penny in the crowd after all bets had been placed. Alex and I tried
to discourage this betting because we knew that if our side lost we
would be ostracised from that time on. We explained to the Tommies that
the Canadians were baseball players, and that we were in for an awful
trimming, but they wouldn't listen, saying that anybody who could make
a ball curve in the air the way Alex could was enough to win for any
team, and all the Canadians could do was to strike out. We argued no
further, just sighed after losing the toss.
"We came to bat first. Our first man up got beaned, and instead of
taking first base he went out in the pitcher's box to lick the pitcher.
After a little argument we managed to get him on first. The Canadian
pitcher was wild. The next ball went over the catcher's head and our
runner took second. The next man up struck out. I batted third, hit
to the outfield, the right fielder dropped the ball, and I reached
second. The runner ahead of me walked to third base. Then Alex got
up and placed a corking double out into left field. Alex was a fast
runner. I started for home, touched third, the runner in front of me
plowing along for home-plate. He ran like an ice wagon. I was shouting
to him to hurry up. I could hear Alex pounding behind me. The Tommy's
hat blew off, and instead of going home he stopped to pick up his hat.
Alex was shouting, 'Leg it, here comes the ball,' as he slid into third
base. Upon this the runner in front of me ran back to third. I could
not precede the runner in, and we were trapped on a double play. The
Canadian rooters were tickled to death, and their sarcastic remarks
burned into Alex and me. Alex was fast losing his temper.
"The first two Canadians struck out, nearly breaking their backs trying
to connect with Alex's outcurves. The third man up got his base on a
passed third strike, my error.
"Then our substitute first baseman pulled a stunt which turned the
tables on the Canadians. The Canadian was lying a few feet off first
base. Suddenly our first baseman shouted at him, 'Look out, 'ere comes
a shell, duck low.' The Canadian dropped to the ground. No shell. Alex
instantly sized up the situation and tossed the ball to the first
baseman, who touched the runner lying on the ground three feet from
the bag. This retired the side. We had gotten our own back. Alex and I
both could have kissed that rube first baseman of ours. Right then and
there we put him in a class with Hal Chase.
"Up to the fourth inning neither side scored. Alex was pitching in fine
form. The Canadians just couldn't connect with his delivery. All they
could do was to fan the air. The Canadian rooters commenced to get
frightened and they saw their money going into Tommies' pockets. They
had the greatest contempt for the rest of the team, myself included,
but realized that if Alex did not weaken, it would be a case for them
to go back to billets broke.
"Then old Mr. Jinx butted in again, and it happened."
(In the British Army there is an order to the effect that gas helmets
must be carried at all times, even while sleeping. To evade this order
is a serious offense, and means immediate confinement. These gas
helmets are in a canvas bag and are slung around the left shoulder by
means of a canvas strap.)
"In pitching, Alex's gas helmet bothered him greatly, and after the
second inning he took it off. I warned him to be careful, because I
noticed several Military Police in the crowd. But Alex wouldn't listen.
He always was pig-headed. Suddenly one of the Canadian players spotted
that Alex had laid aside his helmet, and artfully communicated this
fact to the rest of his team's rooters. I noticed the rooters crowd
around him for three or four minutes, and then a great laugh went up
and they again stretched out along the foul lines.
"Suddenly, one fellow, getting out in front of the bunch, like a cheer
leader, counted, 'One, Two, Three.' Then up went a mighty chorus of
'Hey, Alex, where's your gas helmet, where's your old gas bag.' They
kept this up until it got Alex's goat. I went out into the pitcher's
box and warned him to put it on, but, still pig-headed, he refused to
do so. He was in an awful temper.
"A Sergeant of the Military Police was watching the game, and hearing
the cries of the rooters he walked out on the diamond and asked Alex
where his helmet was. By this time Alex had completely lost his temper,
and answered with a sneer: 'Where do you think it is? I sent it home
for a souvenir.' The Sergeant explained to him that it was against Army
orders to be without gas helmet, and that he had better put it on. Alex
would not listen to him, and answered: 'Well, if it's against orders,
get them rescinded.' The Sergeant immediately put him under arrest and
marched him off the diamond. Our hopes were dashed; I could see the
game going West. We had no other good pitcher to go in.
