path: root/73407-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73407 ***





                            CAMION CARTOONS


                                   BY

                            KIRKLAND H. DAY

[Illustration: [Logo]]

                                 BOSTON
                         MARSHALL JONES COMPANY
                               MDCCCCXIX




                            COPYRIGHT, 1919
                       BY MARSHALL JONES COMPANY


                         _All rights reserved_


                           THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
                           NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A




                           INTRODUCTORY NOTE


The writer of these letters and maker of these drawings went overseas
with the first Technology unit; landed in France on the Fourth of July,
1917; began his service as a member of the Reserve Mallet, and was
mustered into the American Army on October 1, 1917. In preparing the
letters and cartoons for the press, it was thought best to begin where
rumors of impending German surrender first appear in the correspondence,
thus confining the humorously illustrated story to the last weeks of the
war. Mr. Day wrote his letters with no intention or expectation of
having them published; that is entirely the work of his friends, who
believe that his impromptu sketches will be found to furnish ample
justification for the existence of this book.

Mr. Day served in the Reserve Mallet, a camion unit to whose spirit and
efficiency _Stars and Stripes_ has paid the following unaffected and
authentic tribute:


  “In a summer when again and again the historic phrase ‘Franco-American
  troops’ makes its appearance in the communiqués, the distinction of
  being the complete amalgam of the two armies belongs to the flying
  squadron of emergency transportation, that trundling troop of trucks,
  that charging company of camions, the Mallet Reserve.

  “This organization consists of 700 five-ton trucks—American trucks
  driven over French roads, driven now by French now by American
  drivers, officered by French and American officers, carrying French
  and American troops, French and American ammunition.

  “The Mallet Reserve is so named because its commanding officer is
  Major Mallet of the French Cavalry, and is called a Reserve because it
  is attached to no Army Corps, but rather is held in reserve for
  emergency duty whenever a crisis in the war brings a crisis in
  transportation.

  “This means that the interminable line of camions bearing the Mallet
  mark will invariably appear wherever things are hottest, that the
  trucks and their drivers know no rest from one year’s end to the
  other.

  “Thus you saw them along the roads up Cambrai way last fall. When
  French troops were rushed into the gap that opened during the German
  drive of March, Mallet trucks carried them, and they were Mallet
  trucks which bore northward the French soldiers who made their sudden
  and startling appearance among the British in Flanders during the
  April fighting. The American troops and ammunition that were moved
  with a rush to the lines of the Chateau-Thierry front were
  transported, many of them, in the home grown camions of the Mallet
  Reserve.

  “The trucks themselves, if you examine them, tell many a story of
  transport under shell-fire, tell of machine gunners borne to the very
  rim of the battle so that gunners need only drop from the camion, run
  down a field and start firing.”


When this book went to press, Mr. Day was still in service, with the
American Army of Occupation.




                            CAMION CARTOONS


                                                       _October 6, 1918_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Today the war ended!—at least, one of the buck privates read it so. He
got hold of a French newspaper, and caused some excitement until one of
the boys, who could read the Lingo, commandeered the sheet. At any rate,
the Huns are beginning to squeal. Just wait until a few Boche villages
begin to get theirs, and peace notes will begin to come over....

Well! I arrived back in camp again after some jumping about France. We
got away from Aix without any trouble, but from then on we began to
wonder if we would get back into camp for Christmas. The trains over
here hate to get anywhere.

It was night when we arrived in Paris, late as usual, and so dark we had
to hang on to each other to keep from getting lost. Having been there
before, I was elected guide, and I got the gang to the Provost Marshal
O. K., where we got our passes stamped, and then I left them for the
University Union. Coming back from permission, I was not loaded down
with money, but did have enough to see me through one night. The Union
was crowded, but I found a place at a nearby hotel—a dandy room on the
ground floor, which rather surprised me. During the bombing season,
ground floor rooms are the first to be taken.

[Illustration: MY GAWD PEACE!

FRENCH

WHERE?
WHEN?
WHAT?!]

The next afternoon I went, with a lieutenant I had met at the Union, to
take a look at Napoleon’s tomb. We walked over—the lieutenant’s
pocketbook must have been as flat as mine. I will never regret going,
and I shall never forget the thrill I got when standing in the doorway
of the chapel and seeing that golden light flooding the cross.

That golden light, that living cross, and the pale blue-gray rays
falling from the side windows, made me feel miles from any one.

The tomb itself was covered with sandbags. I remember going to the tomb
when I was here with you, before the war; but how I could have forgotten
that inspiring sight is beyond me.

There was no more time for sightseeing, as I could not take a chance on
missing my train.

[Illustration: HOT COFFEE

AN’ I’LL BET FIFTY FRANCS IT’S OVER BY CHRISTMAS!

SAVE YOUR MONEY. THE BOCHE AINT GOT BRAINS ENOUGH TO KNOW THEY’RE
LICKED!]

Since my return I have heard the news that our company clerk is leaving,
and that I am to take on his job as well as have charge of the mess. It
will be pretty nice in the winter, but I hate inside work and would much
rather ride a camion.

[Illustration: PIE

COFFEE

I’LL BE BACK FOR THE PUDDING AS SOON AS I WRAP MYSELF AROUND THIS
LUNCH!!

“KITCHEN POLICE” MIGHT BE WORSE

KIRK. DAY ’17]


                                                            _October 12_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Today has been another rumor day. Those coming back from convois sure
have one hot line from the front. “William the Hun” has agreed, and the
Boche have stacked arms and are doing the goose-step back to Germany.
Would that it were true! Still, the way the Huns are going now, they
haven’t time to goose-step, it’s more of a fox-trot.

I’m enclosing one ticket good for a visit from Santa Claus. Tell him to
pack the cigarettes and gum with care. Don’t chase around to get stuff
to fill the box—just pack it full of cigarettes and send it along. Don’t
put in a Christmas card, it takes up room.

[Illustration: WHAT’S THE RUMOUR?]


