Biltmore Oswald — 03 - Part 3

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?

[Illustration: "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."

"Yes," chimed in the girls, "we just love San Diego!"

"In what section of the town did you live?"

asked the gentleman, and my friend whom I was inwardly cursing, seeing my perplexity, quickly put in for me: "Oh, you would never know it, sir," and then lowering his voice in a confidential way, he added, "he kept a barroom in the Mexican part of the town."

"A barroom!"

exclaimed the old lady.

"Fancy that!"

She looked at me with great, innocent interest.

"Yes," continued this lost soul, "my father, who is a State senator, sent him to boarding school and tried to do everything for him, but he drifted back into the old life just as soon as he could.

It gets a hold on them, you know."

"Yes, I know," said the old lady, sadly, "my cook had a son that went the same way."

"He isn't really vicious, though," added my false friend with feigned loyalty--"merely reckless."

"Well, my poor boy," put in the old gentleman with cheery consideration, "I am sure you must find that navy life does you a world of good--regular hours, temperate living and all that."

"Right you are, sport," says I bitterly, assuming my enforced role, "I haven't slit a Greaser's throat since I enlisted."

"We must all make sacrifices these days," sighed the old lady.

"And perhaps you will be able to exercise your--er--er rather robust inclinations on the Germans when you meet them on the high seas," remarked the old man, who evidently thought to comfort me.

"If I can only keep him out of the brig," said this low-down friend of mine, "I think they might make a first-rate mess hand out of him," at which remark both of the girls, who up to this moment had been studying me silently, exploded into loud peals of mirth and then I knew where I had met them before--at Kitty Van Tassel's coming out party, and I distinctly recalled having spilled some punch on the prettier one's white satin slipper.

"We get out here," I said, hoarsely, choking with rage.

"But!"

exclaimed the old lady, "it's the loneliest part of the road."

"However that may be," I replied with fine firmness, "I must nevertheless alight here.

I have a great many things to do before I return to camp and lonely roads are well suited to my purposes.

My homicidal leanings are completely over-powering me."

"Watch him closely," said the old lady to my companion, as the car came to a stop.

"He will have to," I replied grimly, as I prepared to alight.

"Perhaps Mr. Oswald will mix us a cocktail some day," said one of the sisters, leaning over the side of the car.

"I have heard that he supported many bars at one time, but I never knew he really owned one."

"What," I heard the old lady exclaiming as the car pulled away, "he really isn't a bartender at all--well, fancy that!"

There were a couple of pairs of rather dusty liberty blues in camp that night.

_April 8th.

_ Yesterday mother paid a visit to camp and insisted upon me breaking out my hammock in order for her to see if I had covers enough.

"I can never permit you to sleep in that, my dear," she said after pounding and prodding it for a few numbers; "never--and I am sure the Commander will agree with me after I have explained to him how delicate you have always been."

Later in the afternoon she became a trifle mollified when I told her that the master-at-arms came around every night and distributed extra blankets to every one that felt cold.

"Be sure to see that he gives you enough coverings," she said severely, "or else put him on report," which I faithfully promised to do.

She was greatly delighted with the Y. M. C. A.

and the Hostess Committee.

Here I stood her up for several bricks of ice cream and a large quantity of cake.

My fourth attempt she refused, however, saying by way of explanation to a very pretty girl standing by, "It wouldn't be good for him, my dear; my son has always had such a weak stomach.

The least little thing upsets him."

[Illustration: "SHE WAS GREATLY DELIGHTED WITH THE Y. M. C. A."

] "I believe you," replied the young lady, sympathetically, as she gazed at me.

I certainly looked upset at the moment.

This was worse than the underwear.

"So that's an Ensign!"

she exclaimed later in an obviously disappointed tone of voice; "well, I'm not so sure that I want you to become one now."

The passing ensign couldn't help but hear her, as she had practically screamed in his ear.

He turned and studied my face carefully.

I think he was making sure that he could remember it.

"Now take me to your physician," commanded mother, resolutely.

"I want to be sure that he sees that you take your spring tonic regularly."

"Mother," I pleaded, "don't you think it is time you were going?

I

have a private lesson in sale embroidery in ten minutes that I wouldn't miss for the world--the sweetest man teaches it!"

"Well, under the circumstances I won't keep you," said mother, "but I'll write to the doctor just the same."

"Yes, do," I urged, "send it care of me so that he'll be sure to get it."

Mother is not a restful creature in camp.

_April 9th.

_ "Say, there, you with the nose," cried my P. O.

company commander to-day, "are you with us or are you playing a little game of your own?"

I wasn't so very wrong--just the slight difference between port and present arms.

"With you, heart and soul," I replied, hoping to make a favorable impression by a smart retort.

"That don't work in the manual," he replied; "use your brain and ears."

Unnecessarily rough he was, but I don't know but what he wasn't right.

[Illustration: "I WASN'T SO VERY WRONG--JUST THE SLIGHT DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PORT AND PRESENT ARMS"]

_April 10th.

_ I hear that I am going to be put on the mess crew.

God pity me, poor wretch!

How shall I ever keep my hands from becoming red?

What a terrible war it is!

_April 11th.

_ Saw a basket ball game the other night.

Never knew it was so rough.

I used to play it with the girls and we had such sport.

There seemed to be some reason for it then.

There are a couple of queer looking brothers on our team who seem to try utterly to demolish their opponents.