"Upon seeing Alex's arrest, the Canadian rooters kept up their gleeful
shouting. We were sure up against it. Here was the situation. It was
the last half of the fourth inning, and two were out. If, by luck,
we managed to get the third Canadian out, it would be an easy matter
for them to retire us during our half of the next inning, because our
weakest batting order was up. Then, the Canadians would get busy and
the slaughter would commence. I was in despair. Alex must have realized
that the game was hopeless unless it could be finished in this inning,
because as he passed me he whispered, 'Watch out for _gas_; I'll make
them hunt for _their_ gas helmets. It'll be a long time before that
bunch of maple leaves forget this game. Now, get wise. Delay the game
as much as possible while getting a dub ready to pitch in my place.
Then watch for happenings. Get me? Are you wise?'
"I didn't 'get him,' nor was I 'wise,' but I answered in the
affirmative. I followed his instructions, while out of the corner of
my eye I watched him on his way to the company billet. He called to
a man named Stein, a member of our company, who thought no more of
losing a franc than he did of having his right arm shot off. Stein went
over to Alex, who whispered to him and then handed him something. What
struck me as strange was the fact that Stein, who had fifteen francs
on the game, instead of coming back to watch the game, disappeared
behind the billet, while Alex was marched off to 'clink.' The rooters
were getting impatient, so I put a big Welshman in to pitch. I told
the umpire, a Battalion Sergeant-Major, that, according to rules, a
pitcher being put in 'cold' was allowed four balls _over the plate_ to
warm up. The umpire agreed to this. I whispered to the Welshman, 'Get
out in that box, and _take your time, delaying the game as much as
possible between each pitch_. Now, you are allowed four balls _over the
plate_,--remember, _over the plate_, in which to warm up. Slam 'em into
me, but if you put four of them over our goose is cooked, so watch out.'
"The Welshman was mystified, but followed my instructions to the
letter. He threw four balls which nearly broke my back to get. Then the
umpire held up his hand and called 'Continue the game.' I immediately
went over to him and explained that these four balls had not gone
_over the plate_! He fell for this and agreed with me. After that rube
of a pitcher had thrown about fifteen or sixteen balls--several I
let pass me, chasing them to the billet to delay the game--the umpire
got impatient and the Canadian rooters were yelling like mad to 'Play
ball.' I still insisted that none of the balls had gone over the
plate, and the umpire was in a quandary. The Canadian team captain was
kicking like a steer and offered to write home and send the umpire a
million books of rules. Then one of our men passed in the rear of me
and whispered, 'Alex says to go on with the game.' Wondering at this
information, I started in.
"The pitching of that Welshman was awful. He hit the first two men up
and walked the third. I was in despair, bases full and none out. Some
of the Canadian rooters were jumping up and down throwing their hats in
the air, and one fellow, looking squarely at me, commenced whistling
'The Star Spangled Banner.' This was the last straw." (Near every rest
billet hangs a gas-gong. This is a triangular piece of steel or an
empty shell-case. Beside this gong hangs an iron striker. Upon the
sound of the alarm, by striking on the gong with the striker, every
man is supposed to put on his gas helmet and repair immediately to his
proper station. These gongs are to warn soldiers that German poison gas
is coming over.)
"While I was signaling to my rube pitcher, and beseeching him to put
just _one_ over, the clanging of the gas-gong rang out. I dropped my
glove, got off my chest protector, and madly adjusted my gas helmet,
the rooters and players doing the same. Then I got wise. I remembered
Alex's instructions: 'Watch out for gas. I'll make 'em hunt for _their_
gas helmets.' The nerve and daring of it took my breath away. The
Canadians had a mile to go to get to their stations, and believe me, it
is no fun double-timing for a mile while a gas helmet is choking you
with its chemical fumes.
"Well, those Canadians beat it, and so did we, but the game was saved
and all bets were off. I nearly smothered with laughter in my gas
helmet. To the rest, not being 'in the know,' it was a genuine alarm.
Shortly after the stampede it was discovered that the alarm was false,
and a rigid investigation took place. But the Canadians had left and
our money was safe. It certainly would have gone hard with the culprit
had he been caught. As it was our Battalion got two weeks' extra
fatigue on working and digging parties.
