"Yes, sir," I replied in a crumpled voice, "Much obliged, sir."
"Please go away now," he said quietly, "or I think I might do you an
injury." He was fingering the shovel nervously as he spoke. Thus
Fogerty and I departed, banished even from our dusky St. Helena.
_July 9th._ Working on the theory of opposites, I was next placed as a
waiter in the Chief Petty Officer's Mess over in the First Regiment. I
wasn't so good here, it seems. There was something wrong with my
technique. The coal pile had ruined me for delicate work. I
continually kept mistaking the plate in my hand for a shovel, a
mistake which led to disastrous results. I will say this for the
chiefs, however--they were as clean-cut, hard-eating a body of men as
I have ever met. It was a pleasure to feed them, particularly so in
the case of one chief, a venerable gentleman, who seemed both by his
bearing and the number of stripes on his sleeve to be the dean of the
mess. He ate quietly, composedly and to the point, and after I had
spilled a couple of plates of rations on several of the other chiefs'
laps he suggested that I call it a day and be withdrawn in favor of
one whose services to his country were not so invaluable as mine.
Appreciating his delicacy I withdrew, but only to be sent out on
another job that defies description. Even here I quickly demonstrated
my unfitness and have consequently been incorporated once more into
the body of my regiment.
_July 10th._ I had the most terrible experience in mess to-day when a
guy having eaten more rapidly than I attempted to take my ration. When
I told him he shouldn't do it he merely laughed brutally and kicked me
an awful whack on the shin. This injury, together with the sight of
witnessing my food about to be crammed down his predatory maw,
succeeded in bringing all my latent patriotism to the fore and I fell
upon him with a desperation bred of hunger. We proceeded to mill it up
in a rather futile, childish manner until the Master-at-arms suggested
in a certain way he has that we go away to somewhere else. Hereafter
if any one asks if I did any actual fighting in this war I am going to
say, "Yes, I fought like hell many hard and long battles in camp for
my ration," which will be true.
"Say, buddy," said my opponent, after we had landed quite violently on
the exterior of the Mess Hall, "you didn't git no food at all, did
yer?"
"No," I replied bitterly; "at all is right."
He looked at me for a moment in a strange, studying manner, then began
laughing softly to himself.
"I don't know what made me do it," he said more to himself than to me.
"I wasn't hungry no more. I didn't _really_ want it. I wonder what
makes a guy brutal? Guess he sort of has a feelin' to experiment with
himself and other folks."
"I wish you'd tried that experiment on some one else," I replied,
thinking tenderly of my shin.
"Sometimes I feel so doggon strong and mean," he continued, "I just
can't keep from doing things I don't naturally feel like doing. I
guess I'm sort of an animal."
"Say," I asked him in surprise, "if you keep talking about yourself
that way I won't be able to call you all the names I am carefully
preparing at this moment."
He peered earnestly down on me for a space.
"Does my face make you talk that way?" I asked, feeling dimly and
uncomfortably that it did.
"Yes," he replied, "it's your face, your foolish looking face. I can't
help feeling sorry for it and your funny empty little belly."
"You're breaking me down," I answered; "I can't stand kindness."
"I ain't no bully," he said fiercely, as if he was about to strike me.
"I ain't no bully," he repeated, "I'll tell you that."
"No, sir," I replied soothingly, keeping on the alert, "you ain't no
bully."
Here he took me by the arm and dragged me along with him.
"Come on, buddy," he said, "I'm going to take you to the canteen and
feed you. I'm going to do it, I swear to God."
So he fed me. Stacks and stacks of stuff he forced on me until the
flesh rebelled, after which he put things in my pockets, repeating
every little while, "I ain't no bully, I'll tell you that, I ain't no
bully." He spent most of his money, I reckon, but I did not try to
stop him. He wanted to do it and I guess it made him feel better.
After the orgy I took him around and let him pat Mr. Fogerty. He
seemed to like this. Fogerty took it in good part.
_July 11th._ There's something about Wednesday afternoons that doesn't
appeal to me. First they make you go away and dress yourself up nice
and clean and then they look you over and make you feel nearly as
childish as you look. Then they put a gun into your hand that is much
too heavy for comfort and make you do all sorts of ridiculous things
with this gun, after which you fall in with numerous thousands of
other men who have been subjected to the same treatment, and together
we all go trotting past any number of officers, who look you over with
uncanny earnestness through eyes that seem to perceive the remotest
defect with fiendish accuracy. Then we all trot home again and call it
a review.
