Part 10

Teacher—“What lessons do we learn from the attack on the Dardanelles?”

Prize Scholar—“That a strait beats three kings, dad says.”

TOMMY ATKINS, RAIN-SOAKED AND WAR-WORN STILL GRINS

FREDERIC WILLIAM WILE, one of the Vigilantes, differs with Sherman in declaring that war is mud. He had just returned from what he describes as one of the periodical joy-rides which the British Foreign Office and the General Staff organize from time to time to give civilians an opportunity to visit the front. Mr. Wile’s visits occurred when the war-god was evidently taking a much-needed rest, for he says that on two occasions when he intruded upon Armageddon he saw more rain than blood spilled. But he found Tommy Atkins—mud-caked and rain-soaked—still wearing the grin that won’t come off. Mr. Wile thus writes of his last visit:

I am in to-night from a day in the trenches. It rained all the time. The trenches were gluey and sticky, and the “duck-boards” along which we traveled were afloat a good share of the day. But the only people who used really strong language about having to eat, sleep, and navigate in such soggy territory was our party of civilian tenderfoots. The cave-dwellers in khaki whom we encountered in endless numbers were as happy as school-children on a picnic. Clay-spattered from head to foot, their clothes often wringing wet, they looked up from whatever happened to be their tasks and grinned as we passed.

Our chief and always dominating impression was of their grins and smiles. I am firmly convinced that soldiers who can laugh in such weather can not be overcome by anything, not even the Prussian military machine. Perhaps Tommy smiled more broadly than usual to-day at our expense, for during our hike from a certain quarry to a certain front line “Fritz” sent over whiz-bangs which caused us arm-chair warriors from home to duck and dodge in the most un-Napoleonic fashion, even though our gyrations were in obedience to nature’s first law—self-preservation.

When you’re in a trench and a shell screeches through the heavens—you always hear it and never see it—the temptation to side-step is the last word in irresistibility. You have been provided with a steel helmet before starting out on the expedition in view of the possibility that a stray piece of German shrapnel may come your way. These helmets have saved many a gallant Tommy from sudden death.

After you’ve heard a whiz-bang and find that you are still intact, you ask: “Was that a _Boche_ or one of ours?” You experience an indefinable sense of relief when you are told that it was “one of ours,” but you keep on ducking in the same old way whenever the air is rent.

Yes, it is the invincible grin of Tommy Atkins in abominable atmospheric surroundings and in the omnipresent shadow of death that has photographed itself most indelibly on my memory to-day. But next to that I am struck by his amazing good health as mirrored by his ruddy cheeks and bright eyes. Certainly the strapping young fellows whom I have seen are a vastly finer, sturdier lot, physically viewed, than any set of men now running around the streets of London in citizens’ clothes. It is manifestly “the life,” this endless sojourn of theirs on the edge of No Man’s Land, with the enemy a rifle-shot away.

You ask their officers what explains this hygienic phenomenon—this ability to keep at the top note of “fitness” amid privations almost unimaginable. You will be told that it is the remorselessly “regular life” the men lead for one thing, and the liberal supply of fresh air, for another. Then it is the simple food they eat and the never-ending exercise they get for their legs and arms and muscles. They sleep when and where they can, in their clothes for weeks on end, never saying “How-do-you-do?” to a bath-tub sometimes for many days, though they shave each morning with religious punctuality, even in the midst of a mighty “push.” Cleanliness of physiognomy is as much a passion with Mr. Atkins as his daily ablutions are to a pious Turk. You will go far before you will find a cleaner-faced aggregation of young men than the British Army in the field.

Should you have any doubt as to what the physical appearance of the men tells you, and ask an officer how Tommy is standing the strain of the war, he declares enthusiastically, “The men are simply splendid!” And you hear from the men that the officers are “top-hole.” But all that you will learn from the officers on that subject is:

Regulation No. 1, when a man gets a commission in the British Army, is: “Men first, officers next.” An officer’s business, in other words, is to see that his men are well looked after. If there is any time left when he has done that, he may look after himself. But Tommy comes first. That is why the relations between superior and subordinate in the mighty Citizens’ Army of Britain are perfect in the highest degree. Duke’s son and cook’s son are real pals. Class distinctions are non-existent in the England that is the trenched fields of France and Flanders.

