“IF CORPORAL —— ever wrote a better story for his newspaper than the
one he has sent to us, I should certainly like to read it.” This high
praise comes from Maj. W. H. Parker, head of the Marine Recruiting
Service in New York, and is bestowed upon a letter in _The Recruiters’
Bulletin_, which was written by a marine, formerly a reporter in
Philadelphia and now “Somewhere in France.” He rejoices at the start
that “at last it is happening,” which “happening” is that the marines,
“every scrapping one of them down to the last grizzled veteran, are
undergoing new experiences—learning new tricks.” Of course this is
beyond possibility, everybody will say, and the ex-reporter admits that—
One would think so after hearing of their experiences in far-away
China, Japan, and the Philippines, near-by Cuba, Haiti, and Mexico, and
other places which God forgot and which you and I never heard of; after
hearing stories of daredevil bravery, fierce abandon and disregard for
life and limb in the faithful discharge of their duties as soldiers of
the sea and guardians of the peace in Uncle Sam’s dirty corners.
And yet here in France, among people of their own color and race,
of paved streets and taxicabs, among the old men and women of the
villages, among the _poilus_ coming and going in a steady stream to and
from the front, the marine is learning new things every day.
Packing up “back home” on a few hours’ notice is no new experience to
the marine. Marching aboard a transport, with the date and hour of
sailing unknown, is taken as a matter of course by the veteran. There
is no cheering gallery, no weeping relatives, wife, or sweethearts, as
he leaves to carry out the business in hand. It is just the same as if
you were going to your office in the morning. You may return in time
for dinner or you may be delayed. The only difference is that sometimes
the marines do not return.
Although life aboard the transport which carried the first regiment of
marines to new fields of action in France was a matter of routine to
the average sea-going soldier, there was added the zest of expectation
of an encounter with one of the floating perils, the “sub.” It was but
a matter of two or three days, however, when everyone became accustomed
to the numerous lookouts stationed about the ship, the frequent
“abandon ship” drills, the strange orders which came down the line,
and the new-fangled rules and regulations which permitted no lights or
smoking after sundown.
Kaiser “Bill’s” pet sharks were contemptuously referred to as the
“tin lizzies” of the sea. “We must play safe and avoid them,” was the
policy of those entrusted with the safety of more than 2,000 expectant
fighters, however. And we met them, too. Not one or two of them,
but—(here the censor interfered.)
Since his arrival in France the marine has spent day after day in
learning new things, not the least of which is that contrary to his
usual experience of finding about him a hostile people, rifle in
hand, and unknown danger ahead, he is among a people who welcome him
as a friend and ally in the struggle against a common enemy. With
the arrival of the American troops, the appealing outstretched hands
of France were changed to hands of welcome, creating an atmosphere
that might easily have turned the heads of men more balanced than the
marines after being confined for more than two weeks aboard a ship, but—
Here, again, one comes in contact with the matter-of-fact
administration of the marines. Arriving under such circumstances, the
landing and encampment of the marines were effected with a military
precision and businesslike efficiency which allowed no one for a moment
to forget the serious nature of the mission upon which he had embarked.
Stores and supplies were loaded on trucks and, in less than three
hours after the order was given to disembark, the marines, with their
packs strapped over the shoulders, were marching to their camp just
on the outskirts of the seaport town of ——. Within another hour the
whole regiment was under canvas, field-desks and typewriter-chests were
unlocked, and regimental and other department offices were running
along at full swing.
And that was the beginning of the period of training during which
the marine is learning everything that is to be known about waging
twentieth-century warfare. He is taking a post-graduate course in
the intricacies of modern trench-building, grenade-throwing, and
barbed-wire entanglements. And the very best men of the French Army are
his instructors.
The marine is also learning the “lingo” of this country, the nicer
phrases of the language as well as the slang of the trenches. But in
the majority of cases experience was his teacher. Upon the arrival of
the transport liberty hours were arranged for the marines, and, armed
with a “Short Vocabulary of French Words and Phrases,” with which all
had been supplied, they invaded the cafés, restaurants, and shops of
the little old seaport town.
