Chapter IV: Part 4

"Betting waxed hot and furious. I don't believe there was a loose penny in the crowd after all bets had been placed. Alex and I tried to discourage this betting because we knew that if our side lost we would be ostracised from that time on. We explained to the Tommies that the Canadians were baseball players, and that we were in for an awful trimming, but they wouldn't listen, saying that anybody who could make a ball curve in the air the way Alex could was enough to win for any team, and all the Canadians could do was to strike out. We argued no further, just sighed after losing the toss.

"We came to bat first. Our first man up got beaned, and instead of taking first base he went out in the pitcher's box to lick the pitcher. After a little argument we managed to get him on first. The Canadian pitcher was wild. The next ball went over the catcher's head and our runner took second. The next man up struck out. I batted third, hit to the outfield, the right fielder dropped the ball, and I reached second. The runner ahead of me walked to third base. Then Alex got up and placed a corking double out into left field. Alex was a fast runner. I started for home, touched third, the runner in front of me plowing along for home-plate. He ran like an ice wagon. I was shouting to him to hurry up. I could hear Alex pounding behind me. The Tommy's hat blew off, and instead of going home he stopped to pick up his hat. Alex was shouting, 'Leg it, here comes the ball,' as he slid into third base. Upon this the runner in front of me ran back to third. I could not precede the runner in, and we were trapped on a double play. The Canadian rooters were tickled to death, and their sarcastic remarks burned into Alex and me. Alex was fast losing his temper.

"The first two Canadians struck out, nearly breaking their backs trying to connect with Alex's outcurves. The third man up got his base on a passed third strike, my error.

"Then our substitute first baseman pulled a stunt which turned the tables on the Canadians. The Canadian was lying a few feet off first base. Suddenly our first baseman shouted at him, 'Look out, 'ere comes a shell, duck low.' The Canadian dropped to the ground. No shell. Alex instantly sized up the situation and tossed the ball to the first baseman, who touched the runner lying on the ground three feet from the bag. This retired the side. We had gotten our own back. Alex and I both could have kissed that rube first baseman of ours. Right then and there we put him in a class with Hal Chase.

"Up to the fourth inning neither side scored. Alex was pitching in fine form. The Canadians just couldn't connect with his delivery. All they could do was to fan the air. The Canadian rooters commenced to get frightened and they saw their money going into Tommies' pockets. They had the greatest contempt for the rest of the team, myself included, but realized that if Alex did not weaken, it would be a case for them to go back to billets broke.

"Then old Mr. Jinx butted in again, and it happened."

(In the British Army there is an order to the effect that gas helmets must be carried at all times, even while sleeping. To evade this order is a serious offense, and means immediate confinement. These gas helmets are in a canvas bag and are slung around the left shoulder by means of a canvas strap.)

"In pitching, Alex's gas helmet bothered him greatly, and after the second inning he took it off. I warned him to be careful, because I noticed several Military Police in the crowd. But Alex wouldn't listen. He always was pig-headed. Suddenly one of the Canadian players spotted that Alex had laid aside his helmet, and artfully communicated this fact to the rest of his team's rooters. I noticed the rooters crowd around him for three or four minutes, and then a great laugh went up and they again stretched out along the foul lines.

"Suddenly, one fellow, getting out in front of the bunch, like a cheer leader, counted, 'One, Two, Three.' Then up went a mighty chorus of 'Hey, Alex, where's your gas helmet, where's your old gas bag.' They kept this up until it got Alex's goat. I went out into the pitcher's box and warned him to put it on, but, still pig-headed, he refused to do so. He was in an awful temper.

"A Sergeant of the Military Police was watching the game, and hearing the cries of the rooters he walked out on the diamond and asked Alex where his helmet was. By this time Alex had completely lost his temper, and answered with a sneer: 'Where do you think it is? I sent it home for a souvenir.' The Sergeant explained to him that it was against Army orders to be without gas helmet, and that he had better put it on. Alex would not listen to him, and answered: 'Well, if it's against orders, get them rescinded.' The Sergeant immediately put him under arrest and marched him off the diamond. Our hopes were dashed; I could see the game going West. We had no other good pitcher to go in.

"Upon seeing Alex's arrest, the Canadian rooters kept up their gleeful shouting. We were sure up against it. Here was the situation. It was the last half of the fourth inning, and two were out. If, by luck, we managed to get the third Canadian out, it would be an easy matter for them to retire us during our half of the next inning, because our weakest batting order was up. Then, the Canadians would get busy and the slaughter would commence. I was in despair. Alex must have realized that the game was hopeless unless it could be finished in this inning, because as he passed me he whispered, 'Watch out for _gas_; I'll make them hunt for _their_ gas helmets. It'll be a long time before that bunch of maple leaves forget this game. Now, get wise. Delay the game as much as possible while getting a dub ready to pitch in my place. Then watch for happenings. Get me? Are you wise?'

"I didn't 'get him,' nor was I 'wise,' but I answered in the affirmative. I followed his instructions, while out of the corner of my eye I watched him on his way to the company billet. He called to a man named Stein, a member of our company, who thought no more of losing a franc than he did of having his right arm shot off. Stein went over to Alex, who whispered to him and then handed him something. What struck me as strange was the fact that Stein, who had fifteen francs on the game, instead of coming back to watch the game, disappeared behind the billet, while Alex was marched off to 'clink.' The rooters were getting impatient, so I put a big Welshman in to pitch. I told the umpire, a Battalion Sergeant-Major, that, according to rules, a pitcher being put in 'cold' was allowed four balls _over the plate_ to warm up. The umpire agreed to this. I whispered to the Welshman, 'Get out in that box, and _take your time, delaying the game as much as possible between each pitch_. Now, you are allowed four balls _over the plate_,--remember, _over the plate_, in which to warm up. Slam 'em into me, but if you put four of them over our goose is cooked, so watch out.'