“Just so we keep on livin’—that’s all we ask,” was the sententious observations of a mud-clotted Yorkshireman who backed against the slimy wall of a trench to let us pass. We had asked him the stereotyped question—“Well, Tommy, how goes it?” His answer was unmistakably typical of the spirit which dominates the whole army. The men are not happy to be there. They long for the war to end. They do not put in their time in the slush and rain cheering and singing. They hanker for “Blighty.” They want to go home. But not until the grim business that brought them to France is satisfactorily finished. They want no Stockholm-made peace. They are fighting for a knock-out.

I left behind me in London a lot of dismal, gloomy, and down-hearted friends, candidates all for the Pessimists’ Club. I wish they could have hiked through the trenches with me. It is the finest cure in the world for the blues. It may thunder and pour day and night in Trenchland, and the country may be a morass for miles in every direction, but the sun of optimism and confidence is always shining in the British Army’s heart.

SOMETHING NEW FOR THE MARINES

“IF CORPORAL —— ever wrote a better story for his newspaper than the one he has sent to us, I should certainly like to read it.” This high praise comes from Maj. W. H. Parker, head of the Marine Recruiting Service in New York, and is bestowed upon a letter in _The Recruiters’ Bulletin_, which was written by a marine, formerly a reporter in Philadelphia and now “Somewhere in France.” He rejoices at the start that “at last it is happening,” which “happening” is that the marines, “every scrapping one of them down to the last grizzled veteran, are undergoing new experiences—learning new tricks.” Of course this is beyond possibility, everybody will say, and the ex-reporter admits that—

One would think so after hearing of their experiences in far-away China, Japan, and the Philippines, near-by Cuba, Haiti, and Mexico, and other places which God forgot and which you and I never heard of; after hearing stories of daredevil bravery, fierce abandon and disregard for life and limb in the faithful discharge of their duties as soldiers of the sea and guardians of the peace in Uncle Sam’s dirty corners.

And yet here in France, among people of their own color and race, of paved streets and taxicabs, among the old men and women of the villages, among the _poilus_ coming and going in a steady stream to and from the front, the marine is learning new things every day.

Packing up “back home” on a few hours’ notice is no new experience to the marine. Marching aboard a transport, with the date and hour of sailing unknown, is taken as a matter of course by the veteran. There is no cheering gallery, no weeping relatives, wife, or sweethearts, as he leaves to carry out the business in hand. It is just the same as if you were going to your office in the morning. You may return in time for dinner or you may be delayed. The only difference is that sometimes the marines do not return.

Although life aboard the transport which carried the first regiment of marines to new fields of action in France was a matter of routine to the average sea-going soldier, there was added the zest of expectation of an encounter with one of the floating perils, the “sub.” It was but a matter of two or three days, however, when everyone became accustomed to the numerous lookouts stationed about the ship, the frequent “abandon ship” drills, the strange orders which came down the line, and the new-fangled rules and regulations which permitted no lights or smoking after sundown.

Kaiser “Bill’s” pet sharks were contemptuously referred to as the “tin lizzies” of the sea. “We must play safe and avoid them,” was the policy of those entrusted with the safety of more than 2,000 expectant fighters, however. And we met them, too. Not one or two of them, but—(here the censor interfered.)

Since his arrival in France the marine has spent day after day in learning new things, not the least of which is that contrary to his usual experience of finding about him a hostile people, rifle in hand, and unknown danger ahead, he is among a people who welcome him as a friend and ally in the struggle against a common enemy. With the arrival of the American troops, the appealing outstretched hands of France were changed to hands of welcome, creating an atmosphere that might easily have turned the heads of men more balanced than the marines after being confined for more than two weeks aboard a ship, but—

Here, again, one comes in contact with the matter-of-fact administration of the marines. Arriving under such circumstances, the landing and encampment of the marines were effected with a military precision and businesslike efficiency which allowed no one for a moment to forget the serious nature of the mission upon which he had embarked.

Stores and supplies were loaded on trucks and, in less than three hours after the order was given to disembark, the marines, with their packs strapped over the shoulders, were marching to their camp just on the outskirts of the seaport town of ——. Within another hour the whole regiment was under canvas, field-desks and typewriter-chests were unlocked, and regimental and other department offices were running along at full swing.

And that was the beginning of the period of training during which the marine is learning everything that is to be known about waging twentieth-century warfare. He is taking a post-graduate course in the intricacies of modern trench-building, grenade-throwing, and barbed-wire entanglements. And the very best men of the French Army are his instructors.