"Afterwards, I was let into the secret. Alex had given Stein ten francs
to sound the gas alarm, which, with his fifteen francs bet on the game,
Stein did not have it in his heart to refuse. Many a time Alex, Stein
and myself had a quiet little laugh when we pictured the Canadians
stampeding for their billets.
"Then, orders were received to take over a new sector of the line, and
baseball was forgotten. Baseballs gave way to hand grenades.
"Not long after that Alex was killed, and Stein wounded. Thus ended the
career of the Fusilier Giants."
"BLIGHTY!--WHAT HOPES?"
As Told by Sailor Bill
"BLIGHTY!--WHAT HOPES?"
It was Sailor Bill's turn. Clearing his voice, he commenced:
"When h'I was in the N'vy--"
"None of that," interrupted Curly. "You're in the Army now, and we are
sick of hearing you gas about the Navy. How about it, fellows, make him
tell an army story."
The rest all agreed with Curly, and insisted that Bill tell of an army
experience, leaving out as much as possible his nautical terms, which
were Greek to them.
Sailor Bill, highly peeved, insisted that he couldn't recall at that
time that anything worth telling about had happened to him in the army.
Ikey asked, "You were wounded, weren't you? Well, tell us about your
trip to Blighty. We can stand anything."
After two or three minutes of pretended hard thinking, Sailor Bill
lighted his pipe (which was worse than German gas), and commenced:
"The second battle o' Wipers was still blowin'. I 'ad run amuck with
three bullets (rifle, I think) during my cruise over the top. One
caught me on the port side o' my compass and nearly carried away my
port light, while the other two came aboard my starboard shoulder.
"I remember bein' lowered down a companionw'y into a brightly lit
'old an' placed on a blinkin' slab. Must a'been a first aid dugout.
'Pills' an' a Sergeant bent over me, an' after guessin' awhile said
'chloroform.' Then they tried to choke me by placin' a gas 'elmit over
my forepeak.
"I blinkin' well gawsped for h'air a couple o' times, an' then the
riggin' started topplin' about me. It was blowin' big guns an' my wind
was cut h'off. Suddenly I lamped Big Ben makin' fyces at the Tower o'
Lundun an' a bloody Whitechapel bus started crawlin' around Big Ben's
fyce like a blinkin' fly. About this time the steam pipes busted, an'
what with a lot o' hissin' an' rushin' noises, I took a temporary trip
to D'vy Jones Locker.
"I opened me deadlights. I were aboard a stretcher, swathed in
blankets, in a low-decked wooden buildin'. Across the w'y from me were
a long row o' stretchers, each havin' a wounded Tommy for a cargo. Some
were a-lyin' flat, while others were trussed up by folded blankets.
Others were sittin' on their stretchers, a-nursin' o' wounded h'arms.
"Between bells a stretcher 'oldin' a Tommy would be carried down the
deck by two stretcher-bearers, an' stowed aw'y in the opposite row.
"I could 'ear a bloody racket all about me, an' when I cyme out o' the
fog, I got aboard o' their talk.
"My starboard mitt seemed like it were lashed to the stretcher. I
couldn't budge it. Squirmin' about, which set the pain a shootin'
through me timbers an' started the seams, I turned me unbandaged lamp
in the direction o' me wrist to see what was a-'oldin' of it.
"An R.A.M.C. (Royal Army Medical Corps) lubber were a-'oldin' 'ands
with me as if I were a bloomin' girl on a bench in the park. 'E were
about twenty years h'old, nothin' but a blinkin' kid, an' looked
dog-tired, about time for 'is watch below. 'Is chin would gradually
sink on 'is chest as if 'e were a-fallin' h'asleep. Then 'e would
remember that 'e were on watch, an' would turn to with a jerk.
"After awhile 'is 'ead got too 'eavy for 'is neck to 'old, an'
battenin' down 'atches h'over 'is lamps 'e doused the glim.