"The Welshman was mystified, but followed my instructions to the letter. He threw four balls which nearly broke my back to get. Then the umpire held up his hand and called 'Continue the game.' I immediately went over to him and explained that these four balls had not gone _over the plate_! He fell for this and agreed with me. After that rube of a pitcher had thrown about fifteen or sixteen balls--several I let pass me, chasing them to the billet to delay the game--the umpire got impatient and the Canadian rooters were yelling like mad to 'Play ball.' I still insisted that none of the balls had gone over the plate, and the umpire was in a quandary. The Canadian team captain was kicking like a steer and offered to write home and send the umpire a million books of rules. Then one of our men passed in the rear of me and whispered, 'Alex says to go on with the game.' Wondering at this information, I started in.

"The pitching of that Welshman was awful. He hit the first two men up and walked the third. I was in despair, bases full and none out. Some of the Canadian rooters were jumping up and down throwing their hats in the air, and one fellow, looking squarely at me, commenced whistling 'The Star Spangled Banner.' This was the last straw." (Near every rest billet hangs a gas-gong. This is a triangular piece of steel or an empty shell-case. Beside this gong hangs an iron striker. Upon the sound of the alarm, by striking on the gong with the striker, every man is supposed to put on his gas helmet and repair immediately to his proper station. These gongs are to warn soldiers that German poison gas is coming over.)

"While I was signaling to my rube pitcher, and beseeching him to put just _one_ over, the clanging of the gas-gong rang out. I dropped my glove, got off my chest protector, and madly adjusted my gas helmet, the rooters and players doing the same. Then I got wise. I remembered Alex's instructions: 'Watch out for gas. I'll make 'em hunt for _their_ gas helmets.' The nerve and daring of it took my breath away. The Canadians had a mile to go to get to their stations, and believe me, it is no fun double-timing for a mile while a gas helmet is choking you with its chemical fumes.

"Well, those Canadians beat it, and so did we, but the game was saved and all bets were off. I nearly smothered with laughter in my gas helmet. To the rest, not being 'in the know,' it was a genuine alarm. Shortly after the stampede it was discovered that the alarm was false, and a rigid investigation took place. But the Canadians had left and our money was safe. It certainly would have gone hard with the culprit had he been caught. As it was our Battalion got two weeks' extra fatigue on working and digging parties.

"Afterwards, I was let into the secret. Alex had given Stein ten francs to sound the gas alarm, which, with his fifteen francs bet on the game, Stein did not have it in his heart to refuse. Many a time Alex, Stein and myself had a quiet little laugh when we pictured the Canadians stampeding for their billets.

"Then, orders were received to take over a new sector of the line, and baseball was forgotten. Baseballs gave way to hand grenades.

"Not long after that Alex was killed, and Stein wounded. Thus ended the career of the Fusilier Giants."

"BLIGHTY!--WHAT HOPES?"

As Told by Sailor Bill

"BLIGHTY!--WHAT HOPES?"

It was Sailor Bill's turn. Clearing his voice, he commenced:

"When h'I was in the N'vy--"

"None of that," interrupted Curly. "You're in the Army now, and we are sick of hearing you gas about the Navy. How about it, fellows, make him tell an army story."

The rest all agreed with Curly, and insisted that Bill tell of an army experience, leaving out as much as possible his nautical terms, which were Greek to them.

Sailor Bill, highly peeved, insisted that he couldn't recall at that time that anything worth telling about had happened to him in the army.

Ikey asked, "You were wounded, weren't you? Well, tell us about your trip to Blighty. We can stand anything."

After two or three minutes of pretended hard thinking, Sailor Bill lighted his pipe (which was worse than German gas), and commenced:

"The second battle o' Wipers was still blowin'. I 'ad run amuck with three bullets (rifle, I think) during my cruise over the top. One caught me on the port side o' my compass and nearly carried away my port light, while the other two came aboard my starboard shoulder.

"I remember bein' lowered down a companionw'y into a brightly lit 'old an' placed on a blinkin' slab. Must a'been a first aid dugout. 'Pills' an' a Sergeant bent over me, an' after guessin' awhile said 'chloroform.' Then they tried to choke me by placin' a gas 'elmit over my forepeak.

"I blinkin' well gawsped for h'air a couple o' times, an' then the riggin' started topplin' about me. It was blowin' big guns an' my wind was cut h'off. Suddenly I lamped Big Ben makin' fyces at the Tower o' Lundun an' a bloody Whitechapel bus started crawlin' around Big Ben's fyce like a blinkin' fly. About this time the steam pipes busted, an' what with a lot o' hissin' an' rushin' noises, I took a temporary trip to D'vy Jones Locker.

"I opened me deadlights. I were aboard a stretcher, swathed in blankets, in a low-decked wooden buildin'. Across the w'y from me were a long row o' stretchers, each havin' a wounded Tommy for a cargo. Some were a-lyin' flat, while others were trussed up by folded blankets. Others were sittin' on their stretchers, a-nursin' o' wounded h'arms.

"Between bells a stretcher 'oldin' a Tommy would be carried down the deck by two stretcher-bearers, an' stowed aw'y in the opposite row.

"I could 'ear a bloody racket all about me, an' when I cyme out o' the fog, I got aboard o' their talk.

