HAMBONE DAVIS
One evening we were sitting outside of our bivouac watching some German
balloons being downed by one of our airplanes; our flier had good luck
that evening, accounting for three of the floating sausages; and as we
were awaiting the finish of the last sausage, and speculating on how
long it would take our air bird to get it, or whether he would get it at
all, the gambling spirit ran rife, and fast and furiously the bets were
placed.
Open-mouthed and eager we watched and, while watching, a strange-looking
figure of a soldier ambled, or shuffled, up the path toward our place.
He was a man about 45, though looking more like 55, quite grizzled,
furrowed face, and a stubby mustache, thickly stained with tobacco
juice, decorated his upper lip. He was chewing tobacco as if his life
depended on the quantity of juice he could extract from each mouthful,
and dried tricklings of the liquid ornamented his chin. As he came
toward us his face was turned upward, taking in the scrimmage in the
sky. "What's them bloody things?" he asked, indicating the air sausages.
He had evidently just come up the line fresh from England. I told him
and he jerked out an indelible pencil and made a note, sucking the lead
of the pencil two or three times before he finished, and this habit,
continuous with him, kept his lip constantly stained with the indelible
lead.
Just then a mighty roar of delight went up from the entire crowd, as our
bird gobbled the last remaining sausage, but our indelible friend paid
no attention to the uproar,--he simply took out his little book and made
another note.
The "Fall-in!" whistle was blown and we were a bit surprised as well as
amazed to see our strange friend fall in in front, still chewing
vigorously; he evidently didn't know or didn't care a damn whether it
was against the rules to chew tobacco when parading. The Sergeant-Major
eyed him curiously and then stepping to his side whispered something; we
knew he was explaining to him that he was infringing orders, but a
non-commissioned officer is not permitted to bawl out another non-com in
the presence of the men. Hastily bestowing the quid in his hand he
stood to attention. Roll call finished and we retired to our bunks.
Early next morning when we emerged from our quarters the first person we
saw was the odd-appearing individual that had joined up with us the
night before, with his inevitable note book in his hand. He was still
busily sucking his indelible pencil in the corner of his mouth, and, in
the light of the morning sun, there was nothing about his mug that was
any more prepossessing than appeared in the twilight of the previous
night. He also had on the sleeve of his coat a crown, indicating that he
was to be our acting Sergeant-Major in the absence of the regular
officer, and when not so acting, he was to be the First Sergeant of the
section.
The official activity of our new friend commenced to be evidenced in a
number of ways; he lost no time in making us understand that he was
First Sergeant. "Sergeant Grant, detail two men for the cookhouse!" Then
to the gunners, "Here, you, clean up your wagons and take off all that
mud; it's filthy"; this was absolutely unnecessary and the fellows swore
vehemently under their breath; to the drivers,--"Clean up that 'ere
'arness and get that mud hoff it"; he also compelled us to burnish the
steel and made the gunners scrub the paint off the brass and sandpaper
it up. This necessitated the men going to a shop and purchasing the
sandpaper themselves, as disobedience of the order meant a sojourn in
the clink and the excuse that he had no sandpaper would not go.
By the time old Sol had reached the meridian, the First Sergeant had
succeeded in getting himself thoroughly hated, and many and earnest and
unique were the resolutions to "get even." This feeling was intensified
by his order to gather up some scantlings of hard wood and bring them to
his quarters; he was a sort of a one-horse carpenter by trade and had
started manufacturing for his own especial use and benefit a wooden
structure large enough to house himself.
The idiosyncrasies of our newfound friend manifested themselves
variously, the first and chief characteristic by which he came to
acquire the _sobriquet_ of "Hambone Davis," was his habit of heading for
the cookhouse each morning before the men were dismissed from the horse
lines--which was necessary before we could appease our always ravenous
appetites--so that he could garner for himself an edible that was longed
for and looked for by every man who could get it, i.e., the ham bone,
because there were always more or less pickings on it and he was a lucky
fellow indeed who was successful in capturing the prize. But, in his
official capacity, Davis was able to get out and get over there ahead of
us every morning and during his entire stay in our crowd, he was the
only man who each morning got the ham bone. Hence his cognomen.