The marine is also learning the “lingo” of this country, the nicer phrases of the language as well as the slang of the trenches. But in the majority of cases experience was his teacher. Upon the arrival of the transport liberty hours were arranged for the marines, and, armed with a “Short Vocabulary of French Words and Phrases,” with which all had been supplied, they invaded the cafés, restaurants, and shops of the little old seaport town.

And it was the restaurants where one’s ignorance of French was most keenly felt. All sorts of queer and yet strangely familiar noises emanated from the curtained windows of the _buvettes_ along the streets. Upon investigation it would be discovered that a marine, having lost his “vocabulary,” was flapping his arms and cackling for eggs, earnestly baahing for a lamb stew, or grunting to the best of his ability in a vain endeavor to make _madame_ understand that he wanted roast pork. Imagine his chagrin to find that “pig” and “pork,” as shown on page 16, are “_porc_” in French and are pronounced just the same as in good old American. But the scenes that presented themselves on Sundays or _fête_ days—take the 4th or 14th of July, for example—were such as never had been seen in any French town before. Picture a tiny café, low and whitewashed, ancient, weather-beaten, but immaculately clean, with its heavy ceiling-beams and huge fireplace with brass and copper furnishings. With this background imagine just as many tables as the little place can hold about which are crowded French and American soldiers, sailors, and marines.

The table in the corner there, for instance: two _poilus_, two American “jackies,” two marines, and an old Breton peasant farmer with his wife, fat, uncomprehending, and wild-eyed, and his daughter, red-lipped and of fair complexion—these three in from the country for a holiday, the women arrayed in the black cloth and velvet costumes, bright-colored silk aprons, and elaborate linen head-dress which identify them as native of a certain locality.

One of the “jackies” sings with gusto service songs of strong and colorful language, singing to himself save for the half-amused and wondering stares of the peasants. The younger of the Frenchmen shows by taking off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt where the shell-fragment penetrated which caused the paralysis in his left arm and sent him home on a month’s furlough, and the Americans eye with interest the actual fragment itself, now doing duty as a watch-charm.

But the hubbub and racket cease, and every one rushes to the windows and door as the Marine Band comes swinging along the water-front, playing with catching rhythm “Our Director.” The French burst out in cries of “_Vive l’Amérique!_” The fever spreads, and our soldiers and sailors yell “_Vive la France!_” or as near to it as they can get, as the procession marches by, and the fat old peasant woman says with full approval, “That’s beautiful!”

Another letter from the permanent training-camp of the marines, published in _The Recruiters’ Bulletin_, tells of an inspection of the regiment by General Pershing and General Pétain, the French Commander-in-Chief. We read “that the piercing eyes of ‘Black Jack’ rarely miss an unshaven face, badly polished shoes, or the sloppy appearance of anyone” among the soldiers under inspection, and the writer relates:

Together with the Commander-in-Chief of all the French forces and accompanied by several French generals, representing the most important military units in France, General Pershing made one of his now famous whirlwind inspection tours and descended upon the marines amid a cloud of dust which marked the line of travel of the high-powered French touring-cars which carried the generals. Not so very long before that the field-telephone in the regimental office rang and a voice came over the wire:

“The big blue machine is on the way down, and will probably be there in ten minutes.” That was sufficient. Two or three telephone-calls were hurriedly made, and the Colonel, accompanied by his staff, proceeded on “up the line,” met the General’s party, and the marines were ready.

The result of the inspection is summed up in the memorandum issued to the command and which says in part: “Yesterday, at the inspection of the regiment by General ——, Commander-in-Chief of all the French forces, General Pershing, Commander-in-Chief of the American forces in France, and General ——, commanding the —— Division Chasseurs, who are instructing our men, General —— congratulated the Colonel of our regiment on the splendid appearance of officers and men as well as the cleanliness of the town. General Pershing personally told the regimental commander that he wished to congratulate him on having such an excellent regiment.”

This announcement was read to the marines as they were lined up for their noonday meal. And where is the marine whose chest would not swell just a bit at this tribute paid by General Pershing to those upon whose shoulders rests the responsibility of maintaining and perpetuating the glorious history and fine traditions of the United States Marine Corps?

JUDGING BY HIS LETTERS

“Where’s your uncle, Tommy?”

“In France.”

“What is he doing?”

“I think he has charge of the war.”

BLESS THESE AMATEURS

“What are you knitting, my pretty maid?” She purled, then dropped a stitch. “A sock or a sweater, sir,” she said, “And darned if I know which!”

NEW GROUNDS FOR EXEMPTION

The two young girls watched the “nutty young Cuthbert” pass along the street.

“Did he appeal for exemption?” said May.

