Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 281
“Thank you, sir,” I replied humbly.
“Report here Monday for physical examination,” he continued, waving my thanks aside. “And now go away.”
“‘Do you enlist for foreign service?’ He snapped. ‘Sure,’ I replied, ‘It will all be foreign to me’”
I accordingly went, but as I did so I fancied I caught the reflection of a smile lurking guiltily under his mustache. It was the sort of a smile, I imagined at the time, that might flicker across the grim visage of a lion in the act of anticipating an approaching trip to a prosperous native village.
Feb. 25th. I never fully appreciated what a truly democratic nation the United States was until I beheld it naked, that is, until I beheld a number of her sons in that condition. Nakedness is the most democratic of all institutions. Knock-knees, warts and chilblains, bowlegs, boils and bay-windows are respecters of no caste or creed, but visit us all alike. These profound reflections came to me as I stood with a large gathering of my fellow creatures in the offices of the physical examiner.
“Never have I seen a more unpromising candidate in all my past experience,” said the doctor moodily when I presented myself before him, and thereupon he proceeded to punch me in the ribs with a vigor that seemed to be more personal than professional. When thoroughly exhausted from this he gave up and led me to the eye charts, which I read with infinite ease through long practise in following the World Series in front of newspaper buildings.
“Eyes all right,” he said in a disappointed voice. “It must be your feet.”
These proved to be faultless, as were my ears and teeth.
“You baffle me,” said the doctor at last, thoroughly discouraged. “Apparently you are sound all over, yet, looking at you, I fail to see how it is possible.”
I wondered vaguely if he was paid by the rejection. Then for no particular reason he suddenly tired of me and left me with all my golden youth and glory standing unnoticed in a corner. From here I observed an applicant being put through his ear test. This game is played as follows: a hospital apprentice thrusts one finger into the victim’s ear while the doctor hurries down to the end of the room and whispers tragically words that the applicant must repeat. It’s a good game, but this fellow I was watching evidently didn’t know the rules and he was taking no chances.
“Now repeat what I say,” said the doctor.
“‘Now repeat what I say,’” quoted the recruit.
“No, no, not now,” cried the doctor. “Wait till I whisper.”
“‘No, no, not now. Wait till I whisper,’” answered the recruit, faithfully accurate.
“Wait till I whisper, you blockhead,” shouted the doctor.
“‘Wait till I whisper, you blockhead,’” shouted the recruit with equal heat.
“Oh, God!” cried the doctor despairingly.
“‘Oh, God!’” repeated the recruit in a mournful voice.
This little drama of cross purposes might have continued indefinitely had not the hospital apprentice begun to punch the guy in the ribs, shouting as he did so:
“Wait a minute, can’t you?”
At which the recruit, a great hulk of a fellow, delivered the hospital apprentice a resounding blow in the stomach and turned indignantly to the doctor.
“That man’s interfering,” he said in an injured voice. “Now that ain’t fair, is it, doc?”
“You pass,” said the doctor briefly, producing his handkerchief and mopping his brow.
“Well, what are you standing around for?” he said a moment later, spying me in my corner.
“Oh, doctor,” I cried, delighted, “I thought you had forgotten me.”
“No,” said the doctor, “I’ll never forget you. You pass. Take your papers and clear out.”
I can now feel with a certain degree of security that I am in the Navy.
Feb. 26th. I broke the news to mother to-day and she took it like a little gentleman, only crying on twelve different occasions. I had estimated it much higher than that.
After dinner she read me a list of the things I was to take with me to camp, among which were several sorts of life preservers, an electric bed warmer and a pair of dancing pumps.
“Why not include spurs?” I asked, referring to the pumps. “I’d look very crisp in spurs, and they would help me in climbing the rigging.”
“But some officer might ask you to a dance,” protested mother.
“Mother,” I replied firmly, “I have decided to decline all social engagements during my first few weeks in camp. You can send the pumps when I write for them.”
A card came to-day ordering me to report on March 1st. Consequently I am not quite myself.
