"TO THE DITCH AT PANAMA"
"There goes the good old _Denver_, Mike. I guess she'll reach the
fighting grounds before we do."
"Don't let that be for worryin' of ye, Dick, me lad," responded Corporal
Dorlan. "We'll be havin' a bellyful of it, I'm thinkin', if all signs
is correct. Nevertheless, she was one of the foinest little crafts I've
ever served on, and they was a grand lot of Navy officers on her, too;
but I'm glad to git back to the Corps again. I'm a marine, Dick,
through and through, and though I get along with them Navy men well
enough, I like to serve with me own kind best of all."
The old veteran and young drummer were standing on the wharf at
Cristobal, at the Atlantic end of the ten-mile stretch of land across
the Isthmus of Panama known as the Canal Zone, which by treaty with the
Panamanian Government had come under perpetual control of the United
States. Fading away in the dim distance was the ship which for many
months had been Dick's official home. Diverted from her original
orders, she had put in at Cristobal long enough to land all her marines,
with the exception of Henry Cabell, who was still under the surgeon's
care; and now she was bound for Bluefields, on the Mosquito Coast of
Nicaragua. In order to fill existing vacancies in a regiment of marines
hurrying to the scene of action on board the Naval Transport _Dixie_,
which ship was just appearing above the distant horizon, the guard of
the _Denver_ had been unceremoniously "dumped on the beach," as the men
put it.
There was no question that the revolution in progress, most active on
the Pacific coast of Nicaragua, was a lively one. Marines were being
assembled from all available points, even reducing the guard at Camp
Elliott to a mere skeleton detachment. These men from the Zone were the
first to leave for Nicaragua, and the army men stationed there had
watched them depart with feelings of envy.
"Blame it all! Those marines are always getting into something. I'll
bet I take on with that outfit the next time I sign up," more than one
regular army "file" had been heard to say.
And that first lot of "soldiers of the sea" had already met with
opposition. Even now they were somewhere between Corinto and the
capital city, Managua. If they found the rails torn up, they repaired
them; bridges burned, they built new ones temporarily. They were
threatened with annihilation if they interfered, yet they continued with
a dauntless, young and able leader at their head, relieving the fears of
the foreigners in the interior and keeping the single line of railroad
back to their base in fairly good order. Only this very audacity could
assure the success of their undertaking, and also a possible
misunderstanding on the part of Federals and Rebels as to which side
"these interfering Yankees" were really there to help, though it was the
bearers of the red rosettes who actively opposed their progress.
American financial interests were jeopardized, and underlying all the
fuss and furor were greater stakes than the general public realized.
Perhaps Drummer Richard Comstock and Trumpeter Cabell, in a talk before
they separated that morning, were closer to the real reason for this
strong force being despatched than were even the best informed officers
of the expedition.
"I reckon a certain conversation you all overheard in Washington a year
ago is bearing fruit," suggested Henry, looking up from his bunk in the
sick bay where Dick had gone to visit him.
"It looks that way," Dick had replied.
"Well, if you run across a certain German and a three-fingered Limey,[#]
Dick, you'll do well to keep an eye open. I sure wish I could go with
you all, but we'll get together again before long; so good-bye, old boy,
and good luck," and Henry turned to the wall to cover the emotion this
separation caused him. Thus they had parted.
[#] "Limey"--British maritime regulations require the captain to issue
regular rations of lime-juice as a preventative for scurvy. British
ships and sailors are therefore known as "Lime-juicers," or in sailor
slang, "Limeys."
Steadily the transport grew upon the vision of those awaiting her
arrival. Finally, when she came alongside her berth, the place became a
seething ant-hill of activity. Tons and tons of rations, tents,
munitions, wireless outfits, buckets, clothing, field ranges, medical
supplies, field artillery, and the thousand other things necessary for
extensive operations were sent up out of the ship's holds and packed on
freight cars, and soon trains of men and supplies were slowly creeping
from under the railroad sheds, out past Monkey Hill, on and on, with
ever-increasing speed, towards the Pacific terminus at Balboa.
Much to Dick's pleasure and Corporal Dorlan's satisfaction they found
themselves detailed for duty with a company commanded by an old
acquaintance, Captain Kenneth Henderson, formerly in charge of the
Marine Detachment of the U.S.S. _Nantucket_.
"Well, Sergeant Dorlan, I'm glad to have you back under my command,"
said the Captain as he shook hands; "report to the First Sergeant at
once, and tell him I said you are in charge of the working detail
loading the cars." Then he turned to Dick. "Where have I seen you
before, music? Your face looks familiar, but I can't place you."
"I met the Captain on the _Nantucket_, sir, if the Captain remembers the
day we were upset by a motor boat and Dorlan rescued Tommy Turner."
"Now I know! You are Drummer Comstock. Your friend's uncle asked me to
keep an eye on you in case I ran across you. How is it that you are a
drummer? I understood you enlisted to get a commission."
"I hope to have my rank changed before long, sir, but at the time I
enlisted they were taking only musics into the Corps."
"Does this young man know anything? Can we make a corporal out of him?"
asked Captain Henderson, turning to Dorlan, who still stood at attention
near by.
