Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

This is the Land
That God forgot.
Arizona.
This is the land
That the Devil be-got.
Arizona.
In respects, it's possibly
Better than Hell,
In Naco.
Hot air, mixed
With sulphur smell,
In Naco.
There every acre
Is desert sand,
To take the place
Of the "Brim-stone" Land.
In Hell.
Also, we have the Prickley-pear,
In Naco.
Sage-brush and cacti
That might compare
To pitch-forks.
But should you ask me
Where I'd dwell--
Naco, or in that place below--
Just three words
From my mouth would flow:
"Me for Hell."
Conditions are settled
Down in Hell;
While on the Border,
You never can tell.
Arizona!
Hell, yes!
No watchful waiting,
No peace at a price,
Like Naco.
The Devil's policy
Is firm and concise,
In Hell.
No friendly raids,
Nor Mexican strife;
Like Naco.
One's die is cast:
To boil for Life,
In Hell.
In case of trouble,
Of any kind,--
The Devil acts
Without change of mind.
Naco--Hell.
Think of the wonderful
Peace Sublime,
In Hell.
I only wish
That peace were mine.

ROUTINE

(From a Marine's Diary.)

5:05 A. M.--FIRST CALL
I heard the First Call sound, and then--
Just yawned and went to sleep again.

5:10 A. M.--REVEILLE
At Reveille I shook the dope,
Broke out a towel and a hunk of soap.

5:20 A. M.--ROLL CALL
My name rang out upon the air;
I hollered, "Here," for I was "there."

5:25 A. M.--SETTING-UP EXERCISE
Took exercise, without a rest;
I like the Breathing Movement best.

5:45 A. M.--CHOW
Oh, what a difference breakfast makes!
'Twas Punk and Java, Dog and Cakes.

6:10 A. M.--FIRST CALL FOR DRILL
First call for Drill reminded me--
I'll try the rear rank--"number three."

6:20 A. M.--DRILL
Street Riot Drill and Company square;
I nearly went up in the air.

7:20 A. M.--RECALL FROM DRILL
Recall was music to my ears;
I hadn't felt so tired for years.

8:00 A. M.--COLORS
The Guard turned out for Uncle Sam
And handed him the "Grand Salaam."

8:10 A. M.--SICK CALL
One fellow went to show his corn
For there's a Hike to-morrow morn.

8:20 A. M.--FIRST CALL FOR TROOP
I shaved and washed, then cleaned the Gat,
And had ten minutes left at that.

8:30 A. M.--TROOP
The Captain sized us up for fair,
But no kick comin' anywhere.

8:45 A. M.--GUARD MOUNT
Guard Mount, my name wasn't booked;
How is it I was overlooked?

RESPITE

No more calls to answer now
Til I hear them holler, "Chow"
For this is my easy day:
Guess I rate it anyway.

12:00 N--CHOW--LIBERTY

Chow was the regular menu,
Spuds et cetera--carabao.
I heard "Liberty" when it went
But I didn't have a cent.

1:00 P. M.--POLICE
Glad I have no work today;
I'll turn in and hit the hay.

AFTERNOON--NO CALLS
Woke up promptly, half past two;
Walked around Olongapo.
Came in--played a checker game;
Wrote a letter to my dame.

5:00 P. M.--CHOW
Supper surely was some class!
Steak and Onions--Apple "sass."

6:00 P. M.----COLORS
Six o'clock when colors went;
Guard turned out and gave "present."

8:30 P. M.--TATTOO
Came in early, took a shower,
Read a book for half an hour.

9:15 P. M.--CALL TO QUARTERS
Let down my Mosquito net--
Puffed a Durham Cigarette.

TAPS--P. M.
Safely in my bunk I curled
And was soon--dead to the World.

THAT UNIFORM

Tis strange, but yet 'tis true, we see
Sane men who seem to think that we,
Who wear the blue, are not the same
As other men. We have a name
Scarce thought of with respect; 'tis used
To frighten children, and abused
By those who only wish to show
A few of the many things they don't know.

We read "the soldiers came to town
And raised particular ----," and so on down
A column or more of such vile stuff;
'Twould make us all cry "Hold! Enough!"
You see, there's scarcely anything
To write about. While these things sting,
What's that to us? We may lose by it;
But the public's fed, ye gods, the diet.

