Delphi complete works of.., p.282
Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 282
March 18th. There is something decidedly wrong with me as a sailor. I got my pictures to-day. Try as I may, I am unable to locate the trouble. There seems to be some item left out. Not enough salt in the mixture, perhaps. I don’t know exactly what it is but I seem to be a little too, may I say, handsome or, perhaps, polished would be the better word. I’m afraid to send the pictures away because no one will believe them. They will think I borrowed the clothes.
March 19th. A funny thing happened last Sunday that I forgot to record. A girl had her foot on the fence and when she took it down every one yelled, “As you were.” Sailors have such a delicate sense of humor. Well, that’s about enough for to-day.
March 20th. We had a lecture on boats to-day. The only thing I don’t know now is how to tell a bilge from a painter. The oar was easy. It is divided into three parts, the stem, the lead and the muzzle. I must remember this, it is very important. The men are getting so used to inoculations around here that they complain when they don’t get enough. We’re shaping up into a fine body of men, our company commander told us this morning, and added, that if we continue to pick up cigarette butts several more weeks we’ll be able to stack arms without dropping our guns. Eli, the goat, seems unwell to-day. I attribute his unfortunate condition to his constant and unrelenting efforts to keep the canteen clear of paper. It is my belief that goats are not healthy because of the fact that they eat paper, but in spite of it, and I feel sure that if all goats got together and decided to cut out paper for a while and live on a regular diet, they would be a much more robust race. The movies were great to-night. I saw Sidney Drew’s left ear and a mole on the neck of the man in front of me.
March 21st. A fellow in our bay asked last night how much an admiral’s pay was a month and when we told him he yawned, turned over on his side and said, “Not enough.” He added that he could pick up that much at a first-class parade any time. We all tightened our wrist watches. Been blinking at the blinker all evening. Can’t make much sense out of it. The bloomin’ thing is always two blinks ahead of me. It’s all very nice, I dare say, but I’d much rather get my messages on scented paper. I got one to-day. She called me her “Great, big, cute little sailor boy.” Those were her exact words. How clever she is. I’m going to marry her just as soon as I’m a junior lieutenant. She’ll wait a year, anyway.
March 22d. I made up verses to myself in my hammock last night. Perhaps I’ll send some of them to the camp paper. It would be nice to see your stuff in print. Here’s one of the poems:
THE UNREGENERATE SAILOR MAN
I
I take my booze In my overshoes; I’m fond of the taste of rubber; I oil my hair With the grease of bear Or else with a bull whale’s blubber.
II
My dusky wife Was a source of strife, So I left her in Singapore And sailed away At the break of day — Since then I have widowed four.
III
Avast! Belay, And alack-a-day That I gazed in the eyes of beauty. For in devious ways Their innocent gaze Has caused me much extra duty.
IV
I never get past The jolly old mast, The skipper and I are quite chummy; He knows me by sight When I’m sober or tight And calls me a “wicked old rummy.”
A sort of sweetheart-in-every-port type I intend to make him — a seafaring man of the old school such as I suppose some of the six-stripers around here were. I don’t imagine it was very difficult to get a good conduct record in the old days, because from all the tales I’ve heard from this source and that, a sailor-man who did not too openly boast of being a bigamist and who limited his homicidical inclinations to half a dozen foreigners when on shore leave, was considered a highly respectable character. Perhaps this is not at all true and I for one can hardly believe it when I look at the virtuous and impeccable exteriors of the few remaining representatives with whom I have come in contact. However, any one has my permission to ask them if it is true or not, should they care to find out for themselves. I refuse to be held responsible though. I think I shall send this poem to the paper soon.
It must be wonderful to get your poems in print. All my friends would be so proud to know me. I wonder if the editors are well disposed, God-fearing men.
“Liberty Party”
From all I hear they must be a hard lot. Probably they’ll be nice to me because of my connections. I know so many bartenders. Next week I rate liberty! Ah, little book, I wonder what these pages will contain when I come back. I hate to think. New York, you know, is such an interesting place.
