BILTMORE OSWALD
THE DIARY OF A HAPLESS RECRUIT
BY
J. THORNE SMITH, Jr.
U.S.N.R.F.
WITH 31 ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK-AND-WHITE
BY
RICHARD DORGAN ("Dick Dorgan") U.S.N.R.F.
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1918, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company All Rights Reserved
Reprinted from The Broadside A Journal for The Naval Reserve Force
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
BILTMORE OSWALD
The Diary of A Hapless Recruit
Feb. 23d. "And what," asked the enlisting officer, regarding me as if I had insulted him, his family and his live stock, "leads you to believe that you are remotely qualified to join the Navy?"
At this I almost dropped my cane, which in the stress of my patriotic preoccupation I had forgotten to leave home.
"Nothing," I replied, making a hasty calculation of my numerous useless accomplishments, "nothing at all, sir, that is, nothing to speak of. Of course I've passed a couple of seasons at Bar Harbor—perhaps that—"
"Bar Harbor!" exploded the officer. "Bar! bah! bah—dammit," he broke off, "I'm bleating."
"Yes, sir," said I with becoming humility. His hostility increased.
"Do you enlist for foreign service?" he snapped.
"Sure," I replied. "It will all be foreign to me."
The long line of expectant recruits began to close in upon us until a thirsty, ingratiating semi-circle was formed around the officer's desk. Upon the multitude he glared bitterly.
"Orderly! why can't you keep this line in some sort of shape?"
"Yes, give the old tosh some air," breathed a worthy in my ear as he retreated to his proper place.
"What did you do at Bar Harbor?" asked the officer, fixing me with his gaze.
"Oh," I replied easily, "I occasionally yachted."
"On what kind of a boat?" he urged.
"Now for the life of me, sir, I can't quite recall," I replied. "It was a splendid boat though, a perfect beauty, handsomely fitted up and all—I think they called her the 'Black Wing.'"
These few little remarks seemed to leave the officer flat. He regarded me with a pitiful expression. There was pain in his eyes.
"You mean to say," he whispered, "that you don't know what kind of a boat it was?"
"Unfortunately no, sir," I replied, feeling really sorry for the wounded man.
"Do you recall what was the nature of your activities aboard this mysterious craft?" he continued.
"Oh, indeed I do, sir," I replied. "I tended the jib-sheet."
"Ah," said he thoughtfully, "sort of specialized on the jib-sheet?"
"That's it, sir," said I, feeling things taking a turn for the better. "I specialized on the jib-sheet."
"What did you do to this jib-sheet?" he continued.
"I clewed it," said I promptly, dimly recalling the impassioned instructions an enthusiastic friend of mine had shunted at me throughout the course of one long, hot, horrible, confused afternoon of the past summer—my first, and, as I had hoped at the time, final sailing experience.
The officer seemed to be lost in reflection. He was probably weighing my last answer. Then with a heavy sigh he took my paper and wrote something mysterious upon it.
"I'm going to make an experiment of you," he said, holding the paper to me. "You are going to be a sort of a test case. You're the worst applicant I have ever had. If the Navy can make a sailor out of you it can make a sailor out of anybody"; he paused for a moment, then added emphatically, "without exception."
"Thank you, sir," I replied humbly.
"Report here Monday for physical examination," he continued, waving my thanks aside. "And now go away."
I accordingly went, but as I did so I fancied I caught the reflection of a smile lurking guiltily under his mustache. It was the sort of a smile, I imagined at the time, that might flicker across the grim visage of a lion in the act of anticipating an approaching trip to a prosperous native village.
Feb. 25th. I never fully appreciated what a truly democratic nation the United States was until I beheld it naked, that is, until I beheld a number of her sons in that condition. Nakedness is the most democratic of all institutions. Knock-knees, warts and chilblains, bowlegs, boils and bay-windows are respecters of no caste or creed, but visit us all alike. These profound reflections came to me as I stood with a large gathering of my fellow creatures in the offices of the physical examiner.
"Never have I seen a more unpromising candidate in all my past experience," said the doctor moodily when I presented myself before him, and thereupon he proceeded to punch me in the ribs with a vigor that seemed to be more personal than professional. When thoroughly exhausted from this he gave up and led me to the eye charts, which I read with infinite ease through long practise in following the World Series in front of newspaper buildings.
"Eyes all right," he said in a disappointed voice. "It must be your feet."
These proved to be faultless, as were my ears and teeth.
"You baffle me," said the doctor at last, thoroughly discouraged. "Apparently you are sound all over, yet, looking at you, I fail to see how it is possible."
I wondered vaguely if he was paid by the rejection. Then for no particular reason he suddenly tired of me and left me with all my golden youth and glory standing unnoticed in a corner. From here I observed an applicant being put through his ear test. This game is played as follows: a hospital apprentice thrusts one finger into the victim's ear while the doctor hurries down to the end of the room and whispers tragically words that the applicant must repeat. It's a good game, but this fellow I was watching evidently didn't know the rules and he was taking no chances.
"Now repeat what I say," said the doctor.
"'Now repeat what I say,'" quoted the recruit.
"No, no, not now," cried the doctor. "Wait till I whisper."
"'No, no, not now. Wait till I whisper,'" answered the recruit, faithfully accurate.
"Wait till I whisper, you blockhead," shouted the doctor.
"'Wait till I whisper, you blockhead,'" shouted the recruit with equal heat.
"Oh, God!" cried the doctor despairingly.
"'Oh, God!'" repeated the recruit in a mournful voice.
This little drama of cross purposes might have continued indefinitely had not the hospital apprentice begun to punch the guy in the ribs, shouting as he did so:
"Wait a minute, can't you?"
At which the recruit, a great hulk of a fellow, delivered the hospital apprentice a resounding blow in the stomach and turned indignantly to the doctor.
"That man's interfering," he said in an injured voice. "Now that ain't fair, is it, doc?"
"You pass," said the doctor briefly, producing his handkerchief and mopping his brow.
