An Old Indiantown Mystery

Very old newspaper articles often raise more questions than they answer. Let's take for example this article which appeared in the November 9, 1798, issue of the Georgetown Gazette:

A number of those resting today in the graveyard at Indiantown Presbyterian Church

were probably among those puzzled by the strange sounds heard on October 26, 1798.

"A correspondent informs us that several explosions were heard in the air on the 26 ult. [Note: This would be October 26, 1798, which would have been a Friday night] about ten o'clock P.M. in Williamsburgh, Indiantown, and in general over the adjacent neighborhood; that every person with whom he conversed heard the same and described it in a familiar manner, as if a rifle was fired about 400 paces from the hearer and succeeded by a rumbling and tremulous noise, which continued for a considerable space of time after the loud report and after a short interval was again repeated.

"The preceding night was very cold and about the time the explosions were heard, it was very sultry and the atmosphere charged highly with electric matter. No rain had fallen for some weeks in the neighborhood. 

"This phenomenon would have been considered as very ominous about a century ago: sed tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis." [Note: the Latin translates to "Times are changed; we also are changed.]

Was this a local one-time event, or was it an early manifestation of what has come to be known as the Seneca Guns?

This photo was taken several years ago of the George McCutchen house,

also known as the Church Post Office, near Indiantown Church. George

McCutchen was presiding elder of the church and postmaster for the Church

Post Office. He would take mail to church each Sunday to distribute to members.

He, too, would have been alive on October 26, 1798, and no doubt heard the booms.

In 1850, writer James Fennimore Cooper composed a short story called, "The Lake Gun." In it, he described a phenomenon often heard near Lake Seneca in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York. In the story, Cooper described the phenomenon. "It is a sound resembling the explosion of a heavy piece of artillery that can be accounted for by none of the known laws of nature. The report is deep, hollow, distant and imposing."

While many attribute this story as the first mention of the mysterious sound, others note that the Native American Seneca Nation passed down stories of the mysterious booms from the 1600-1700s.

In modern times, the booms continue, although they seem now to manifest themselves more often in the coastal regions of Virginia, North and South Carolina. In the past few years, scientists from both the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and Duke University have attempted to pinpoint the origin of the booms. UNC-Chapel Hill students looked into correlating reports of the booms with known seismic activity from 2013-2015. While the sounds of the Seneca Guns can shake the earth, they discovered that the sounds don't originate from earthquakes as there was no correlation of sound and seismic activity.

They are now looking at a possible connection to atmospheric origins, such as bolides. Bolides are space rocks traveling so fast that they explode when they enter earth's atmosphere. Military planes breaking the sound barrier are also given as a possible source. However, they can safely be ruled out as the source of the explosions heard at Indiantown in 1798,

Another possible origin raised by scientists are events that happen deep in the ocean, like methane exploding on the ocean floor.

Interestingly, while the Seneca Guns are most often heard in coastal regions, they have never been recorded at sea. And they have occurred further inland in Appalachia and in other parts of the country.

And so, almost 223 years after residents of the Indiantown area experienced the eerie phenomenon of unexplained explosions, we are still unsure of their origin.

And the Earth Shook and Moaned

If this was 1886 instead of 2021, we would be waking up this morning exactly one week after an earthquake destroyed much of Charleston and almost all of Summerville. And we would likely at some point today experience another aftershock. Several of you have recently asked what happened in Kingstree during the earthquake. I can, at this point, find no news stories that specifically recount what Kingstree residents did on the night of August 31, 1886, but I have found accounts from a number of other communities, which I suspect closely mirror what happened in Kingstree.

Area along the Cooper River in Charleston in the aftermath of the earthquake.

Source: wyff4.com

Over the preceding weekend, there had been at least two small earthquakes felt around the state–one on Saturday night and another on Sunday. The weather on Tuesday, August 31, 1886, was extremely hot and sultry. However, many areas reported that soon after the earthquake, the humidity subsided and the temperatures cooled down. The earthquake was felt as far north as Boston, and was believed responsible for the collapse of eight large brick buildings in Helena, Arkansas. Some believed that the earthquake was connected to a terrible earthquake that struck Greece on Saturday, August 28, totally destroying six towns and claiming at least 700 lives.

The Manning Times of September 1 recounted what Manning residents experienced. Many Clarendon County citizens were in town late that Tuesday night, gathered in various business establishments, waiting as returns from that day's primary election trickled in. The reporter noted that shortly before 10 o'clock the violent earthquake, "shook every building in the place, the earth reeling and shaking like a drunken man." Others described the earthquake as sounding like a tempest roaring before the buildings began to tremble and sway from side to side. Merchandise fell from shelves; pictures swayed with the walls; and bricks tumbled from almost every chimney. 