An old saw, which, perhaps, e'en you
Have heard, and some thought true,
Seems to have been forgotten, quite,
Or else we do not think it right.
Our fathers used to think that way,
But we are wiser (?) in our day.
Try to remember it, if you can,
Tis this: "The clothes don't make the man."

Don't turn the soldier down. You may,
For aught you know, or others say,
Be entertaining, unawares,
An angel; and, if not, who cares?
For, be he good, bad, weak or strong,
'Mid summer's sun or winter's storm,
You call on him to right your wrong,
Altho he wears a uniform.

IN THE COLD GREY DAWN OF THE MORNING AFTER

Bring me a dry Martini, waiter,
Chase in something that's wet,
I was out to a clam bake yesterday,
And I haven't got over it yet.

Throw me a pleasant look, waiter,
Smile at me pretty, don't frown,
And pour some glue on my breakfast
So I can keep it down.

I hear they have discovered the pole, waiter,
I wish I had it here now,
They can't come any too cold for me
To put on my aching brow.

Many a schooner was wrecked last night,
And the waves ran mountain high.
Personally, I was soused to the gills,
But today I'm awfully dry.

It was a terrible night at sea, waiter,
And many are missing, I think,
But as near as I can remember
I never missed a drink.

The one in blue got my purse, waiter,
Her side-kick got my clock,
I don't want to know what time it is,
Please lead me down to the dock.

Lead me down to the dock, waiter,
For a watery grave I pine,
The place for a man that is pickled
Is over my head in brine.

Tell them in Olongapo,
I died as a hero should,
Up to the neck, in cold, cold suds
Guaranteed drawn from the wood.

I'd like to leave you a gift, waiter,
Just to remember me by
And to show you that I'm not tight,
You can have my piece of pie.

And after I sink in the water, waiter,
You'll do me a favor, I hope.
Tell them, if I blow up bubbles
It wasn't from eating soap.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE POSTER

They told me that the Army was a joy for evermore;
They told me of the pleasures I'd have in it by the score;
They told me of its comforts and the jolly life I'd lead,
But by thunder they have fooled me and I'm sorrowful indeed--
I ever joined the Army.

They told me of the polished boots and the buttons bright I'd wear,
And of the splendid things I'd find upon the bill-of-fare;
But never a word they told me in the fine recruiting shop,
Of hoeing weeds upon the roads, or hauling out the slops--
When I joined the Army.

They told me of the pleasant hours, away from every care,
I could spend when not on duty, in town or anywhere;
But a thing they never told me is the punishment they'd mete
Out to a luckless rookie who went absent from retreat--
In Uncle Samuel's Army.

They told me of the canteen, where good lager beer is sold,
And of the fine post hospital, that cures all kinds of colds;
But a hint about the guard-house they never to me gave,
That skeleton they kept hidden as though buried in a grave--
Until I joined the Army.

They showed me good looking chromos of good looking soldier men,
With little V's upon their sleeves and hats they shone like tin;
But there is one uncanny picture they never to me showed
Of a soldier with a knapsack, and he hitting up the road--
In the U. S. Army.

They told me of the nice soft bunk, made out of woven wire,
Where I could lay my carcass, whenever my bones would tire;
But a whisper of the pick and shovel was never to me told,
So I'm pondering o'er my contract, and I think I was sold--
When I came into Uncle's Army.

They told me of the non-coms, who knew a soldier's worth,
Who made the Army jolly, a place of endless mirth;
But not a word they told me of the amount of beer I'd buy,
Just to keep a "stand in" with those that rank up high--
In Sammy's splendid Army.

They told me of the bill-of-fare that changed with every day,
And when landed in the Army for thirty years I'd stay;
But not a word they told me (No wonder they were mum),
About the stuff they feed us, commonly known as "Slum"--
In our conquering Army.

It is hinted that experience of all others is the school,
Where common sense alone is learned, by him that plays the fool;
And though I hate the medicine, I must take it with a will,
And keep convincing myself, it does me good--
It's time to leave the Army.