This is all very well for some people, but not for me. I'm a little
too self-conscious. I have always the feeling that I am the review,
that it has been staged particularly for my discomforture, and that
every officer in camp is on the lookout for any slight irregularity in
my clothes or conduct. In this they have little difficulty. I assist
them greatly myself. To-day, for instance:
Item one: Dropped my gun.
Item two: Talked in ranks. I asked the guy next to me how he would
like to go to a place and he said that he'd see me there first.
Item three: Failed to follow the guide.
Item four: Didn't mark time correctly.
Item five: Was in step once.
Now all of these things are trifling in themselves, but taken en
mass, as it were, it leads up to a sizable display; at least, so I was
told in words that denied any other interpretation by my P.O. and
several pals of his. After the review our regimental commander lined
us up and addressed us as follows:
"About that review to-day," he began, "it was terrible" (long,
dramatic pause). "It was probably the worst review I have ever seen
(several P.O.'s glanced at me reproachfully), not only that," he
continued, "but it was the worst review that anybody has ever seen.
Anybody! (shouted) without exception! (shouted) awful review! (pause)
Terrible!"
We steadied in the ranks and waited for our doom.
"It will never be so again," he continued, "I'll see to that. I'll
drill ye myself. If you have to get up at four o'clock in the morning
to drill in order to meet your classes, I'll see that ye do it.
Dropping guns! (pause). Talking in ranks! (pause). Out-o-step
(terrible pause). Marking time wrong. Everything wrong! Company
commanders, take 'em away."
We were took.
"All of those things," said my P.O. in a trembling voice, "you did.
All of 'em. Now the old man's sore on us and he's going to give us
hell, and I'm going to do the same by you."
"Shoot, dearie," says I, with the desperate indifference of a man who
has nothing left to lose, "I wouldn't feel natural if you didn't."
And in my hammock that night I thought of another thing I might have
said if it had occurred to me in time. I might have said, "Hell is the
only thing you know how to give and you're generous with that because
it's free."
But I guess after all it's just as well I didn't.
_August 1st._ Mr. Fogerty has returned aboard. My worst fears are
realized. For a long time he has been irritable and uncommunicative
with me and has indulged in sly, furtive little tricks unbecoming to a
dog of the service. I have suspected that he was concealing a love
affair from me. This it appears he has been doing and his guilt is
heavy upon him. I realize now for the first time and not without a
sharp maternal pang that he has reached an age at which he must make
decisions for himself. I can no longer follow him out into the world
upon his nocturnal exploits. His entire confidence is not mine. I must
be content to share a part of his heart instead of the whole of it.
Like father like son, I suppose. However, I see no reason for him to
put on such airs. On his return from City Island this time he had
somehow contrived to get himself completely shaved up to the
shoulders. The result is startling. Fogerty looks extremely
aristocratic but a trifle foppish. However, he seems to consider
himself the only real four-footed dog in camp. This is a trifle boring
from a dog who has never hesitated to steal from the galley anything
that wasn't a permanent fixture. I can't help but feel sorry for him
though when I see that far-away look in his eyes. Sad days I fear are
in store for him. Ah, well, we're only young once.
_August 3d._ "Well, now, son," he was saying, "mind me when I tell yer
that I'm not claiming as to ever have seen a mermaid, but what I am
saying is this and that is if anybody has ever seen one of them things
I'm that man. I'm not making no false claims, however, none
whatsoever."
I carefully placed my shovel against the wheelbarrow and seating
myself upon a stump prepared to listen to my companion. He was a chief
of many cruises and for some unaccountable reason had fixed on me as
being a suitable recipient for his discourse. One more hash mark on
his arm would have made him look like a convict. I listened and in the
meanwhile many mounds of sand urgently in need of shoveling remained
undisturbed. Upon this sand I occasionally cast a reflective and
apprehensive eye. The chief, noticing this, nudged me in the ribs with
an angular elbow.
"Don't mind that, sonny," he said, "I'll pump the fear-o'-God into the
heart of any P.O. what endeavors to disturb you. Trust me."