Manning's black citizens were for the most part convinced that this was the beginning of the great and terrible day when Heaven and Earth shall pass away, and many of them gathered in their churches to wait and pray.

The reporter noted that the first, and most violent, shock lasted from three-quarters to a full minute. It was followed throughout the night by a number of other shocks at irregular intervals and of diminishing intensity. Some places reported as many as 14 aftershocks, while others only felt eight to ten.

Most Manning residents spent the night either in the streets or on their doorsteps.

Rumors, of course, were rampant. One circulating throughout Manning was that a part of the Northeastern Railroad track had been swallowed by a huge opening in the earth from which "hissing, boiling steam is shooting madly." The Times added a note to this report which said, "We do not vouch for the truthfulness of the latter."

Telegraph operators in inland towns kept trying to contact Charleston with no success. Finally, late on Wednesday, the telegraph operator at Manning reported that one of the Charleston operators had walked to Moncks Corner to wire that the south waterfront in Charleston had been totally destroyed by a tidal wave, that the northern part had been severely damaged by the earthquake and that the central part of the city was on fire.

Earthquake damage along Tradd Street in Charleston.

Source: wikipedia.com

From the western part of the state, the Abbeville Press and Banner was printing when the earthquake hit at 9:50 p.m. Under the headline "The Earth on a Bender," the paper reported that the Methodist Church had been filled with devout worshipers listening to a message titled, "Prepare to Meet Your God," when the quake struck. The rumbling and shaking of the earthquake caused a panic, with worshipers rushing to get outside the church. One lady stumbled and fell as she attempted to get to the door. Others tripped over her and "were soon prostrate." No one, however, was seriously injured. Those faithful who remained in the church, sang the "Doxology," while those outside rushed to their homes to assess the damage. While plaster cracked and fell and many chimneys lost bricks, no houses in Abbeville were severely damaged. Prisoners in the jail were heard in loud prayer and song. The Abbeville Colored Band was rehearsing in the basement of the Clinton Lodge. The paper reported that members left in such a hurry they forgot to lock the door.

More wreckage in Charleston from the earthquake.

Source: gendisasters.com

One of the most compelling accounts is that of Charlie Barber of Winnsboro in his slave narrative recorded by W.W. Dixon for the WPA in the 1930s. According to Barber, there had been a prophecy that the world would end in 1881. Many folks in Winnsboro, he said, were just beginning to get over that scare by August 31, 1886. On that Tuesday evening, the members of St. John Methodist Church were having a revival. Barber said the preacher was praying after the first sermon, "but never got to the amen part of the that prayer." There came a rumbling noise like far-off thunder and then the church began to rock like a baby's cradle. 

There was great excitement inside the church, and Barber said that Aunt Melvina hollered "The world is coming to an end." The preacher, he said, exclaimed, "Oh, Lordy," and ran out of the pulpit. Everybody ran out of the church into the moonlight, and then came a second quake about a minute after the first. Somebody in the crowd started screaming, "The devil is under the church! The devil is under the church! The devil is going to take the church on his back and run away with the church!"

No one stayed around to see that happen, as the congregation all started running and didn't stop until they got to the Court House in Winnsboro. Once there, they started telling others who had gathered that the devil had taken St. John's Church and flown away to hell with it. 

Henry Gailliard, an attorney, spoke to them and explained what was really happening. He begged them to go home. The Winnsboro telegraph operator, Joseph Skinner, told them that the main part of the earthquake was "way down 'bout Charleston" and too far away to hurt anybody in Winnsboro "unless a chimney brick fell on somebody's head."

Barber said that most people were satisfied with these explanations. Some went home, but a number of them sat on the railroad track all night.

The next night, they gathered again at St. John's and finding the church building still there, "such an outpouring of the Spirit was had as never was had before or since."

Charlie Barber was 23 years old at the time of the earthquake. He lived a long life as he is recorded in the 1940 census as a 78-year-old still living in Winnsboro. He apparently remained a member of St. John's AME Church his entire life as he is buried in the church's graveyard.

