_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."
[Illustration: "'DO YOU ENLIST FOR FOREIGN SERVICE?' HE SNAPPED.
'SURE,' I REPLIED, 'IT WILL ALL BE FOREIGN TO ME'"]
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.
[Illustration: "THE DEPARTURE WAS MOIST"]
_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.
[Illustration: "HOSPITAL APPRENTICE TREATED ME TO A SHOT OF PELHAM
'HOP'"]
[Illustration: "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!
[Illustration: "THIS, I THOUGHT, WAS ADDING INSULT TO INJURY"]
_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.