                                                            _October 18_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Once upon a time I went to church and they sang a song about “Rest,
rest, for the weary.” When I get home, I’m going to climb into bed and
let them sing me to sleep with that song. Weary! Sleep! I could make a
hibernating bear look as though it had insomnia.

Did I ever write a letter in which I didn’t say “We have moved.” If so
it must have been when little apples were made. We have moved! The way
the Huns are going backwards, my next letter should be headed “Somewhere
in Germany.” This move has been one for the better in regard to
quarters. The Germans didn’t do much hating in this village. No doubt
they didn’t have time. At any rate the houses are standing on their own
feet and the roofs are pretty much all together.

[Illustration: PINK RUMP JAZZ DAH DEE THUMP DUMP

ZIZZ BURR

DAY DREAMS
SOME WHERE IN FRANCE

KIRK. DAY ’18]

Germany is down and out. Everywhere you notice and see it. The French
are rubbing the defeat in. Before this wonderful drive you never saw a
light anywhere. Now everywhere you see them. Autos go by with their head
lights thumbing their noses. In the woods, in the field, in houses, and
barracks, there is no attempt to conceal lights.

[Illustration: WAR IS A WORRY FOR SOME.

WHAT SEEMS TO BE THE TROUBLE KID?

TROUBLE!!? I’M WONDERING IF I’LL OUT GROW THAT NEW DRESS SUIT I LEFT
BEHIND.

K H DAY 17]


                                                            _October 31_

  DEAR MOTHER—

I have just finished up with the “Flu.” Believe me, eight days with it
is enough for me and I don’t want to see it again. Feel about as useful
as a pair of pajamas in the army. The Flu hit me when I wasn’t looking
and got me down before I knew what struck me. They took me over to the
camp infirmary and put me to bed. When you are once in bed you have no
desire to leave. If you do get up you find that your legs are no longer
mates, and refuse to work together.

[Illustration: BEAT IT! I’M THRU WITH YOU!!

SPANISH FLU.]

Just now I’m back in my old room wondering what it has all been about. I
slept most of the time at the infirmary and had some fine dreams.
Pushing logs about and driving over cliffs in camions were my favorites.
Once in a while I would dream that I was at home again, but every time I
was to see you they would make me crank up my camion and go somewhere
else. I hope some day I’ll be able to dream without having a camion
enter into it. I still don’t feel much like sitting down to any kind of
a meal. The first shave I had since I was taken was yesterday. It nearly
killed me, and I left my moustache on until my arm gets a little
stronger. The camp is shy a barber or I would have let someone else do
the job. If we don’t get a barber soon I’m going to start braiding my
hair....

[Illustration: WHERE’D YA GET THAT JUNK?

SYSTÈME D!

AFTER THE WAR.]

Over here nothing is ever stolen, swiped or pinched. It is always
“Système D.” As I understand it there are three right ways of getting
things in the French army. Either by Système A, B, or C. If you can’t
get what you want through these three channels, you “Système D” it. All
sorts of things from coal to pianos have been obtained through this “let
not your left hand see what your right is doing” method. Some one said
that by the end of the war we would all be first class crooks. There may
be more truth than poetry in that. At any rate it’s a safe bet that we
won’t starve to death while the war is going on. You would think that
“Gott Mit Uns” was made in the United States instead of Germany, if you
were to look at the belts. I thought, until I went on permission, that
only the boys in the Reserve Mallet wore the Hun belt. As far as I’ve
seen practically every “Yank” has and wears one of these belts. Fully as
many pants in the United States Army in France are held up by “Gott Mit
Uns” as are held up by the regulation belt.

[Illustration: WHERE YA ALL GIT DAT LITTLE RED CAP NIGGER? MAN DAT
CERTLY AM SOME COLOR!

NOTE.
THE RED HATS WORN BY THE SENEGALESE ARE GOING TO MAKE OUR COONS GREEN
WITH ENVY.]


                                                            _November 9_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Isn’t the news wonderful! One of the boys drifted in with a French
newspaper and translated the armistice terms laid down to Austria. The
Allies certainly left out the silver platter when they handed them over.
Wouldn’t I like to be there when the Hun comes running out with the
white flag to call on General Foch. We are all saying, “When we move
let’s take a trip to Austria.” It may be a case like the fellow who
said, “Why learn French when we will be talking German in Berlin soon.”
Only it will be Vienna if we should roll to Austria. Just think of their
being eighty minutes from Berlin by air. Soon the aviation report will
be, “So many tons of bombs dropped on ‘Unter den Linden.’” Won’t the
Huns yell!

[Illustration: WHO SAID THE WAR WAS OVER?

NACH BERLIN

BROADWAY]

One of the boys that has come in since I started this letter has just
gone out to get a bottle of wine so that we can celebrate the glorious
reports. If we start in celebrating all such news, it will be—“Vin tous
les jours.” Italy showed that she had a punch in each hand. Sad news
from the front—“No wine.” Some one else must have decided to
celebrate....

All the talk these days is, “When I get home.” I’ve heard what every man
is going to eat, wear, and do, when he gets to the other side. Each one
has his own taste in regard to food. In the clothing line, anything but
a uniform is popular. As for doing—I am afraid the wheels of progress
are not going to move very fast. All the boys are going to just sit or
sleep.

[Illustration: HAVE A CARE! HAVE A CARE! I DON’T WONT TO GO HOME LOOK’N
LIKE THE HUNS HAD SCALPED ME.

DON’ WORRY! FOR THE LOVE OF MUD SIT STILL OR THEY’LL THINK THE BOCHE BIT
ONE OF YOUR EARS OFF!]

There is now a barber in town—A French one. Although I need a hair cut
pretty badly, I think I’ll stay away. From the work he has done on a few
of the boys, I have come to the conclusion that I can do as good a job
myself. Over here a bald headed man has the advantage. Nothing doing
with the clippers, however, once was enough for me with a convict
head....

The latest in regard to what becomes of us after peace is declared, is
that we will be with the Army of Occupation. That doesn’t sound at all
good. It is a good thing that hearing is not believing in most cases or
I would be on pins and needles all the time.