March 25th. Man! Man! How I suffer! I’m so weary I could sleep on my company commander’s breast, and to bring oneself to that one must be considerably fatigued, so to speak. Who invented liberty, anyway? It’s a greatly over-rated pastime as far as I can make out, consisting of coming and going with the middle part omitted.
One man whispered to me at muster this morning that all he could remember of his liberty was checking out and checking in. He looked unwell. My old pal, “Spike” Kelly, I hear was also out of luck. His girl was the skipper of a Fourteenth Street crosstown car, so he was forced to spend most of his time riding, between the two rivers. He nickeled himself to death in doing it. He said if Mr. Shonts plays golf, as no doubt he does, he has “Spike” Kelly to thank for a nice, new box of golf balls. And while on the subject, “Spike” observes that one of those engaging car signs should read:
“Is it Gallantry, or the Advent of Woman Suffrage, or the Presence of the Conductorette that Causes So Many Sailors to Wear Out Their Seats Riding Back and Forth, and So Many Unnecessary Fares to Be Rung Up in So Doing?”
His conversation with “Mame,” his light-o’-love, was conducted along this line:
“Say, Mame.”
“Yes, George, dear (fare, please, madam). What does tweetums want?”
“You look swell in your new uniform.”
“Oh, Georgie, do you think it fits? (Yes, madam, positively, the car was brushed this morning, your baby will be perfectly safe inside.)”
“Mame.”
“George! (Step forward, please.) Go on, dear.”
“Mame, it’s doggon hard to talk to you here.”
“Isn’t it just! (What is it lady? Cabbage? Oh, baggage! No, no, you can’t check baggage here; this isn’t a regular train.) George, stop holding my hand! I can’t make change!”
“Aw, Mame, who do you love?”
“Why, tweetums, I love — (plenty of room up forward! Don’t jam up the door) you, of course. (Fare, please! Fare, please! Have your change ready!)”
“Can’t we get a moment alone, Mame?”
“Yes, dear; wait until twelve-thirty, and we’ll drive to the car barn then. (Transfers! Transfers!)”
“Spike” says that his liberty was his first actual touch with the horrors of war.
Another bird that lived in some remote corner of New York State told me in pitiful tones that all he had time to do was to walk down the street of his home town, shake hands with the Postmaster, lean over the fence and kiss his girl (it had to go two ways, Hello and Good-by), take a package of clean underwear from his mother as he passed by and catch the outbound train on the dead run. All he could do was to wave to the seven other inhabitants. He thought the Grand Central Terminal was a swell dump, though. He said: “There was quite a lot of it,” which is true.
As for myself, I think it best to pass lightly over most of the incidents of my own personal liberty. The best part of a diary is that one can show up one’s friends to the exclusion of oneself. Anyway, why put down the happenings of the past forty-three hours? They are indelibly stamped on my memory. One sight I vividly recall, “Ardy” Muggins, the multi-son of Muggins who makes the automatic clothes wranglers. He was sitting in a full-blooded roadster in front of the Biltmore, and the dear boy was dressed this wise (“Ardy” is a sailor, too, I forgot to mention): There was a white hat on his head; covering and completely obliterating his liberty blues was a huge bearskin coat, which when pulled up disclosed his leggins neatly strapped over patent leather dancing pumps. It was an astounding sight. One that filled me with profound emotion.
“Aren’t you a trifle out of uniform, Ardy?” I asked him. One has to be so delicate with Ardy, he’s that sensitive.
“Why, I thought I might as well embellish myself a bit,” says Ardy.
“You’ve done all of that,” says I, “but for heaven’s sake, dear, do keep away from Fourteenth Street; there are numerous sea-going sailors down there who might embellish you still further.”
“My God!” cries Ardy, striving to crush the wind out of the horn, “I never slum.”
