Glory Over There

"The Great War" it was called and started in 1914 with the Austria-Hungary Empire declaring war on Serbia. One month later, Austria-Hungary allied with Germany against Russia, France, Serbia, and later Great Britain. In April 1917, President Wilson, supported by Congress, signed America into the war.

In May, Frank Parsons stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of young men, the weight of his rifle slung across his back and a grin on his face. The decks of the troop ship groaned beneath the boots of America's Expeditionary Forces, every inch packed with fresh recruits eager to prove themselves. Above the din, the men raised their voices in song—George M. Cohan's brand-new anthem was on everyone's lips:

“Over there, over there, “Send the word, send the word over there…”

The tune was bright, catchy, and full of confidence. Flags waved from the docks as mothers, sweethearts, and siblings shouted and wept from below. Frank joined the final chorus with all the others, "…and we won't come back till it's over, over there!"

As the gangplank retracted and the ship churned slowly out to sea, cheers erupted from both the deck and the shore. Frank's chest swelled. This was his moment. A farm boy from Ohio turned soldier—he would make glorious history.

But history, as he would learn, has a taste for irony.

Within days, seasickness stole the enthusiasm of many of the young men. The glamor of war tarnished quickly when their cramped quarters reeked of vomit, sweat, and fear. Still, Frank held tight to the image of being a hero. It'll be over in a month, they said.

It wasn't.

The trenches reeked worse than the ship ever had. Rotting feet. Mud waist-deep. Mustard gas that turned lungs into raw meat. The screams of boys too young to shave who died calling for their mothers. Frank stopped singing.

Then came the grenade.

He barely saw it land beside him—just a dull thump in the mud. Instinct took over. He snatched it and threw. The world exploded mid-air. Later, in a haze of pain, he realized his right hand was gone, fingers shredded, bone crushed. The surgeon took the remains off at the wrist, left the shrapnel in his chest.

Months later, in February 1918, he rode a hospital train through the French countryside, bound for home. Bandaged and changed, with an ache he couldn't name. He looked out the window as another train passed on the neighboring track—one packed with fresh-faced soldiers heading toward the front.

He heard it again—loud and gloriously proud.

“…and we won't come back till it's over, over there…”

Frank didn't sing along this time. He turned his head, looked out across the endless gray fields, and thought, If they only knew.