Feb. 27th. Mother hurried into my room this morning and started to pack my trunk. She had gotten five sweaters, three helmets and two dozen pairs of socks into it before I could stop her. When I explained to her that I wasn’t going to take a trunk she almost broke down.
“But at least,” she said, brightening up, “I can go along with you and see that you are nice and comfortable in your room.”
“You seem to think that I am going to some swell boarding school, mother,” I replied from the bed. “You see, we don’t have rooms to ourselves. I understand that we sleep in bays.”
“Don’t jest,” cried mother. “It’s too horrible!”
Then I explained to her that a bay was a compartment of a barracks in which eight human beings and one petty officer, not quite so human, were supposed to dwell in intimacy and, as far as possible, concord.
This distressed poor mother dreadfully. “But what are you going to take?” she cried.
“I’m going to take a nap,” said I, turning over on my pillow. “It will be the last one in a bed for a long, long time.”
At this mother stuffed a pair of socks in her mouth and left the room hastily.
Polly came in to-night and I kissed her on and off throughout the evening on the strength of my departure. This infuriated father, but mother thought it was very pretty. However, before going to bed he gave me a handsome wrist watch, and grandfather, pointing to his game leg, said:
“Remember the Mexican War, my boy. I fought and bled honorably in that war, by gad, sir!”
I know for a fact that the dear old gentleman has never been further west than the Mississippi River.
Feb. 28th (on the train). I have just gone through my suit-case and taken out some of mother’s last little gifts such as toilet water, a padded coat hanger, one hot water bottle, some cough syrup, two pairs of ear-bobs, a paper vest and a blue pokerdotted silk muffler. She put them in when I wasn’t looking. I have hidden them under the seat. May the Lord forgive me for a faithless son.
The departure was moist, but I managed to swim through. I am too excited to read the paper and too rattle-brained to think except in terrified snatches. I wonder if I look different. People seem to be regarding me sympathetically. I recognize two faces on this train. One belongs to Tony, the iceman on our block; the other belongs to one named Tim, a barkeep, if I recall rightly, in a hotel I have frequently graced with my presence. I hope their past friendship was not due to professional reasons. It would be nice to talk over old times with them in camp, for I have frequently met the one in the morning after coming home from the other.
“The departure was moist”
March 1st. Subjected myself to the intimate scrutiny of another doctor this morning. I used my very best Turkish bath manners. They failed to impress him. Hospital apprentice treated me to a shot of Pelham “hop.” It is taken in the customary manner, through the arm — very stimulating. A large sailor held me by the hand for fully fifteen minutes. Very embarrassing! He made pictures of my fingers and completely demolished my manicure. From there I passed on to another room. Here a number of men threw clothes at me from all directions. The man with the shoes was a splendid shot. I am now a sailor — at least, superficially. My trousers were built for Charlie Chaplin. I feel like a masquerade.
“Hospital apprentice treated me to a shot of Pelham ‘Hop’”
“I feel like a masquerade”
A gang of recruits shouted “twenty-one days” at me as I was being led to Mess Hall No. 1. The poor simps had just come in the day before and had not even washed their leggings yet. I shall shout at other recruits to-morrow, though, the same thing that they shouted at me to-day.
Our P.O. is a very terrifying character. He is a stern but just man, I take it.
He can tie knots and box the compass and say “pipe down” and everything. Gee, it must be nice to be a real sailor!
“This, I thought, was adding insult to injury”
March 2d. Fell out of my hammock last night and momentarily interrupted the snoring contest holding sway. I was told to “pipe down” in Irish, Yiddish, Third Avenue and Bronx. This, I thought, was adding insult to injury, but could not make any one take the same view of it. I hope the thing does not become a habit with me. I form habits so readily. In connection with snoring I have written the following song which I am going to send home to Polly. I wrote it in the Y.M.C.A. Hut this afternoon while crouching between the feet of two embattled checker players. I’m going to call it “The Rhyme of the Snoring Sailor.” It goes like this:
I
The mother thinks of her sailor son As clutched in the arms of war, But mother should listen, as I have done, To this same little, innocent sailor son Sprawl in his hammock and snore.
