shoving off from the ship's side with their rifles and their packs, to
get a toe-hold somewhere against two, five, ten times their number
blazing away at them from behind sand-hills, or roof-tops, or a fine
growth of jungle, it may be.
The others are not always as well equipped as our fellows and they may
have no advance supply-base; but they know how to campaign. South of us
are multitudes who will take a bag of corn, a water-bottle, and a pair
of straw sandals and go shuffling over the hill trails for forty or
fifty miles a day. And don't think they won't fight. They will. In
countries where boys of twelve and thirteen pack a gun and go off with
their fathers in the army, they probably do not worry overmuch about
dying early.
From their retreats they like to sally forth at intervals and have a
wallop at our fellows. There was a corporal in Haiti, on outpost, with
half a dozen loyal natives acting as policemen with him. The native
guards slept in barracks by themselves; our marine in a little low shack
set up on posts a hundred yards away, with a native who acted as cook
and general helper. The next outpost was six miles away.
A band of outlaws rushed the native police in their barracks at this
post one night, and such as they did not shoot up they ran into the
brush. Our corporal was awakened from sound slumber by the firing and
shouting at the barracks. A few volleys through the sides of his own
shack waked him up good. He pulled on his trousers, taking time to
fasten them only by one button at his waist. There was no time for
socks; he pulled on his shoes, but had no time to lace them. A marine is
trained to be neat in his attire, and so our corporal apologetically
explained later that he had got no farther than that in his dressing
when he heard them trying to burst in his front door.
The corporal sent his native cook to the rear door, while he fixed his
bayonet to his rifle and stood guard over the front door. They had it
all but stove in when he began cutting loose like three men with his
rifle through the door. He killed a man there.
They then began to smash in the window nearest the door. He pried open
the window with his bayonet, and got there before them. There was a big
black fellow at the broken window. Our marine shot him dead, which gave
him time to turn to the side window, which they had now broken in with
the butts of their rifles. He got one there. There was another close up
whom he hit but did not kill; and he dropped another one on the edge of
the shadows outside. The cook, catching the spirit of the thing, killed
one at the rear door on his own account.
The bandits had enough, and left. Next evening, when his officer came
along with a squad, he found our corporal with his wounded under guard,
his four dead ones in a neat row, and himself and his cook frying
chicken in the twilight, cheerfully able to report that he had the
situation well in hand.
They are a sharpshooting rifle outfit. Down in Vera Cruz during the late
trouble a platoon of marines were at the foot of a street leading up
from the water-front. They had cleaned up things all about them and
thought they were in for a rest; and they wanted their rest--a hot
tropic day with the heat rolling off the asphalt where they lay.
There came a ping! of a rifle bullet among them; and half a minute or so
later another ping! They watched, and up the street they saw the head,
arm, and shoulder of a man with a rifle come poking around the corner of
a building, and ping! another one, and this time one of their men hit. A
bad hombre, that one.
"Get him!" said their officer, and named two of them to get him.
The two men lay down on the asphalt; and when their friend next poked
his head and shoulders around the corner, they fired. They saw the adobe
plaster spatter from a corner of the building just under the man's chin;
but that wasn't getting him. They jacked their sights up 50 yards,
making it 800 yards; and when next the native showed around the corner
they both got him--one plumb between the eyes.
It was good shooting; but there was no special comment after it. The
talk would have come if they hadn't got him.
But it is not always a matter of fighting or shooting efficiency. There
was that bad hombre, Juan Calcano of Santo Domingo--Juan the Terrible,
the natives called him. Juan and his gang had a headquarters in the
mountains. From there they came riding down into the valleys--shooting,
robbing, standing quiet natives on their heads generally. Juan had quite
a little territory under tribute. He came down into La Ramona, where was
a custom-house and guard. He shot up the guards, took all the gold in
the custom-house, and rode away, saying: "Come after me who dares!"