"My starboard mitt seemed like it were lashed to the stretcher. I couldn't budge it. Squirmin' about, which set the pain a shootin' through me timbers an' started the seams, I turned me unbandaged lamp in the direction o' me wrist to see what was a-'oldin' of it.

"An R.A.M.C. (Royal Army Medical Corps) lubber were a-'oldin' 'ands with me as if I were a bloomin' girl on a bench in the park. 'E were about twenty years h'old, nothin' but a blinkin' kid, an' looked dog-tired, about time for 'is watch below. 'Is chin would gradually sink on 'is chest as if 'e were a-fallin' h'asleep. Then 'e would remember that 'e were on watch, an' would turn to with a jerk.

"After awhile 'is 'ead got too 'eavy for 'is neck to 'old, an' battenin' down 'atches h'over 'is lamps 'e doused the glim.

"I gave me starboard flipper a jerk an' 'e h'opened 'is h'eyes. Then across 'is face flashed a smile. In my w'y o' thinkin' it sort er reminded me o' sunrise at sea. Anyw'y it sent a warm glow through me for'ard an' h'aft. That smile gave me a 'ankerin' after that kid. Then came a squall. 'E h'opened 'is mouth an' I knew I 'ad left the cabin for the fo'c'sle an' a bloody Cockney one at that.

"'Strafe me pink, but you do tyke your own bloomin' time to come out o' chloroform. 'Ere h'I 'ave been bloody well balmy a-'oldin' your blinkin' pulse like some tart down in Piccadilly.'

"Out o' the corner o' me mouth I awsked 'im:

"'What port's this? Where am I?'

"Still a-smilin', 'e 'ailed a stretcher-bearer across the w'y:

"'H'I s'y, 'Awkins, this blighter wants a bloomin' map o' Frawnce; 'e wants to know where 'e h'is.'

"'Awkins yelled back:

"'Wants to know where 'e h'is? What bloody cheek! Tell 'im 'e's bloomin' well in Sam Isaac's fish 'ouse down Totten'am Court Road, a-waitin' fer 'is order o' fish an chips.'

"This brought out a blinkin' roar from the Tommies on me starboard an' port beams.

"I got sort er riled, an', Yank, 'avin' a-visited New York, I tried to come aboard with some o' that Yankee swank, somethin' like this;

"'Aw cut it up. Quit yer kiddin'. Yer brains are dusty. What's the matter, am I wounded?'

"The R.A.M.C. man, with that smile still a-shinin' from 'is port-'oles, which made me feel kind o' shamed like at me resentment, awnswered:

"'Naw, myte, you h'ain't wounded. You just 'appened to fall down in the bloomin' road an' one o' those blinkin' tanks crawled over you.'

This scared me a little, an' I sort er pleaded:

"'Cawn't you please tell me; what is the matter with me?'

"'E leaned over an' read from a little tag pinned to me tunic:

"'G.S.W. left face; two, right shoulder. Cot.'

"Then 'e carried on:

"'H'it means that you 'ave a gunshot wound, a bullet through the left side o' your clock, an' two bullets through the right shoulder, an' that you're a cot case, which means that you won't 'ave to bloody well walk. Two of us poor blokes will 'ave to carry you on a stretcher. You sure are a lucky bloke; pretty cushy, I calls it.'

"I awsked 'im if the wounds were good for Blighty.

"He answered:

"'Yes, they're good for Blighty, an' h'I'm a thinkin' that they're good for a discharge. That right h'arm o' your'n will be out o' commission for the rest o' your life. Your wife, if you've got one, will bloomin' well 'ave to cut your meat for you, that is, if you're lucky enough to buy any blinkin' meat on the pension the Top 'Ats at 'ome will 'and you.'

"A feelin' o' pride ran through me. In a 'ospital o' wounded soldiers, a severely wounded case is more or less looked up to, while a man with a slight wound is treated as an ordinary mortal. I could read respect, per'aps mixed up with a little h'envy, in the h'eyes o' the surroundin' Tommies.

"The door at the h'end o' the ward h'opened. A 'owl came from the cot on me starboard, an' a gruff Irish voice shouted:

"'Close that damned door. You bloomin' 'ospital men 'ave no sinse at all. 'Ere I am, knocked about by a blinkin' shell an' the likes o' youse puts me in a bloody draught. It's a good thing we 'ave a n'vy; with the likes o' you blokes in the h'army, we certainly need one.'

"A laugh went up from the rest. Then a Tommy on my port answered this outburst with:

"'Bloody nerve, I call it. 'Ere 'e is, a-covered with blankets an' grousin' about a little drawft, an' not many hours back 'e was a-lyin' in a bloomin' shell 'ole, with the wind a-blowin' the whiskers off'n 'im, an' 'e a-prayin' for the stretcher-bearers. I'll wager a quid 'e belongs to the Royal h'Irish Rifles.'

"The man on me starboard retorted:

"'No, I'm not in the Royal Irish Rifles, but I belong to a good outfit--the Royal Dublin Fusileers, an' I can lick the man that says they ain't. So don't get so damn sharp.'

"Just then, from amidships in the ward, came the voice of a stretcher-bearer:

"Jones, get the M.O." (Medical Officer). "Hurry up--quick! This poor bloke's a-goin' West."

"The man 'oldin' my 'and suddenly let go 'is grip, an' a-risin' to 'is feet, 'urriedly left the ward. There was dead silence 'tween decks. I tried to turn in the direction from which the first voice 'ad come, but the sharp pain in me shoulder warned me that I was on a lee shore.

"In a few seconds the door h'opened an' I could 'ear low voices down in the corner. I could see the Tommies around me h'intently gazing in this one direction. Awfter a few minutes the door again h'opened an' closed, an' Jones came back. I looked up at 'im an' 'e solemnly nodded.