Long, earnest and secret conferences were had as to the way we had best
settle our grievances. Among the conspirators were Dynamite Pete,
so-called because of his habit of taking shells, fuses and bombs apart
and examining and prying into their contents. One time his curiosity
came nearly getting him a quick passage West. He was examining a bomb
and, taking out the pin, was holding it in his hand, looking at it for a
brief instant. Providentially an officer was standing beside him who saw
his mad act and, grabbing the bomb from his hand, flung it into the
field--and just in time! It exploded before it had well gotten on its
way.
Pete's answers to the officer, while respectful, were tantalizing to a
degree:
"What did you do that for?"
"What are they here for?"
"Why did you take the pin out?"
"Because it is made to come out."
"Did you want to kill yourself?"
"If I did it would have been my own funeral."
"How about the others?"
"They had no business here."
"Think it over in the clink--ten days."
I could think of nothing else but the fellow who was passing a private
residence one day with a pitchfork on his shoulder, and a big dog came
rushing out at him, and he jammed the dog through with his pitchfork,
killing him. The owner came out in a great rage.
"What did you do that for?"
"What did your dog run at me for?"
"Why didn't you hit him with the other end?"
"Why didn't he come at me with his other end?"
Gunboat Stevens was another of the plotters; his suggestions were so
unique and uncommon that each of them sent us into an uncontrollable
roar of laughter. Unfortunately, as we thought, they were usually as
impracticable as they were strange. This member of our gang derived his
alias from his warm adherence to the navy as against the army. Never was
there an argument started about the navy that it did not have a burning
advocate in Stevens; he would even go to the length of challenging any
man in the crowd to fight him then and there who had the temerity to
claim that the Empire had as good a defender in the military as in the
naval arm of the government.
We also had a Jesse James; his surname was really James and it was easy
fitting on the handle.
The conference finally resolved itself into a determination to burn his
new-made bivouac, but I dissuaded them and convinced them that it would
be much better for them to lug it over to the incinerator and throw it
into the pit. To complete the plot and give it an artistic finish, it
was necessary to have a ham bone, and Gunboat volunteered to get it.
"I'm on picket tonight," he said, "and I'll go to the cookhouse when the
cook is asleep and fix it." He did so; when the cook was dreaming of
everything but the front line, Gunboat quietly slipped in, unearthed
the ham that was in readiness for our breakfast, and with his knife he
quickly extracted the bone, taking care of the pickings with his teeth
while finishing his sentry go.
The next night everything was in readiness and when the opportune moment
arrived, with Hambone leaving with ammunition for the guns, I passed the
word. When he was well on his way we hurried over to his shack, rooted
it out and carried it bodily over to the incinerator, setting it
completely over the hole. Now for the artistic touch. We took the ham
bone, fastened it with wire to the end of a stick that we nailed across
the top of the shack, with the end protruding well out to the side, and
on the end of the ham bone we hung a placard, so that all could see,
reading, "Here lies the remains of Hambone Davis. Gone but not
forgotten." Then we scampered over to one side and with the glee of
mischievous schoolboys watched developments. Nearly every passing
soldier, noticing the odd sight, strolled over and read the sign, going
off snickering.
The following evening Hambone arrived back from the guns; he had with
him some of the conspirators carrying wood that he wanted; it was the
first time they experienced real pleasure in that work because they
foresaw the dénouement in store.
When they reached the spot where his home had been, Hambone looked
around in a dazed sort of fashion, almost swallowing a mouthful of
tobacco juice as he blurted out, "Where the bloody 'ell is my 'ouse?
What bloody well nonsense is this? Hi'll make someone pay for this!" The
rest of us were loitering in the immediate vicinity, listening with
sheer chucklings to his burning vows, and it was all we could do to
stifle our laughter. Then Hambone ran around like a looney, looking here
and there for his house, and when he found it and saw the bone and read
the placard, his feelings were so intense that he actually spat out his
mouthful of tobacco, juice and all.
"'Ere, you lobsters! You, Grant, who has done this?"
"I don't know; how should I know?"
"Hi bet you do know!"
"Aw, what the hell are you getting at? Don't try any of that on me or
I'll have you up for office," I threatened.
He didn't seem to be getting anywhere in his efforts to find out the
guilty ones, so he did the next best thing.
"Sergeant Grant, take six of your men and put that 'ouse back." There
was nothing for it but to obey, but I made a mental resolve he would
never sleep in that shack that night at least. We took hold all together
and lifted it up, and on the way over I purposely stumbled in such a way
that the mansion of Hambone fell on one corner and with the fall it came
tumbling to pieces.