The marines did not worry about the daring part; but he was too strongly
intrenched for a direct attack. Your professional soldier, above all
men, prefers not to throw away good men's lives. They considered
matters; and one day they set out, three marine officers and thirty men,
for Juan's country. One of those tropical hurricanes came along the same
day they started, blew down trees, filled rivers to over their banks,
and made them wade waist-deep in the mud of the roads. It was tough
going, but it had its good side--there were not many people abroad.
They arrived near the village where Juan was known to be. An American
marine would not have stood much chance to get back if Juan had known
one was around; but one of the officers rigged up as a mule trader and
went looking for Juan. He found him, taking it easy until the roads
after the storm should become passable, and allow himself and his men to
sashay into the valley again.
All kinds of people--white, and black, and brown--came Juan's way to do
business--to buy mules and horses, for instance. In the course of his
travels in the valley Juan had helped himself to some very fine mules
and horses. Along comes this man this day--American, English, French,
Spanish, who knows? Or cares? He talked money--cash--for a good pair of
mules. No old spavined creatures, but young, strong, sound ones.
Yes, Juan had just such a pair of mules. Oh, a superb young pair! He
would see. Truly yes. Would the stranger senor come into his house so
that Juan might speak more confidentially of them? The stranger would.
And did. But before Juan could unload all he had to say about his mules
the mule buyer drew a large service automatic and slipped Juan out to
where thirty-two marines, officers and men, were in hiding. And they put
Juan in jail, and all it cost was one mule--not Juan's--drowned while
crossing a stream during the hurricane.
The marines have a great fighting record; but the marines do more than
fight. After all, men cannot be handling rifle and bayonet every waking
minute--they would become abnormal creatures if they did, of use only in
war time; and it would be a terrible world if war were our end and aim.
The marines get aviation, search-light, wireless, telegraphic, heliograph,
and other signal drill. They plant mines, put up telegraph and telephone
lines in the field, tear down or build up bridges, sling from a ship and
set up or land guns as big as 5-inch for their advance base work.
It is a belief with marines that the corps can do anything. Right in New
York City is a marine printing plant with a battery of linotypes and a
row of presses. They set their own type, write their own stuff (even to
the poetry), draw their own sketches, do their own photography, their
own color work--everything. Every man in that plant is a marine, enlisted
or commissioned. Every one has seen service somewhere outside his
country.
One was in a tropic country one time after an all-night march to a river
where the ferry was a water-soaked bamboo raft. They had to wait until
some native might happen along with a bull--or it might be a cow--to tow
the raft across. After crossing the river twice in that day, the young
marine commander halted on the bank and said: "That's sure not crossing
in a hurry if we had to. Might's well go to it and build a bridge right
now."
They cut down trees, got a portable pile-driver from their transport,
rigged it up and set to work. They hoisted the hammer--a good heavy
one--and let it drop. Bam! she struck, and into the mud for about two
feet went the pile. Fine! They hoisted the hammer again--four men
hauling on pulley blocks did the hoisting--and let her go again. This
time instead of a fine bam! the hammer went a fine splasho! into the
river. The great heat and dampness of the place had warped the runways;
almost every other time they let that hammer drop, it jumped the runways
and into the river.
But that was all right. They could fish her out and hoist her up by man
power again. It was when they left the solid bank and had to put out
into the river that their troubles began. A pile-driver ought to have a
pretty solid foundation. Ought to have! They took two dugout canoes,
lashed them together, put a bamboo deck across, set their pile-driver on
the deck and turned to again. It made a kind of a wabbly base; besides
hauling the hammer out every time it jumped into the river, they had to
see that it didn't come bouncing down atop of their own heads or through
the canoe deck. However, they were getting action. They finished driving
the piles and setting up the stringers.
For their bridge floor they laid down wood shingles, and over that a mat
made out of woven bamboo strips. For a top deck? Well, it was a coral
island and the roads of that country were of pounded coral; they put a
top dressing of pounded coral across the bridge.