"I gave me starboard flipper a jerk an' 'e h'opened 'is h'eyes. Then
across 'is face flashed a smile. In my w'y o' thinkin' it sort er
reminded me o' sunrise at sea. Anyw'y it sent a warm glow through me
for'ard an' h'aft. That smile gave me a 'ankerin' after that kid. Then
came a squall. 'E h'opened 'is mouth an' I knew I 'ad left the cabin
for the fo'c'sle an' a bloody Cockney one at that.
"'Strafe me pink, but you do tyke your own bloomin' time to come out
o' chloroform. 'Ere h'I 'ave been bloody well balmy a-'oldin' your
blinkin' pulse like some tart down in Piccadilly.'
"Out o' the corner o' me mouth I awsked 'im:
"'What port's this? Where am I?'
"Still a-smilin', 'e 'ailed a stretcher-bearer across the w'y:
"'H'I s'y, 'Awkins, this blighter wants a bloomin' map o' Frawnce; 'e
wants to know where 'e h'is.'
"'Awkins yelled back:
"'Wants to know where 'e h'is? What bloody cheek! Tell 'im 'e's
bloomin' well in Sam Isaac's fish 'ouse down Totten'am Court Road,
a-waitin' fer 'is order o' fish an chips.'
"This brought out a blinkin' roar from the Tommies on me starboard an'
port beams.
"I got sort er riled, an', Yank, 'avin' a-visited New York, I tried to
come aboard with some o' that Yankee swank, somethin' like this;
"'Aw cut it up. Quit yer kiddin'. Yer brains are dusty. What's the
matter, am I wounded?'
"The R.A.M.C. man, with that smile still a-shinin' from 'is port-'oles,
which made me feel kind o' shamed like at me resentment, awnswered:
"'Naw, myte, you h'ain't wounded. You just 'appened to fall down in the
bloomin' road an' one o' those blinkin' tanks crawled over you.'
This scared me a little, an' I sort er pleaded:
"'Cawn't you please tell me; what is the matter with me?'
"'E leaned over an' read from a little tag pinned to me tunic:
"'G.S.W. left face; two, right shoulder. Cot.'
"Then 'e carried on:
"'H'it means that you 'ave a gunshot wound, a bullet through the left
side o' your clock, an' two bullets through the right shoulder, an'
that you're a cot case, which means that you won't 'ave to bloody well
walk. Two of us poor blokes will 'ave to carry you on a stretcher. You
sure are a lucky bloke; pretty cushy, I calls it.'
"I awsked 'im if the wounds were good for Blighty.
"He answered:
"'Yes, they're good for Blighty, an' h'I'm a thinkin' that they're good
for a discharge. That right h'arm o' your'n will be out o' commission
for the rest o' your life. Your wife, if you've got one, will bloomin'
well 'ave to cut your meat for you, that is, if you're lucky enough to
buy any blinkin' meat on the pension the Top 'Ats at 'ome will 'and
you.'
"A feelin' o' pride ran through me. In a 'ospital o' wounded soldiers,
a severely wounded case is more or less looked up to, while a man with
a slight wound is treated as an ordinary mortal. I could read respect,
per'aps mixed up with a little h'envy, in the h'eyes o' the surroundin'
Tommies.
"The door at the h'end o' the ward h'opened. A 'owl came from the cot
on me starboard, an' a gruff Irish voice shouted:
"'Close that damned door. You bloomin' 'ospital men 'ave no sinse at
all. 'Ere I am, knocked about by a blinkin' shell an' the likes o'
youse puts me in a bloody draught. It's a good thing we 'ave a n'vy;
with the likes o' you blokes in the h'army, we certainly need one.'
"A laugh went up from the rest. Then a Tommy on my port answered this
outburst with:
"'Bloody nerve, I call it. 'Ere 'e is, a-covered with blankets an'
grousin' about a little drawft, an' not many hours back 'e was a-lyin'
in a bloomin' shell 'ole, with the wind a-blowin' the whiskers off'n
'im, an' 'e a-prayin' for the stretcher-bearers. I'll wager a quid 'e
belongs to the Royal h'Irish Rifles.'
"The man on me starboard retorted:
"'No, I'm not in the Royal Irish Rifles, but I belong to a good
outfit--the Royal Dublin Fusileers, an' I can lick the man that says
they ain't. So don't get so damn sharp.'