Our arch-enemy composed himself to sleep that night in the guard room,
as none of us would give him room in our quarters, and it so happened
that Gunboat Stevens was in the clink at the time for having called him
"Hambone." They occupied the same room, his bed immediately opposite the
First Sergeant's, with just a foot or two of space between the bottom of
each bed. As may be imagined, no kindly good nights passed between the
two.
Now Davis had just been over from England but a short time and was
comparatively clean in his person, while Stevens was lousy, and to
complete the diabolism of the revenge, Gunboat, instead of throwing his
shirt on the floor as he usually did, watched his opportunity and when
he heard a snore from Hambone that had no camouflage in it, he slipped
his shirt in at the head of the bed where our official tormentor
reposed.
Our glee was positively fiendish next day when watching Hambone
wriggling uneasily in his clothes at parade. Gunboat had sent us an
underground message telling us what he did, and we did not fail to
recognize the symptoms at once; every moment he got a chance he was
scratching himself; and as soon as he had the opportunity he made for
the nearest tree and, rubbing his back violently against it, almost wore
a hole in his coat. Miserable were his moments throughout that day. "'Ow
in 'ell can a man fight an' scratch at the same time!" he would snort.
There was no let up to his officiousness, however; his damnable orders
were as numerous as before; so we concluded to hatch a scheme that would
most effectively put him on the blink, and the opportunity occurred the
very next night. Hambone was detailed to proceed to the guns, to relieve
the Sergeant-Major there, and it was his duty to take charge of the
supply wagon that carried the supplies for the men there, and by chance
there was among the rations this time a jar of rum. Accompanying Hambone
were Snow and Reynolds of our section, they sitting in the back end of
the wagon. They had barely started when Snow discovered the rum jar, and
he and Reynolds at once got their wits working as to how they could get
away with it. When about half-way there, Hambone, to stretch his legs,
got off the wagon and walked alongside, and Snow instantly whispered to
Reynolds, "get off and walk with him and tell him you hear a shell
coming." Reynolds did as directed and Hambone ducked for cover and the
wagon stood stock still. No sooner was the First Sergeant's back turned
than Reynolds threw the jar into the ditch.
A minute or two elapsed and no explosion taking place, Hambone rejoined
the wagon and the party proceeded. Then Snow slipped off the back and
went back for the jar, but instead of going up the road, he took the
railroad track, beating the wagon by some minutes and hiding his jar of
joy in my gun pit, immediately got back and was standing beside the
wagon when it arrived. Hambone seeing him there hadn't the remotest idea
that he had hopped off at any time, and supposed that he had ridden the
entire way with them. Snow gave Reynolds the wink and he knew the prize
was safe.
The first thing Hambone did was to go to the back of the wagon for the
jar. It was gone! He searched wildly about for a moment, asking first
one and then the other what had become of it, and Snow volunteered the
opinion that probably it had dropped off when the wagon lurched that
time he thought the shell was coming. There was nothing for it but to
report his loss, and the only excuse he could give was that the rum had
probably rolled off when they trotted at a coming shell, and what the
officer didn't say to Hambone for trotting, which was a violation of
orders, would not be worth repeating. He bellowed at him to go and
search for it, and with wicked delight we watched the duffer going back
over the route, peering from side to side of the road in his vain
search.
The journey was a nine-mile trot and he covered more than half the
distance, endeavoring to find the precious container, and when he came
back in a couple of hours without it, the poor devil thought he was
going to be licked, such was the anger of the men at missing their rum
rations, because they sorely needed it; none but those who have been
there can and do appreciate how sorely it is needed in that region of
the world.
I make no apology or attempt to excuse myself as an accessory after the
fact. It is an unwritten law among the men that the only crime involved
in stealing liquor is--using an Irishism--not to steal it.
The only men in the section that night who had a ration of the treasured
fluid were Dick Snow, Reynolds and myself, and in the midst of our
conviviality we prophesied that if Hambone survived this disaster, he
was immortal.
Toasting the health of the King, the army, the navy and our loved ones
at home, we retired in blissful consciousness of a good job well done.
Next morning, black looks and cursing threats in low voices greeted
Hambone on all sides, and his work that day was so fidgety, and he made
so many mistakes in getting the ranges on the sights, that the Major
performed the _coup d'état_ for which we were all anxiously waiting by
transmitting as quickly as he could to headquarters his recommendation
that he be retired, and Hambone, to our immense relief, was shipped back
to England.