"Well, what are you standing around for?" he said a moment later, spying me in my corner.
"Oh, doctor," I cried, delighted, "I thought you had forgotten me."
"No," said the doctor, "I'll never forget you. You pass. Take your papers and clear out."
I can now feel with a certain degree of security that I am in the Navy.
Feb. 26th. I broke the news to mother to-day and she took it like a little gentleman, only crying on twelve different occasions. I had estimated it much higher than that.
After dinner she read me a list of the things I was to take with me to camp, among which were several sorts of life preservers, an electric bed warmer and a pair of dancing pumps.
"Why not include spurs?" I asked, referring to the pumps. "I'd look very crisp in spurs, and they would help me in climbing the rigging."
"But some officer might ask you to a dance," protested mother.
"Mother," I replied firmly, "I have decided to decline all social engagements during my first few weeks in camp. You can send the pumps when I write for them."
A card came to-day ordering me to report on March 1st. Consequently I am not quite myself.
Feb. 27th. Mother hurried into my room this morning and started to pack my trunk. She had gotten five sweaters, three helmets and two dozen pairs of socks into it before I could stop her. When I explained to her that I wasn't going to take a trunk she almost broke down.
"But at least," she said, brightening up, "I can go along with you and see that you are nice and comfortable in your room."
"You seem to think that I am going to some swell boarding school, mother," I replied from the bed. "You see, we don't have rooms to ourselves. I understand that we sleep in bays."
"Don't jest," cried mother. "It's too horrible!"
Then I explained to her that a bay was a compartment of a barracks in which eight human beings and one petty officer, not quite so human, were supposed to dwell in intimacy and, as far as possible, concord.
This distressed poor mother dreadfully. "But what are you going to take?" she cried.
"I'm going to take a nap," said I, turning over on my pillow. "It will be the last one in a bed for a long, long time."
At this mother stuffed a pair of socks in her mouth and left the room hastily.
Polly came in to-night and I kissed her on and off throughout the evening on the strength of my departure. This infuriated father, but mother thought it was very pretty. However, before going to bed he gave me a handsome wrist watch, and grandfather, pointing to his game leg, said:
"Remember the Mexican War, my boy. I fought and bled honorably in that war, by gad, sir!"
I know for a fact that the dear old gentleman has never been further west than the Mississippi River.
Feb. 28th (on the train). I have just gone through my suit-case and taken out some of mother's last little gifts such as toilet water, a padded coat hanger, one hot water bottle, some cough syrup, two pairs of ear-bobs, a paper vest and a blue pokerdotted silk muffler. She put them in when I wasn't looking. I have hidden them under the seat. May the Lord forgive me for a faithless son.
The departure was moist, but I managed to swim through. I am too excited to read the paper and too rattle-brained to think except in terrified snatches. I wonder if I look different. People seem to be regarding me sympathetically. I recognize two faces on this train. One belongs to Tony, the iceman on our block; the other belongs to one named Tim, a barkeep, if I recall rightly, in a hotel I have frequently graced with my presence. I hope their past friendship was not due to professional reasons. It would be nice to talk over old times with them in camp, for I have frequently met the one in the morning after coming home from the other.
March 1st. Subjected myself to the intimate scrutiny of another doctor this morning. I used my very best Turkish bath manners. They failed to impress him. Hospital apprentice treated me to a shot of Pelham "hop." It is taken in the customary manner, through the arm—very stimulating. A large sailor held me by the hand for fully fifteen minutes. Very embarrassing! He made pictures of my fingers and completely demolished my manicure. From there I passed on to another room. Here a number of men threw clothes at me from all directions. The man with the shoes was a splendid shot. I am now a sailor—at least, superficially. My trousers were built for Charlie Chaplin. I feel like a masquerade.
A gang of recruits shouted "twenty-one days" at me as I was being led to Mess Hall No. 1. The poor simps had just come in the day before and had not even washed their leggings yet. I shall shout at other recruits to-morrow, though, the same thing that they shouted at me to-day.
Our P.O. is a very terrifying character. He is a stern but just man, I take it.
He can tie knots and box the compass and say "pipe down" and everything. Gee, it must be nice to be a real sailor!
March 2d. Fell out of my hammock last night and momentarily interrupted the snoring contest holding sway. I was told to "pipe down" in Irish, Yiddish, Third Avenue and Bronx. This, I thought, was adding insult to injury, but could not make any one take the same view of it. I hope the thing does not become a habit with me. I form habits so readily. In connection with snoring I have written the following song which I am going to send home to Polly. I wrote it in the Y.M.C.A. Hut this afternoon while crouching between the feet of two embattled checker players. I'm going to call it "The Rhyme of the Snoring Sailor." It goes like this:
I
The mother thinks of her sailor son
As clutched in the arms of war,
But mother should listen, as I have done,
To this same little, innocent sailor son
Sprawl in his hammock and snore.
Oh, the sailor man is a rugged man,
The master of wind and wave,
And poets sing till the tea-rooms ring
Of his picturesque, deep sea grave,
And they likewise write of the "Storm at Night"
When the numerous north winds roar,
But more profound is the dismal sound
Of a sea-going sailor's snore.
II
Oh, mothers knit for their sailor sons
Socks for their nautical toes,
But mothers should list to the frightful noise
Made by their innocent sailor boys
By the wind they blow through their nose.
Oh, life at sea is wild and free
And greatly to be admired,
But I would sleep both sound and deep
At night when I'm feeling tired.
So here we go with a yo! ho! ho!
While the waves and the tempests soar,
An artist can paint a shrew as a saint,
But not camouflage on a snore.
III
Oh, mothers, write to your sons at sea;
Write to them, I implore,
A letter as earnest as it can be,
Containing a delicate, motherly plea,
A plea for them not to snore.
Oh, I take much pride in my trousers wide,
The ladies all think them sweet,
And I must admit that I love to sit
In a chair and relieve my feet.