Oh, the sailor man is a rugged man, The master of wind and wave, And poets sing till the tea-rooms ring Of his picturesque, deep sea grave, And they likewise write of the “Storm at Night” When the numerous north winds roar, But more profound is the dismal sound Of a sea-going sailor’s snore.
II
Oh, mothers knit for their sailor sons Socks for their nautical toes, But mothers should list to the frightful noise Made by their innocent sailor boys By the wind they blow through their nose.
Oh, life at sea is wild and free And greatly to be admired, But I would sleep both sound and deep At night when I’m feeling tired.
So here we go with a yo! ho! ho! While the waves and the tempests soar, An artist can paint a shrew as a saint, But not camouflage on a snore.
III
Oh, mothers, write to your sons at sea; Write to them, I implore, A letter as earnest as it can be, Containing a delicate, motherly plea, A plea for them not to snore.
Oh, I take much pride in my trousers wide, The ladies all think them sweet, And I must admit that I love to sit In a chair and relieve my feet. Avast! Belay! and we’re bound away With our hearts lashed fast to the fore, But when mermaids sleep In their bowers deep, Do you think that the sweet things snore?
Our company commander spoke to us this morning in no uncertain terms. He seems to be such a serious man. There is a peculiar quality in his voice, not unlike the tone of a French 75 mm. gun. You can easily hear everything he says — miles away. We rested this afternoon.
March 3d. Sunday — a day of rest, for which I gave, in the words of our indefatigable Chaplain, “three good, rollicking cheers.” Some folks are coming up to see me this afternoon. I hear I must moo through the fence at them like a cow. (Later.) The folks have just left. Mother kept screaming through the wire about my underwear. She seemed to have it on her brain. There were several young girls standing right next to her. I really felt I was no longer a bachelor. Why do mothers lay such tremendous stress on underwear? They seem to believe that a son’s sole duty to his parents consists in publicly announcing that he is clad in winter flannels.
“Mother kept screaming through the wire about my underwear”
Polly drove up for a moment with Joe Henderson. I hope the draft gets hold of that bird. They were going to have tea at the Biltmore when they got back to the city. I almost bit the end off of a sentry’s bayonet when I heard this woeful piece of news. Liberty looks a long way off.
I made an attempt to write some letters in the Y.M.C.A. this evening but gave up before the combined assault of a phonograph, a piano, and a flanking detachment of checker players. Several benches fell on me and I went to the mat feeling very sorry for myself.
March 4th. The morning broke badly. I lashed my hand to my hammock and was forced to call on the P.O. to extricate me. He remarked, with ill-disguised bitterness, that I could think of more ineffectual things to do than any rookie it had been his misfortune to meet. I told him that I didn’t have to think of them, they just came naturally.
Last night I was nearly frightened out of my hammock by awakening and gazing into the malevolent eye of my high-powered, twin-six wrist watch. I thought for a moment that the Woolworth tower had crawled into bed with me. It gave me such a start. I must get used to my wrist watch — also wearing a handkerchief up my sleeve. I feel like the sweet kid himself now.
Drill all day. My belt fell off and tripped me up. Why do such things always happen to me? Somebody told us to do squads left and it looked as if we were playing Ring Around Rosie. Then we performed a fiendish and complicated little quadrille called a “company square.” I found myself, much to my horror, on the inside of the contraption walking directly behind the company commander. It was a very delicate situation for a while. I walked on my tip-toes so that he wouldn’t hear me. Had he looked around I know I’d have dropped my gun and lit out for home and mother.
Forgot to take my hat off in the mess room. I was reminded, though, by several hundred thoughtful people.
March 5th. Stood for half an hour in the mail line. Got one letter. A bill from a restaurant for eighteen dollars’ worth of past luncheons. I haven’t the heart to write more.