"One more bloke 'ad gone West for 'is King an' Country.

"Me unbandaged lamp suddenly ran into a fog an' sprung a leak, the bilge water runnin' down me side.

"The door at the other h'end o' the ward h'opened an' two stretcher-bearers h'entered an' went in the direction o' the dead bloke. Pretty soon they came back with a stretcher in tow on which were a still form covered with a blanket, an' left the ward. The Irishman on me starboard was a-repeatin' to 'imself:

"'Poor bloke, poor bloke; 'e sure 'as done 'is bit, an' it won't be long before 'e'll be a-pushin' up the daisies somewhere in Frawnce. An' before this war is h'over there'll be lots more in the same fix, I'm a-thinkin'.'

"One o' the Tommies, swankin' to be brave, h'addressed Jones:

"'What's 'is nyme, Mike? What battalion is 'e from?'

"Jones awnswered:

"'James Collins, a Lawnce Corporal out o' the Royal Warwicks; five machine gun bullets through the right lung--'emorrhage.'

"The blinkin' door ag'in h'opened, an' two stretcher-bearers h'entered carryin' a Tommy, 'is 'ead lyin' flat, an' the smell of h'ether almost turned me stomick. I knew it were a case from the Pictures" (operating-room). "The stretcher-bearers placed 'im to the starboard o' the Irishman.

"Jones now left me, an' gettin' a little white basin, went h'over to the new h'arrival. The Tommies turned h'inquirin' looks in 'is direction. 'E knew what they meant all right, an' read from the tag:

"'Shell wound in left foot,--h'amputation.'

"I knew that I 'ad lost me prestige.

"In a short while the form on the stretcher began to mumble. This mumblin' soon turned into singin, an' that Tommy certainly could sing! 'E must 'ave been a comedian in civilian life, because we were soon a-roarin' with laughter. 'Arry Tate, the famous h'English comedian, in 'is fair weather d'ys, never 'ad a no more h'appreciative h'audience. H'awfter a bit the singin' stopped an' the Tommies began talkin' at each other. The main topic o' their conversation were Blighty--what 'opes! Each one was a-'opin' that 'is wound was serious enough for 'im to be sent to h'England. The stretcher-bearers were fairly pestered with questions as to what chawnce they 'ad o' reachin' a Lunnun public-'ouse. I believe they all h'envied the bloke under h'ether, with a left foot a-missin'; 'e was sure to click Blighty.

"A Sergeant-M'jor o' the R.A.M.C. h'entered the ward like a blinkin' Admiral comin' aboard. All o' the medical men stood at attention, except one or two a-takin' care o' serious cases. The Sergeant-M'jor ordered:

"'Get this ward in shape. The M.O. is comin' through in five minutes to h'inspect cases an' clear out.'

"The R.A.M.C. men went from cot to cot, carefully smoothin' h'out blankets an' tuckin' in loose ends, an' pickin' h'up fag h'ends." (Cigarette butts.)

"The Sergeant-M'jor pulled out.

"In about ten minutes, the door again h'opened, an' with a smart 'shun' from the Sergeant-M'jor, who came in first, all what was able came to attention, an' the doctor h'entered, a clerk, and a R.A.M.C. Sergeant followin' in 'is wake. 'E stopped at each cot, carefully read the tag on the wounded man h'occupyin' it, passed a few remarks which the clerk jotted down on a pad of paper, an' as 'e left each wounded soldier, 'e 'ad a cheerin' remark for 'im.

"When 'e came to me 'e awsked:

"'Well, 'ow are you feelin' me lad, at the same time stoopin' over an' readin' from me tag:

"'Ummm--three rifle bullets; well, me lucky fellow, h'it means h'England for you.'

"H'I could 'ave blinkin' well a-kissed 'im for them words.

"Then 'e passed to the Irishman on me starboard. Bendin' over 'im 'e awsked:

"''Ow are you, me lad?'

"The Irishman, thick-like, awnswered:

"'I'm damned sick, an' I want to get out o' 'ere; I want to get out o' 'ere, out o' this draught. Ivery tin minutes they're openin' and a-shuttin' that door.'

"The doctor, winkin' 'is lamp, turned to the R.A.M.C. Sergeant, an' said:

"'Shrapnel, left foot, knee an' right breast. I see no reason why this man won't be ready for duty in a couple o' d'ys.'

"The Irishman, bloody near jumpin' over the side o' 'is cot, yelled:

"'Dooty, how in the 'ell can I do dooty when I cawn't blinkin' well walk?'

"The doctor answered:

"'That'll be all right, me lad. We'll fix you h'up with a cushy job at Brigade 'Eadquarters, a-poundin' a typewriter.'

"The Irishman, with a moan of disgust, addressin' nobody in particular, sighed:

"'Out since Mons, an' h'I h'end up with workin' a bloody typewriter at 'Eadquarters. Stick me in skirts an' I'll go as a manicurist.'

"The doctor went to the next case an' soon left the ward.

"As soon as the door closed, a string of oaths came from the Irishman:

"'Poundin' a ---- ---- typewriter at 'Eadquarters; just like the bloody British h'Army; what in 'ell do I know about one o' those writin'-machines? Just me luck. Why couldn't that shell 'ave 'it me in the 'ands? But, I s'pose, if I'd a' lost me bloody 'ands they'd myke a tight-rope walker out o' me.'

"Awfter a bit 'e sorter cooled down, an' to keep conversation a-goin', I awsked 'im, sort o' innocent-like:

"'Where did you get wounded?'