Kingstree Native Amos White Meets Harry Truman, General John J. Pershing

Amos White continues his oral history by saying, "We played Liberty Loan drives in England, also, in cities as we passed through them. We crossed the Channel at midnight there for Le Harve, France. ... The band was well, well qualified, and while in France, why I told you, that we had to play for this 33rd Division passing in review. They had no band capable of passing them in review and observing all the signals of an officer. Well, I had a fellow name of George Wells. He had been in the 10th Cavalry, was tall and a very handsome youngster, and he knew all the signals for observance of an officer in review passing, and he carried them out to the letter while I always stood to the left of my band, you know. We stayed in this review passing for, oh, from nine o'clock in the morning until after four in the afternoon. ...

Amos White, at age 68, the year he recorded his oral history.

"From Le Harve, why we were on an underground train, straight on up through the middle of Paris, and when we got right near this big city of Lille, which was a railroad center in France, then we came up, surfaced up, which was well-guarded around there for they were watching for the Germans to attack them at that time, and right out of Lille we had to go underground again ... so we were just on a crawling train on what they now call the Forty and Eight, that boxcar that holds 12 hogs, eight horses, or 24 men. (Laughs) Chevaux or hombres,  you see. I've forgotten what they call a hog, but anyhow, it was swine then in French. I've forgotten my French. I could remember easily if I could refer to some of the old records.

At that point, an unidentified male voice says, "Cochon."

Amos White replies, "Yeah, Eight horses, twelve cochon, or 24 hombres. Then began my history of the 816th Band. Well the history of the 816th Band measures up very credibly in that while we were stationed in Verdun, every afternoon, except Saturday and Sunday, that is, we had to play a concert in Chevre Square in Verdun, aside from other places we did around in various camps.

"I serenaded Harry Truman over there. Captain Harry Truman. But I didn't know it was Captain Harry Truman. Well, I knew it was Captain Harry Truman, then, but I heard no more about him until he became Senator, United States Senator. When we arrived out at the camp with two truckloads of instruments and two truckloads of band jumped out, why he was sitting at the piano playing....So, when we walked in, I said, 'I'm reporting from the 816th by the orders of Col. Chapman to come up here and serenade you.' He said, 'Hell, we don't need any serenading up here. I'm doing the serenading. Y'all go back there and get you something to eat and go on back to camp.' (Laughs) He's a wonderful guy, you know. That's why I love him until today. He was so forthright. A great man.

Capt. Harry S. Truman

Source: The Truman Library

"But, back to the regimental band activities. Now, when they started building this big cemetery out from Verdun in a little town called Montfaucon, Romagne, a little town just beyond Montfaucon, where the cemetery is presently situated now, I suppose, if it hasn't been demolished, why we were stationed up there from March, the eighth, until June, the eighth, and in the construction of this cemetery, now my band was never called to do any work, any of the work. All we were required to do was to entertain the boys, and we were given our company street and company barracks to put up our big tents, and I had the tent at the head of the barracks, and here was the Colonel's quarters down here, and I dined in the Colonel's quarters, not with the Colonel and his staff, but I dined in his quarters. The better, higher non-commissioned officers all dined over there. A little better service too. Strange to say. I don't want to be different from the men. Create a little jealousy. But that was the way it was handled. I had to obey the orders of the other higher non-coms. Course, I was the highest non-com in my regiment. I was acting warrant officer. I was never commissioned, however, but I drew the salary of a warrant officer, and I had the power of a warrant officer. Mine was only as an assistant bandmaster, that's the rank, permanent rank. That was the discharge rank, too, because no commission was ever signed. And you don't go for the commissions, but I was the bandmaster, the recognized bandmaster, and I had no other bandmaster over me at any time. I had no other officer over me. All my conducting of my band over there was done with me alone as the sole arbiter of anything.

General John J. Pershing

Source: Wikipedia

"I serenaded General John J. Pershing four times. At the groundbreaking for the cemetery building he was there. My men sat right under the stand. My band did the salutation number for his entry. At the closing my band played The Stars and Stripes and the French National Anthem. The French National Anthem first and The Stars and Stripes last. At the conclusion of this cemetery, General Pershing was up there again to set the flag up and proclaim the cemetery the largest in the world. And this was a big day. The 8th day of June, nineteen hundred and nineteen. And again, my band was the host band to General John J. Pershing. Now, then, right after that, we were supposed to go down and take his band's place at Chaumont, but orders from General Smedley B. Butler at Le Havre changed the orders. He set the order that the 816th Pioneer Infantry would sail in August for the United States. When we got to Le Havre, France, General Smedley B. Butler proclaimed this band is now the Army Camps Band, and you are disassociated with the 816th Pioneer Infantry....