“Don’t,” says I, passing inside to shake hands with several of my friends behind the mahogany. Shake hands, alas, was all I did.
March 26th. I must speak about the examinations before I forget it. What a clubby time we had of it. I got in a trifle wrong at the start on account of my sociable nature. You know, I thought it was a sort of a farewell reception given by the officers and the C.P.O.’s to the men departing after their twenty-one days in Probation, so the first thing I did when I went in was to shake hands with an Ensign, who I thought was receiving. He got rid of my hand with the same briskness that one removes a live coal from one’s person. The whole proceeding struck me as being a sort of charity bazaar. People were wandering around from booth to booth, in a pleasant sociable manner, passing a word here and sitting down there in the easiest-going way imaginable. Leaving the Ensign rather abruptly, I attached myself to the throng and started in search of ice cream and cake. This brought me up at a table where there was a very pleasant looking C.P.O. holding sway, and with him I thought I would hold a few words. What was my horror on hearing him snap out in a very crusty manner:
“How often do you change your socks?”
This is a question I allow no man to ask me. It is particularly objectionable. “Why, sir,” I replied, “don’t you think you are slightly overstepping the bounds of good taste? One does not even jest about such totally personal matters, ye know.” Then rising, I was about to walk away without even waiting for his reply, but he called me back and handed me my paper, on which he had written “Impossible” and underlined it.
The next booth I visited seemed to be a little more hospitable, so I sat down with the rest of the fellows and prepared to talk of the events of the past twenty-one days.
“How many Articles are there?” suddenly asked a C.P.O. who hitherto had escaped my attention.
“Twelve,” I replied promptly, thinking I might just as well play the game, too.
“What are they based on?” he almost hissed, but not quite.
“The Constitution of these United States,” I cried in a loud, public-spirited voice, at which the C.P.O. choked and turned dangerously red. It seems that not only was I not quite right, but that I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Go,” he gasped, “before I do you some injury.” A very peculiar man, I thought, but, nevertheless, his heart seemed so set on my going that I thought it would be best for us to part.
“I am sure I do not wish to force myself upon you,” I said icily as I left. The poor man appeared to be on the verge of having a fit.
“Do you want to tie some knots?” asked a kind-voiced P.O. at the next booth.
“Crazy about it,” says I, easy like.
“Then tie some,” says he. So I tied a very pretty little knot I had learned at the kindergarten some years ago and showed it to him.
“What’s that?” says he.
“That,” replies I coyly. “Why, that is simply a True Lover’s knot. Do you like it?”
“Orderly,” he screamed. “Orderly, remove this.” And hands were laid upon me and I was hurled into the arms of a small, but ever so sea-going appearing chap, who was engaged in balancing his hat on the bridge of his nose and wig-wagging at the same time. After beating me over the head several times with the flags, he said I could play with him, and he began to send me messages with lightning-like rapidity. “What is it?” he asked.
“Really,” I replied, “I lost interest in your message before you finished.”
After this my paper looked like a million dollars with the one knocked off.
“What’s a hackamatack?” asked the next guy. Thinking he was either kidding me or given to using baby talk, I replied:
“Why, it’s a mixture between a thingamabob and a nibleck.”
His treatment of me after this answer so unnerved me that I dropped my gun at the next booth and became completely demoralized. The greatest disappointment awaited me at “Monkey Drill,” or setting up exercises, however. I thought I was going to kill this. I felt sure I was going to outstrip all competitors. But in the middle of it all the examiner yelled out in one of those sarcastic voices that all rookies learn to fear: “Are you trying to flirt with me or do you think you’re a bloomin’ angel?”
This so sickened me at heart that I left the place without further ado, whatever that might be. Pink teas in the Navy are not unmixed virtues.
March 27th. My birthday, and, oh, how I do miss my cake. It’s the first birthday I ever had without a cake except two and then I had a bottle. Oh, how well I remember my last party (birthday party)!
