cheerfulness in hospital.
He was game till the end.
Four operations were too much for strength of non-com who was wounded in action at Chateau-Thierry.
An American Hospital in France.
"No, they're not going to bring the sergeant back to the ward, boys."
These were exactly the words the nurse used. But the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes said more.
The little group in the ward, which had been playing cards on one of the beds to forget the tension they felt while the sergeant's operation was taking place, stopped suddenly, all attention, all hungering for good news.
"You don't mean the sergeant's gone, do you? exclaimed one.
"Yes, boys, the sergeant's gone. Four operations were just too much for his strength. He never regained consciousness."
The little group of patients and the nurse were silent.
The chap with one leg gone had half a deck of cards in his hands. Dazed, he relaxed, and the cards fell to the floor, scattering over half the ward. The chap with one leg gone never noticed them.
"Gee, the sergeant's gone," he said huskily, "He sure was a game boy."
"He was the best fellow I ever knew," said another,
"and the cheerfullest, too. I've seen them dressing his leg time and
again, and gosh! but it hurt. But did the sergeant ever say anything? Not the
sergeant--he never batted an eye."
"Just to think," mused a third, "it wasn't half an hour ago when we saw him go out. I shouted, "Good luck, Sarge," when the stretcher was carried through the door, and he smiled and said, "Thanks, I'll be back in a few minutes with you."
The sergeant was Frank Carbaugh of Greencastle, Pa., a member of the Seventh Machine-Gun Sanitary detachment. No mother ever reared a braver boy. The sergeant, who was a mathematics teacher before the war, was wounded when his outfit was rushed into action near Chateau Thierry. None of his bunkies knew just how, because, as one of them explained, "The sergeant wasn't the kind of a fellow who'd talk of himself. You can bet he was wounded doing something for somebody, though."
They did know that the sergeant lay out in the open a long time after he was wounded. Medical records show that his left leg was badly slashed, and they operated at the first hospital he reached. But gangrene had set in, and four operations had followed in an effort to save him. They have had lots of brave patients that doctors and nurses and patients admired alike in that hospital, but never one just like the sergeant, who said little, was always joking and cheerful, and never had a complaint. The rest of the boys in the ward would do anything in the world for "the sarge."
The little group sitting on the cots, with the nurse, had been talking of the sergeant for a long time when one of the boys said, "You ought to write to his mother, Miss Cutter. The sarge thought the world of his mother." " I'm going to," replied the nurse. "You boys write out what you think of the sergeant, and I'll send that, too."
The boys did, and here are a few lines from them:
Private Elmer Hyland wrote, "I was with him as soon as he came from the operation, and I cried when he went. He was a great boy--a clean fellow through and through. I wish my foot was so I could walk with him to the cemetery."
Wagoner John Trask wrote: "Our sergeant is gone. Why, I loved that fellow like my own brothers. I've seen other fellows go, but I never felt like this."
Sergeant Vincent Sauer wrote, "I never felt worse since I came in the night. He was game to the last; always cheerful, and when I called 'Good luck to you,' he answered, "Thanks, I'll be O.K. soon." We always had fun around his bed; he was so cheerful. He was one of the finest fellows I ever knew."
Arthur Stein, who knew the sergeant better than the rest, the boys say because he and the sarge liked to dabble in poetry, wrote a poem to send the sergeant's mother.
They buried the sergeant in the little American graveyard in a pretty Lorraine valley with an American flag over the coffin, as 18 soldiers fired three shots over the grave and the bugler gave 'taps.' Then some of the boys whose injuries permitted their attending the funeral gathered flowers in the valley, and the nurses placed them on the grave with red, white, and blue ribbons around them.
Soldier wins admiration of comrades through cheerfulness in hospital.
He was game till the end.
Four operations were too much for strength of non-com who was wounded in action at Chateau-Thierry.
An American Hospital in France.
"No, they're not going to bring the sergeant back to the ward, boys."
These were exactly the words the nurse used. But the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes said more.
The little group in the ward, which had been playing cards on one of the beds to forget the tension they felt while the sergeant's operation was taking place, stopped suddenly, all attention, all hungering for good news.
"You don't mean the sergeant's gone, do you? exclaimed one.
"Yes, boys, the sergeant's gone. Four operations were just too much for his strength. He never regained consciousness."
The little group of patients and the nurse were silent.
The chap with one leg gone had half a deck of cards in his hands. Dazed, he relaxed, and the cards fell to the floor, scattering over half the ward. The chap with one leg gone never noticed them.
"Gee, the sergeant's gone," he said huskily, "He sure was a game boy."
"He was the best fellow I ever knew," said another,
"and the cheerfullest, too. I've seen them dressing his leg time and
again, and gosh! but it hurt. But did the sergeant ever say anything? Not the
sergeant--he never batted an eye.""Just to think," mused a third, "it wasn't half an hour ago when we saw him go out. I shouted, "Good luck, Sarge," when the stretcher was carried through the door, and he smiled and said, "Thanks, I'll be back in a few minutes with you."
The sergeant was Frank Carbaugh of Greencastle, Pa., a member of the Seventh Machine-Gun Sanitary detachment. No mother ever reared a braver boy. The sergeant, who was a mathematics teacher before the war, was wounded when his outfit was rushed into action near Chateau Thierry. None of his bunkies knew just how, because, as one of them explained, "The sergeant wasn't the kind of a fellow who'd talk of himself. You can bet he was wounded doing something for somebody, though."
They did know that the sergeant lay out in the open a long time after he was wounded. Medical records show that his left leg was badly slashed, and they operated at the first hospital he reached. But gangrene had set in, and four operations had followed in an effort to save him. They have had lots of brave patients that doctors and nurses and patients admired alike in that hospital, but never one just like the sergeant, who said little, was always joking and cheerful, and never had a complaint. The rest of the boys in the ward would do anything in the world for "the sarge."
The little group sitting on the cots, with the nurse, had been talking of the sergeant for a long time when one of the boys said, "You ought to write to his mother, Miss Cutter. The sarge thought the world of his mother." " I'm going to," replied the nurse. "You boys write out what you think of the sergeant, and I'll send that, too."
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| Maude Betterton at her son's grave |
The boys did, and here are a few lines from them:
Private Elmer Hyland wrote, "I was with him as soon as he came from the operation, and I cried when he went. He was a great boy--a clean fellow through and through. I wish my foot was so I could walk with him to the cemetery."
Wagoner John Trask wrote: "Our sergeant is gone. Why, I loved that fellow like my own brothers. I've seen other fellows go, but I never felt like this."
Sergeant Vincent Sauer wrote, "I never felt worse since I came in the night. He was game to the last; always cheerful, and when I called 'Good luck to you,' he answered, "Thanks, I'll be O.K. soon." We always had fun around his bed; he was so cheerful. He was one of the finest fellows I ever knew."
Arthur Stein, who knew the sergeant better than the rest, the boys say because he and the sarge liked to dabble in poetry, wrote a poem to send the sergeant's mother.
They buried the sergeant in the little American graveyard in a pretty Lorraine valley with an American flag over the coffin, as 18 soldiers fired three shots over the grave and the bugler gave 'taps.' Then some of the boys whose injuries permitted their attending the funeral gathered flowers in the valley, and the nurses placed them on the grave with red, white, and blue ribbons around them.
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