And it was the restaurants where one’s ignorance of French was most
keenly felt. All sorts of queer and yet strangely familiar noises
emanated from the curtained windows of the _buvettes_ along the
streets. Upon investigation it would be discovered that a marine,
having lost his “vocabulary,” was flapping his arms and cackling for
eggs, earnestly baahing for a lamb stew, or grunting to the best of his
ability in a vain endeavor to make _madame_ understand that he wanted
roast pork. Imagine his chagrin to find that “pig” and “pork,” as shown
on page 16, are “_porc_” in French and are pronounced just the same
as in good old American. But the scenes that presented themselves on
Sundays or _fête_ days—take the 4th or 14th of July, for example—were
such as never had been seen in any French town before. Picture a tiny
café, low and whitewashed, ancient, weather-beaten, but immaculately
clean, with its heavy ceiling-beams and huge fireplace with brass and
copper furnishings. With this background imagine just as many tables as
the little place can hold about which are crowded French and American
soldiers, sailors, and marines.
The table in the corner there, for instance: two _poilus_, two American
“jackies,” two marines, and an old Breton peasant farmer with his wife,
fat, uncomprehending, and wild-eyed, and his daughter, red-lipped and
of fair complexion—these three in from the country for a holiday, the
women arrayed in the black cloth and velvet costumes, bright-colored
silk aprons, and elaborate linen head-dress which identify them as
native of a certain locality.
One of the “jackies” sings with gusto service songs of strong and
colorful language, singing to himself save for the half-amused and
wondering stares of the peasants. The younger of the Frenchmen shows by
taking off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt where the shell-fragment
penetrated which caused the paralysis in his left arm and sent him home
on a month’s furlough, and the Americans eye with interest the actual
fragment itself, now doing duty as a watch-charm.
But the hubbub and racket cease, and every one rushes to the windows
and door as the Marine Band comes swinging along the water-front,
playing with catching rhythm “Our Director.” The French burst out in
cries of “_Vive l’Amérique!_” The fever spreads, and our soldiers and
sailors yell “_Vive la France!_” or as near to it as they can get, as
the procession marches by, and the fat old peasant woman says with full
approval, “That’s beautiful!”
Another letter from the permanent training-camp of the marines,
published in _The Recruiters’ Bulletin_, tells of an inspection of
the regiment by General Pershing and General Pétain, the French
Commander-in-Chief. We read “that the piercing eyes of ‘Black Jack’
rarely miss an unshaven face, badly polished shoes, or the sloppy
appearance of anyone” among the soldiers under inspection, and the
writer relates:
Together with the Commander-in-Chief of all the French forces and
accompanied by several French generals, representing the most important
military units in France, General Pershing made one of his now famous
whirlwind inspection tours and descended upon the marines amid a cloud
of dust which marked the line of travel of the high-powered French
touring-cars which carried the generals. Not so very long before that
the field-telephone in the regimental office rang and a voice came over
the wire:
“The big blue machine is on the way down, and will probably be there in
ten minutes.” That was sufficient. Two or three telephone-calls were
hurriedly made, and the Colonel, accompanied by his staff, proceeded on
“up the line,” met the General’s party, and the marines were ready.
The result of the inspection is summed up in the memorandum issued
to the command and which says in part: “Yesterday, at the inspection
of the regiment by General ——, Commander-in-Chief of all the French
forces, General Pershing, Commander-in-Chief of the American forces
in France, and General ——, commanding the —— Division Chasseurs, who
are instructing our men, General —— congratulated the Colonel of our
regiment on the splendid appearance of officers and men as well as
the cleanliness of the town. General Pershing personally told the
regimental commander that he wished to congratulate him on having such
an excellent regiment.”
This announcement was read to the marines as they were lined up for
their noonday meal. And where is the marine whose chest would not
swell just a bit at this tribute paid by General Pershing to those
upon whose shoulders rests the responsibility of maintaining and
perpetuating the glorious history and fine traditions of the United
States Marine Corps?