They remind me of a couple of tough gentlemen from Scranton I heard about in a story once.

_April 12th.

_ The price of fags (gee!

I'm getting rough) has gone up again.

This war is rapidly cramping my style.

_April 14th.

_ I have been too sick at heart to write up my diary--Eli is dead!

"Pop," the Jimmy-legs, found the body and has been promoted to Chief Master-at-arms.

It's an ill wind that blows no good.

I

don't know whether it was because he found Eli or because he runs one of the most modernly managed mess halls in camp or because his working parties are always well attended that "Pop" received his appointment, but whatever it was it does my heart good to see a real seagoing old salt, one of our few remaining ex-apprentice boys, receive recognition that is so well merited.

However, I was on much more intimate terms with Eli when I was over in Probation Camp than I was with "Pop."

He almost had me in his clutches once for late hammocks, me and eight other poor victims I had led into the trouble, and he had our wheelbarrows all picked out for us, and a nice large pile of sand for us to play with when fate interceded in our behalf.

The poor man nearly cried out of sheer anguish of soul, and I can't justly blame him.

It's hard lines to have a nice fat extra duty party go dead on your hands.

But with Eli it was different.

When I was a homeless rookie he took me in and I fed him--cigarette butts--and I'll honestly say that he showed more genuine appreciation than many a flapper I have plied with costly viands.

He was a good goat, Eli.

Not a refined goat, to be sure, but a good, honest, whole-souled goat just the same.

He did his share in policing the grounds, never shirked a cigar end or a bit of paper and amused many a mess gear line.

He was loyal to his friends, tolerant with new recruits and a credit to the service in general.

Considering the environment in which he lived, I think he deported himself with much dignity and moderation.

I for one shall miss Eli.

Some of the happier memories of my rookie days die with him.

He is survived by numerous dogs.

_April 25th.

_ Yesterday I wandered around Probation Camp in a very patronizing manner and finally stopped to shed a tear on the humble grave of Eli.

"Poor sinful goat," I thought sadly, "here you lie at last in your final resting place, but your phantom, I wonder, does it go coursing madly down the Milky Way, butting the stars aside with its battle-scarred head and sending swift gleams of light through the heavens as its hoofs strike against an upturned planet?

Your horns, are they tipped with fire and your beard gloriously aflame, or has the great evil spirit of Wayward Goats descended upon you and borne you away to a place where there is never anything to butt save unsatisfactorily yielding walls of padded cotton?

Many changes have taken place, Eli, since you were with us, much adversity has befallen me, but the world in the large is very much the same.

Bill and Mike have been shipped to sea and strange enough to say, old Spike Kelly has made the Quartermasters School.

I alone of all the gang remain unspoken for--nobody seems anxious to avail themselves of my services.

My tapes are dirtier and my white hat grows less "sea-going" every day and even you, Eli, are being forgotten.

The company commander still carols sweetly in the morning about "barrackses" and fire "distinguishers," rookies still continue to rook about the camp in their timid, mild-eyed way, while week-old sailors with unwashed leggins delight their simple souls with cries of 'twenty-one days.'

New goats have sprung up to take your place in the life of the camp and belittle your past achievements, but to me, O unregenerate goat, you shall ever remain a refreshing memory.

Good butting, O excellent ruminant, wherever thou should chance to be.

I salute you."

This soliloquy brought me to the verge of an emotional break-down.

I

departed the spot in silence.

On my way back through Probation I chanced upon a group of rookies studying for their examinations and was surprised to remember how much I had contrived to forget.

Nevertheless I stopped one of the students and asked him what a "hakamaback" was and found to my relief that he didn't know.

"Back to your manual," said I gloomily, "I fear you will never be a sailor."

Having thus made heavy the heart of another, I continued on my way feeling somehow greatly cheered only to find upon entering my barracks that my blankets were in the lucky bag.

How did I ever forget to place them in my hammock?

It was a natural omission though, I fancy, for the master-at-arms so terrifies me in the morning with his great shouts of "Hit the deck, sailor!

Shake a leg--rise an' shine" that I am unnerved for the remainder of the day.

_April 29th.

_ Life seems to be composed of just one parade after another.

I am weary of the plaudits and acclamation of the multitude and long for some sequestered spot on a mountain peak in Thibet.

Every time I see a street I instinctively start to walk down the middle of it.

Last week I was one of the many thousands of Pelham men who marched along Fifth Avenue in the Liberty Loan parade.

I thought I was doing particularly well and would have made a perfect score if one of my leggins hadn't come off right in front of the reviewing stand much to the annoyance of the guy behind me because he tripped on it and almost dropped his gun.

For the remainder of the parade I was subjected to a running fire of abuse that fairly made my flesh crawl.

At the end of the march I ran into a rather nebulous, middle-aged sort of a gentleman soldier who was sitting on the curb looking moodily at a manhole as if he would like to jump in it.

"Hello, stranger," says I in a blustery, seafaring voice, "you look as if you'd been cursed at about as much as I have.

What sort of an outfit do you belong to?"

He scrutinized one of his buttons with great care and then told me all about himself.

"I'm a home guard, you know," he added bitterly, "all we do is to escort people.

I've escorted the Blue Devils, the Poilus, the Australians, mothers of enlisted men, mothers of men who would have enlisted if they could, Boy Scouts and loan workers until my dogs are jolly well near broken down on me.

Golly, I wish I was young enough to enjoy a quiet night's sleep in the trenches for a change."