[Illustration: I’M GWAN HOME—WHEE]


                                                           _November 10_

  DEAR MOTHER—

The night before last there was wild excitement in camp. All afternoon
we had been hearing the latest news from the front, and the war was
finished at least every five minutes. That night one of the boys
returned from the mission and said that a Lieutenant told him that there
was no doubt about it, Germany had thrown up the sponge. I wasn’t there,
being asleep in bed at the time, but they woke me up and told me
between—hics—that the war was over. The piano in one company’s house was
playing all the war music that was ever written and the air rang with
cheers, popping of corks, songs, and whatnot. It wasn’t long before our
door was banged open. We were paged and told that the war was _fini_,
and to come out and join the party. I’m afraid they didn’t get much of a
response from us, both of us being pretty tired. Some day they won’t be
crying wolf and we are going to miss out on the party. The Frenchmen are
just about crazy, and who can blame them? When the end comes, and it’s
coming sooner than any of us realize, you in the States will get the all
over feeling long before we do. Things will go on for us camion drivers
just about as they are going now, and not until both feet are planted on
the other side of the pond will the _guerre_ be really finished for us.

[Illustration: GURGLE AH—SMACK!

HAVE A HEART—DON’T DRINK IT ALL!

HURRY UP FOR PETE SAKE!

SOUNDS LIKE A PARTY!!

HIGH HUM-M—HOPE WE DONT ROLL EARLY!

ZIR BUZZ

THE ARMY WAS MADE FOR SOME GUYS!

THOUGHT I HEARD A FEMALE VOICE?

GESS I’LL GO UP AND SEE IF THE MAIL IS IN.

SOME WILD BOOK!

THERE AINT A THING TO WRITE ABOUT.

KNOCK KNOCK

WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE BOYS....

THE WAR MUST BE OVER!?

MOST ANY NIGHT PROV. CO “A” HAS A FEW MEN IN. THEY LEAD “THE LIFE OF
REILLY,” AND NO WONDER THEY DON’T WONT TO MOVE.
CROSS SECTION OF OUR LAST BILLET.]

[Illustration: IS’NT THE WORLD SMALL?

I.

NO USE TALKING. THESE FRENCH GIRLS SURE HAVE IT ON THE GIRLS BACK HOME!

I’LL SAY SO! LOOK THIS PETITE FEMME OVER!

II.

DO YOU BOYS KNOW THE WAY TO THE GRAND HOTEL? NEW YORK WAS NEVER LIKE
THIS!

?

K H DAY 17]


                                                           _November 11_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Am I awake or is it a dream. It doesn’t seem possible that the war is
OVER. When it was brought home to me that the armistice had been signed,
it left me not dancing with joy but numb. It didn’t seem possible and
now, two hours after, I’m just beginning to cheer. Think of the millions
that are made happy these days, and think of those whose boys will never
return. Just about two weeks ago the lieutenant I had in C Co. was
killed. He was a fraternity brother of mine, and one of the finest
fellows I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I am glad that I have
had the privilege of being one in the great Army of Right. My only
regret is that I could not have come over about three years sooner.

[Illustration: U.S.

FRANCE

MOST ANY DAY NOW]

I remember when I first got here, early in July, 1917, how we looked
forward to the day when America would have its army in the field. There
was no question in our minds about their showing something. When they
did get in they showed something all right, they showed more than
something. It was a case of “The best is none too good.”

We have moved along twice since I last wrote. To look at the signs in
this place you would think you were in Germany. German names for streets
and German signs everywhere. This isn’t the first of that kind that we
have struck, but it was more so than the others. We are in a huge
farmhouse that used to be for Hun officers only. Its roof hasn’t a hole
and we haven’t a broken pane of glass in our windows. We have the best
room yet, and a fireplace that could take a tree, roots and all. The
Boche turned a nearby farm into a bath house and it is a wonder. Showers
beaucoup and tiled bath rooms with enameled tubs. They moved so fast
that there isn’t much damage done. They did leave their trade mark
though. There is a chateau that looks perfectly O. K. from the outside,
but inside it is a total loss. They planted a mine and wrecked it. Mines
are planted all over the road. Yesterday afternoon two went off. The
last blew our windows open.

[Illustration: I

LET’S SEE? I LEFT A HANDKERCHIEF RIGHT ON TOP.

II

AH! HERE SHE BE!

III

MON DIEU! I WOULD’NT CALL THAT A _HANDKERCHIEF_?

IV

WHERE TAHELL IS THE DARN THING??!

V

HAY!! ANY YOUSE GUYS GOT AN UNUSED NOSE RAG?

KIRK. DAY. FRANCE ’18

INDOOR ARMY SPORTS
IS AS BAD AS TRYING TO FIND THAT “HAY STACK NEEDLE” AS TO FIND ANY THING
IN A BARRACK BAG—]

Understand we are on our way to Somewhere in Germany.

We will be on the move, I expect, for some time now so my letters may be
few and far between. Will try and keep them coming through.

[Illustration: GUARD DUTY

BRRR

SHOWER NATURAL

?

B.V.D. & BOCK WEATHER]


                                                           _November 20_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Wars may come and wars may go, but we go on forever. Believe me! when we
heard that the armistice had been signed, you would have thought we had
all gone suddenly crazy. It took some time, I’ll admit, for the good
news to sink in—but when it did—Oh boy!

We are now on the way towards Germany. It is almost a certainty that we
will travel along with one of the French armies of occupation; carrying
Ravitaillement (grub for man and beast) to them. Talk about moving, ever
since the last shell was fired, that’s all we have been doing. You would
think we were a checker game. I can’t say we were tickled to death at
the “Army of Occupation” news as we expected to be on our way towards
the States within a couple of months.

[Illustration: YES’DAY ZAY SHELL DES PARK ALL ZE TIME. LAS NIGHT ZE SAME
TODAY I FEAR YES—

MON DIEU! TAKE ME HOME! LET ME OUT OF THIS!?