There was father and the cake all lit up in the center of the table; I mean the cake, not father, of course. And there was Gladys (I always called her “Glad”). She’d been coming to my birthday parties for years and years. She always came first and left last and ate the most and got the sickest of all the girls I knew. It was appalling how that girl could eat.
But, as I was saying, there was father and the cake, and there was mother and “Glad” and all the little candles were twinkling, lighting up my presents clustered around, among them being half a dozen maroon silk socks, a box of striped neck ties, all perfect joys; spats, a lounging gown, ever so many gloves and the snappiest little cane in all the world. And what have I around me now? A swab on one side, a bucket on the other, a broom draped over my shoulder, C.P.O.’s in front of me, P.O.’s behind me and work all around me — oh, what a helluvabirthday! I told my company commander last night that the next day was going to be my birthday, hoping he would do the handsome thing and let me sleep a little later in the morning, but did he? No, the Brute, he said I should get up earlier so as to enjoy it longer. As far as I can find out, the Camp remains totally unmoved by the fact that I am one year older to-day — and what a hubbub they used to raise at home. I think the very least they could do up here would be to ask me to eat with the officers.
March 28th. These new barracks over in the main camp are too large; not nearly so nice as our cosey little bays. I’m really homesick for Probation and the sound of our old company commander’s dulcet voice. I met Eli on the street to-day and I almost broke down on his neck and cried. He was the first familiar thing I had seen since I came over to the main camp.
March 29th. This place is just like the Probation Camp, only more so. Life is one continual lecture trimmed with drills and hikes — oh, when will I ever be an Ensign, with a cute little Submarine Chaser all my own?
April 6th. The events of the past few days have so unnerved me that I have fallen behind in my diary. I must try to catch up, for what would posterity do should the record of my inspiring career in the service not be faithfully recorded for them to read with reverence and amazement in days to come?
One of the unfortunate events arose from scraping a too intimate acquaintance with that horrid old push ball. How did it ever get into camp anyway, and who ever heard of a ball being so large? It doesn’t seem somehow right to me — out of taste, if you get what I mean. There is a certain lack of restraint and conservatism about it which all games played among gentlemen most positively should possess. But the chap who pushed that great big beast of a push ball violently upon my unsuspecting nose was certainly no gentleman. Golly, what a resounding whack! This fellow (I suspect him of being a German spy, basing my suspicions upon his seeming disposition for atrocities) was standing by, looking morosely at this small size planet when I blows gently up and says playfully in my most engaging voice:
“I say, old dear, you push it to me and I’ll push it to you — softly, though, chappy, softly.” And with that he flung himself upon the ball and hurled it full upon my nose, completely demolishing it. Now I have always been a little partial to my nose. My eyes, I’ll admit, are not quite as soulful as those liquid orbs of Francis X. Bushman’s, but my nose has been frequently admired and envied in the best drawing rooms in New York. But it won’t be envied any more, I fear — pitied rather.
Of course I played the game no more. I was nauseated by pain and the sight of blood. My would-be assassin was actually forced to sit down, he was so weak from brutal laughter. I wonder if I can ever be an Ensign with a nose like this?
“Of course I played the game no more”
April 7th. On the way back from a little outing the other day my companion, Tim, who in civil life had been a barkeeper and a good one at that, ingratiated himself in the good graces of a passing automobile party and we consequently were asked in. There were two girls, sisters, I fancy, and a father and mother aboard.
“And where do you come from, young gentlemen?” asked the old man.
“Me pal comes from San Diego,” pipes up my unscrupulous friend, “and my home town is San Francisco.”
I knew for a fact that he had never been farther from home than the Polo Grounds, and as for me I had only the sketchiest idea of where my home town was supposed to be.
“Ah, Westerners!” exclaimed the old lady. “I come from the West myself. My family goes back there every year.”