Avast! Belay! and we're bound away
With our hearts lashed fast to the fore,
But when mermaids sleep
In their bowers deep,
Do you think that the sweet things snore?
Our company commander spoke to us this morning in no uncertain terms. He seems to be such a serious man. There is a peculiar quality in his voice, not unlike the tone of a French 75 mm. gun. You can easily hear everything he says—miles away. We rested this afternoon.
March 3d. Sunday—a day of rest, for which I gave, in the words of our indefatigable Chaplain, "three good, rollicking cheers." Some folks are coming up to see me this afternoon. I hear I must moo through the fence at them like a cow. (Later.) The folks have just left. Mother kept screaming through the wire about my underwear. She seemed to have it on her brain. There were several young girls standing right next to her. I really felt I was no longer a bachelor. Why do mothers lay such tremendous stress on underwear? They seem to believe that a son's sole duty to his parents consists in publicly announcing that he is clad in winter flannels.
Polly drove up for a moment with Joe Henderson. I hope the draft gets hold of that bird. They were going to have tea at the Biltmore when they got back to the city. I almost bit the end off of a sentry's bayonet when I heard this woeful piece of news. Liberty looks a long way off.
I made an attempt to write some letters in the Y.M.C.A. this evening but gave up before the combined assault of a phonograph, a piano, and a flanking detachment of checker players. Several benches fell on me and I went to the mat feeling very sorry for myself.
March 4th. The morning broke badly. I lashed my hand to my hammock and was forced to call on the P.O. to extricate me. He remarked, with ill-disguised bitterness, that I could think of more ineffectual things to do than any rookie it had been his misfortune to meet. I told him that I didn't have to think of them, they just came naturally.
Last night I was nearly frightened out of my hammock by awakening and gazing into the malevolent eye of my high-powered, twin-six wrist watch. I thought for a moment that the Woolworth tower had crawled into bed with me. It gave me such a start. I must get used to my wrist watch—also wearing a handkerchief up my sleeve. I feel like the sweet kid himself now.
Drill all day. My belt fell off and tripped me up. Why do such things always happen to me? Somebody told us to do squads left and it looked as if we were playing Ring Around Rosie. Then we performed a fiendish and complicated little quadrille called a "company square." I found myself, much to my horror, on the inside of the contraption walking directly behind the company commander. It was a very delicate situation for a while. I walked on my tip-toes so that he wouldn't hear me. Had he looked around I know I'd have dropped my gun and lit out for home and mother.
Forgot to take my hat off in the mess room. I was reminded, though, by several hundred thoughtful people.
March 5th. Stood for half an hour in the mail line. Got one letter. A bill from a restaurant for eighteen dollars' worth of past luncheons. I haven't the heart to write more.
March 6th. Bag inspection. I almost put my eye out at right hand salute. However, my bag looked very cute indeed, and although he didn't say anything, I feel sure the inspecting officer thought mine was the best. I had a beautiful embroidered handkerchief holder, prominently displayed, which I am sure must have knocked him cold. He missed the dirty white, but I will never be the same.
Fire drill! My hammock came unlashed right in front of a C.P.O. and he asked me if I was going to sleep in it on the spot. It was a very inspiring scene. Particularly thrilling was the picture I caught of a very heavy sailor picking on a poor innocent looking little fire extinguisher. He ran the thing right over my foot. I apologized, as usual. I discovered that I have been putting half instead of marlin hitches in my hammock, but not before the inspecting officer did. He seemed very upset about it. When he asked me why I only put six hitches in my hammock instead of seven, I replied that my rope was short. His reply still burns in my memory. What eloquence! What earnestness! What a day!
March 7th. Second jab to-morrow. I am too nervous to write to-day. More anon.
March 16th. Life in the Navy is just one round of engagements to keep. Simply splendid! All we have to do is to get up at 6 o'clock in the morning when it is nice and dark and play around with the cutest little hammock imaginable. When you have arrived at the most interesting part of this game, the four hitch period, and you are wondering whether you are going to beat your previous record and get six instead of five, the bugle blows and immediately throws you into a state of great indecision. The problem is whether to finish the hammock and be reported late for muster or to attend muster and be reported for not having finished your hammock. The time spent in considering this problem usually results in your trying to do both and in failing to accomplish either, getting reported on two counts. Any enlisted man is entitled to play this game and he is sure of making a score. After running around innumerable miles of early morning camp scenery and losing several buttons from your new trousers, you come back and do Greek dances for a man who aspires to become a second Mordkin or a Mr. Isadora Duncan. This is all very sweet and I am sure the boys play prettily together. First he dances, then we dance; then he interprets a bird and we all flutter back at him. This being done to his apparent satisfaction, we proceed to crawl and grind and weave and wave in a most extraordinary manner. This is designed to give us physical poise to enable us to go aloft in a graceful and pleasing manner. After this dancing in the dew you return for a few more rounds with your hammock, clean up your bay and stand in line for breakfast. After breakfast we muster again and a gentleman talks to us in a voice that would lead you to believe that he thought we were all in hiding somewhere in New Rochelle. Then there are any number of things to do to divert our minds—scrub hammocks, pick up cigarettes, drill, hike and attend lectures. As a rule we do all of these things. From 5 p.m. until 8:45 p.m. if we are unfortunate enough not to have a lecture party we are free to give ourselves over to the riotous joy of the moment, which consists of listening to a phonograph swear bitterly at a piano long past its prime. The final act of the drama of the day is performed on the hammock—an animated little sketch of arms and legs conducted along the lines of Houdini getting into a strait-jacket, or does he get out of them? I don't know, perhaps both. Anyway, you get what I mean.