“WAR IS HELL”]


                                                           _November 22_

  DEAR MOTHER—

They say that a tug boat, or some kind of a water animal, is going to
brave the dangers and carry mail across to the folks at home. I am
therefore stealing a few moments from my soldierly duties to throw a bit
of ink. I’d much rather take the place of this letter and let them ferry
me across instead, but as we are elected to be a part of the clean-up
squad, it can’t be done.

It is sad but true, but we are a part of one of the French armies of
occupation and are now “Nach Berlin.” We are making the grade by the
instalment plan—stop here today and move on tomorrow. Our job is
carrying “Ravitaillement,” and we are just as busy now as we were during
the days of shot, shell, and bomb. Just as busy, but it’s a great deal
more tiresome without any excitement.

[Illustration: ! ?

CAP’N I’D DONE LIKE TO BE XCUSED FROM THIS YER DRILL. MY FEETS AM SO BIG
DAT BY DE TIME I GIT DEM UNDER CONTROL DE COMPANY AM WHERE DAY AM WHILE
I’SE WHERE I WAS!

K H DAY FRANCE ’18]

That is, it’s more tiresome for the drivers and some sergeants. The
clerk’s duties are just the same, although I have been told that I’m to
take over the mess and supply sergeant’s jobs along with what I am
already doing, which is nothing at all. Guess they decided I was wearing
out too many chairs, and drawing too many pictures for a “Soldat
deuxième classe.” There was enough yelling with the old mess sergeant
and I can see a battle royal ahead of me when I begin to dish up the
chow. As for getting clothes, it can’t be done. Some of the men are
running around in pants held together with wire, pins, and string.

It is going to be a cold winter, and I hope that those at the other end
get a little pep and begin to unwind Mr. Red Tape.

[Illustration: I WONDER WHOSE WIN’EN TH’ WAR THESE DAYS?

CLICK CLANK

PITY THE POOR CLERK! IT’S A HARD WAR FOR HIM.]

All day troops have been passing here, going up; part of the army that
we are attached to, so I wouldn’t be surprised if we were on the go
again soon.

Have seen thousands of returning prisoners, refugees full of spirit, but
so pinched and hungry looking, clothed in rags and even in the uniform
of the Boche soldier. We fed some at our kitchen one night and they were
starved.

In the town I sent my last letter from, the son of the people whose
house we had taken over dropped in to look the place over. It was the
first time in four years that he had seen his parents’ home. His mother,
sixty-four, and his father, sixty-eight, were carried off by the Huns in
February. They were expected back almost any day and he wanted to see
what there was left. The house was in perfect condition and there were a
few sticks of furniture about, but the Boche had taken the meat and left
nothing but the bone. His parents were more fortunate than many, having
a home with a roof, but even then it’s pretty tough for two old people
to return to their home and find it stripped of the things they loved.

[Illustration: STOP A MINUTE I WONT TO HEAR WHAT THE BANDS PLAYING!!

SWOPE LAP-LAP—GURGLE SMACK——GULP

FOR PETE SAKES KIRK ARE YOU PAGING A DEAD MAN!!

STARTED BUT NOT FINISHED.

INJOYING MP SOUP! AR LA FRENCH STYLE

PICK PICK SNAP

LINE OF ACTION.

RIGHT IN MY EYE!

PICKING MY TEETH AT THE TABLE IS A SURE THING.

BLUE→YOU NEVE HEARD SUCH A — — NOISE. WHY THOSE — — OF HUNS — — ETC.

SUCH LANGUAGE!! I FAINT!!

AFTER MONTHS WITH THE BOYS THIS IS SURE TO HAPPEN

THE DEAR BOY MUST BE DRUNK

LOST AN AUTO. TIRE→BANG!!

LOOK OUT FOR THE SHELL!!

SOMETHING LIKE THIS WILL HAPPEN WHEN I HEAR A BLOW OUT!

IS THIS PARIS OR BOSTON??? RIGHT ON THE ARM OF HER CHAIR

PERHAPS I WILL ASK MYSELF THIS QUESTION MANY TIMES

WHEN I GET HOME AFTER THE WAR SUCH THINGS AS THESE MAY HAPPEN!

Kirk Day. Paris 17]

From the shooting around here one would think that the war was still
going on. Almost every one that has a gun is out banging away, and once
in a while a mine will go off and shake the house. The Italians
stationed here got hold of some rockets, and every night they dot the
sky with red and green lights. Every day is a Fourth of July, but not a
“safe and sane” one.

The Italians were life savers in that they had a portable barber shop,
first time we have run into a good barber shop in a long time. One of
the boys in our company took a hand at the game, but after trying his
luck on a few heads, the bottom fell out of his business.

[Illustration: HAY KID! NUMBER 23 ROLLS!!

D—N!

AFTER YOU GET ALL DOLLED UP TO TAKE YOUR TOWN PERMISSION—THIS ALWAYS
HAPPENS.]

The camions are just about on their last legs. It is to be expected, as
they are rolled “tous les jours” and they are not in the camp long
enough for the drivers to work on them. Out of our eighteen cars we have
about ten that are able to roll. If they keep on going, there won’t be
anything left to drive and they will have to send us home.

The American army has forgotten for so long that we, in the Reserve
Mallet, are a part of them, we don’t expect them to think of us suddenly
in this stage of the game.

Permissions are still going on and no one seems in any hurry to get
back. Those who were in Paris at the time of the signing of the
armistice have wild tales to tell.

[Illustration: GET OUT YOUR TOW ROPE!!

AH OUI SARG!

WHEN I BLOW THE WHISTLE GIVE HER ALL SHE’S GOT!

GESS WE’LL HAVE TO GET THE JACK OUT!

UP TO HER NECK

SUPPOSE WE’LL HAVE TO UNLOAD THE BOAT!

LOOKS LIKE AN ALL NIGHT JOB.

THAT GUY IS ALWAYS TRYING TO BURY HIS CAMION!

THE MECHANIC

ANY DAY IN THE M.T.C. RESERVE MALLET.]


