TROUBLE ON THE HIGH SEAS
Sailing to Peace
The return voyage from France was on the good ship Turrialba. She was a banana boat, usually plying between New Orleans and Colon. By the side of a big modern passenger ship she looked like a rowboat; but she made a good hospital ship during the war.
We embarked at St. Nazaire, and put to sea December 10, 1918. A great storm came, and there must have been some trouble in navigating the ship. When we went on deck, the storm roared and slashed. The little ship sat high on great waves and the rudder seemed broken, for all our flotsaming and jetsoming around. I got sick and lay in my bunk. Three of us were in the cabin, all desperately sea sick.
Then it was that I realized the meaning of the expression "shiver my timbers," for the timbers of the ship shivered and creaked like a hobo's jungle shack in the March wind. We rolled from one side to the other in our bunks. We were banged around and the high seas loosened our bandages. I vomited, but was too sick even to raise my head. This was real misery. As I lay in the blood and vomit, a doctor came to dress my wounds. He saw the blood and looked distressed; he came closer and smelled the vomit, and looked sick himself.
This all seemed very funny. I did not care much whether death came or not. Feigning a very miserable look, but with an urge to burst out laughing, I said to the doctor: "Go away and let me die."
The doctor obliged. He held his nose and left.
Calm came the next day off the coast of Wales. But the "good ship" was so badly torn up, and we had used so much coal floundering around and fighting the storm, that we put into Barry Docks, a little coaling station by Cardiff.
Soon we were on the sea again. There were about a hundred and twenty-five wounded officers on the ship. We were an assorted set of cripples, but all could walk unaided fairly well. We managed to get about and have a little amusement. We had plays and skits in the middle of the ocean and forgot our troubles.
One night, in the dining room, we sat talking about the various armies. The parson, who looked like a baboon, and had less sense, was making a great speech about what awful cowards the Germans were. He made it plain that God was on our side of the killing, and America had entered the war for freedom's sake and that was the reason our soldiers were so brave and pure. This arrant old hypocrite had imposed himself on the whole crowd, always letting everyone know that swearing and such-like was a sin. Another parson who had not been at the front joined in with an oration on war atrocities.
I got pretty well bored with this kind of guff and nonsense. I suggested that if our opponents were mere cowards, then we weren't such brave men for having whipped them.
What courage, I said, did it take to whip cowards? Germans fought as we did, for their country.
I mentioned that the war was over—and that one man was as good a soldier as another, irrespective of nationality. Then the parson, both brave and bold, stood up and pointed his accusing finger at me: "Do you mean to tell me that you admire the German fiends, the despoilers of women, the destroyers of churches, the Huns, the vandals——?" and so on, and so on.
By that time, I was sore. With barrack-room language, I repeated that the Germans were just as good soldiers as we were. I said something else about Christian preachers urging men to kill each other. As for German soldiers, I said that from a military viewpoint, they were bound to be better trained then we were, for they had been at it longer.
The parson got more patriotic and said something about the stars and stripes, and how Patrick Henry had said "Give me Liberty or give me Death." About that time, our doctor, who was technically in command, arrived on the scene. He was double-patriotic, because he was an Englishman, who had settled in Boston and had become an American citizen.
He was horrified, and ordered all of us who had said the Germans were good soldiers to be placed under arrest.
The doctor meant business, as I later found. When we arrived at the hospital on Staten Island, there was a Colonel from the Inspector General's Department waiting to investigate me and others. By radio, we had been charged with making remarks "derogatory to the morale of the American troops," which was a damned lie.
Fortunately, the Colonel had some brains. In about fifteen minutes he dismissed us all and told us to go to town and enjoy ourselves.
New York City turned out en masse, man, woman and child, to give the returning soldiers a good time. As often as we could, we left our hospitals and came to town. Everybody was happy, except the parents of those who were killed. The New Yorkers were satisfied there would never be another war; and going home, I found this true all over the nation. Most of us from the Staten Island Hospital stayed through New Year's, and for a few days in January of 1919. We were being heroed around, and were young enough to enjoy ourselves.
Captain Bill Harrigan, who had been wounded with the lost battalion, and who had been a fellow patient of mine in French hospitals and on the Turrialba, introduced me at the Lamb's Club. All the famous actors of the day congregated there. Old Maclyn (not Fatty) Arbuckle was there. John J. McGraw, manager of the Giants, bought drinks for all the soldiers. Dustin Farnum was a friendly fellow. George M. Cohan came in, got mellow and dramatic and sang to us.
John Barrymore was playing Three Faces East, a lousy play, and he came in every night after the show. I was introduced to him, but he volunteered no pleasantries, either then or later. He looked nervous and irritable. I did not like him.
The best fellow of all of them was Gene Buck. He worked day and night getting passes for us to go to the best shows and musical comedies. He was then producing the Follies. He is still one of the best fellows in New York, and he comes down to Washington quite often representing the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers.
Only one thing was difficult. The relatives of the dead, who had been watching the names of the wounded coming in, found me and entertained me. A sister of a comrade killed in the battle of St. Mihiel took me to a show, and had me talk to the mother. The people were in fair circumstances, but they had sacrificed everything to send their only son to college. The war came just as he got his degree.
I do not even remember his name now. But I well remember going a long way on a subway, and then going to the apartment. I had never been in an apartment before. We sat in the room very stiffly. I was uneasy and embarrassed.
I had promised Felbel, should he be killed, that I would see his father. So I visited Mr. Felbel, who was very nice to me. He took me to a famous doctor, who looked me over.
The New York sojourn was a two weeks mixture of dead men and high old times. When I got my transportation order to the Base Hospital at Fort Sam Houston, which happened to be in my home town, I was glad.