"Just then, from amidships in the ward, came the voice of a
stretcher-bearer:
"Jones, get the M.O." (Medical Officer). "Hurry up--quick! This poor
bloke's a-goin' West."
"The man 'oldin' my 'and suddenly let go 'is grip, an' a-risin' to 'is
feet, 'urriedly left the ward. There was dead silence 'tween decks. I
tried to turn in the direction from which the first voice 'ad come, but
the sharp pain in me shoulder warned me that I was on a lee shore.
"In a few seconds the door h'opened an' I could 'ear low voices down in
the corner. I could see the Tommies around me h'intently gazing in this
one direction. Awfter a few minutes the door again h'opened an' closed,
an' Jones came back. I looked up at 'im an' 'e solemnly nodded.
"One more bloke 'ad gone West for 'is King an' Country.
"Me unbandaged lamp suddenly ran into a fog an' sprung a leak, the
bilge water runnin' down me side.
"The door at the other h'end o' the ward h'opened an' two
stretcher-bearers h'entered an' went in the direction o' the dead
bloke. Pretty soon they came back with a stretcher in tow on which were
a still form covered with a blanket, an' left the ward. The Irishman on
me starboard was a-repeatin' to 'imself:
"'Poor bloke, poor bloke; 'e sure 'as done 'is bit, an' it won't be
long before 'e'll be a-pushin' up the daisies somewhere in Frawnce. An'
before this war is h'over there'll be lots more in the same fix, I'm
a-thinkin'.'
"One o' the Tommies, swankin' to be brave, h'addressed Jones:
"'What's 'is nyme, Mike? What battalion is 'e from?'
"Jones awnswered:
"'James Collins, a Lawnce Corporal out o' the Royal Warwicks; five
machine gun bullets through the right lung--'emorrhage.'
"The blinkin' door ag'in h'opened, an' two stretcher-bearers h'entered
carryin' a Tommy, 'is 'ead lyin' flat, an' the smell of h'ether
almost turned me stomick. I knew it were a case from the Pictures"
(operating-room). "The stretcher-bearers placed 'im to the starboard o'
the Irishman.
"Jones now left me, an' gettin' a little white basin, went h'over
to the new h'arrival. The Tommies turned h'inquirin' looks in 'is
direction. 'E knew what they meant all right, an' read from the tag:
"'Shell wound in left foot,--h'amputation.'
"I knew that I 'ad lost me prestige.
"In a short while the form on the stretcher began to mumble. This
mumblin' soon turned into singin, an' that Tommy certainly could sing!
'E must 'ave been a comedian in civilian life, because we were soon
a-roarin' with laughter. 'Arry Tate, the famous h'English comedian, in
'is fair weather d'ys, never 'ad a no more h'appreciative h'audience.
H'awfter a bit the singin' stopped an' the Tommies began talkin' at
each other. The main topic o' their conversation were Blighty--what
'opes! Each one was a-'opin' that 'is wound was serious enough for 'im
to be sent to h'England. The stretcher-bearers were fairly pestered
with questions as to what chawnce they 'ad o' reachin' a Lunnun
public-'ouse. I believe they all h'envied the bloke under h'ether, with
a left foot a-missin'; 'e was sure to click Blighty.
"A Sergeant-M'jor o' the R.A.M.C. h'entered the ward like a blinkin'
Admiral comin' aboard. All o' the medical men stood at attention,
except one or two a-takin' care o' serious cases. The Sergeant-M'jor
ordered:
"'Get this ward in shape. The M.O. is comin' through in five minutes to
h'inspect cases an' clear out.'
"The R.A.M.C. men went from cot to cot, carefully smoothin' h'out
blankets an' tuckin' in loose ends, an' pickin' h'up fag h'ends."
(Cigarette butts.)
"The Sergeant-M'jor pulled out.
"In about ten minutes, the door again h'opened, an' with a smart 'shun'
from the Sergeant-M'jor, who came in first, all what was able came to
attention, an' the doctor h'entered, a clerk, and a R.A.M.C. Sergeant
followin' in 'is wake. 'E stopped at each cot, carefully read the tag
on the wounded man h'occupyin' it, passed a few remarks which the clerk
jotted down on a pad of paper, an' as 'e left each wounded soldier, 'e
'ad a cheerin' remark for 'im.