And then the young marine commander looked her over and figured on the
dimensions of his struts and stringers, and said: "Some class! She'll
stand a two-ton load." And then along came a steam-roller from off the
transport, and the roller weighed five tons and it was important that
it be passed across. "Go ahead," said the marine commander--"only I
hope you can swim!" And they all camped on the bank to watch. The
steam-roller man was an optimist and a literary person: "You may have
builded better than you know, captain!" The bridge settled down another
foot, but the roller got across, and back and over many more times;
which set the younger marines to standing on the bank and saying:
"That's us--bridge builders!"
The fight in the shack, the capture of Calcano, the sharpshooting at
Vera Cruz, the building of that coral-floored bridge, are not set down
here as wonderful stunts. They are set down because the writer happened
to bump into them during a casual hour's inspection of their records.
Scores of more heroic or ingenious samples could be served up by anybody
who cared to dig deep into the records. These are detailed here, because
they could be briefly told and at the same time show the marine's
characteristic qualities: courage, ingenuity, technic, and industry.
Here we might mention that it is not in itself an act of war to land
marines on foreign soil. It was sending ashore the bluejackets at Vera
Cruz that made it an act of war. To protect American lives and property
in Nicaragua a battalion of marines landed there a few years ago. They
had some sharp fighting, but it was not an act of war. Do you begin to
see him as a diplomatic asset? And perhaps why all this landing action
comes his way? Most of us have probably forgotten the details of that
Nicaraguan landing; but--unless they have been jacked out lately--a
company of those marines are still there, looking out for American
interests. Only a company, but still hanging on.
Courage, ingenuity, industry--they need them all. Most of us will
probably have to stop to remember that the marines who landed in Haiti
and Santo Domingo are still there. And running things in their usual
efficient fashion. There was the usual fighting to get a toe-hold, the
usual fighting to retain place, the usual establishing of outposts, with
the usual killed and wounded already probably forgotten by most of us.
Perhaps they are too far away to make absorbing newspaper items; perhaps
it is the Big War overshadowing all else.
In Haiti and Santo Domingo it was the old story of political factions,
each faction having its own little gang of fighting men till our fellows
came in and ran most of them into the hills. When the marines took
charge they found that pretty much everything on the island had gone to
wrack. As, for instance, under the old French regime there had been some
splendid roads in Haiti, but now they were hardly more than sewers in
the towns and a drainage for the hill slopes of the country.
The marines repaired the roads; not always using the picks and shovels
themselves, but seeing to it that somebody did, paying a living wage for
such work to the natives. Sometimes bandits--who are quite often gentle
creatures when out of training--captured bandits were allowed to quit
jail to do useful work in this line. The marines installed sanitary
methods, saw that courts of justice were resumed, marine officers
themselves serving as justices until they found natives who could do
that service. Likewise they collected and disbursed taxes.
Above all, they did away with the old reign of terror, when no man's
life was safe if he happened to be on the wrong side. When the bandits
were running around unchecked, it was not safe for a whole family to go
to market together. Generally the women went to sell their little
produce, while the men stayed behind to guard the little property at
home. Now--the natives speak of the wonder of it--the roads on
market-days are crowded with both men and women.
At first they had distrust of the marine; not altogether because he was
a foreigner (the tropical people probably are less distrustful of us
than we of them)--he was an armed soldier. But they learned to know him,
and now the native salutes and smiles without effort at the marine in
passing. When one particular marine officer left there to come home
recently, crowds of native men, women, and children came down, some to
weep, but all to wish him Godspeed in going.
The marine is sometimes termed soldier and sailor too, which is not
correct. He is not a sailor and does not claim to be. When not in
barracks ashore he lives aboard some war-ship afloat; and on shipboard
he does certain guard work and handles the secondary batteries. But he
does not have to sailorize; the bluejacket takes care of that part, and
takes care of it well. The notion that a marine must qualify as a sailor
aboard ship has probably cost the corps many a prospective recruit.
To call him a seagoing soldier is more nearly correct. When it is not an
act of war to land marines on foreign soil, it is good business to keep
them where landings can be quickly made with them. So his being kept
aboard ship, perhaps. Bluejackets have taken part in landing-parties,
too, but it is not to black the bluejacket's eye to say that it is not
his regular job. The bluejacket's work is aboard ship--on the bridge, in
magazines, in turrets, below decks. Advance shore work is the marine's
specialty, and he goes to it pretty much as a man with a dinner-pail
goes to work in the subway.
