Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 290
“What would you do if you were at the wheel in a dense fog and you heard three whistles on your port beam, four whistles off the starboard bow, and a prolonged toot dead ahead?”
“I would still remain in a dense fog,” I gasped in a low voice.
“Speak up!” snapped the officer.
“Full speed ahead and jumps,” whispered a guy next to me. It sounded reasonable. I seized upon it eagerly.
“I’d put full steam ahead and jump, sir,” I replied.
“Are you mad?” shouted the amazed officer.
“No, sir,” I hastened to assure him, “only profoundly perplexed. I think, sir, that I would go into a conference, under the circumstances.”
The officer seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.
“What’s your name?” asked another officer suddenly.
I told him.
“Initials?”
I told him. He looked at the paper for a moment.
“That explains it,” he said with a sigh of relief, “you’re not the man. There has been some mistake. Orderly, take this man away and bring back the right one. Pronto!”
That Spanish stuff sounds awfully sea-going. I was taken away, but the officer had not yet recovered. He regarded me with an expression of profound disgust. Anyway I created a sensation.
“‘I would still remain in a dense fog,’ I gasped in a low voice”
Sept. 4th. Things have been happening with overwhelming rapidity. On the strength of being properly engaged to Polly, my permanent sweetie, I went to my Regimental commander this morning and applied for a furlough. He regarded me pityingly for a moment and then carefully scanned a list of names on the desk before him.
“I am sorry,” he said finally, “but not only am I not able to grant your request, but I have the unpleasant duty to inform you that you are a little less than forty-eight hours from the vicinity of Ambrose light.”
“Shipped!” I gasped as the world swam around me.
“Your name is on this list,” said the officer not unkindly.
“Shipped!” I repeated in a dazed voice.
“It does seem ridiculous, I’ll admit,” said the officer, smiling, “but you never can tell what strange things are going to happen in the Navy. If I were in your place I’d take advantage of this head start I have given you and get my clothes and sea-bag in some sort of condition. If I remember rightly, you have never been able successfully to achieve this since you’ve been in the service.”
“Thank you, sir,” I gasped, and bolted. In my excitement I ran violently into a flock of ensigns stalking across the parade ground.
“I’m going to be shipped,” I cried by way of explanation to one of them as he arose wrathfully.
“You’re going to be damned,” said he, and I was. Too frantic to write more.
Sept. 5th. All preparations have been made. Tim, Tony and the Spider are going too. I have just been listening to the most disturbing conversation. It all arose from our speculating as to our probable destination and the nature of our services. The Master-at-arms, who had been sleeping on the hammock rack as only a Master-at-arms can, permitted himself to remain awake long enough to join in.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said he, “if you were shipped to one of these new Submarine Provokers.”
“What’s that?” I asked uneasily.
“Why, it’s a sort of a dee-coy,” said he, stretching his huge hulk, “a little, unarmed boat that goes messing around in the ocean until it finds a submarine and then it provokes it.”
“How’s that?” asked Tim.
“Why, you see,” continued the jimmy-legs, “it just sort of steams back and forth in front of the submarine, just steams slowly back and forth in front of the submarine until it provokes it.”
“Ah!” said I, taking a deep breath.
“Yes,” he continues cheerfully, “and the more you provoked the submarine why the harder it shoots at you, so of course it doesn’t notice the real Submarine Sinker coming up behind it. See the tactics.”
“Oh,” says I, “we just provoke the submarine until it loses its temper and the other boat sinks it.”
“That’s it,” says the jimmy-legs, “you just sort of steam back and forth in front of it slowly.”
“How slowly?” asks the Spider.
“Very,” replied the jimmy-legs.
“No guns at all?” asks Tim.
“None,” says he.
“A regular little home,” suggests Tony.
“Sure,” says the jimmy-legs, “nothing to do at all but steam slowly back—”
“For God’s sake don’t dwell on that point any more!” I cried. “We understand it perfectly.”
