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.
[Illustration: "MOTHER KEPT SCREAMING THROUGH THE WIRE ABOUT MY
UNDERWEAR"]
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.
[Illustration: "A BILL FROM A RESTAURANT FOR $18.00 WORTH OF PAST
LUNCHEONS"]
_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.
[Illustration: "HE MISSED THE DIRTY WHITES, 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!
[Illustration: "FIRE DRILL"]
_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.
[Illustration: "THIS IS DESIGNED TO GIVE US PHYSICAL POISE"]
_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.