"'E let out another bloody 'owl, this time at me, an' said:

"'Of all the damn fools, you're a-leadin' o' them. I got wounded in the blinkin' Crimean War, 'elpin' Napoleon tyke Josephine across the Alps, 'ad me blinkin legs blown off at the wrists an' me 'ead cut h'off at me waist. Is there anything else I kin be enlightenin' you of? If not, keep yer tongue in that bloody cave o' yourn.'

"A-laughin' made me wounds 'urt, so I battened down 'atches an' lay to.

"Awfter the laughin' at the Irishman 'ad died out, the Tommies started eagerly questioning each h'other:

"'What did 'e sye to you? Are you good for Blighty? 'E marked h'England on me tag! What does Base 'Ospital mean? Does it mean that I'm to stick h'out in this bloody mess while you blokes are a-goin' to Blighty?' etc., etc.

"Pretty soon a stretcher-bearer came in a-carryin' a little, oblong green box, which we all knew 'eld Woodbines. 'E were greeted with a chorus of:

"'Gimme a fag, Mike; I'm all out. Come on, chum, don't forget me. That's a good fellow. Let's 'ave one.'

"It weren't long before every Tommy who were fit 'ad a fag between 'is lips. A sigh o' content went up as they inhaled deep puffs o' smoke. Mine was jake.

"Awfter me smoke I were a-feelin' pretty ship-shape, an' tried another shot at the Irishman. I awsked 'im:

"'Come on, myte, tell me 'ow you were 'it. 'Ow did it 'appen?'

"No answer.

"I tried again. Still no blinkin' awnswer. Raisin' myself on my good elbow, an' it 'urt like 'ell, I took a look at 'im. 'Is fyce were like putty, an' 'is mouth were h'open. I yelled to one of the R.A.M.C. men, who came a-runnin', an' h'I pointed at that chalky fyce. 'E bent over 'im, felt 'is pulse, lifted 'is blinkin' eyelids, an' then took it on the run for the doctor.

"The doctor came in an' did pretty near as what the R.A.M.C. man 'ad done, straightened up, an' shook 'is 'ead. That bloke 'ad gone West under our blinkin' noses. H'internal 'emorrhage, they called it. Must a-tried to turn over an' started bleedin' on the inside.

"In about five minutes, two orderlies came in an 'oisted 'im onto a stretcher, an' 'e took 'is lawst ride at the expense o' the Government.

"'Is death knocked the wind out o' our sails, an' there were a dead calm in that ward.

"Near twenty minutes awfter the poor bloke 'ad been carried aw'y one o' the R.A.M.C. men noticed a' open letter where the Irishman 'ad been. It were all muddy an' a-covered with blood stains. 'E picked it up, an' slowly turned it over an' over, an' then started to read, in a low voice, with the water a-tricklin' down 'is fyce. I could just h'about 'ear 'im. It were from the Irishman's nipper, an' as well as I can remember, went somethin' like this:

"_Dear Daddy_:

"'Urry up an' win the war an' come 'ome, 'cause me an' Mamma an'
Mary is lonesome. Mamma cries lots when she's alone by herself, but
sometimes I sees 'er, an' then she smiles an' says she wants me when
I grow up to be a man, to be brave like you is, Daddy.

"Day before yesterday I licked Mike Casey an' 'e's goin' on twelve,
too, 'cause 'e said 'is father was braver than you, just 'cause 'is
father won an old D.C.M. medal. After lickin' 'im, I told 'im you
could win a million D.C.M. medals, but that you didn't want none. Did
you, Daddy? But get one, anyway, just to show 'im.

"Last Sunday Mamma read out o' the newspapers that there was a big
battle against the dirty Germans, an' cried a lot. She said you were
in it, Daddy, an' I said then we won, because Daddy will win for us.
She 'as been crying a awful lot. 'Urry an' come 'ome, Daddy, an' make
Mamma smile again, an' bring a German prisoner to do the work so as
Mamma can rest from takin' in washin'. She says food is awful 'igh,
an' she 'as lost 'er h'appetite, but me an' Mary eats just as much,
so don't worry, Daddy.

"Mamma is out gettin' the wash, so I am writin' to surprise you, an'
she don't know. We will tell 'er some day, won't we, Daddy, an' make
'er smile again.

"Good-bye, Daddy, an' I always ask the Priest to say prayers fer you,
Daddy, an' I say them myself, an' so does Mamma an' Mary an' Jim, our
new dog.

"Much love an' kisses from me, an' Mamma, an' Mary an' Jim.

"Your lovin' son,

"Johnny.

"P.S.--Don't fergit to come 'ome."

"That letter from 'is little nipper made me 'eart ache, an' 'e a-lyin' dead somewhere in Frawnce. The R.A.M.C. man left the ward with the letter, a-leakin' from both eyes.

"The Sergeant-Major again entered. The R.A.M.C. men came to attention. 'E ordered:

"'Get the convoy for h'England ready. Look alive, the h'ambulances are h'expected any minute.'

"The stretcher-bearers started knockin' about, an' the ship was in an uproar. Then, outside, h'I could 'ear the chuggin' of the engines in the waitin' ambulances.

"H'as each lucky bloke were carried out, the more unfortunate ones, who were to be left be'ind in the Base 'Ospital, bravely wished 'im a 'Good luck, myte; give my regards to Trafalgar Square. Be careful, an' don't lose your blinkin' watch in Petticoat Lane.'

"H'as I were carried through the door the cold h'air sent a shiver through me, an' my wounds began to pain. The h'effect o' the chloroform were a-wearin' off, or it might 'a' been that letter. Lanterns were a-flashin' to an' fro, an' long lines o' stretchers could be seen movin' toward the waitin' h'ambulances.