                                                           _November 27_

  DEAR MOTHER—

The lid is off, at last we can come out of the trenches and go over the
top in our letters. Old Man Censor has had his whiskers cut and we can
throw the ink from bottle to paper without a worry.

As you know, I jumped from the minor league (American Field Service)
into the major (U. S. Army) on October 1st, 1917. After taking the leap
we were sent to Soissons (Aisne) which was to be our home for some
little time. Soissons was some town! The Boche had been there before us,
but had left a great part of the city standing. With its hotels, cafés,
tea rooms, stores, and bath house, we led the life of Riley.

[Illustration: WHY MAN, IF THIS WAR AINT OVER BY MARCH, I’M A LIAR! IT
STANDS TO REASON THAT—ETC.—ETC.

STATUE OF LIBERTY

WE HAVE THIS KIND AND—]

Our camp lay just on the edge of the city on the bank of the Aisne
river, and in the camp I had my first lesson in ditch digging, kitchen
policing, drilling, rock breaking, and a few other like things.

Things went along pretty smooth for us until March 21, when there came
the grand finale as far as Soissons was concerned. Up to that date we
had had a few air raids, which would start the twins barking and us
running for abris. The twins were a pair of “seventy-fives” in a field
right behind camp.

On March 21 things began to pick up. All the morning I had been hauling
rock and more rock, and along towards noon I was tired, dirty, and
didn’t much care if school kept or not. I walked into our barracks and
started some water boiling to remove my rock hauling makeup (as far as I
know, that water is still boiling). Was lying on my bunk when the word
came that we were to pack up our stuff and be ready to move at any
moment. It was like a bolt out of a clear sky. “Be ready to move,” and
we thought we were settled for the rest of the war!

[Illustration: ?!?

TAKE IT FROM ME KID IM RIGHT! WHY A FRENCH GENERAL TOLD MY CHUM THAT IF
30% OF THIS BUNCH WAS IN ON THE FINISH WE SURE WOULD BE A LUCKY
CREW—ETC.—ETC.

THESE CRAPE HANGERS

KIRK DAY. 17]

It did not take long to roll up my blankets, to dump my stuff into my
barracks bag, and to lug it all down to my truck. Started to roll my
blankets after I got them to the camion, when there came a whistle, a
bang, and a shower of dirt, stones, and twigs. A shell had landed on the
other side of the river. Before I had time to collect my thoughts there
came another whistle. This time I was under the truck ahead of the
bang,—more dirt, rocks, and twigs. No wonder they were moving camp!
There was a bridge dead ahead of me, about forty yards away. These two
shells had just missed the end furthest from me, and I could see that if
the bridge was the attraction I didn’t want to stick around. My blankets
were still unrolled and I started at them again. Another whistle,
another dive, and this time a regular downpour. This shell had landed on
my side of the river just off the bridge. Right on its heels came
another, and this one saw my exit. I started for camp on the run, but
didn’t get far before there came a bang. The concussion floored me and
when I picked myself together, saw a bunch of the boys gathered around
something under a tree that had been hit.

[Illustration: WHANG

HOME WAS NEVER LIKE THIS.]

The something was one of the boys wounded, in the leg. Why no one else
was wounded, or no one killed, is a miracle, as that shell hit where
every one seemed to be. No doubt hitting so high up the éclat was thrown
over our head. The boy who was wounded is now in the States. His leg is
now O. K., but he will always be lame.

[Illustration: GOTT STRAFE AMERICA!

JA, STRAFE THEM! THEY BLUFFED US INTO BELIEVING THAT THEY WERE BLUFFING.

PERHAPS WILLIAM—PERHAPS.]

That noon while at lunch two more shells landed in the river, side of
the dining room. It seemed as though they were following us. Later on
when we turned the trucks around and ran them by camp away from the
bridge, the shells began to land up at that end. That night, however,
the Huns raised their guns and began to send the shells over our heads
towards the railway station. All that night we would hear the whistle of
the shells passing over head and the bang in the distance of their
landing.

The next day we moved out of Soissons onto the “Route de Paris.” We were
just outside the city and all night and most of the day it was bang,
bang, bang. The Huns certainly were throwing the shells into the city,
and it didn’t make you feel “in the pink,” when you had to go into it
for water, and to the storehouse and railway station for supplies. All
the time we were there it was “beaucoup” work. We carried a great many
troops from one front to another and miles of shells. In fact it was
work from then on.

[Illustration: WHAT DA’YA KNOW? “TROOPS NINE DAYS OVER HERE AND SAIL FOR
THE STATES” THE ARMY WAS MADE FOR SOME GUYS!]

After a short stay here we carried on to Villa Helon, which is about two
kilometers from Longpont. This town was a gem and it certainly was tough
when we had to leave. The day we left, May 28, I believe, the town roads
were crowded with incoming and outgoing troops.

We moved at about midnight and the Huns gave us a farewell in the shape
of a bombing. The French were setting up their famous seventy-five guns
in the rear of the chateau as we pulled out. That wonderful chateau is
now, no doubt, a heap of ruins.

Refugees were everywhere. Wagons loaded with their goods, people on
foot, in carts, on bicycles, all moving towards Paris, crowded the
roads.

[Illustration: ’AND TO THINK I USED TO KICK AT THE PRICES THE LAUNDRY
CHARGED!! NEVER AGAIN!]

From Villa Helon we pushed on to Barcy, stopping over night a couple of
times at some towns. Barcy lies just outside the city of Meaux and is
right where France turned the Germans back in 1914.

While in this town we carried shell after shell to those points where
the heaviest fighting was going on. It was at Chateau-Thierry that we
first saw the American troops in number.

What a changed Chateau-Thierry it was when the Boche were driven out! It
wasn’t as badly shot up as I expected to find it, but it certainly had
been mauled.

[Illustration: A GUN MAKES A FINE CLOTHES HANGER.

IF THEY’D LEVE ME BE—I’D MAKE OLD RIP VAN—LOOK LIKE A PIKER!