There I was discharged, and put on my civilian clothes. According to the story books life thereafter was to be lived in peace. We shall see.
We embarked at St. Nazaire, and put to sea December 10, 1918. A great storm came, and there must have been some trouble in navigating the ship. When we went on deck, the storm roared and slashed. The little ship sat high on great waves and the rudder seemed broken, for all our flotsaming and jetsoming around. I got sick and lay in my bunk. Three of us were in the cabin, all desperately sea sick.
Then it was that I realized the meaning of the expression "shiver my timbers," for the timbers of the ship shivered and creaked like a hobo's jungle shack in the March wind. We rolled from one side to the other in our bunks. We were banged around and the high seas loosened our bandages. I vomited, but was too sick even to raise my head. This was real misery. As I lay in the blood and vomit, a doctor came to dress my wounds. He saw the blood and looked distressed; he came closer and smelled the vomit, and looked sick himself.
This all seemed very funny. I did not care much whether death came or not. Feigning a very miserable look, but with an urge to burst out laughing, I said to the doctor: "Go away and let me die."
The doctor obliged. He held his nose and left.
Calm came the next day off the coast of Wales. But the "good ship" was so badly torn up, and we had used so much coal floundering around and fighting the storm, that we put into Barry Docks, a little coaling station by Cardiff.
Soon we were on the sea again. There were about a hundred and twenty-five wounded officers on the ship. We were an assorted set of cripples, but all could walk unaided fairly well. We managed to get about and have a little amusement. We had plays and skits in the middle of the ocean and forgot our troubles.
One night, in the dining room, we sat talking about the various armies. The parson, who looked like a baboon, and had less sense, was making a great speech about what awful cowards the Germans were. He made it plain that God was on our side of the killing, and America had entered the war for freedom's sake and that was the reason our soldiers were so brave and pure. This arrant old hypocrite had imposed himself on the whole crowd, always letting everyone know that swearing and such-like was a sin. Another parson who had not been at the front joined in with an oration on war atrocities.
I got pretty well bored with this kind of guff and nonsense. I suggested that if our opponents were mere cowards, then we weren't such brave men for having whipped them.
What courage, I said, did it take to whip cowards? Germans fought as we did, for their country.
I mentioned that the war was over—and that one man was as good a soldier as another, irrespective of nationality. Then the parson, both brave and bold, stood up and pointed his accusing finger at me: "Do you mean to tell me that you admire the German fiends, the despoilers of women, the destroyers of churches, the Huns, the vandals——?" and so on, and so on.
By that time, I was sore. With barrack-room language, I repeated that the Germans were just as good soldiers as we were. I said something else about Christian preachers urging men to kill each other. As for German soldiers, I said that from a military viewpoint, they were bound to be better trained then we were, for they had been at it longer.
The parson got more patriotic and said something about the stars and stripes, and how Patrick Henry had said "Give me Liberty or give me Death." About that time, our doctor, who was technically in command, arrived on the scene. He was double-patriotic, because he was an Englishman, who had settled in Boston and had become an American citizen.
He was horrified, and ordered all of us who had said the Germans were good soldiers to be placed under arrest.
The doctor meant business, as I later found. When we arrived at the hospital on Staten Island, there was a Colonel from the Inspector General's Department waiting to investigate me and others. By radio, we had been charged with making remarks "derogatory to the morale of the American troops," which was a damned lie.
Fortunately, the Colonel had some brains. In about fifteen minutes he dismissed us all and told us to go to town and enjoy ourselves.
New York City turned out en masse, man, woman and child, to give the returning soldiers a good time. As often as we could, we left our hospitals and came to town. Everybody was happy, except the parents of those who were killed. The New Yorkers were satisfied there would never be another war; and going home, I found this true all over the nation. Most of us from the Staten Island Hospital stayed through New Year's, and for a few days in January of 1919. We were being heroed around, and were young enough to enjoy ourselves.
Captain Bill Harrigan, who had been wounded with the lost battalion, and who had been a fellow patient of mine in French hospitals and on the Turrialba, introduced me at the Lamb's Club. All the famous actors of the day congregated there. Old Maclyn (not Fatty) Arbuckle was there. John J. McGraw, manager of the Giants, bought drinks for all the soldiers. Dustin Farnum was a friendly fellow. George M. Cohan came in, got mellow and dramatic and sang to us.
John Barrymore was playing Three Faces East, a lousy play, and he came in every night after the show. I was introduced to him, but he volunteered no pleasantries, either then or later. He looked nervous and irritable. I did not like him.
The best fellow of all of them was Gene Buck. He worked day and night getting passes for us to go to the best shows and musical comedies. He was then producing the Follies. He is still one of the best fellows in New York, and he comes down to Washington quite often representing the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers.
Only one thing was difficult. The relatives of the dead, who had been watching the names of the wounded coming in, found me and entertained me. A sister of a comrade killed in the battle of St. Mihiel took me to a show, and had me talk to the mother. The people were in fair circumstances, but they had sacrificed everything to send their only son to college. The war came just as he got his degree.
I do not even remember his name now. But I well remember going a long way on a subway, and then going to the apartment. I had never been in an apartment before. We sat in the room very stiffly. I was uneasy and embarrassed.
I had promised Felbel, should he be killed, that I would see his father. So I visited Mr. Felbel, who was very nice to me. He took me to a famous doctor, who looked me over.
The New York sojourn was a two weeks mixture of dead men and high old times. When I got my transportation order to the Base Hospital at Fort Sam Houston, which happened to be in my home town, I was glad.
There I was discharged, and put on my civilian clothes. According to the story books life thereafter was to be lived in peace. We shall see.