"I were put aboard an ambulance with three others. A raspin' noise as she got under w'y, an' I were 'omeward bound for Blighty."

When Sailor Bill had finished, no one broke the silence.

They were all thinking of Johnny.

ROUNDING UP SPIES

As Told by Curly

ROUNDING UP SPIES

No. 2 Gun's Crew had been relieved from the front line and were in rest billets in the little French village of S----, about ten kilos from the front line trench.

The crew were sitting on the ground in a circle around their machine-gun, while a Sergeant, newly returned from a special course at St. Omer, was expounding the theory of scientific machine-gunnery. He himself had never actually been under fire with a machine-gun, but, from the theoretical point, he sure could throw out the book stuff. His flow of eloquence passed over his listeners' heads like a Zeppelin, and there was an uneasy squirming among them.

Happy, who was sitting next to Yank, leaned over, and with his eye on the Sergeant, whispered in his ear:

"Blime me, Yank, isn't it arful the w'y 'e chucks 'is weight about?"

Yank agreed with Happy.

Across from Yank sat Ikey, with their mascot, a scrawny little cur, in his lap. Every now and then the cur would take his hind leg and furiously scratch at a spot behind his ear. Ikey, noticing this action, would reach under his armpit, and also scratch.

Sailor Bill was intently watching the mascot and Ikey. He, too, started scratching.

In a minute or so, Hungry started on a cootie hunt; and Yank had an irresistible desire to lean his back against the barrel-casing of the gun and scratch, too.

It was one of the chief indoor sports of the Western Front, especially during a monotonous lecture by some officer or non-com, for one of the fed-up listeners to start scratching himself. This generally caused the whole gang to do the same, the instructor included. It was just like a minister in the midst of a very dry sermon, suddenly stopping, stretching himself, and yawning, this action causing the rest of the congregation to do likewise.

As the whole circle scratched, the Sergeant-Instructor commenced to shift his weight from one foot to the other in an uneasy manner. They all gazed at him intently, and each began to scratch furiously. Sure enough, the Sergeant gave in and started unbuttoning the front of his tunic to get at some real or imaginary cootie. A nudge went the rounds of the circle. They had accomplished their purpose. The Sergeant's mind took an awful drop from the science of machine-gunnery to that of catching that particular cootie.

The gun's crew glanced at their wrist watches. Fifteen minutes more and the lesson would be over. The Sergeant was becoming confused, and was trying to flounder through the rest of his talk. They had no mercy on him, but kept up the scratching. At last, in desperation, he said:

"You men have actually been under fire with machine-guns several times. Can't one of you relate some incident of how, through some ruse, you put it over on the Boches?"

Ikey, grasping this golden opportunity to break up the lecture, and slyly winking at us, started in and told how a certain gun's crew located and put out of action a German machine-gunner by playing a tune on their gun; the German tried to imitate it, thereby indicating to them by sound the exact location of the German gun, which was later put out of action by concentrated fire from their section.

Of course, the whole circle listened very intently, but it was an old story to them; they were the gun's crew which had accomplished the feat that Ikey was describing. Still, anything was better than listening to that sing-song droning of book knowledge which the Sergeant had been pumping into them for the last hour and a half.

The Sergeant glanced at his watch, and dismissed them. They dismounted their gun, put it in its box and stored it away in their billet.

Then, reassembled under an apple-tree in the orchard, and while the rest of them indulged in a shirt hunt, Hungry went after their ration of tea. Hungry was sure on the job when it came to eating. Pretty soon he returned with a dixie a quarter full of tea, two tins of jam, a loaf of bread, a large piece of cheese, and a tin of apricots which he had bought at a nearby French estaminet.

He dished out the rations, not forgetting a generous share for himself. After they had finished, out came the inevitable fags, a few puffs from each man, and the ball of conversation started rolling:

Curly cleared his throat and started in:

"Remember that village we passed through on our march up the line about two weeks ago; you know, the one where that big church with all the shell-holes in it was right on the corner where we turned to the left to take the road to St. A----?"

They all remembered it, and turned inquiring glances in Curly's direction. "Well, this morning, when I went down to the 'Quarter' (Quartermaster-Sergeant), to draw coal, I met a fellow at Divisional Headquarters who told me a mighty interesting story of how he and another fellow rounded up a couple of spies.

"This bloke, I suppose, through modesty, and to cover up his own good work, tried to make me believe that it was only through a lucky chance that they stumbled over the clue which led to the spies' arrest, but it's my opinion, and I know you'll all agree with me, that it was not so much luck as it was clever thinking. I'm not much at telling a story, but I'm going to try and give it, as far as I can remember, just the way he handed it out to me.

"It seems that this fellow, who told me the story, and another chap, had been detailed to the Divisional Intelligence Department, and were hanging around Division Headquarters waiting for something to happen.

"Now here's the story as he reeled it off to me: "'About three kilos behind Divisional Headquarters was the old French village of B----. One of our important roads ran through it. This road was greatly used by our troops for bringing up supplies and ammunition for the front line. It was also used by large numbers of troops when relieving batteries in the fire sector.

"'Of course, on account of this road being in range of the German guns, it could only be used at night; otherwise, the enemy airmen and observation balloons would get wise and it would only be a short time before the road would be shelled, causing many casualties.

"'For the last ten days, reports had been received at Divisional Headquarters that every time troops passed a certain point on this road, marked by an old church, they were sure to click heavy shell-fire from the Boches. On nights when no troops passed through, on the other hand, there would be very little shelling, if any.