March 17th. This spring weather is bringing the birds out in great quantities. They bloomed along the fence today like a Ziegfeld chorus on an outing. One girl carried on a coherent conversation with six different fellows at once and left each of them feeling that he alone had been singled out for her particular favor. As a matter of fact I was flirting with her all the time and I could tell by the very way she looked that she would have much rather been talking to me. Last week I had to convince mother that I was wearing my flannels; this week I had to convince her I still had them on. The only way to satisfy her, I suppose, is to appear before her publicly in them. Poor, dear mother, she told me she had written the doctor up here asking him not to squirt my arm full of those horrid little germs any more. She said I came from a good, clean family, and had been bathed once a week all my life, except the time when I had the measles and then it wasn't advisable. I am sure this must have cheered the doctor up tremendously. She also asked him to be sure to see that I got my meals regularly. I can see him now taking me by the hand and leading me to the mess-hall. When I suggested to mother that she write President Wilson asking him to be sure to see that my blankets didn't fall off at night, she said that I was a sarcastic, ungrateful boy.
March 18th. There is something decidedly wrong with me as a sailor. I got my pictures to-day. Try as I may, I am unable to locate the trouble. There seems to be some item left out. Not enough salt in the mixture, perhaps. I don't know exactly what it is but I seem to be a little too, may I say, handsome or, perhaps, polished would be the better word. I'm afraid to send the pictures away because no one will believe them. They will think I borrowed the clothes.
March 19th. A funny thing happened last Sunday that I forgot to record. A girl had her foot on the fence and when she took it down every one yelled, "As you were." Sailors have such a delicate sense of humor. Well, that's about enough for to-day.
March 20th. We had a lecture on boats to-day. The only thing I don't know now is how to tell a bilge from a painter. The oar was easy. It is divided into three parts, the stem, the lead and the muzzle. I must remember this, it is very important. The men are getting so used to inoculations around here that they complain when they don't get enough. We're shaping up into a fine body of men, our company commander told us this morning, and added, that if we continue to pick up cigarette butts several more weeks we'll be able to stack arms without dropping our guns. Eli, the goat, seems unwell to-day. I attribute his unfortunate condition to his constant and unrelenting efforts to keep the canteen clear of paper. It is my belief that goats are not healthy because of the fact that they eat paper, but in spite of it, and I feel sure that if all goats got together and decided to cut out paper for a while and live on a regular diet, they would be a much more robust race. The movies were great to-night. I saw Sidney Drew's left ear and a mole on the neck of the man in front of me.
March 21st. A fellow in our bay asked last night how much an admiral's pay was a month and when we told him he yawned, turned over on his side and said, "Not enough." He added that he could pick up that much at a first-class parade any time. We all tightened our wrist watches. Been blinking at the blinker all evening. Can't make much sense out of it. The bloomin' thing is always two blinks ahead of me. It's all very nice, I dare say, but I'd much rather get my messages on scented paper. I got one to-day. She called me her "Great, big, cute little sailor boy." Those were her exact words. How clever she is. I'm going to marry her just as soon as I'm a junior lieutenant. She'll wait a year, anyway.
March 22d. I made up verses to myself in my hammock last night. Perhaps I'll send some of them to the camp paper. It would be nice to see your stuff in print. Here's one of the poems:
THE UNREGENERATE SAILOR MAN
I
I take my booze
In my overshoes;
I'm fond of the taste of rubber;
I oil my hair
With the grease of bear
Or else with a bull whale's blubber.
II
My dusky wife
Was a source of strife,
So I left her in Singapore
And sailed away
At the break of day—
Since then I have widowed four.
III
Avast! Belay,
And alack-a-day
That I gazed in the eyes of beauty.
For in devious ways
Their innocent gaze
Has caused me much extra duty.
IV
I never get past
The jolly old mast,
The skipper and I are quite chummy;
He knows me by sight
When I'm sober or tight
And calls me a "wicked old rummy."
A sort of sweetheart-in-every-port type I intend to make him—a seafaring man of the old school such as I suppose some of the six-stripers around here were. I don't imagine it was very difficult to get a good conduct record in the old days, because from all the tales I've heard from this source and that, a sailor-man who did not too openly boast of being a bigamist and who limited his homicidical inclinations to half a dozen foreigners when on shore leave, was considered a highly respectable character. Perhaps this is not at all true and I for one can hardly believe it when I look at the virtuous and impeccable exteriors of the few remaining representatives with whom I have come in contact. However, any one has my permission to ask them if it is true or not, should they care to find out for themselves. I refuse to be held responsible though. I think I shall send this poem to the paper soon.
It must be wonderful to get your poems in print. All my friends would be so proud to know me. I wonder if the editors are well disposed, God-fearing men.
From all I hear they must be a hard lot. Probably they'll be nice to me because of my connections. I know so many bartenders. Next week I rate liberty! Ah, little book, I wonder what these pages will contain when I come back. I hate to think. New York, you know, is such an interesting place.
March 25th. Man! Man! How I suffer! I'm so weary I could sleep on my company commander's breast, and to bring oneself to that one must be considerably fatigued, so to speak. Who invented liberty, anyway? It's a greatly over-rated pastime as far as I can make out, consisting of coming and going with the middle part omitted.
One man whispered to me at muster this morning that all he could remember of his liberty was checking out and checking in. He looked unwell. My old pal, "Spike" Kelly, I hear was also out of luck. His girl was the skipper of a Fourteenth Street crosstown car, so he was forced to spend most of his time riding, between the two rivers. He nickeled himself to death in doing it. He said if Mr. Shonts plays golf, as no doubt he does, he has "Spike" Kelly to thank for a nice, new box of golf balls. And while on the subject, "Spike" observes that one of those engaging car signs should read:
"Is it Gallantry, or the Advent of Woman Suffrage, or the Presence of the Conductorette that Causes So Many Sailors to Wear Out Their Seats Riding Back and Forth, and So Many Unnecessary Fares to Be Rung Up in So Doing?"
His conversation with "Mame," his light-o'-love, was conducted along this line:
"Say, Mame."
"Yes, George, dear (fare, please, madam). What does tweetums want?"
"You look swell in your new uniform."