AT THE END OF A’ _PERFECT_ DAY

GAMBLING!?

READ ’EM AND WEEP

COME YOU SEVEN! BABY NEEDS SOME SHOES

UNDER A CAMION IS A GOOD PLACE TO HIDE. BUT——

THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I’D GIVE MY RIGHT EYE TO “PARLEZ-VOUS” THIS LINGO.
THIS IS ONE OF THEM TIMES.

SUZZANNE VOUS ARE SOME BIEN KIDDO! SAISIR DEUX BOTTLES VIN BLANC—

OUI MONSIEUR

NOTE.
ALL FRENCH GIRLS ARE NAMED SUZZANNE, AND ARE PRETTY.

A LITTLE FRENCH, EVEN IF NOT O.K., IS BETTER THAN NONE AT ALL.

IF ONE OF THEM BIG BRASS THINGS IS TWO CENTS AND ONE OF THEM SILVER
THINGS IS TWENTY CENTS, I WONT GET FAR ON THIS.

THE NEW ALUMINUM FIVE AND TEN CENTIMES COINS DONT MAKE MUCH OF A HIT
WITH SOME OF THE BOYS.

KIRK. DAY FRANCE ’18]

From Barcy we moved to Hardivillers. This small town lies between
Breteuil and Crèvecœur-le-Grand, not far from Amiens. In the latter
place and beyond, we saw our first of the British. It was in and around
Amiens that bombs were the thickest. The country was so open that a
night convoi was always an invitation for a bomb. Between Moreuil and
Hangest they took twelve shots at us without a hit. That same night,
however, they got another section and wounded a couple of men and killed
another.

Our next stop was Bus, the town of no roofs and German dugouts, with the
nearby woods that sported the German huts. Bus is between Montdidier and
Roye. The former city is the worst shot up of any that I have seen. It
lies on the top of a hill and is just blown to dust. Not a wall or a
tree standing. One could live in Roye without a great deal of
rebuilding, but there are only walls left. Ham wasn’t shot up, but
burned. While at Bus my permission came through and I left the bunch not
knowing where I would find them when I came back.

[Illustration: GOOD NIGHT!! JUST LOOK WHAT THEM HUNS ARE DOING.

YOU POOR FISH! THATS A REPRINT OF THE 1915 BATTLE FRONT!

KIRK. DAY FRANCE ’18]

Port-à-Binson was where I found them. No doubt you read how the Germans
tried to get into Épernay on account of its being a centre for supplies.
Port-à-Binson is not far from Épernay, lying on the bank of the river
Marne. Here it was I took up the duties of clerk—something I’ll always
remember.

When we moved again it was to Jonchery, between Fismes and Rheims. While
in the Field Service I had often gone through Fismes; you wouldn’t know
it now, ruins is no name for it. From there we rolled on to Malmaison.
Here we got the news that the armistice had been signed. Since leaving
that town, we have stopped over night in a few other villages until we
struck here.

[Illustration: SOME COAT! SOME COAT!! YOU WOULD THINK I WAS TWINS THE
WAY IT FITS!!

YOU SHOULD TALK! TAKE A LOOK AT THE STRAIGHT JACKET I DREW!

?!

WHY DONT YOU BIRDS CHANGE COATS?

YOU SAID SOMETHING—WE NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT!!

KH DAY 18]

This account is more or less a bunch of names. I haven’t said much about
the work, which has been carrying shells most of the time. Nor have I
given much dope on some of the excitement that we have seen. Believe me,
we have had a little excitement in the way of bombs, and once in a
while, shells.

I wrote about the Boche and their camouflaged plans. That took place at
Chézy aux Orxois between Chateau-Thierry and Mareuil sur Ourcq. On that
day we were carrying shells and my car being the last had the fusees.
You can see that underneath my car was no place at all to use as an
abris.

I’m enclosing a bit of German propaganda, some of the bunk that they
used to drop from planes. They certainly must have been in a pipe dream
if they expected any one to fall for that stuff. Their minds work in a
queer way.

[Illustration: INSPECTION MORNING

SOME SHINE—IF MY SHOES DON’T GET BY I’M A LIAR

MIGHT JUST AS WELL BE BLIND AS TO TRY AND SEE THRU THIS BARREL

HOW IN THE DEVIL AM I EVER GOING TO CLEAN THIS COAT?

HOW DO I LOOK KID?

WHO T’HELLS GOT A RAZOR?

SAY! THE BACK OF YOUR NECK LOOKS LIKE A COAL HEAP

I SHOULD CARE—A’M GOING TO CAMOUFLAGE IT WITH TALCUM POWDER

GESS I’LL HAVE TO WEAR GLOVES AFTER ALL!

K. H. DAY ’18 FRANCE]

One of the men who used to work in the atelier when we had French
workmen, came in to see us the other day. He had just got back from his
permission and from seeing his wife and son who had been prisoners. The
Huns had cut the forefinger from each of his wife’s hands. That was mild
compared with some of the other things that they did.

The other night we staged a party. The result is my drawing of Monsieur
Light Wine. Never again.

Rumors are flying about. The latest is that all men will return to their
original companies. That’s all right, but what becomes of the Field
Service men? If it’s all the same to those higher up, I’ll take home.

[Illustration: JUS’ ONE MORE CHANCE?

MONSIEUR LIGHT WINE

—AND I THOUGHT YOU HARMLESS! “ALLEZ”! NEVER LET ME SEE YOU AGAIN.]


                                                           _December 19_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Winter has at last taken the padlock off. The rain that has been falling
for the last few days, has now turned to snow and the temperature has
moved from its suite half way up to one near the ground floor. Rubber
boots and an over coat are very much in style these days—also a red
nose.

We are now taking the count in the village of Boulzicourt near the
cities of Mézières and Charleville. Sedan is also quite close by. The
day before yesterday I took a trip to Charleville: object, a bath.
Managed to catch a ride on a truck going over.