"'Upon the first two or three of these reports, we put it down as a strange coincidence, but when the fifth report of this nature reached us, it was evident to us that a spy was at work, and that in some mysterious way the information of the movement of our troops was communicated by him to the enemy.

"'Myself and another fellow, who had been working with me for the last two weeks, were assigned to the task of discovering and apprehending this spy. To us it seemed an impossible job, as there were no clues to work upon. As is usual, our General, Old Pepper, called us in, and said:

"'"There is a spy working in the village of B----; go get him."

"'Foolishly I butted in and asked for further information. I got it, all right. With a lowering look which made me tremble, he roared:

"'"Go and dig up your own clues. What are you with the Intelligence Department for? Intelligence Department! It ought to be called Brainless Department, if you two are a sample of the rest."

"'Somehow or other we didn't stop to argue with Old Pepper.'"

At this point, Sailor Bill butted in:

"Blime me, he's just like an Admiral we had in our Navy, this old boy."

A chorus of, "Oh, shut up, you're in the Army now," cut off Bill's story. They knew Sailor Bill. With an indignant glance around the circle, he relapsed into silence.

Curly exclaimed, "To hell with your Admiral; do you want to hear this story? If you do, shut up and let me tell it."

"Go on, Curly, never mind; he's harmless," ejaculated Happy.

Curly carried on with:

"'Getting our packs and drawing three days' rations, we started hiking it for the village of B----. We arrived there about four in the afternoon, and after putting our packs and rations in an old barn, which we intended to use as our billet during our stay in the village, we left on a general tour of inspection.

"'There were about three hundred civilians in the place who preferred to brave the dangers of shell-fire, as there was a rich harvest to be reaped from the sale of farm produce, beer and wine to the troops billeted all around. Two estaminets were still open, and did a thriving business.

"'Occasionally a shell would burst in the village, but the civilians did not seem to mind it; just carried on with their farming and business as usual.

"'We decided to make a thorough search of all houses, barns and buildings for concealed wires. We did so, but with barren results. Nothing suspicious was found. This search wasted five days, and we were in desperation. Watch and wish as we would, not a single clue came to light.

"'During this time two large bodies of troops had passed through and each time they were heavily shelled with dire results.

"'On the sixth night of our assignment, utterly disgusted, I, being in charge, had decided to chuck up the whole business and report back to Old Pepper that we had made a mess out of the investigation. My partner pleaded with me to stick it out a couple of days more, and after he gave me a vivid description of what Old Pepper would hand out to us, I decided to stick it out for six months, if necessary.

"'To celebrate this decision, my side-kicker offered to blow to several rounds of drinks. Now, this fellow had never, during my acquaintance with him, offered to spend a ha'penny, so I quickly accepted his offer and we went to the nearest estaminet.

"'Sitting around a long table, drinking French beer and smoking cigarettes, was a crowd of soldiers, laughing, joking, arguing and telling stories.

"'We sat down at the end of the table, and in low tones, tried to work impossible theories as to how the spy, if there was one, and by this time we were getting doubtful, could get the information back to the German batteries.

"'Right across from us were two soldiers arguing about farming. Suddenly my side-kicker pinched me on the knee and whispered:

"'"Listen to what those two fellows across the table from us are saying. It sounds good."

"'I listened for about a minute and then paid no further attention. At that time farming in no way interested me. I wanted to catch that spy, and started devising impossible theories as to the ways and means of doing so. At last I gave up in disgust. My partner was still attentively listening to the two across the table from us. Another poke in the knee from my partner, and I was all attention.

"'One of the fellows across the way was talking.

"'"Well, I don't see why this French blighter should change horses in his plow every afternoon. I've watched him for several days. Now, in the morning he uses two greys, and then about two in the afternoon he either hooks up two blacks or a grey and a black. French ways may be different, but this frog-eater is very partial to the colors of his team. Figure it out for yourself. He starts work with the two greys about six o'clock in the morning; works the two beggars up till noon. That's six hours straight. Then he sticks them in the stable, lays off for two hours, and in the afternoon about two o'clock the new relay of animals come on and work up till four. Now, anybody with any brains in their nappers knows that that is no way to keep horses in condition, working one team over six hours and the other team only two hours. I know because we have been farmers in our family back in Blighty for generations."

"'I was all excitement, and a great hope surged through me that at last we had fallen on the clue that we were looking for. Restraining my eagerness as much as possible, I addressed the fellow who had just spoken:

"'"Well, mate, I don't like to intrude into your conversation, but I've also been a farmer all my life, and I don't see anything so queer in the actions of this French farmer."

"'He answered, "Well, blime me, there might be a reason for this blighter doing this, but I can't figure it out at all. If you can explain it, go ahead."

"'I answered, "Well, perhaps if you can give a little more details about it, it would be easy enough to explain. Who is this farmer, and where is his farm located?"

"'He swallowed the bait all right, and informed me that the farmer was plowing a field on a hill about five hundred yards west of the church at the point where our troops were being shelled.

"'Buying a round of drinks, I nudged my partner and he came in on the conversation. The two of us, by adroit questioning, got the exact location of the field, and a description of the farmer.

"'I pretended to be sleepy, and, yawning, got up from the table saying that I was going to turn in, and left. My partner soon followed me. Upon reaching our billet we outlined our plan. We decided that next morning we would get up at daybreak, and scout around the field to see if there was a hiding-place.

"'Sure enough, along one edge of the field ran a thick hedge. We secreted ourselves in this, and waited for developments.