He is the first to land, the last to leave, and to name the places where
he has seen service--well, one of them wrote a song once.
"From the hills of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli," it began. But he
has seen more than Mexico or the Mediterranean since. He could now say:
"From the hills of Montezuma to the gates of old Peking
He has heard the shrapnel bursting, he has heard the
Mauser's ping!
He has known Alaskan waters and the coral roads of Guam,
He has----"
But it's like calling a roll--Egypt, Algeria, Tripoli, Abyssinia,
Mexico, China, Japan, Korea, Cuba, Porto Rico, Panama, Nicaragua, Haiti,
Santo Domingo, Alaska, the Philippines, Formosa, Sumatra, Hawaii, Samoa,
Guam--like calling the roll of tropic countries and a few less warm to
say where he has been.
He has been most everywhere, done most everything. Did you ever see any
mounted marines? There is a guard of mounted marines right now with the
legation in Peking; and once a platoon of marines, on duty in Africa,
not being able to get big enough horses, rode camels through the wilds
of Abyssinia to the palace of old Menelik.
In speaking here of the marines, no man or officer has been named.
That is done of a purpose. In talking of the corps, from the
topsiders down--generals, colonels, majors, captains lieutenants,
and enlisted men--one fact stuck out: They all played up the corps.
All individuals--officers and men--were made subordinate to the corps.
So here, taking the tip, no names are named. A soldier speaks of his
regiment, a bluejacket of his ship. The Marine Corps is made up of
companies, regiments, battalions, divisions; but it is the corps of
which the marine always speaks.
If you ask the members of any other outfit to name the model military
unit, they may name their own branch of the service first; but if they
do, it is almost a sure bet that they will name the United States Marine
Corps next. When they do not name themselves first, they name the
marines first. And this does not apply to outfits in this country alone.
By the look of things now, there probably will be plenty of war before
we are done. If any young fellow is wishful to be in the middle of it,
we would say: Consider the marines. You may not see them mentioned every
morning in the press reports, but be sure of this--they are there and on
the job.
THE NAVY AS A CAREER
A young fellow reading all this stuff about the doings of our destroyers
might be inclined to look on the navy as pure adventure, which would not
be to get it quite right. The adventure is there, but there is something
more.
The navy will take a young man, feed and clothe him, give him a good
all-round training, and while he is yet in middle age retire him with at
least $60 a month for the rest of his life. No matter how low his rating
has been, that $60 a month is certain after his thirty years of service;
while, if he has shown moderate intelligence and ambition, he can count
on close to $100 a month, and this without his having ever been a
commissioned officer. The years after his retirement he may spend as he
pleases--go into business, get another job, and make another wage on top
of his pension. He can go to jail if he prefers: whatever he does,
always there is that sheet-anchor of a pension to windward.
Apart from the fighting end of it, most of us possibly do not know just
what navy life means to-day. We all know that man-of-war's men no longer
lie out on rolling yard arms to reef salt-crusted sails in gales of
wind; but in what else lies the difference? Some of us, possibly, do not
know that.
The navy still wants men with the seagoing instinct--men who can
sailorize, who can hand, splice, and steer; but more than ever the navy
is looking for men who can do other things. The navy wants ship-fitters,
blacksmiths, plumbers, electricians, wireless operators, carpenters,
boiler-makers, painters, printers, store-keepers, bakers, cooks,
stewards, drug clerks; even as it wants gunners, boatmen, quartermasters,
sailmakers, firemen, oilers, and it will take clarinet, trombone, and
cornet players and the like for the ship's band.
If a man has no trade the navy will teach him one. There are navy
schools for electricians, shipwrights, ship-fitters, carpenters,
painters, coppersmiths, ship's cooks, bakers, stewards, and musicians.