“A regular lil’ home,” muttered Tim as he began to stow his bag.
(Later) I write these lines with horror. Some one has told me that the Navy needs Powder tasters, something I’d never heard of before, and that perhaps — that’s what we are going to be used for. All you have to do, this guy says, is to taste the powder to see if it’s damp or dry and if it’s damp you take it away and bake it. This sounds worse than the Submarine Provoker.
(Still later) Rumor is rife. The latest report is that we are going to be Mine Openers.
“What’s a Mine Opener?” I asked my informant.
“Why, it’s a guy,” says he, “that picks up the mines floating around his boat, but only the German mines of course, and opens them to see if they are as dangerous as they look. Some are not half as dangerous as they look,” he continues easily, “some are not quite so dangerous and of course some are a great deal more so. But they are all dangerous enough.”
“My dear chap,” I replied, turning away miserably, “a pinwheel is quite dangerous enough for me.”
Sept. 6th. This is being written from the gate. My bag and hammock are beside me. Tim lashed them together for me so they wouldn’t come undone. We are waiting for the truck. Tony in his excitable way wants to kiss the guard good-by. The guard doesn’t want him to. My last moments at Pelham have been hectic. The doctor said I looked one hundred per cent better than when I came in, but that wasn’t enough. If you didn’t look at me very closely you wouldn’t know that I was such an awful dub. This is progress at any rate. The telephone wires between mother’s house and the camp were dripping wet with tears when I phoned her that I was being shipped. However, she braced up and said she was proud of me and said she hoped I’d tell the captain good-by and thank him for all he has done. I assured her I would do this, or at least leave a note. Polly was a trump. The Spider talked to her and said that he was going to save the best uncut stone for her that he had ever bitten out of a ring. The Spider has been very valuable to us all. He seems to have the uncanny faculty of being able to take the cloth straps off other people’s clothes right before their eyes. Consequently we are well supplied. At present he’s looking at the handle of the gate in a musing way. I think he would like to have it as a souvenir. Here comes the truck. Pelham is about to lose its most useless recruit. I must tuck these priceless pages in my money belt. Wish I had a picture of Polly. Well, here’s to the High Adventure, but there’s something about that Submarine Provoker I can’t quite get used to. It seems just a trifle one sided. However, that is in the lap of the gods. Instead of a camp I will soon have the vast expanses of the ocean in which to demonstrate my tremendous inability to emulate the example of one John Paul Jones.
“Bear a hand there, buddy,” the P.O. has just cried at me.
“Buddy” I came in and “buddy” I go out. We’re off! I can dimly distinguish Mr. Fogerty, that unscrupulous dog that abandoned my bed and board for a couple of influential yeomen. Farewell, Fogerty, may your evil ways never bring you to grief. I do wish I had a picture of my Sweetie.
“‘Buddy’ I Came In And ‘Buddy’ I Go Out”
THE END
Out O’ Luck (1919)
BILTMORE OSWALD VERY MUCH AT SEA
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
OUT O’ LUCK: BILTMORE OSWALD VERY MUCH AT SEA
The original frontispiece
Smith, c. 1923
DEDICATION
TO
ELIZA,
THE LADY WHO SAW ME THROUGH
OUT O’ LUCK: BILTMORE OSWALD VERY MUCH AT SEA
SEPT. 7TH. — My first impression of the ship was not a reassuring one. As I regarded the tall, slim masts, with a lookout or crow’s-nest forward that somehow reminded me of an egg-cup, a nervous sensation made itself manifest and enlarged in the pit of my stomach. The very idea of there existing a bare possibility of my being forced to ascend one of those masts in a pitching sea and ensconce myself in the crow’s-nest made the bitter, sweat-washed memory of the coal pile back at camp seem sweet. As I stood gazing at the vessel that was destined to bear me out upon the turbulent seas of the high adventure, I considered how unlike the sensations of the heroes of all the sea novels I had ever read were mine. The scent of tar, which is guaranteed in all the best-sellers to send a thrill through the stalwart young adventurer, served only to cast a gloomy and nauseating foreboding of future complications over my rather meager frame. The bustle and hurry on the dock, so dear to the valiant hearts of the youthful mariners, confused my addled brain to a point bordering closely on idiocy. The ship seemed to be altogether too large. There would be many decks to holystone — too many, I decided. Furthermore, there would be much bright work to brighten. I pictured long days of ceaseless toil and nights of extreme danger during which the ship would play leap-frog with a series of submarines stretching away into the mist.