[Illustration: P-O-P

THIS IS THE WAY WE FEEL AT TIMES——]

After the bath, met a couple of the boys and we hustled around to get
things fixed up for supper. None of the cafés or restaurants have
started in to serve meals so we went into the market and got some steak
and potatoes. The prices are sky high, but one has to eat. These we took
around to a small café and had them cooked up. The steak was tough, but
the “cuisinier” had cooked it in a most delicious way — with Pinard. The
potatoes as usual were French Fried. We had brought along our own wine
or we would have been out of luck.

After supper we drifted around to a dance hall. It was crowded, about
ten men to one girl, so we didn’t try our luck at the French dancing.
All they do is whirl—always in one way and they never reverse. Once in
awhile you see someone trying to do the old turkey trot. After sticking
around a short while, we started home. No ride this time—no luck at all,
so we burnt up the road for the ten kilom’s.

[Illustration: BON

?

PAS DE TABAC

IT IS RATHER A SHOCK TO THE BAR MAID, FOR YOU TO TAKE A CUP OF COFFEE
WITHOUT EVEN THAT DASH OF COGNAC.]

Yesterday I was over to Sedan. It was raining so hard that I didn’t do
much chasing around. Of the two cities Charleville is the more
picturesque with its long sloping roofs and its quaint old fashioned
French appearance. Sedan looks more modern, more like the States.

The day we moved, five of us got left behind. That is there wasn’t
enough room in the remaining camion—the others had pulled out and we
thought they were waiting somewhere down the line. The first stop we
knew was to be at Boulzicourt, so we started out on foot. All of us were
dressed pretty warmly, as we had expected to hold down the front end of
a camion. It was raining and soon our overcoats were weighing close to a
ton. Up the line about three miles, I discovered that two letters for
one of the boys had been forgotten in the shuffle. It was up to me to go
back and one of the boys said he’d come along. Back we went and rescued
the mail. We got under way again and this time had the luck to jump an
ambulance that was going straight through. It was going, it didn’t even
hit the high spots. About half way we passed the other three birds
riding the back end of a truck. We pulled into Boulzicourt and
discovered that the camion had moved on to a place called Flize, which
is on the way to Sedan.

[Illustration: SOME HIGH FLYER! JUST LOOK AT THEM TRICKS! REGULAR BIRD
I’LL SAY!

I WOULDN’T SAY SHE WAS A HIGH FLYER, AND I DON’T SEE ANY TRICKS, BUT
SHE’S A BIRD ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT!

YOU CAN SEE AN AEROPLANE ANY DAY, BUT A FAIR FRENCH MISS IS A RARE
ANIMAL]

[Illustration: ? !!

MOVING PICTURE OF A SALUTE K H DAY]

A camion came bowling along so we hopped aboard. Of course it was going
to the wrong village, but we didn’t worry—one can always catch a ride.
At Mézières the truck pulled up and we jumped off. It was still raining
and we weren’t what you would call dry. Hungry and not a thing could be
had in the way of food. Nothing in the shops, but we did manage to get
coffee. Along towards night, we ran into a Frenchman that set us up to
one fine supper with wine and rum. About that time we decided we might
as well be setting out for the camp. It was raining great guns and was
so dark that we gave it up as a bad job. Instead we got a room over a
café. The woman who ran the place came over on the ark. She had remained
during the years that the Boche held the town, and, as a consequence
kept running in German with her French—something that happens quite
frequently in these parts. Our room was a wonder. The bed boasted seven
mattresses; reminded me of the fairy story of how to tell a real
princess—when a bunch of Janes claimed the crown and to test them out
they put them to bed on a stack of mattresses. Underneath was a pea. The
fake ones slept like a log, but she of the purple couldn’t sleep at all
and, in the morning, she was black and blue from the lump raised by the
pea. We either are not of the purple or there was nothing under the
mattresses, for we certainly tore off the sleep. Just before we turned
in there was an awful banging on Madame’s door, and yells in French,
German, and Sanscrit I guess. She had locked herself in. We went out and
discovered the key sticking into the lock of her door. We gave it a
turn, but the door stayed shut. We gave it a couple of more turns, and
tried other combinations—still the door refused to open. In the meantime
the old girl was yelling “nicht’s” and “ja’s” and French cuss words. We
expected the whole town to show up. Finally Bill had the brilliant idea
of seeing how our door worked. We went over to try it out and in fooling
with it the door knob came out in my hand. I went over, stuck it into
Madame’s door and “Voilà” the caged bird was free. In the morning we set
out for Flize.

[Illustration: G-O-S-H KID I SURE WAS POUNDING MY EAR! LETS STAY HERE
’TILL THEY SEND FOR US!

HURRY UP WE’VE GOT TO SHOW SPEED TO GET BACK BEFORE DARK!]

[Illustration: NEW YORK—DAMN FINE! GO TO HELL! GOOD NIGHT! YES—MOVING
PICTURES—VOTES FOR WOMEN!

THATS RIGHT KID! ONE MORE LESSON ’ND YOU’L TALK JUST LIKE A’N AMERICAN.]

It was still raining and we didn’t get a ride. We walked and walked and
no sign of camp. My coat was soaked through, my rubber boots were
raising the devil with my feet, and my labors had given me a turkish
bath. We pulled into Flize, with nothing like a camp in sight. While we
were deciding whether to wait around for a ride to Sedan, where the
Mission was, or to look for quarters, one of our trucks came panting
along. The camp was at Boulzicourt. They had come over near Flize, had
stayed two hours, and had gone to Boulzicourt. A staff car came flying
along, we got a ride and here we are.

This town is quite large. Our quarters are very comfortable. We are
billeted in a French house. Four of us have a front room, and if the sun
ever comes out, we should get our share of it. Our fireplace is working
all the time and we are kept busy getting wood to keep the home fire
burning.

[Illustration: YOU SIMP! WHEN D’A SARG’ PUTS YOU’SE ON A DETAIL KICK!
SEE WHAT YOU’VE DID BY NOT RAIS’IN A GRIPE!

?

GIVE ME AIR!

PITY THE POOR SERGEANT.]