"When 'e came to me 'e awsked:
"'Well, 'ow are you feelin' me lad, at the same time stoopin' over an'
readin' from me tag:
"'Ummm--three rifle bullets; well, me lucky fellow, h'it means
h'England for you.'
"H'I could 'ave blinkin' well a-kissed 'im for them words.
"Then 'e passed to the Irishman on me starboard. Bendin' over 'im 'e
awsked:
"''Ow are you, me lad?'
"The Irishman, thick-like, awnswered:
"'I'm damned sick, an' I want to get out o' 'ere; I want to get out
o' 'ere, out o' this draught. Ivery tin minutes they're openin' and
a-shuttin' that door.'
"The doctor, winkin' 'is lamp, turned to the R.A.M.C. Sergeant, an'
said:
"'Shrapnel, left foot, knee an' right breast. I see no reason why this
man won't be ready for duty in a couple o' d'ys.'
"The Irishman, bloody near jumpin' over the side o' 'is cot, yelled:
"'Dooty, how in the 'ell can I do dooty when I cawn't blinkin' well
walk?'
"The doctor answered:
"'That'll be all right, me lad. We'll fix you h'up with a cushy job at
Brigade 'Eadquarters, a-poundin' a typewriter.'
"The Irishman, with a moan of disgust, addressin' nobody in particular,
sighed:
"'Out since Mons, an' h'I h'end up with workin' a bloody typewriter at
'Eadquarters. Stick me in skirts an' I'll go as a manicurist.'
"The doctor went to the next case an' soon left the ward.
"As soon as the door closed, a string of oaths came from the Irishman:
"'Poundin' a ---- ---- typewriter at 'Eadquarters; just like the
bloody British h'Army; what in 'ell do I know about one o' those
writin'-machines? Just me luck. Why couldn't that shell 'ave 'it me in
the 'ands? But, I s'pose, if I'd a' lost me bloody 'ands they'd myke a
tight-rope walker out o' me.'
"Awfter a bit 'e sorter cooled down, an' to keep conversation a-goin',
I awsked 'im, sort o' innocent-like:
"'Where did you get wounded?'
"'E let out another bloody 'owl, this time at me, an' said:
"'Of all the damn fools, you're a-leadin' o' them. I got wounded in the
blinkin' Crimean War, 'elpin' Napoleon tyke Josephine across the Alps,
'ad me blinkin legs blown off at the wrists an' me 'ead cut h'off at
me waist. Is there anything else I kin be enlightenin' you of? If not,
keep yer tongue in that bloody cave o' yourn.'
"A-laughin' made me wounds 'urt, so I battened down 'atches an' lay to.
"Awfter the laughin' at the Irishman 'ad died out, the Tommies started
eagerly questioning each h'other:
"'What did 'e sye to you? Are you good for Blighty? 'E marked h'England
on me tag! What does Base 'Ospital mean? Does it mean that I'm to stick
h'out in this bloody mess while you blokes are a-goin' to Blighty?'
etc., etc.
"Pretty soon a stretcher-bearer came in a-carryin' a little, oblong
green box, which we all knew 'eld Woodbines. 'E were greeted with a
chorus of:
"'Gimme a fag, Mike; I'm all out. Come on, chum, don't forget me.
That's a good fellow. Let's 'ave one.'
"It weren't long before every Tommy who were fit 'ad a fag between 'is
lips. A sigh o' content went up as they inhaled deep puffs o' smoke.
Mine was jake.
"Awfter me smoke I were a-feelin' pretty ship-shape, an' tried another
shot at the Irishman. I awsked 'im:
"'Come on, myte, tell me 'ow you were 'it. 'Ow did it 'appen?'
"No answer.
"I tried again. Still no blinkin' awnswer. Raisin' myself on my good
elbow, an' it 'urt like 'ell, I took a look at 'im. 'Is fyce were like
putty, an' 'is mouth were h'open. I yelled to one of the R.A.M.C. men,
who came a-runnin', an' h'I pointed at that chalky fyce. 'E bent over
'im, felt 'is pulse, lifted 'is blinkin' eyelids, an' then took it on
the run for the doctor.