“Well, thank God, it ain’t a Submarine Provoker at any rate,” said Tim in a relieved voice,
‘Well, thank God, it ain’t a Submarine Provoker.’
“Too big,” breathed Tony, “thata ship he much too big. Whata you think, Bilta?”
“Well, it could be smaller,” said I, “but she looks safe.”
“Wonder when they issue the life preservers,” said the Spider in a dispirited voice. “I’d sort of like to put mine on before we went aboard.”
A member of the guns’ crew, one of the hardest looking white men I have ever seen, unfortunately overheard this last remark, and almost barked. I thought for a moment that he was going to bite the Spider, but he seemed to think better of it.
“You fellers ain’t agoin’ ter git no life preservers,” said he, regarding our unheroic group through eyes that had recently looked on something other than water. “We drown such guys as you for the good of the service.”
“How’s your head, buddy?” says I all of a sudden, prompted by some mad impulse. He looked at me with extreme earnestness for a moment before he spoke, and when he did speak all he said was, “I’m going to remember you;” but that was quite enough for me. My first enemy! Tim threw a protecting arm around my shoulder and at the same time faced my avowed foe.
“Don’t worry about that guy,” says Tim, “if he’s got anything to do with the guns I’m glad that I took out insurance.”
“Oh, is that so?” says the sailor snappily.
“What a hot answer!” jeered the Spider. “He’s got a good line of stuff, that guy.”
“You think so, do you?” says the other, moving closer to us.
I expected the worst. He would at least break one of my arms. I wondered if sailors rated a wound mark for getting injured under such circumstances, but at that moment a diversion occurred in the form of a weather-beaten Chief.
“Grab your gear and get aboard, lads,” he said in a hearty voice. “Step lively now. Up with them outfits.”
Accordingly we shouldered our bags and hammocks and started for the ship. It was a great moment At last were going to be sailors, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out on which side of the ship we were entering, The excitement had caused me to forget all the knowledge I had so laboriously gained at camp.
And then a terrible thing occurred. I can scarcely bring myself to write these lines. But I must be truthful, or else the record of my life in the Navy would be of little value. Anyway, no one is going to see these pages, so possibly it doesn’t matter. How can I describe the horrible incident? It wasn’t my fault, I swear it. The blame lies on the guy that belonged to the guns’ crew. He “remembered” me with a vengeance. He said he would, and he was as good as his word. It came to pass this way or after this manner, for it all happened so suddenly that I have only a confused impression of the details. As usual I was among the stragglers, and finding it very difficult going. The plank was steep and my outfit extremely heavy. There were a few men behind me, and at my side I saw to my horror the guns’ crew guy. He was observing my efforts with a malevolent grin. And then it happened — this fearful thing. I had just reached the steepest pitch of the gangplank and was about to step aboard, when suddenly I felt myself pushed violently backward. Something became entangled in my legs, and I completely lost my balance. As my hammock and bag flew from my grasp I uttered a low, despairing cry and tumbled over backwards. Down the gang-plank I rolled with incredible speed, gathering momentum at every foot. Vague thoughts flashed across my mind in the course of my frantic evolutions. “Where is the bottom.” I wondered. “If Polly could only see me now,” came into my mind, and through it all I was fervently cursing my enemy. He had pushed me. I knew it. Furthermore, to make my ruin complete, he had tripped me. This I also knew. My flight was becoming more rapid every moment. I seemed to be hurtling through interminable leagues of space. Vaguely I remember encountering several pairs of legs on the way. The legs instantly disappeared and violent swearing broke out in my wake. Suddenly I brought up against something other than sailor legs. These legs seemed to be invested with all the slim, blue dignity of an officer. They, too, disappeared, and a body fell heavily upon me. My flight was over. I was lying on the dock at the foot of the gang-plank. Dreamily, I opened my eyes and stared into those of an incensed junior lieutenant. He was lying hardly five inches from me. Gravity is no respecter of gold braid.