“A bill from a restaurant for $18.00 worth of past luncheons”
March 6th. Bag inspection. I almost put my eye out at right hand salute. However, my bag looked very cute indeed, and although he didn’t say anything, I feel sure the inspecting officer thought mine was the best. I had a beautiful embroidered handkerchief holder, prominently displayed, which I am sure must have knocked him cold. He missed the dirty white, but I will never be the same.
“He missed the dirty whites, but I will never be the same”
Fire drill! My hammock came unlashed right in front of a C.P.O. and he asked me if I was going to sleep in it on the spot. It was a very inspiring scene. Particularly thrilling was the picture I caught of a very heavy sailor picking on a poor innocent looking little fire extinguisher. He ran the thing right over my foot. I apologized, as usual. I discovered that I have been putting half instead of marlin hitches in my hammock, but not before the inspecting officer did. He seemed very upset about it. When he asked me why I only put six hitches in my hammock instead of seven, I replied that my rope was short. His reply still burns in my memory. What eloquence! What earnestness! What a day!
“Fire Drill”
March 7th. Second jab to-morrow. I am too nervous to write to-day. More anon.
March 16th. Life in the Navy is just one round of engagements to keep. Simply splendid! All we have to do is to get up at 6 o’clock in the morning when it is nice and dark and play around with the cutest little hammock imaginable. When you have arrived at the most interesting part of this game, the four hitch period, and you are wondering whether you are going to beat your previous record and get six instead of five, the bugle blows and immediately throws you into a state of great indecision. The problem is whether to finish the hammock and be reported late for muster or to attend muster and be reported for not having finished your hammock. The time spent in considering this problem usually results in your trying to do both and in failing to accomplish either, getting reported on two counts. Any enlisted man is entitled to play this game and he is sure of making a score. After running around innumerable miles of early morning camp scenery and losing several buttons from your new trousers, you come back and do Greek dances for a man who aspires to become a second Mordkin or a Mr. Isadora Duncan. This is all very sweet and I am sure the boys play prettily together. First he dances, then we dance; then he interprets a bird and we all flutter back at him. This being done to his apparent satisfaction, we proceed to crawl and grind and weave and wave in a most extraordinary manner. This is designed to give us physical poise to enable us to go aloft in a graceful and pleasing manner. After this dancing in the dew you return for a few more rounds with your hammock, clean up your bay and stand in line for breakfast. After breakfast we muster again and a gentleman talks to us in a voice that would lead you to believe that he thought we were all in hiding somewhere in New Rochelle. Then there are any number of things to do to divert our minds — scrub hammocks, pick up cigarettes, drill, hike and attend lectures. As a rule we do all of these things. From 5 p.m. until 8:45 p.m. if we are unfortunate enough not to have a lecture party we are free to give ourselves over to the riotous joy of the moment, which consists of listening to a phonograph swear bitterly at a piano long past its prime. The final act of the drama of the day is performed on the hammock — an animated little sketch of arms and legs conducted along the lines of Houdini getting into a strait-jacket, or does he get out of them? I don’t know, perhaps both. Anyway, you get what I mean.
“This is designed to give us physical poise”
March 17th. This spring weather is bringing the birds out in great quantities. They bloomed along the fence today like a Ziegfeld chorus on an outing. One girl carried on a coherent conversation with six different fellows at once and left each of them feeling that he alone had been singled out for her particular favor. As a matter of fact I was flirting with her all the time and I could tell by the very way she looked that she would have much rather been talking to me. Last week I had to convince mother that I was wearing my flannels; this week I had to convince her I still had them on. The only way to satisfy her, I suppose, is to appear before her publicly in them. Poor, dear mother, she told me she had written the doctor up here asking him not to squirt my arm full of those horrid little germs any more. She said I came from a good, clean family, and had been bathed once a week all my life, except the time when I had the measles and then it wasn’t advisable. I am sure this must have cheered the doctor up tremendously. She also asked him to be sure to see that I got my meals regularly. I can see him now taking me by the hand and leading me to the mess-hall. When I suggested to mother that she write President Wilson asking him to be sure to see that my blankets didn’t fall off at night, she said that I was a sarcastic, ungrateful boy.