Muese-Argonne Cemetery and Memorial at Montfaucon-Romagne.

"Well, each day our only requirements were that we play a concert in the Y at a little after noon, or before noon, sometimes early in the morning. I got all my orders from him, typewritten orders. Your band will entrain today and play for so and so and so, such dignitaries as would be arriving. All the soldiers were entraining for home. Then you will proceed down to the docks today at 2:30 and there you'll stand guard and play for the sailing of troops home until 8 o'clock tonight. So, you see, my band had unusual privileges down in Le Havre. And during the loading of a ship here and the sailing of that ship. And another ship would come in and another bunch of soldiers would start coming. They had leave, so they would run all around the town, and some of them came back with 'saxophonia.' (Laughs) We had a very good time there. And my boys were very obedient to every wish of mine. While they were beating up other bandmasters over there, they threw one overboard coming back. They threw one bandmaster over the ship. They'd whip up a bandmaster in a minute, especially if he was a non-commissioned bandmaster–you didn't have any voice. They'd whip up an officer, for that matter. They were mad to come home, but my band was just as jubilant over coming home, but, yet, well, I had to be somewhat conciliatory with them. 'Well, you'll be home pretty soon.' 'I wonder if they're going to keep us in the Army,' some of them would say, and I'd say, 'Aw, no, you'll be mustered out as soon as you get over there.' Little did I think that would be done, but that was my word to them. And, sure enough, once we came back; we gave a concert on the ship coming back, every day. We got back in eleven days.

"But we stayed in Le Havre down there for a solid 24 days, and we had a wonderful time there in Le Havre. 

"After I got my discharge in Louisville, Kentucky, I headed down to New Orleans..."

And in New Orleans, he was asked to join a band to take the place of a trumpeter who was leaving for Chicago. That trumpeter was Louis Armstrong.

This July marked the 41st anniversary of Amos White's death. But for the past several weeks, as I've listened to and transcribed his oral history, I've felt as if I were in his presence. It has had far more of an emotional impact than I would have imagined. It has underlined the importance to me of two things. One, is that we all have a story waiting to be told, and the second is the value of recording oral histories. The Williamsburgh Historical Society will soon open the African-American Archives of Williamsburg. One section of the archives will include a recording booth for Williamsburg County residents, regardless of ethnicity, to record their own oral histories. I hope many of you will consider doing just that, with a child, or grandchild, a sibling, other family member, or maybe with a friend. Think about the pleasure your great-great grandchildren will have if they are able to hear your voice many years from now as you tell them your little piece of Williamsburg County's history.

A First Person Account of WWI Service

Over the past few months, we've looked at the World War I stories of several young men from Williamsburg County. Most of those stories were pieced together from the public record–draft cards, troop ship passenger lists, death certificates, cemetery records, and the occasional news story. However, there is one Kingstree native whose story can be told directly in his own words, as he remembered his time in the Army 40 years later. On August 23, 1958, jazz cornetist Amos Mordecai White recorded an oral history that has become part of the Hogan Jazz Archive at Tulane University in New Orleans. His oral history is almost two hours long and covers much more than his service in the Great War, including information from his early years in Kingstree. If you're interested you can listen to it here.

An older Amos White (right) with his grandson, saxophonist Eddie "Snakepit" Edwards.

Source: snakepiteddie.com

On June 5, 1917, all young men of draft age were required to register. Although working as a traveling musician, Amos Mordecai White dutifully registered in Charleston, South Carolina, which was his base of operation at the time. A year later, in August 1918, he was working the Missouri State Fair in Sedalia, Missouri, as bandmaster for W.C. Miles' band which was that season part of the Cole Brothers Circus.

Amos White says, "I am Miles' bandmaster because Miles liked to play the drums and keep the tempo up. So I had to take over for Miles. ...then is when I really had to cut it because the bulk of the work was on me, playing all these galops and fast marches and segueing from one number to another, you know. You're playing the big show now; you had no white band on the show, so the band would split up and take six pieces and play the sideshow. ... And the other nine pieces would stay and play the circus. I was  always with this nine pieces because the bulk of the work, as I said, was in the big tent. 

"Well, when the commissioners (United States Commissioners Investigators) came through, ...and they asked for the (draft) card, there were about five of us in there who were supposed to be fellows of war age, and I didn't have my card in my pocket. Fact of it is, I had gone to the circus that day in my shirtsleeves because we put on our band coats in the tent. ...'Well, where's your card?' And they got right hostile with me, you know. So, they grabbed me. I say, 'It's down in the privileged car. I'll go down and get it.'