ARMY FEVER

When your first hitch is over, and you have cashed your finals few,
And a breakfast and a boat ride are all that's left for you,
And you toy with your collar as you don your suit of "citz,"
While your bunkie, sitting near you, has the bluest kind of fits;
You a-bubbling over with pleasure at the thoughts of going out;
The friends at home will welcome you, of that there's not a doubt;
And it never seems to strike you that you have made a beaten track,
In these years you've been a soldier--that you might come back.
So you hasten out as boat call goes--last call you have to stand--
And you wave farewell to comrades as you push away from land.
First call for drill is sounding from the bugler's throat of gold,
But you are free--"don't have to stand no drill in heat or cold."
Altho' you get to wondering as things fade from sight,
If drilling really was so bad as walking post at night.
You think, of course, when first discharged, one feels just sort of sad;
But it's Army fever symptoms--And you've got 'em bad.
You're in business on the outside, and you're making good, it seems;
But the bugle keeps a-calling, and a-calling through your dreams.
Then some day you meet a soldier on a furlough for a week;
And you think it only friendly to go up to him and speak;
And you find you knew his brother, or his cousin, or his friend,
And your job upon the outside has found a sudden end;
For a longing fierce comes over you, and you cannot resist--
It's the crisis of the fever--and you reenlist.

ONE TO THE ARMY BEAN

I've eaten funny dishes on Luzon's tropical shore,
I've eaten Japan's bamboo shoots and oysters by the score.
Of caviar I've had my share, I love anchovies, too,
And way down in old Mindanao I've eaten carabao;
Of Johnny Bull's old rare roast I nearly got the gout,
And with chums at Heidelberg I dined on sauerkraut;
In China I have eaten native rice and sipped their famous teas;
In Naples I, 'long with the rest, ate macaroni and cheese;
In Cuba where all things go slow, manana's their one wish;
I dined on things that had no names, but tasted strong with fish.
In Mexico the chili burnt the coating off my tongue;
And with Irish landlord I dined on pigs quite young,
Yet you may have your dishes that is served to kings and queens,
But I am happy and contented with a dish of Army Beans.

LITTLE THINGS

Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand
Make the mighty ocean
And the desert land.

Little hours of drilling,
Little "rifle shoots"
Make efficient soldiers
Out of raw recruits.

Little hours some spend in
Breaking liberty,
Oft' amount to something
More than E. P. D.

Little words of kindness,
When you spare a few,
Sound all right to some one;
Do they not to you?

SING-A-SONG-A-SIXPENCE

Sing-a-song-a-sixpence
Every-body dry--
Half-a-dozen Privates
Opening some rye.

When the rye was opened
The Bucks began to sing:
Every blessed one of them
Feeling like a king.

The Sergeant at the Guard-house
Saw them walking straight--
Marked them "Clean and Sober,"
When they passed the gate.

But, when Taps was over,
They sang and danced a jig,
Along came a Corporal
And slammed them in the Brig.

QUEEN OF MAY

If you wake, why, call me early--call me early, won't you, bunk?
The captain says I'll be a non-com., if I don't get on a drunk.
Then some day I'll be a sergeant with three stripes upon my arm,
Zig zag, like the old rail fences on Dad Posey's Country farm.
Call me early, though I'm dreaming, wake me up that I may see
How the sun that sinks in grandeur rises in obscurity.
I've been a private, bunkie, such as privates seldom are,
Borne my share of public censure, let it heal without a scar.
Till upon the fair escutcheon of my name and humble rank
Captain says he'll add the title and a stripe on either flank.
Then I'll be a non-com., bunkie, wake me up that I may see
My own glory bubble appearing, hear it burst at reveille.
Wake me early from my slumbers, henceforth I would early rise,
Health and wealth are common virtues--dawn will brand me both, and wise.
Bunkie, I'll be boss tomorrow, uniformed in blue and white,
Knew I'd get it, if the captain only did what's square and right.
But I will not chastise the comrades who may doubt my word is law,
I'll be easy with them, bunkie, patient, 'tho they feel no awe.
Bunkie, I'm growing sleepy; wake me when the morning breaks;
For upon the track of merit, I will land the non-com. stakes.
Let me hear the joyful clamor when I wake from pleasant dreams
That the fellows rise when greeting a noncom., who is what he seems.
Wake me early, bunkie, comrade, tell the fellows who I am,
Not forgetting all the favors I will do you when I can.
Tell them that I wouldn't have it, if it sacrificed their love,
Tell them that I'm the same as ever, though they think me far above.
Bunkie, I have dreamed so often of the buff that I shall wear,
That I feel the honor greater than a man like me can bear.
Long I've waited; long I've cherished thoughts of how I'd look and feel
When the captain said: Howard, here's a stripe to aid your zeal.
Then I'd be a non-com., bunkies, then I'd write to dad and say,
Modest-like: "A Corporal's greetings to his folks so far away!"