“Yes,” said Ray, “you might have known he would.”

“On what grounds?”

“I don’t know,” replied Ray, “unless it was upon the ground that if he went to the war his wife’s father would have no son-in-law to support.”

SOUSA’S LITTLE JOKE

Lieut. John Philip Sousa, who is organizing military bands for the navy, was talking to a correspondent about the submarine danger.

“A friend of mine, a cornet virtuoso,” he said, “was submarined in the Mediterranean. The English paper that reported the affair worded it thus:

“‘The famous cornetist, Mr. Hornblower, though submarined by the Germans in the Mediterranean, was able to appear at Marseilles the following evening in four pieces.’”

RAPID MILITARY ADVANCEMENT

A certain west end tailor, being owed a considerable amount by a colonel who was received everywhere in society, made a bargain with the gentleman. He stipulated that instead of paying his debt, the colonel should introduce himself and family into high society. To this the colonel agreed and not long after the tailor received an invitation to dinner.

When the tailor arrived in the full glory of a perfect evening dress, the colonel did not recognize him.

“Pardon me, my dear fellow,” he said quietly, as he shook hands, “I quite forget your name!”

“Quite likely!” sneered the tailor, also sotto voce. “But I made your breeches!”

“Ah, yes!” said the colonel, smiling. And then, turning to his wife, said: “Allow me to introduce you, dear—Major Bridges!”

FORD SMILES

160 Pages. Paper Covers. Price 30 cents.

BY CARLETON B. CASE.

(Spring of 1917.) The very newest, largest and choicest collection of merry quips about our friend the Ford car, all good-natured and laughable, with nothing to offend even Mr. Henry Ford himself. The author went to Detroit and obtained some of the new jokes in this book right at the Ford factory. You can’t help laughing, whether you own a Ford car or not, at the funny things in “Ford Smiles.” When you get this book of humor we ask you to read the short Preface to it; it explains, in the author’s opinion, why every good Ford joke is a compliment to that great invention—the Ford Motor Car. Probably you hadn’t thought of it that way.

SHREWESBURY PUBLISHING CO. 5525 South Boulevard Chicago, U. S. A.

ANECDOTES OF THE GREAT WAR

Gathered from European Sources

160 Pages Paper Covers Price 30 Cents

BY CARLETON B. CASE

(Just off the press.) The funny things which the combatants say and do in the present great conflict in Europe and Asia, the recruits’ blunders, the stay-at-homes’ excuses, the bulls of the Irish fighters, the jokes on the officers and on the lads in the trenches,—these and many other amusing anecdotes of the war are to be found in this book in great detail. _It is the only collection of its kind_, and is gathered direct from the press of the European nations engaged in the war, especially for this work. Contains nothing to offend any nationality, but everything to amuse and entertain the reader.

SHREWESBURY PUBLISHING CO. 5525 South Boulevard, CHICAGO

THE SHREWESBURY SERIES OF

Popular Entertainment Books

Edited by CARLETON B. CASE

A Batch of Smiles (humor) A Little Nonsense “ Flashes of Irish Wit “ Some Irish Smiles “ Stories from the Trenches “ Anecdotes of the Great War “ The Sunny Side of Life “ Vaudeville Wit “ Ford Smiles “ Wit and Humor of Abraham Lincoln “ New Book of Conundrums and Riddles How to Write Love-Letters Art of Making Love Etiquette for Every Occasion Gypsy Witch Fortune-Teller Telling Fortunes by Cards Gypsy Witch Dream Book Oriental Dream Book Herrmann’s Wizards’ Manual Card Tricks The Amateur Trapper How to Box Comic Declamations and Readings Wartime and Patriotic Selections Junior Recitations Holiday Recitations District School Recitations Children’s Select Recitations and Dialogues Comic Dialogues for Boys and Girls Jolly Dialogues Junior Dialogues High School Dialogues Entertaining Dialogues Fun for Friday Afternoons (dialogues) Friday Afternoon Dramas

The very latest works of their kind. Uniform in style. Procurable where you bought this book, or will be sent postpaid by the publishers on receipt of price, 30 cents each.

SHREWESBURY PUBLISHING CO. 5525 South Boulevard, CHICAGO

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Spelling in quotations was retained such as “gotton.” This also includes much varied hyphenation.

Page 44, “bring” changed to “bringing” (bringing down a second)

Page 100, “sasid” changed to “said” (said to a solicitous)

End of Project Gutenberg's Stories from the Trenches, by Carleton B. Case