Amos Moredecai White's World War I Draft Card, issued June 5, 1917.

"'No, you won't get anything,' they said. 'We're gonna take you on in. You're expected to have that card on you.' So they took me straight to jail. And then, then I got busy. Miles went up and got my card and brought it to me, but by that time, the commissioners have all gone. So now I got to spend the night there, and this is on a Saturday afternoon.

"Now, this is Sunday, and Miles is off, so Miles came to the jail and brought me my week's salary and some more money. I think he all total gave me about $40. And he brought some clothes to me, and I said, 'Well, I don't need the clothes because I'm going on to the Army, I know it.',,,

"Well, when the commissioners came to sit in Sunday afternoon, and Sheriff Dawes was the sheriff there in Nevada, Missouri. You see, they didn't take me up in Sedalia while there. They took me where the regular United States Commissioners office was, and that was in Nevada, Missouri. They had different points for these places in states. And regardless of the fact that Sedalia was a much bigger city than Nevada, still they took me to Nevada. I've got proof of registration and everything, and they were no longer hostile. ....Three commissioners came in on Sunday afternoon at the request of Sheriff Dawes. Sheriff Dawes said, 'Well, I don't see what they want to keep you in here for. You've proved registration. You've got your card and everything.' Says, 'I'm going to call 'em down there. ...So they made a special trip back there to the jail, and they sat in and said,  'Well, what do you want to do? You didn't have that card on you.' 

"I said, 'I want to go to the service.' ...Well, they sent me on to camp. I rode all that evening. No sheriff went there or anything. And all that night, ...went to Camp Funston. ...Well, I finally reached Camp Funston on one of these old slow trains that looked like–they didn't care how you traveled in those days, you see. Army movements. I reached Camp Funston along about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, might have been a little earlier than that, but anyhow when I got to the gate, I had my trumpet with me, and I had a little bag. I had an extra pair of shoes in there. I don't know why I carried them along. I knew I wasn't going to need them. I didn't think so, anyhow. But anyhow, just to be ready for an occasion. 

"And the sergeant at the gate said to me, 'Where is the sheriff who brought you here?' I told him, I said, 'No sheriff brought me here.'

"'Yes, he did. Where's the man who brought you here?'

He kept on after me, and I said, 'No man brought me here,' and when I said, and I said it kind of forcibly, I said, 'I came unguarded here,' he slapped me, and I didn't say nothing. I just took the little slap and I kinda halfway grinned, but, brother, all the hell and fury had gotten into me then. If I must go to war, don't beat me up before I get in there.

"All right, so he pushed me down through the gate. 'Go on in there.' So, I went in the gate, and I went straight on up the steps. Now my plan of action was already in me. I knew what to do because I had a little military training in the schools. They taught us military training in Jenkins Orphanage. They also carried some good tactics and training in all the colleges down there. They didn't have no regular ROTC, but the orders of the day had to be obeyed in the colleges and in the schools also.

"When I got in, I asked for the officer in charge. They referred me to a Major over there who afterwards became one of my majors–Major Blaine. And I saluted, came to attention. I had no training, but I knew this had to be done. I said, 'Sir, I'm Private Amos Mordecai White, reporting from Nevada, Missouri. I was arrested two days ago for not having my card on me. I had the card, and I came here unguarded. Sheriff Dawes granted me that privilege because he saw I wanted to get in the Army. ...And I says, 'When I came in the gate, the officer, the non-commissioned officer at the gate, slapped me and kicked me and beat me up at the gate.' I put it all strong! (Laughs)

"He said to his orderly, 'Go to the gate and bring that sergeant at the gate here.' Brought this tall sergeant, a walking stem, from Georgia. He says, 'Yes, Sir, Major.' He says, 'Come here.' He called him over to him and he snatched the chevron off first. 'Ah, Sir, Major, what's that for?' And he says, 'For kicking and hitting this man at the gate while he's trying to give you an explanation for coming into the service. Take him to the guard house and put him in there and lock him up and throw the key away until I tell you when to pick it up.' And I laughed. I said, 'HA HA HA.' And when I laughed, the Major told me, 'Shut up and stand at attention!' And I said, 'Yes, Sir!'...

A young Amos Mordecai White

"Well, ...I had no more gotten my uniform on, delivered to me. I didn't even have straps on the leggings around me or anything, when they called and say, 'Fall out! Fall out! Line up! Any of you fellows here, of you 'cruits,' this was old Sergeant Clark talking now, 'know how to typewrite?' I said, 'ME!'