A YOUNG ROOKIE'S LAMENT

As I sit in the gleam of the camp fire,
'Neath the Oriental skies,
In fancy I picture the homeland shore
And a town I highly prize;
It's Gardner, dear old Gardner,
A town so dear to me,
But I'm many miles away
Across an endless sea.

I at the age of 17 was--
Fickle as a clam
I took a train for Fitchburg
And joined old Uncle Sam.
They sent me on to Slocum,
And filled me up on beans.
They made me take a rifle
And a pair of khaki jeans.

They sent me to the Philippines,
We call it no man's land.
We never see a flake of snow,
We bake our eggs in sand,
We hike o'er burning mountains
'Til it drives us near insane,
We pitch our camp in a rice field
In a storm of drizzling rain.

At night we walk our outpost
With a great big heavy gun
And 90 Dum-Dum bullets
To make the Moros run.
They're accurate as a weasel
And, boys, they never fan,
You have to keep your ears pricked up,
For they'll get you if they can.

Now, boys, you may think Gardner slow,
But that notion you'll destroy
If you ever hold your hand up
To be a soldier boy.
You have no dear old Mother.
To mend your tattered pants,
When you stick yourself with a needle,
With rage you'll fairly prance.

So, boys, I found my big mistake,
I was altogether wrong,
And that's the simple reason
I sing this little song.
So take a piece of fool's advice,
And never run away,
Just stay in dear old Gardner
Where life is bright and gay.

DANNY DEEVER BALLAD

"Where're all the soldiers goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,
"What are they all a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;
"I dunno where they're goin' to," said Files-on-Parade,
"I dunno what they're goin' to do," the Color Sergeant said.
For they're goin' back towards U. S. A. and leave the Philippines,
They're tirin' of the Islands and the Army "pork and beans,"
That "single time," and "two per mile"--they all know what that means--
So now they're all a'goin' to leave the Army.

"Where is the 'Doughboy' goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,
"And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;
"Back to his farm! Back to his farm!" said Files-on-Parade,
"Behind the plow! Behind the plow," the Color Sergeant said.
No hiking o'er rice paddies,--but furrowed fields of corn,
To go to bed real early and get up in the morn',
To be his own "K. O." once more, in the country where he's born,
So soon he'll be a-quittin' of the Army.

"Where is the Trooper goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,
"And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;
"Perhaps he'll pack an Army mule," said Files-on-Parade,
"Or go out West to 'cow-boy,'" the Color Sergeant said.
He's fond of his "caballo," and he loves his old "outfit,"
And if they'd change those Army bills, he wouldn't ever quit,
But Chairman Hay, and others, have forced him into it.
So soon he'll be discharged from out the Army.

"Where is the 'Gunner' goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,
"And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;
"He's goin' to be a 'jackie,'" said Files-on-Parade,
"A sailor lad a'fore the mast," the Color Sergeant said.
For he'd rather try the Navy, and draw a sailor's pay,
Than "single-time" in Jolo with three long years to stay,
Where there ain't no "two-cent mileage," while a'cruisin' across the Bay,
So now he'll soon be quittin' of the Army.

"Where is the Army goin' to?" said Files-on-Parade,
"And what is it a'goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;
"The boys will soon have done their time," said Files-on-Parade,
"And few of 'em will 'hitch' again," the Color Sergeant said.
For the Transports bring one "rookie" to take the place of ten,
"Old Timers," who are goin' home, and won't "hitch" up again,
And they'll have a Rookie Army--instead of Soldier Men.
For they're breakin' up the Army in the Islands.

PUZZY LAPPINS

When a crude and hopeful rookie
To the Philippines I came
To hike the glorious pathway
On to shoulder straps and fame,
I thought of mother's counsel,
And I scorned the drunkard's cup,
But I landed on the sick report,
And that's what did me up.

"You've been drinking," said the surgeon,
"You've been drinking on the sly.
You've been disobeying orders;
'Tis useless to deny.
Let me tell you on the Q. T.
That I am going to mark you 'duty'
You've been drinking unboiled water
I can read it in your eye."

I've a bunkie who is a restless dog,
And he doesn't care a fig,
So they marched him to the guard-house
And they made him do fatigue.
He's a gamblin', ramblin' rascal,
An all around jovial sport.
They had him up the other day
Before a summary court.