"Oh, Georgie, do you think it fits? (Yes, madam, positively, the car was brushed this morning, your baby will be perfectly safe inside.)"
"Mame."
"George! (Step forward, please.) Go on, dear."
"Mame, it's doggon hard to talk to you here."
"Isn't it just! (What is it lady? Cabbage? Oh, baggage! No, no, you can't check baggage here; this isn't a regular train.) George, stop holding my hand! I can't make change!"
"Aw, Mame, who do you love?"
"Why, tweetums, I love—(plenty of room up forward! Don't jam up the door) you, of course. (Fare, please! Fare, please! Have your change ready!)"
"Can't we get a moment alone, Mame?"
"Yes, dear; wait until twelve-thirty, and we'll drive to the car barn then. (Transfers! Transfers!)"
"Spike" says that his liberty was his first actual touch with the horrors of war.
Another bird that lived in some remote corner of New York State told me in pitiful tones that all he had time to do was to walk down the street of his home town, shake hands with the Postmaster, lean over the fence and kiss his girl (it had to go two ways, Hello and Good-by), take a package of clean underwear from his mother as he passed by and catch the outbound train on the dead run. All he could do was to wave to the seven other inhabitants. He thought the Grand Central Terminal was a swell dump, though. He said: "There was quite a lot of it," which is true.
As for myself, I think it best to pass lightly over most of the incidents of my own personal liberty. The best part of a diary is that one can show up one's friends to the exclusion of oneself. Anyway, why put down the happenings of the past forty-three hours? They are indelibly stamped on my memory. One sight I vividly recall, "Ardy" Muggins, the multi-son of Muggins who makes the automatic clothes wranglers. He was sitting in a full-blooded roadster in front of the Biltmore, and the dear boy was dressed this wise ("Ardy" is a sailor, too, I forgot to mention): There was a white hat on his head; covering and completely obliterating his liberty blues was a huge bearskin coat, which when pulled up disclosed his leggins neatly strapped over patent leather dancing pumps. It was an astounding sight. One that filled me with profound emotion.
"Aren't you a trifle out of uniform, Ardy?" I asked him. One has to be so delicate with Ardy, he's that sensitive.
"Why, I thought I might as well embellish myself a bit," says Ardy.
"You've done all of that," says I, "but for heaven's sake, dear, do keep away from Fourteenth Street; there are numerous sea-going sailors down there who might embellish you still further."
"My God!" cries Ardy, striving to crush the wind out of the horn, "I never slum."
"Don't," says I, passing inside to shake hands with several of my friends behind the mahogany. Shake hands, alas, was all I did.
March 26th. I must speak about the examinations before I forget it. What a clubby time we had of it. I got in a trifle wrong at the start on account of my sociable nature. You know, I thought it was a sort of a farewell reception given by the officers and the C.P.O.'s to the men departing after their twenty-one days in Probation, so the first thing I did when I went in was to shake hands with an Ensign, who I thought was receiving. He got rid of my hand with the same briskness that one removes a live coal from one's person. The whole proceeding struck me as being a sort of charity bazaar. People were wandering around from booth to booth, in a pleasant sociable manner, passing a word here and sitting down there in the easiest-going way imaginable. Leaving the Ensign rather abruptly, I attached myself to the throng and started in search of ice cream and cake. This brought me up at a table where there was a very pleasant looking C.P.O. holding sway, and with him I thought I would hold a few words. What was my horror on hearing him snap out in a very crusty manner:
"How often do you change your socks?"
This is a question I allow no man to ask me. It is particularly objectionable. "Why, sir," I replied, "don't you think you are slightly overstepping the bounds of good taste? One does not even jest about such totally personal matters, ye know." Then rising, I was about to walk away without even waiting for his reply, but he called me back and handed me my paper, on which he had written "Impossible" and underlined it.
The next booth I visited seemed to be a little more hospitable, so I sat down with the rest of the fellows and prepared to talk of the events of the past twenty-one days.
"How many Articles are there?" suddenly asked a C.P.O. who hitherto had escaped my attention.
"Twelve," I replied promptly, thinking I might just as well play the game, too.
"What are they based on?" he almost hissed, but not quite.
"The Constitution of these United States," I cried in a loud, public-spirited voice, at which the C.P.O. choked and turned dangerously red. It seems that not only was I not quite right, but that I couldn't have been more wrong.
"Go," he gasped, "before I do you some injury." A very peculiar man, I thought, but, nevertheless, his heart seemed so set on my going that I thought it would be best for us to part.
"I am sure I do not wish to force myself upon you," I said icily as I left. The poor man appeared to be on the verge of having a fit.
"Do you want to tie some knots?" asked a kind-voiced P.O. at the next booth.
"Crazy about it," says I, easy like.
"Then tie some," says he. So I tied a very pretty little knot I had learned at the kindergarten some years ago and showed it to him.
"What's that?" says he.
"That," replies I coyly. "Why, that is simply a True Lover's knot. Do you like it?"
"Orderly," he screamed. "Orderly, remove this." And hands were laid upon me and I was hurled into the arms of a small, but ever so sea-going appearing chap, who was engaged in balancing his hat on the bridge of his nose and wig-wagging at the same time. After beating me over the head several times with the flags, he said I could play with him, and he began to send me messages with lightning-like rapidity. "What is it?" he asked.
"Really," I replied, "I lost interest in your message before you finished."
After this my paper looked like a million dollars with the one knocked off.
"What's a hackamatack?" asked the next guy. Thinking he was either kidding me or given to using baby talk, I replied:
"Why, it's a mixture between a thingamabob and a nibleck."
His treatment of me after this answer so unnerved me that I dropped my gun at the next booth and became completely demoralized. The greatest disappointment awaited me at "Monkey Drill," or setting up exercises, however. I thought I was going to kill this. I felt sure I was going to outstrip all competitors. But in the middle of it all the examiner yelled out in one of those sarcastic voices that all rookies learn to fear: "Are you trying to flirt with me or do you think you're a bloomin' angel?"