“A thousand damns!” screamed the infuriated officer, trying to rise. He was unable to, owing to the fact that I was on one of his legs.
“A thousand pardons,” I moaned as he unceremoniously rolled me over.
At that moment I felt a heavy hand on my collar and I was violently placed on my feet. The Chief was glaring into my face. A low cheer arose from those on the ship.
“You simple-faced lubber,” grated the Chief, “you almost ruined our lieutenant”
“I have apologized to him,” I replied, “but he wouldn’t accept it”
“Out of my sight!” roared the officer.
I hastily looked for my bag and hammock, feeling a strong desire to withdraw not only from his sight but from the eyes of the world. The bag and hammock were nowhere to be seen. They had vanished in thin air. Several men were pointing to the water between the ship and the dock from which arose the most astounding volume of oaths I have ever heard. Peering over the dock I beheld my bag and hammock floating around in the water. A sailor was also floundering around in the oily substance, and there were several overturned buckets of paint on a nearby scow.
“Who dropped that hammock?” yelled the man water. “Just tell me who done it and I’ll cut his heart out.”
‘Who dropped that hammock?’
I moved quickly back from the edge of the pier.
“Well show him to you later on!” yelled several voices from the ship as I stood by helplessly and watched my bag and hammock, together with the enraged ship’s painter, fished from the water.
“Get aboard,” said the Chief, and I marched up the gang-plank with thousands of eyes upon me. My outfit was presented to me with elaborate courtesy, the whole ship’s crew taking part in the ceremony. It was twice as heavy as before, and Tim had to help me carry it. As I turned away the Chief stopped me.
“The mere fact that you are aboard this ship,” he said in a loud voice so that all might hear, “is sufficient reason to give comfort to the enemy, and for that reason alone you deserve to be shot. Get below!” I got. Thus have I once more sprung into fame. Everyone on the ship knows me. I have been overwhelmed with jests and questions. The ship’s painter is still looking for me. My outfit is in terrible shape. I hope a submarine gets me soon. Life is a great deal too much.
Sept. 9th. — The Spider was the first to go. Merely looking at him made me feel nervous. His face was slowly taking on a soft, greenish tint, but he said nothing. How long could he last, I wondered. Finally I could restrain myself no longer.
“You’re getting sick, Spider, aren’t you?” I asked him.
“Getting!” gasped the Spider as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’ve already got,” and he dashed away, but I was close on his heels. Tim brought up the rear. Tony seems not to mind it. I can’t write any more. I wish the ship’s painter would find me and put me out of my misery.
Sept. 10th. — Impossible to write. Unable to eat, unable to sleep. Great suffering and endless toil. How much longer will it last? Tony dangled a piece of fat before our stricken eyes this morning and we all three rose as one and went elsewhere. Many others are sick, but I am by far the sickest man not only aboard this ship, but aboard any ship afloat. I must go.
Tony dangled a piece of fat before our stricken eyes.
Sept. 12th. — The worst is over, but misfortune still hangs like a black pall over my head.
“Get up in the chains,” said the Quartermaster to me last night, “I got to try some of you guys out to see how you cast the lead.”
Grabbing my Blue Jacket’s Manual I made my way limply forward. Here I placed myself in the so-called chains and carefully untied the lead from the rail.