"Charged with drinking," says the captain,
And he seemed to "wink an eye."
"For you could not stand temptation
And you drank when you was dry.
You are grinning, Private Brady,
And you will draw five less next pay-day,
And for drinking unboiled water
Don't forget I cinched you high."

Since old Pharoah followed Moses,
And was followed by the sea,
Sergeant Potter's been a soldier
And 'til Gabriel's reveille
He'll be answering to the bugle call
At sunset, noon, and morn,
But he's got the Dengue fever,
And it makes him flush and worn.

"You've been drinking unboiled water,"
Says the captain, "that is why."
"No, the captain is mistaken,"
Says the sergeant with a sigh.
"I never do drink water,
Though maybe at times I aught'er;
I never do drink water
When 'John Stink' and Tuba's nigh."

The band it played a mournful tune;
The soldiers crowd around
As a comrade wrapped in Glory's flag
Is lowered in the ground.
There are three resounding volleys,
Taps die out in tender tones
And we're marching to the quick step
From the grave of Corporal Jones.

"It was drinking," says the captain
As a tear was in his eye.
"It was all through drinking water
That the corporal came to die.
'Twas the unboiled water that killed him,
With germs and things it filled him
But now he is drinking from the Jordan
Where we'll join him by and by."

A CYNIC'S VIEW OF ARMY LIFE

Once I was a farmer boy, a tiller of the soil,
I liked the work--I never was a chap to shirk from toil.
But I thought I'd choose a broader life (I must have been an ass).
I took on in the Army--and now I'm cutting grass.

I thought my farm life narrow, for there my simple work
Was planting things and tending them, and this I did not shirk.
I'd charge of all the horses, too, and handled them first class,
But since I joined the Army, I am simply cutting grass.

I get up in the morning to the sound of martial strain.
The sergeant says: "Go get that scythe and sharpen it again.
The grass has grown six inches, men, while we have been in bed,
So hustle, soldiers, hustle--don't let it get ahead."

The Chief of Staff sits up above and wonders "wot fell?"
The money goes by millions, but the Army is a sell.
We privates, if we dared to, could easy hit the mark,
It's grass that takes up all our time from early dawn to dark.

We all would like to soldier and get prepared for war;
It's what we left our happy homes and joined the Army for.
We'd like to learn our duties from "skirmish drill" to "mass."
But all we learn with Uncle Sam is grass, grass, GRASS!

I hate the sight of anything that has a color green;
My disposition's ruined and I have a swoolen spleen.
And when my time to cash in comes, I pray a gracious God,
That I'll be buried out at sea--not placed beneath the sod.

THE SONG OF THE SHOVEL AND THE PICK

The Sergeant says: "My gun is rusty,
And I guess it must be right.
But you ought to see my pick and shovel;
They are always shining bright."

Chorus:

Farewell, Bunkie, I must leave you,
And leave you mighty quick
For I'll be d----d if I can soldier
With a shovel and a pick.

There is hash that's hot, and hash that's cold;
There's hash that's new and hash that's old;
And Hash that's mixed into skilligbee;
But with me they don't agree.

Chorus:

So, Farewell, Bunkie, I must leave you,
And I leave you with a dash;
For I'll be d----d if I can soldier
On Uncle Samuel's corn beef hash.

ARMY SLANG

B-ache--to complain.

Beans--the commissary sergeant.

Bean-shooter--a commissary officer.

Belly-ache--to complain.

Black strap--liquid coffee.

Blind--sentenced by court-martial to forfeiture of pay without confinement.

Bob-Tail--a dishonorable discharge, or a discharge without honor; to be "bobtailed"--to be discharged or to be given a discharge without honor.

Bone--to study; to try; to cultivate.

Bone bootlick on--to cultivate the favor of.

Boots and Saddles--trumpet call.

Bootlick--to flatter.

Brig--guard-house.

Bow-legs--cavalrymen.

Buck-private--a term sometimes used in referring to a private.

Bucking for Orderly--giving clothing and accoutrements extra cleaning so as to compete for orderly.

Bunkie--a soldier who shares the shelter of a comrade.

Bust--to reduce a non-commissioned officer to the grade of a private.

Butcher--the company barber.

Canned Horse--canned beef.

Chief--name by which the chief musician of the band is usually called by the enlisted men.

Cit--a civilian.

Cits--civilian clothes.