"'Step up. Two paces forward.' Sent me to the office, and I started picking and pecking at the typewriter. I could type correctly, but I couldn't type fast, and I had no keyboard, but I know printing. You see a printing case is almost similar. But any man who can print correctly and observe punctuations and capitalizations, you can type your own letter better than one of these half-handed, ill-tutored, supposed secretaries.

"Well, I typed out a letter for him–typed it out quicker than anybody in there, too. With my nervous self. 'That's good.' So, all right. He dismissed me out. 'Go to your barracks. I'll go over to the YMC, and we'll fall out again in half an hour.'

"Next time, 'Fall in!' We come out again. 'How many of you men in here had any office work experience?' 'Me.' I had experience in everything. But the last call they issued around about six o'clock. you know, the sun is way up. 'How many musicians are in this rank?' 'Me. Me.' Nine fellows down the line held their hands up. Another rank over here the sergeant was asking the same thing over there. About 11 men from over there held their hands up. 'All right, all you men report to the YMC. So into the YMC went about 24 of us. And when we stepped into the YMC, there was a lieutenant there, just out of the Chautauqua band. ...This fellow was already in his first lieutenant's uniform, and they had sent him to take charge of the 816th Pioneer Infantry Band. He held a rehearsal with we 24 fellows. and he says. 'I'll have an early rehearsal tonight at nine o'clock.' This was around six o'clock.

"That night at nine o'clock, we all assembled in there again. He said, 'I'm going to have an elimination contest in here,' he says, 'because I have gotten new orders. I'm going to be a line officer, and there is a promotion for me, and there is a chance for one of you men in this outfit to become the bandleader of this regiment now being formed." ,,, Now this is my second day in camp. He says, 'One of you men in here is going to take charge of the 816th band temporarily because I am going to recommend it to the Colonel in charge here. ... Lt. Col. Potter will be over here in a few minutes because he wants this unit to do guard mount tomorrow.' Okay. Fine and dandy. 

"So, the first thing he put up is Aspire Waltz (hums the tune). You don't want me to sing this. All right. He put up that. So he went all the way down until he came to the, I think C section in there... When he observed his dal segno sign, or da capo, and got back down to that strain, he cut off. 

"Of course, there is a little flair in there. I might as well tell you about it. I had played the waltz before. (Laughs) Wasn't anybody playing but me. He says, 'What's your name?' I said, 'Amos Mordecai White.' 'Step out! Now, fellows, here's your bandmaster. Now, I'll be a line officer and good luck to you. You play a wonderful trumpet.' I was playing then a J.W. York & Sons trumpet, and he had an E.A. Couturier trumpet. That made me have a love for the Couturier horn, and I bought the 10,000th instrument, no, one thousand and some odd, one oh seventy-six. My boy's got–my grandson has the trumpet out there now, one oh seventy-six, designed by E.A. Couturier and Sons, La Porte, Indiana, after he came to America to demonstrate for the Holton Company.

Amos White, playing in San Francisco in 1960. He is second from the left.

"Well, then, that began my tenure with the 816th Pioneer Infantry, and the next five days we were on a train making Liberty Loan drives in the cities. The first city out of Camp Funtston was Kansas City, Missouri. Kansas City, Missouri to St Louis; St. Louis to Indianapolis; Indianapolis to Columbus, Ohio; Columbus, Ohio, to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and strangely we jumped all the way back cross county to somewhere round about where we went up to Omaha, Nebraska to St. Paul, double back in there with about three days riding, making Liberty Loan drives in various cities, and the band wasn't so well-rehearsed but they gave us a whole boxcar, and we sat in this boxcar–they served us meals in there–at these various points, and the Red Cross and everybody was giving us fine food on the route and put berths in there for us, and in those quarters in four days the band became a very well-constructed unit. 

"When I got to Camp Upton, Long Island, why, they had recruited about seventeen more men out of Fort Riley, and they had sent them to me, also. They came–it was William Triggs–a fellow name of William Triggs, who afterward became my first sideman in the band, and then I think I got about four fellows right out of Camp Upton. And the band's strength then was brought up to fully 47."

The 816th Pioneer Infantry shipped out of Camp Upton on October 12, 1918, for Europe. Amos White said he remembered little of the trip across the Atlantic as "I stayed seasick from the time I got on the boat until I got across almost."

Next week we'll look at his adventures in Europe, including an interesting meeting with Capt. Harry Truman.