Off the Editor’s Spike: Honoring each one

This week a neighbor, John Mort, acquired a muzzleloader made by Gallatin native Ronald Ginder (1891-1982). John also took possession of a newspaper clipping (probably from the Gallatin Democrat) which reprints a personal letter from Mr. Ginder to his parents when Ginder was a 27-year-old soldier fighting somewhere in France during World War I. Ironically, “Ginder” is a variant of the German name “Gunther,” and so his story includes the intrigue of a man perhaps fighting against the land of his ancestors.

France is a long way from the Blake Community just a few miles northeast of Gallatin. I’m told that the Ginders once lived where County Commissioner Carl Carder now lives.

Today Ronald Ginder lies buried at Civil Bend near Pattonsburg. His name is not on the brass plaque in the Daviess County Courthouse, honoring those from here who perished during the “War to End All Wars.” But we honor him, as we wish to do all American veterans as the flags wave this Friday on Veterans Day.

Old timers remember Ronald Ginder for his raspy voice. Just 18 days after the following letter was written, Ginder was severely wounded for a second time. The injury permanently damaged his throat, forcing a lifetime consequence for serving his country. Thereafter, he could only talk in a whisper.

As you read this letter dated June 10, 1918, see if you can hear his voice.

Dear Mother and Father:

I will write you a few lines to tell you that I am well, except a slight wound in my right hip, and it is doing fine. I got hit by a piece of shrapnel a few days ago and was operated on and am in a good American hospital. I haven’t been lonesome, for there is quite a few of us here and everyone is in good spirits.

There are two ways one can look at this war. There is a humorous side and the other is pitiful. We look at the humorous side and so everyone keeps a smile on his face. They do the same whether they are in the trenches or in a rest camp or hospital. In the trenches they actually joke and laugh and have all funny remarks when the shells are lighting so close that it seems the next one is marked with your address.

“If you are going to get it, you get it.” That is what we know and when we got final relief out of the trenches, our last word to the new relief is “So long, and the best of luck.” I think it doesn’t matter much how bad one is hurt, he will look around and see a fellow close to him that got it quite a bit worse and then he will think it over and say to himself, “I’m lucky.”

The only things I have missed since I have been in the hospital are the “cooties.” I suppose you know what they are. We used to take our shirts off and pick them off, but after a few days we had to shake them off or hang the shirt up and beat them off with a stick. I believe they come down with the rain.

One of the boys said his blanket had to be tied to his bed while he was out to drill, or it would be gone when he came back. He meant it would crawl.

We have portable fumigators that we put our clothes and blankets in and get rid of them whenever we can.

The first time I was in the trenches I had a great time killing rats. Some of them are half as big as a grown cat and when they run past you on top of the parapet, they make a fine target for a bayonet. Our bayonet has a handle like a knife and they can’t be beat for killing rats at close range.

Tell Mary Ginder I just received her letter the other day, and will write to her soon.

Don’t worry a bit about me. I will be all right in a week or so and the Red Cross will take care of me. I can walk some and don’t have to use crutches. There were no bones fractured, only a flesh wound.

The Red Cross is certainly doing good work. They nearly foundered me on hot chocolate, coffee, sandwiches, oranges and all kinds of good things. One rosy little French girl wanted to give me another sandwich after I had eaten all I could; I told her I had plenty. She said, “Take more, want to make you bust.”

Well, I must close for this time.

Your son,

Pvt. A. Ginder

Co. M 16^th Inf., A.E.F.,

France, via N.Y.