WWI Soldier to Goodyear Employee (War Diary)

Last year, the archives of the Polk County Historical Society received a donation that included a 23-page WWI diary by Cedartown native and longtime Goodyear employee John Preston Mayfield. Dated June through December 1918, the typed manuscript includes a poem entitled, “Encour Un Autre,” which translates to “yet another,”—alluding to the monotony of days passed with bad weather, inadequate food and primitive sleeping arrangements interspersed with bouts of danger from enemy forces. The author of the poem, Hervey Allen, lived through similar circumstances as Pvt. Mayfield, although it is unclear whether the two crossed paths in Europe. They both witnessed their commanding officer perish and then were themselves wounded shortly before the Armistice.

Mayfield was born in 1894 in Washington D. C. to William Preston Mayfield and Annie Olivia Thompson Mayfield. He graduated from LaFayette College in 1916. Our other source documents, which include a bio in the October 1958 Wingfoot Clan periodical and a writeup by Martha E. Mayfield, from the Polk County, Georgia Heritage book (2000), have no mention of Pvt. Mayfield’s struggles volunteering to enlist during the war. He failed several times between May 1917 and April 1918, citing heart problems as the reason. He ultimately left port in route to France with Company D of the 145th Infantry Division on June 11, 1918.

On board, Mayfield regularly waited in line for a meal for several hours until he discovered if he volunteered to help serve, he would eat first. He witnessed many interesting sights on the voyage—the Statue of Liberty and New York City, a convoy complete with dirigible balloon (blimp), a school of flying fish, and more than once a whale. They had moving pictures in the mess hall, although the overcrowding made viewing difficult. After two weeks, Mayfield finally set foot on French soil.

Among some of the more serious predicaments, Mayfield found himself sleeping in barns on a good night, but in open fields during all types of weather more often than he’d like. Once, a rat continually approached him and he commented that, as it only spoke French, it did not understand his English cussing. There were nights, however, of no sleep at all and some in which he and his fellows had to take cover from “Jerry.” They were purposely exposed to gas—to prepare them for the real thing. Mail from the states, infrequent at first, started coming in and seemed to be one of the few comforts afforded, others being the occasional treat from a French village or games within their group during downtime. The Red Cross and YMCA are also mentioned many times throughout the narrative as being a godsend for supplies and morale.

Pvt. Mayfield more than once had a near miss by flying shrapnel and witnessed those around him fall. He trekked through “No Man’s Land” as an officer in the Intelligence Sector. On October 31, 1918, he was pierced with a bullet through the instep of his foot and taken to various medical camps, eventually being placed in an American facility in London. It was here he recorded in his journal, “Monday 11th must be mentioned for it was a day never to be forgotten in London or elsewhere. At eleven o’clock sirens, guns, whistles, and every instrument capable of making a noise broke loose. London simply went wild.”

This manuscript, like others we have on file that have never been published, exists in our archives waiting for researchers to find. We have ordered Hervey Allen’s book of wartime poetry to search for the poem below and file it with this piece of history that was a Polk County man’s reality for 6 months during the Great War.

Red sun is in the east—
Full moon in the west—
Morning of a muddy road;
Flaming of cannon along a crest;
White faces—a heavy load;
Little to eat and a long day’s march;
Nothing to think or say;
Limp as a collar without any starch—
But good for another day!

We’ll hike it along through these rotten woods,
And rest for a while at noon;
Where the Boche shells lie in their wicher hoods
Our cooks may catch us soon.
And some one heard the Colonel say,
“There’s a billet ahead with hay.”
So we’re good for another day boys,
We’re good for another day!

I’ve a five day’s beard;
I’ve a two week’s grouch;
My hob-nails are driven in,
Where my tin hat cuts through my old brown slouch,
Where the shrapnel has bitten the tin.
And I may not last ‘till the war will end,
And there’s nowhere to spend my pay,
But I’m good for another day, boys,
I’m good for another day.

Hervey Allen