This so sickened me at heart that I left the place without further ado, whatever that might be. Pink teas in the Navy are not unmixed virtues.
March 27th. My birthday, and, oh, how I do miss my cake. It's the first birthday I ever had without a cake except two and then I had a bottle. Oh, how well I remember my last party (birthday party)!
There was father and the cake all lit up in the center of the table; I mean the cake, not father, of course. And there was Gladys (I always called her "Glad"). She'd been coming to my birthday parties for years and years. She always came first and left last and ate the most and got the sickest of all the girls I knew. It was appalling how that girl could eat.
But, as I was saying, there was father and the cake, and there was mother and "Glad" and all the little candles were twinkling, lighting up my presents clustered around, among them being half a dozen maroon silk socks, a box of striped neck ties, all perfect joys; spats, a lounging gown, ever so many gloves and the snappiest little cane in all the world. And what have I around me now? A swab on one side, a bucket on the other, a broom draped over my shoulder, C.P.O.'s in front of me, P.O.'s behind me and work all around me—oh, what a helluvabirthday! I told my company commander last night that the next day was going to be my birthday, hoping he would do the handsome thing and let me sleep a little later in the morning, but did he? No, the Brute, he said I should get up earlier so as to enjoy it longer. As far as I can find out, the Camp remains totally unmoved by the fact that I am one year older to-day—and what a hubbub they used to raise at home. I think the very least they could do up here would be to ask me to eat with the officers.
March 28th. These new barracks over in the main camp are too large; not nearly so nice as our cosey little bays. I'm really homesick for Probation and the sound of our old company commander's dulcet voice. I met Eli on the street to-day and I almost broke down on his neck and cried. He was the first familiar thing I had seen since I came over to the main camp.
March 29th. This place is just like the Probation Camp, only more so. Life is one continual lecture trimmed with drills and hikes—oh, when will I ever be an Ensign, with a cute little Submarine Chaser all my own?
April 6th. The events of the past few days have so unnerved me that I have fallen behind in my diary. I must try to catch up, for what would posterity do should the record of my inspiring career in the service not be faithfully recorded for them to read with reverence and amazement in days to come?
One of the unfortunate events arose from scraping a too intimate acquaintance with that horrid old push ball. How did it ever get into camp anyway, and who ever heard of a ball being so large? It doesn't seem somehow right to me—out of taste, if you get what I mean. There is a certain lack of restraint and conservatism about it which all games played among gentlemen most positively should possess. But the chap who pushed that great big beast of a push ball violently upon my unsuspecting nose was certainly no gentleman. Golly, what a resounding whack! This fellow (I suspect him of being a German spy, basing my suspicions upon his seeming disposition for atrocities) was standing by, looking morosely at this small size planet when I blows gently up and says playfully in my most engaging voice:
"I say, old dear, you push it to me and I'll push it to you—softly, though, chappy, softly." And with that he flung himself upon the ball and hurled it full upon my nose, completely demolishing it. Now I have always been a little partial to my nose. My eyes, I'll admit, are not quite as soulful as those liquid orbs of Francis X. Bushman's, but my nose has been frequently admired and envied in the best drawing rooms in New York. But it won't be envied any more, I fear—pitied rather.
Of course I played the game no more. I was nauseated by pain and the sight of blood. My would-be assassin was actually forced to sit down, he was so weak from brutal laughter. I wonder if I can ever be an Ensign with a nose like this?
April 7th. On the way back from a little outing the other day my companion, Tim, who in civil life had been a barkeeper and a good one at that, ingratiated himself in the good graces of a passing automobile party and we consequently were asked in. There were two girls, sisters, I fancy, and a father and mother aboard.
"And where do you come from, young gentlemen?" asked the old man.
"Me pal comes from San Diego," pipes up my unscrupulous friend, "and my home town is San Francisco."
I knew for a fact that he had never been farther from home than the Polo Grounds, and as for me I had only the sketchiest idea of where my home town was supposed to be.
"Ah, Westerners!" exclaimed the old lady. "I come from the West myself. My family goes back there every year."
"Yes," chimed in the girls, "we just love San Diego!"
"In what section of the town did you live?" asked the gentleman, and my friend whom I was inwardly cursing, seeing my perplexity, quickly put in for me:
"Oh, you would never know it, sir," and then lowering his voice in a confidential way, he added, "he kept a barroom in the Mexican part of the town."
"A barroom!" exclaimed the old lady. "Fancy that!" She looked at me with great, innocent interest.
"Yes," continued this lost soul, "my father, who is a State senator, sent him to boarding school and tried to do everything for him, but he drifted back into the old life just as soon as he could. It gets a hold on them, you know."
"Yes, I know," said the old lady, sadly, "my cook had a son that went the same way."
"He isn't really vicious, though," added my false friend with feigned loyalty—"merely reckless."
"Well, my poor boy," put in the old gentleman with cheery consideration, "I am sure you must find that navy life does you a world of good—regular hours, temperate living and all that."
"Right you are, sport," says I bitterly, assuming my enforced role, "I haven't slit a Greaser's throat since I enlisted."
"We must all make sacrifices these days," sighed the old lady.
"And perhaps you will be able to exercise your—er—er rather robust inclinations on the Germans when you meet them on the high seas," remarked the old man, who evidently thought to comfort me.
"If I can only keep him out of the brig," said this low-down friend of mine, "I think they might make a first-rate mess hand out of him," at which remark both of the girls, who up to this moment had been studying me silently, exploded into loud peals of mirth and then I knew where I had met them before—at Kitty Van Tassel's coming out party, and I distinctly recalled having spilled some punch on the prettier one's white satin slipper.
"We get out here," I said, hoarsely, choking with rage.
"But!" exclaimed the old lady, "it's the loneliest part of the road."
"However that may be," I replied with fine firmness, "I must nevertheless alight here. I have a great many things to do before I return to camp and lonely roads are well suited to my purposes. My homicidal leanings are completely over-powering me."