"'At about six in the morning, the farmer appeared, driving two greys, which he hooked to the plow, and carried on with his work. To us there appeared nothing suspicious in his actions. We watched him all morning. At noon he unhooked the horses and went home. We remained in hiding, afraid to leave, because we wanted to take no chances of being seen by the farmer. We had forgotten to bring rations with us, so it was a miserable wait until two o'clock, at which time the farmer reappeared, driving two blacks, which he hitched to the plow, and carried on until four o'clock, and then knocked off for the day. That night troops came through as usual, and were shelled.

"'Next morning, at daybreak, we again took our stations in the hedge, this time bringing rations with us. The farmer used the same greys in the morning, but in the afternoon he appeared with a black and a grey, and again knocked off around four o'clock. No troops came through that night, and there was no shelling.

"'Next day, the farmer repeated the previous day's actions,--two greys in the morning, and a black and a grey in the afternoon,--no troops, no shelling.

"'We were pretty sure that we had him, but this arresting a spy on slim evidence is a ticklish matter. We didn't want to make a mess of the affair, or perhaps send an innocent man to his death, so the following day we again took up our stations. Sure enough, it was two greys in the morning, but in the afternoon he used two blacks. That night troops came through and were shelled. We had solved the problem. Two greys in the morning meant nothing. The actual signal to the enemy was the change of horses in the afternoon; two blacks meaning "troops coming through tonight, shell the road"; a grey and a black, "no troops expected, do not shell."

"'When it got dark, and it was safe to leave the hedge, we immediately reported the whole affair to the Town Major (an English officer detailed in charge of a French village or town occupied by English troops), who, accompanied by us and a detail of six men with fixed bayonets, went to the farmer's house that night and arrested him. He protested his innocence, but we took him to Military Police Headquarters, where, after a gruelling questioning, he confessed.

"'It was a mystery to us how this farmer knew that troops were coming through, because he never made a mistake in his schedule. After further questioning, he explained to us that if we searched in his cellar and raised up an old flag-stone with a ring in it, we would find a telephone set. The other end of this set was established in an estaminet in a little French village eleven kilos distant. His confederate was the proprietor of this estaminet, which was so situated on the road that troops coming into the village had to pass the door. As troops only march at night while in the fire sector, his confederate could safely figure out that the passing troops would be quartered in his village until the next night, when, under cover of darkness, they would start for the next village, and would have to pass the point in the road by the old church. He would immediately telephone this information to the farmer, who would change his horses accordingly. The hill on which he did his plowing could be easily observed from an observation balloon in the German lines, and thus the signal was given to the German artillery.

"'We still carried on with our third degree, and got further valuable information from him.

"'If, in the plowing, two grey horses were used on two consecutive afternoons, it meant that the use of the road had been indefinitely discontinued for troops and supplies.

"'Under a strong guard, which concealed itself in the hedge, the farmer was made to use two greys for two afternoons. The scheme worked. For weeks afterwards that road was only occasionally shelled, and our troops and supply trains used it at will. The spy at the other end was rounded up and both were taken to the base and shot.

"'We reported back to Old Pepper, expecting to be highly commended for our work, and we were--I don't think. All the blooming blighter said was:

"'"Well, you certainly took long enough to do it. I have a damn good mind to send you back to your units for incompetency and inefficiency."

"'We saluted and left.

"'You see, we didn't deserve any great credit because it was only through a lucky chance that we stumbled over the clue. So I guess Old Pepper was right after all.'"

After Curly had finished, everyone agreed with Happy's comment:

"Pretty nifty work, I call it, pretty nifty!"

"HORSES FOR FRANCE"

As Told by Yank

"HORSES FOR FRANCE"

"Just lend me your ear and I'll spin you a yarn about a trip I made on a horse ship back in 1914," said Yank, as he took a deep breath from his Woodbine and settled back against the wall of the dugout.

"Well, Yank, let's have the story," chimed in the rest.

"All right, heels together and eyes front. Here goes," answered Yank.

"It was in 1914, and the Great World's War was on, and there was I, in the United States and--_neutral_. For thirteen years I had been soldiering but had never been under fire. In my imagination I could hear the guns booming on the Western Front. I admit I was a trifle afraid; nevertheless, I had a great desire to get into the mix-up. How could I get over? I planned out many ways, but not one of them was practical.

"One day, while walking down Greenwich Avenue, New York, I passed an employment agency. Staring me in the face was a great flaring sign, 'Horses for France.' Under this was 'Men Wanted.' Here was my chance.

"Upon returning to my office I immediately got in touch, over the telephone, with two prominent men in New York who I knew were distinctly pro-Ally. After I had outlined my desire, an appointment was made for me to meet a certain gentleman at the Hotel Astor at four o'clock that afternoon. I met him. He was a Frenchman. At that time, in my eyes, a Frenchman was a hero, a man to be looked up to, a man fighting in the Great Cause. But now a Frenchman to me is more than a hero. After being introduced I went up into the Frenchman's room and talked over the matter of horses for France for about twenty minutes.

"Upon leaving the Frenchman I was told to report to him three days later, at the same time and place. I left, bubbling over with enthusiasm and anticipation.

"During that interval of three days I mapped out a story of my life to present to him upon our second interview. The eventful day at last came, and once more I was closeted with him.

"I started in to tell him my history. He interrupted me by waving his right hand to the right and left. It reminded me of the 'butts' on a target range during rifle practice, when the soldier marking the target wigwags a miss to the firing-line. My heart sank. Then he spoke, and I was carried from despondency to the greatest height of expectation. He said: 'Pardon me, Monsieur, I already know your life,' and in an amazingly short time he told me more about myself than I ever knew. I had been carefully investigated.

"My instructions received from him were confidential, so I will not go into them. Anyway, he handed me an envelope and told me to carefully follow all instructions as contained therein.