Part 7

"'Leave it to me, Yank, I'll fix 'em. I'll try out each one in turn. Let him wear the mask, and I'll send in some curves, and after the ball cracks them on the shins a couple of times you couldn't pay 'em to put on the cage.'

"The Tommies were strange to curved balls, and Alex had speed. It did my heart good to see him dampen their ardor and dent their anatomy at the same time. The Tommies would see the ball coming to them and would reach up their hands to get it. Then the ball would break and hit them on the shin or knee. After five or six had retired, rubbing sore spots and cussing Alex out, no one else wanted to catch, and the situation was saved.

"Tommy is a natural born soccer player and clever with his feet, but stupid with his hands when it comes to baseball. Several of them had a bad habit of stopping grounders with their feet, especially our shortstop. He would see a hot grass-eater coming his way; then, instead of using his hands, he would put the side of his foot in front of it. The ball would climb his leg and hit him in the chin or eye. After receiving a puffed-up lip and a beautiful black eye, he flatly refused to play unless I would let him wear the mask. (Americans, picture a shortstop wearing a catcher's mask, and then sympathize with Alex and me.) The shortstop was a Sergeant, and through diplomatic reasons I gave the mask to him. At this every infielder wanted to wear it. Alex solved this by putting in another shortstop and giving me the mask. (In England they have a game called 'Rounders,' in which you are supposed to hit the base runner with the ball to put him out. This is generally a tennis ball and does not hurt very much.) Well, those Tommies had a habit of lamming the baseball with all their might at the unfortunate runner. Many an early practice was broken up this way, because the team would lose interest in baseball when they had a chance to view a fight between a giver and receiver.

"After about ten days' practice we had picked two pretty fair teams and arranged for a scrub game. Alex's side won, thanks to his pitching. Then, as is usual in baseball, things began to happen. A jinx seemed to rest on our candidates. Every time we had to go up the line on a working party, one or two of the players would get wounded or killed; in fact, being a baseball player got to be a perfect Jonah, and the Tommies became superstitious. If one of our team happened to be working among ten or twelve other company men, he was sure to get hit, while the other fellows came through without a scratch. Alex and I also began to get frightened, and decided to chuck up the whole thing before we clicked it ourselves.

"Then we went further back behind the lines. During this stay we rounded out a passable team. A Canadian Battalion, just sent out from England on their way to 'Wipers,' went into billets about a mile from us. This was our chance. Alex went over and proposed a game with them for the following Sunday. The challenge was accepted. We had a week's time in which to strengthen some weaknesses and to teach the bunch a little 'inside' baseball. Then the jinx popped up again. On the morning of the game with the Canadians, our cleverest infielder, the first baseman, picked up an old German hand grenade, and brought it to the billet. This man was a great souvenir collector; always hammering at 'dud' shells, trying to remove the nose-caps.

"On seeing him fooling around with the German bomb, I told him to throw it away, saying that one could never trust those things, and that I did not want to take any chances of losing a first baseman; but being of a naturally curious disposition, he refused to do so, and taking the bomb out behind the billet proceeded to take liberties with its mechanism: result, right hand blown off, and another vacancy to be filled at first base. What we said about him would have met with the highest approval of exponents of German Kultur.

"The game was scheduled for two o'clock, and at exactly one-thirty-five Mr. Fritz plunked a stray 'five-nine' shell into our infield between home and first base, making a hole big enough for a limber to hide in. This meant picks and shovels for all hands to fill in the hole. By this time a large crowd of rooters of both sides had lined themselves along the foul lines. The compliments that were wafted back and forth made the Sky Pilot pick up and leave before the game started.

"Betting waxed hot and furious. I don't believe there was a loose 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.