"Watch him closely," said the old lady to my companion, as the car came to a stop.
"He will have to," I replied grimly, as I prepared to alight.
"Perhaps Mr. Oswald will mix us a cocktail some day," said one of the sisters, leaning over the side of the car. "I have heard that he supported many bars at one time, but I never knew he really owned one."
"What," I heard the old lady exclaiming as the car pulled away, "he really isn't a bartender at all—well, fancy that!"
There were a couple of pairs of rather dusty liberty blues in camp that night.
April 8th. Yesterday mother paid a visit to camp and insisted upon me breaking out my hammock in order for her to see if I had covers enough.
"I can never permit you to sleep in that, my dear," she said after pounding and prodding it for a few numbers; "never—and I am sure the Commander will agree with me after I have explained to him how delicate you have always been."
Later in the afternoon she became a trifle mollified when I told her that the master-at-arms came around every night and distributed extra blankets to every one that felt cold. "Be sure to see that he gives you enough coverings," she said severely, "or else put him on report," which I faithfully promised to do.
She was greatly delighted with the Y.M.C.A. and the Hostess Committee. Here I stood her up for several bricks of ice cream and a large quantity of cake. My fourth attempt she refused, however, saying by way of explanation to a very pretty girl standing by, "It wouldn't be good for him, my dear; my son has always had such a weak stomach. The least little thing upsets him."
"I believe you," replied the young lady, sympathetically, as she gazed at me. I certainly looked upset at the moment. This was worse than the underwear.
"So that's an Ensign!" she exclaimed later in an obviously disappointed tone of voice; "well, I'm not so sure that I want you to become one now." The passing ensign couldn't help but hear her, as she had practically screamed in his ear. He turned and studied my face carefully. I think he was making sure that he could remember it.
"Now take me to your physician," commanded mother, resolutely. "I want to be sure that he sees that you take your spring tonic regularly."
"Mother," I pleaded, "don't you think it is time you were going? I have a private lesson in sale embroidery in ten minutes that I wouldn't miss for the world—the sweetest man teaches it!"
"Well, under the circumstances I won't keep you," said mother, "but I'll write to the doctor just the same."
"Yes, do," I urged, "send it care of me so that he'll be sure to get it."
Mother is not a restful creature in camp.
April 9th. "Say, there, you with the nose," cried my P.O. company commander to-day, "are you with us or are you playing a little game of your own?"
I wasn't so very wrong—just the slight difference between port and present arms.
"With you, heart and soul," I replied, hoping to make a favorable impression by a smart retort.
"That don't work in the manual," he replied; "use your brain and ears."
Unnecessarily rough he was, but I don't know but what he wasn't right.
April 10th. I hear that I am going to be put on the mess crew. God pity me, poor wretch! How shall I ever keep my hands from becoming red? What a terrible war it is!
April 11th. Saw a basket ball game the other night. Never knew it was so rough. I used to play it with the girls and we had such sport. There seemed to be some reason for it then. There are a couple of queer looking brothers on our team who seem to try utterly to demolish their opponents. They remind me of a couple of tough gentlemen from Scranton I heard about in a story once.
April 12th. The price of fags (gee! I'm getting rough) has gone up again. This war is rapidly cramping my style.
April 14th. I have been too sick at heart to write up my diary—Eli is dead! "Pop," the Jimmy-legs, found the body and has been promoted to Chief Master-at-arms. It's an ill wind that blows no good. I don't know whether it was because he found Eli or because he runs one of the most modernly managed mess halls in camp or because his working parties are always well attended that "Pop" received his appointment, but whatever it was it does my heart good to see a real seagoing old salt, one of our few remaining ex-apprentice boys, receive recognition that is so well merited. However, I was on much more intimate terms with Eli when I was over in Probation Camp than I was with "Pop." He almost had me in his clutches once for late hammocks, me and eight other poor victims I had led into the trouble, and he had our wheelbarrows all picked out for us, and a nice large pile of sand for us to play with when fate interceded in our behalf. The poor man nearly cried out of sheer anguish of soul, and I can't justly blame him. It's hard lines to have a nice fat extra duty party go dead on your hands.
But with Eli it was different. When I was a homeless rookie he took me in and I fed him—cigarette butts—and I'll honestly say that he showed more genuine appreciation than many a flapper I have plied with costly viands. He was a good goat, Eli. Not a refined goat, to be sure, but a good, honest, whole-souled goat just the same. He did his share in policing the grounds, never shirked a cigar end or a bit of paper and amused many a mess gear line. He was loyal to his friends, tolerant with new recruits and a credit to the service in general. Considering the environment in which he lived, I think he deported himself with much dignity and moderation. I for one shall miss Eli. Some of the happier memories of my rookie days die with him. He is survived by numerous dogs.
April 25th. Yesterday I wandered around Probation Camp in a very patronizing manner and finally stopped to shed a tear on the humble grave of Eli.
"Poor sinful goat," I thought sadly, "here you lie at last in your final resting place, but your phantom, I wonder, does it go coursing madly down the Milky Way, butting the stars aside with its battle-scarred head and sending swift gleams of light through the heavens as its hoofs strike against an upturned planet? Your horns, are they tipped with fire and your beard gloriously aflame, or has the great evil spirit of Wayward Goats descended upon you and borne you away to a place where there is never anything to butt save unsatisfactorily yielding walls of padded cotton? Many changes have taken place, Eli, since you were with us, much adversity has befallen me, but the world in the large is very much the same. Bill and Mike have been shipped to sea and strange enough to say, old Spike Kelly has made the Quartermasters School. I alone of all the gang remain unspoken for—nobody seems anxious to avail themselves of my services. My tapes are dirtier and my white hat grows less "sea-going" every day and even you, Eli, are being forgotten. The company commander still carols sweetly in the morning about "barrackses" and fire "distinguishers," rookies still continue to rook about the camp in their timid, mild-eyed way, while week-old sailors with unwashed leggins delight their simple souls with cries of 'twenty-one days.' New goats have sprung up to take your place in the life of the camp and belittle your past achievements, but to me, O unregenerate goat, you shall ever remain a refreshing memory. Good butting, O excellent ruminant, wherever thou should chance to be. I salute you."