There are schools where yeomen (ship's clerks) are taught all about
departmental papers; there is a Hospital Corps school; an aeronautic
school; a school for deep-sea diving. (There are no schools for
blacksmiths or boiler-makers; these must have mastered their trades
before enlistment.)
When a young fellow enlists he is sent to one of several naval
training-stations. Here they are quartered in barracks--well-aired,
well-lighted, well-heated buildings. At one place, where the climate is
mild, the boys sleep in barracks in bungalows with upper sides of
canvas, which are rolled down to let in sun and air in fine weather and
laced up against bad weather.
At all training-stations there are mess-halls, reading-rooms, libraries;
also gymnasiums, athletic fields, and ball parks. At all stations there
are setting-up drills, gymnastic, swimming and signal exercises, ship
and boat training. The men go on hikes, fight sham battles, dig trenches.
Line-officers give them advice which will be of use to them on shipboard
later; service doctors and chaplains hand them hygienic and moral truths
that will be of use to them anywhere at any time.
A recruit goes from the training-school to a cruising ship, where he may
find himself--according to his work--doing watch duty four hours on to
eight hours off; or working at hours like a man ashore--turning to at
eight or nine o'clock and knocking off at four or five or six o'clock in
the afternoon.
War-ships formerly meant close living quarters; and ships formerly went
off on cruises on which the men sometimes did not set foot on shore for
six months or a year, and quite often they had to go for months without
taste of fresh meat or vegetables. Those days are gone. Ships still make
long cruises from home, but they do not keep the sea as they used to.
Service regulations require that men now be given a run ashore once in
three months; and "beef boats" travel with all fleets.
The everlasting holystoning of wooden decks and the dim lanterns hung at
intervals from low-hanging beams--they are gone. The only dim lanterns
now are the "battle-lanterns" in use at night war practice; and they are
swung to steel bulkheads by electric wires. Quarter-decks, forecastle
heads, and bridges are still planked on the big ships, and such do still
have to be holystoned on special days; but the great stretches between
decks are now laid in linoleum on the hard steel itself; electric lights
are all over the ship, and, as for the low beams, the new big ships are
so high-girdered that hammock-hooks on the berth-deck have to be made
extra long so the men won't have to get stepladders to turn in. A
battleship nowadays is about 600 feet long, 100 feet wide, has seven or
eight decks, with turrets, bridges, military masts, and smoke-pipes
topside. Between decks are magazines, storerooms, engine-rooms,
boiler-rooms, dynamo-rooms, mess-rooms, ice-rooms, repair-shops,
staterooms, office-rooms, sick-bays, galleys, laundries, pantries--but
only ship-constructors can tell you offhand how many hundreds of
compartments are below decks of a present-day big war-ship.
She is a great workshop, an office-structure, a big power-plant, a
floating hotel--and a few other things. But above all she is meant to be
a home for ten or twelve hundred officers and men.
A man may not be given duty on a battleship or battle cruiser; he may be
sent to a scout cruiser or a beef boat or a gunboat, which, being
smaller, will bounce and roll around more in heavy weather and not offer
so much room to move around in; but he will get used to the bouncing
around, and always he will find some variety and some comfort in his
daily life.
That item of comfort might as well be counted in as important. It is
something to know that, no matter what else happens, there are hot meals
waiting a man three times a day, and a dry change of clothing, and a dry
hammock to turn into nights. Even on deck duty in bad weather a man can
get into slicker, rubber boots, and rain-hat, and at the worst be almost
comfortable.
Navy life is not meant to be a perpetual entertainment--not though they
do hold regular smokers on the quarter-decks of the big ships. To lie
for months off a tropic port waiting for something to happen--that is
not exhilarating; and coaling ship, even with the band playing--that is
no joy. But the watching of tropic ports passes; and the ship has to
steam many a mile before she must be coaled again. So, taking it in the
long perspective, it is a moderately varied life, an outdoor life, and
under hygienic conditions of the best. Right now, war with us, there is
going to be some danger; but we are assuming that any man who thinks of
joining the navy is prepared for a little danger.