"Indeed he's a broth of a lad, sir, and knows more'n most of the
corporals right now, but if the Captain will excuse me, I wanted to
explain before goin' to the First Sergeant that I'm only a corporal
meself, sir. Ye may disremember I was reduced in rank over a year ago."
"I remember it very well, Dorlan; but from to-day on you are again a
sergeant. So get busy with that work of loading. As for you, music,
I'll make you my orderly for the present. Go aboard, find my mess boy,
Jackson, and get my luggage on that train. It is already packed. Then
present my respects to the Colonel, and tell him my company is ready to
move any time he sends me word."
Thus it was Dick found himself on board the first troop train to cross
the Isthmus. He was well repaid now for the hours he had devoted to his
graduation essay. At that time he had gone deeply into the subject and
since then, while cruising in the West Indies, many times his previous
reading and study had been of great help. The history of the Panama
Canal was a favorite subject, and now he verified his book knowledge by
actual experience. The sight of the vast area already flooded as a
result of the nearly completed dam at Gatun, the names of Frijoles, Bas
Obispo, Camp Elliott, Cucaracha, Pedro Miguel and Miraflores brought
back to his mind afresh the disappointments of the French and the
difficulties overcome by his country. At one place on the road a dirt
train held them up for a short space of time, and from the car window he
caught glimpses of the mighty Bucyrus steam shovels scooping up tons of
earth and rock in their capacious maws with almost human intelligence.
The new line they travelled passed to the east of Gold Hill, back of
which was Culebra Cut, where the slipping, unstable earth caused so much
delay, disappointment and expense by its dangerous slides. Every where
were scenes of activity! Hundreds of cars and engines, empty trains,
trains filled with excavated earth, trains of freight, passenger trains,
workmen's trains, thousands of men, negroes from the South and the West
Indies, Spaniards, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Chinese, Latin-Americans, full
blooded Central American Indians, Hindoos from the Far East, all busy,
all hustling, even in this tropic zone. They passed through little
villages and settlements, each a reminder of the fabled "Spotless Town,"
with their excellent roads, splendid drainage, immaculate, screened
buildings, stores, boarding-houses, hotels, public buildings and
residences, all under the supervision of the Government. How proud the
young drummer was to be a part of this big republic which did things on
such a wonderful scale; that he served this country which flung to the
breeze the Stars and Stripes: that he was even then on his way to help a
misguided people, who, under the far-sighted provision of that Doctrine
of President Monroe, now needed a helping hand to guide their ship of
state over treacherous waters: that he was Richard Comstock, United
States Marine.
All too soon the passage of that narrow neck of land was completed, and
the train pulled in under the sheds of the Balboa wharves. Again the
hustle and bustle, for close behind followed freight trains and more
troops, and the work of unloading the cars and filling up waiting
lighters was begun.
Men's hands, unaccustomed to the rough work, blistered and went raw,
their backs ached, their muscles grew stiff and strained, the
perspiration soaked their khaki clothing a dark brown color, but
cheerfully they stuck to their task. And truly it was Herculean, for
after being placed aboard the lighters the stores were towed alongside a
great gray battleship lying far out in the harbor, where they again had
to be transferred aboard and stored away.
The companies worked in two-hour shifts, one battalion being detailed at
each of the transfer points. They arrived at Cristobal at noon, and a
little after midnight the work ashore had been completed. Captain
Henderson's company was one of those detailed for work on the Balboa
wharves, and shortly before ten o'clock he started in a motor car for
the city of Panama, taking his newly appointed orderly with him. About
the time the relief shift was to go on they returned, laden down with
sandwiches of all kinds and several big freezers of ice-cream with which
to regale officers and men. The cooks in the meantime had made gallons
of hot coffee, and when mess-call sounded, never was food and drink more
welcome than to those dirty, grimy, sweat-laden marines, who, seated on
box or barrel, gun carriage or packing case, in the glare of many cargo
lights, munched and drank to repletion. Then "carry on" was sounded, and
with cheerful shouts and renewed vigor they tackled their task.
By six o'clock the next morning the big ship slowly swung her bows out
towards the ocean of Balboa, the mighty Pacific, and laid her course for
Corinto, Nicaragua's principal seaport on the west coast.
Then it was that Dick Comstock realized he was tired--good and tired,
but there could be no rest for the weary. Every man must first know to
which boat he was assigned in case of "abandon ship," what he was
supposed to do in case of fire, where he was to berth; then there were
roll calls and cleaning ship and stowing away the stores on deck, and it
was dark once more before the willing workers finally found the time and
the place to catch a little sleep. But it was all worth while when the
Colonel Commanding sent around to each company his official word of
praise: "No body of men could better their record, and he doubted if any
could equal it," so read the memorandum. And Dick, curled up in an
unoccupied corner on deck, fell asleep, while ringing in his ears was
that well-known stanza of the Marines' Hymn which a group of still
energetic Leathernecks were softly singing somewhere up near the bridge:
"From the pest hole of Cavite
To the ditch at Panama,
They're always very needy
Of marines, that's what we are,
We're the watch dogs of a pile of coal
Or we build a magazine,
Though our duties are so numerous,
Who would not be a Marine?"