This soliloquy brought me to the verge of an emotional break-down. I departed the spot in silence. On my way back through Probation I chanced upon a group of rookies studying for their examinations and was surprised to remember how much I had contrived to forget. Nevertheless I stopped one of the students and asked him what a "hakamaback" was and found to my relief that he didn't know.
"Back to your manual," said I gloomily, "I fear you will never be a sailor."
Having thus made heavy the heart of another, I continued on my way feeling somehow greatly cheered only to find upon entering my barracks that my blankets were in the lucky bag. How did I ever forget to place them in my hammock? It was a natural omission though, I fancy, for the master-at-arms so terrifies me in the morning with his great shouts of "Hit the deck, sailor! Shake a leg—rise an' shine" that I am unnerved for the remainder of the day.
April 29th. Life seems to be composed of just one parade after another. I am weary of the plaudits and acclamation of the multitude and long for some sequestered spot on a mountain peak in Thibet. Every time I see a street I instinctively start to walk down the middle of it. Last week I was one of the many thousands of Pelham men who marched along Fifth Avenue in the Liberty Loan parade. I thought I was doing particularly well and would have made a perfect score if one of my leggins hadn't come off right in front of the reviewing stand much to the annoyance of the guy behind me because he tripped on it and almost dropped his gun. For the remainder of the parade I was subjected to a running fire of abuse that fairly made my flesh crawl.
At the end of the march I ran into a rather nebulous, middle-aged sort of a gentleman soldier who was sitting on the curb looking moodily at a manhole as if he would like to jump in it.
"Hello, stranger," says I in a blustery, seafaring voice, "you look as if you'd been cursed at about as much as I have. What sort of an outfit do you belong to?"
He scrutinized one of his buttons with great care and then told me all about himself.
"I'm a home guard, you know," he added bitterly, "all we do is to escort people. I've escorted the Blue Devils, the Poilus, the Australians, mothers of enlisted men, mothers of men who would have enlisted if they could, Boy Scouts and loan workers until my dogs are jolly well near broken down on me. Golly, I wish I was young enough to enjoy a quiet night's sleep in the trenches for a change."
Later I saw him gloomily surveying the world from the window of a passing cab. He was evidently through for the time being at least.
April 30th. I took my bar-keeping pal home over the last week-end liberty. It was a mistake. He admits it himself. Mother will never have him in the house again. Mother could never get him in the house again. He fears her. The first thing he did was to mix poor dear grandfather a drink that caused the old gentleman to forget his game leg which had been damaged in battles, ranging anywhere from the Mexican to the Spanish wars, according to grandfather's mood at the time he is telling the story, but which I believe, according to a private theory of mine, was really caught in a folding bed. However it was, grandfather forgot all about this leg of his entirely and insisted on dancing with Nora, our new maid. Mother, of course, was horrified. But not content with that, this friend of mine concocted some strange beverage for the pater which so delighted him that he loaned my so-called pal the ten spot I had been intending to borrow. The three of them sat up until all hours of the night playing cards and telling ribald stories. As mother took me upstairs to bed she gazed down on her father-in-law and her husband in the clutches of this demon and remarked bitterly to me:
"Like father, like son," and I knew that she was thoroughly determined to make both of them pay dearly for their pleasant interlude. Breakfast the next morning was a rather trying ordeal. Grandfather once more resorted to his game leg with renewed vigor, referring several times to the defense of the Alamo, so I knew he was pretty low in his mind. Father withdrew at the sight of bacon. Mother laughed scornfully as he departed. My friend ate a hearty breakfast and kept a sort of a happy-go-lucky monologue throughout its entire course. I took him out walking afterward and forgot to bring him back.
April 31st. Have just come off guard duty and feel quite exhausted. The guns are altogether too heavy. I can think of about five different things I could remove from them without greatly decreasing their utility. The first would be the barrel. The artist who drew the picture in the last camp paper of Dawn appearing in the form of a beautiful woman must have had more luck than I have ever had. I think he would have been closer to the truth if he had put her in a speeding automobile on its way home from a road house. It surely is a proof of discipline to hear the mocking, silver-toned laughter of women ring out in the night only ten feet away and not drop your gun and follow it right through the barbed wire. After the war, I am going to buy lots of barbed wire and cut it up into little bits just to relieve my feelings.
Last night I had the fright of my life. Some one was fooling around the fence in the darkness.
"Who's there?" I cried.
"Why, I'm Kaiser William," came the answer in a subdued voice.
"Well, I wish you'd go away, Kaiser William," said I nervously, "you're busting the lights out of rule number six."
"What's that?" asks the voice.
"Not to commit a nuisance with any one except in a military manner," I replied, becoming slightly involved.
"That's not such a wonderful rule," came back the voice in complaining tones. "I could make up a rule better than that."
"Don't try to to-night," I pleaded.
There was silence for a moment, then the voice continued seriously, "Say, I'm not Kaiser William really. Honest I'm not."
"Well, who are you?" I asked impatiently.
"Why, I'm Tucks," the voice replied. "Folks call me that because I take so many of them in my trousers."
"Well, Tucks," I replied, "you'd better be moving on. I don't know what might happen with this gun. I'm tempted to shoot the cartridge out of it just to make it lighter."
"Oh, you can't shoot me," cried Tucks, "I'm crazy. I bet you didn't know that, did you?"
"I wasn't sure," I answered.
"Oh, I'm awfully crazy," continued Tucks, "everybody says so, and I look it, too, in the daylight."
"You must," I replied.
"Well, good night," said Tucks in the same subdued voice. "If you find a flock of pink Liberty Bonds around here, remember I lost them." He departed in the direction of City Island.