Madame had us in for coffee the other afternoon. She was here while the
Huns held the town. Naturally she has no love for them. What they
couldn’t steal they took, and she’s just about left high and dry. Her
son was captured at Verdun, but is now home.

The town hasn’t come back to life yet. When it does there are enough
cafés to feed and drink us all. Two dance halls with these player pianos
are open. Ten centimes sets the music going. They have a total of nine
tunes among which is the Merry Widow—you can see how up to date the
music is. At nights these places are crowded with the French troops and
Italian road workers. All told I’ve seen three girls, all at once, in
these places.

[Illustration: EYES RIGHT!]

Yesterday my Christmas box showed up. The cigarettes came at the right
moment, as for three days I’d been using a corn cob. The “Y” had run out
of smokes, and they hardly ever visit us nowadays. The knife was a
wonder—too good to use.

The other day some of our trucks hauled champagne. They came through
here and stopped for supper, and then went on. They left a few cases
behind, so water isn’t very popular just now.

There is a chance of our getting back inside of a year—just a chance.
Hate to think of another winter over here. Guess by the time I get back
there won’t be anything going on in the states, the war will be a dead
issue then.

[Illustration: WHAT DO YOU KNOW! RED SOX START WITH A BANG! GOSH! HOPE
I’LL BE HOME FOR THE WORLDS SERIES—

SOAP]


                                                           _December 26_

  DEAR MOTHER—

Of course we had a big feed. The army didn’t come across with any
extras, but by scouring the country for miles around our company, and
all the companies for that matter, had some meal served up. Here’s our
line up—celery soup, roast beef, mashed potatoes, macaroni with cheese
and tomatoes, a salad, cake, prune pie, celery, and cocoa. Besides the
Red Cross sent cigarettes, candy, and crackers.

[Illustration: [Artilery shell]]

In the afternoon we took a ride by camion to Sedan where the “Y” was
putting on some kind of a show for us. After much cheering, and not
missing a single bump we arrived and found that the show was going
on—movies were being run off—French movies, a nice long drawn out thing
in six or seven parts on Nero, his love affairs, his fiddle, and Rome. I
for one wasn’t at all mad when they cut the picture short and started in
on some live stuff. After a Lieutenant got a couple of stories off his
chest, the ball started. Some real American coons from a near by outfit
were the live stuff. They sang by fours, threes, and twos, and when they
got tired of that they gave us some A No. 1 clog dancing. Believe me!
they could sure shuffle their feet. The “Y” had decked them out in some
paper caps which added to the hilarity. They were the whole show and it
was worth the trip to see them.

The “Y” also were there with the Christmas tree. We rang the bell for
chocolate, cigarettes, a cigar, and cookies.

[Illustration: SHALL I RIGHT-ABOUT OR CONTINUE THE MARCH???]

The other day I went over to Charleville again. Ran into a place that
had real pies—chocolate and apple. Also had cakes. The prices were near
the top, but we bought a few notwithstanding. The girl behind the
counter could have sold us ice at the North Pole—she was a peach. Two of
us told the boys to break away and we would show them something
better—and we did. There was a girl in a small café that we had
discovered on our last trip. We took the boys along in and they agreed
that she was _the_ class. Here we ate the pies and cakes and the girl
behind the bar came in for a share. It was a good thing that we were
riding in the Ford and not walking, or we would never have got back to
camp. Those pies went fine but we ate more than our share I’m afraid.

Last night and today it snowed again—just enough for snow balls. This
afternoon we were throwing them with the French kids. They can peg them
as well as our boys, but I guess they forget how to use their wing when
they get older.

[Illustration: SHOVE HER ALONG KID!

NOW WE’R GOING!

DRINK TA’ME OWN-LY

W-H-E-E!

SOME SONG!

W-O-U-G-H!!

OH YOU KID!

YOU-HU!

AW! WAIT!

Y-I-P-P, O—U!

!?

LES AMERICANES! OU LA LAR!]

There are two kids that drop into the office three times a day for their
cigarette allowance. The oldest is sixteen and the youngest thirteen. I
made the mistake of giving them one the first day and they now take it
as a matter of course. Guess I’ll start them to work sweeping out the
place on their next visit. That may break them of the habit—like
offering a tramp work when he asks for food.

I don’t know if it will work, however, as there are a couple who hang
out at our kitchen. They lug all the water, and do all the odd jobs.
They are a great help to the K. P.’s—in fact our kitchen police, since
these kids came along, live the life of Riley and as for the kids, they
eat to their hearts’ content.

[Illustration: EVEN THE KIDS DONT GET ME! MY FRENCH MUST BE STRICKLY FOR
BAR ROOMS ONLY !!

?!]

Saw Les. Herrick yesterday. He’s looking fine. We went over the feed we
had last Christmas night—it was a wonder. One of the boys reminded me
that last Christmas eve we were pulled out of bed eleven times on
account of air raids. The Boche did their best to put one over on us,
but we fooled them. I’ll never forget those raids. First you would hear
the guns barking in the distance. Then the bark would get nearer and
nearer. Next the twins would let out their war cry. Finally the Lieut.
would stick his head in the door with the words, “I want every man to go
to the abri at once.” Then would be the hunt in the dark for shoes, tin
derby, gas mask, and coat. Then a few bombs. Then the dash for the abri.
Then the standing around wondering how long it was going to last. Then
another bark from the twins. Then a few more bombs. Then the dying away
buzz of the planes. Then the grand return, only to do it all over again
a few minutes later. It was a great life. The Field Service sent a
wallet to us for a Christmas present. On the inside there is printed in
gold letters “Dernier Noël de la Guerre en France.” Translated literally
that means, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Understand
that they were also going to give us some kind of a medal but they
weren’t finished in time and that later on they will come through.

[Illustration: GO’WAN DER MR. HOS! DIS COON AINT A G’WAN TO ABDICATE AN
DER AINT G’WAN TO BE NONE OF DEM ARMISTICE!]

So another Christmas came and another Christmas passed in France. It was
a pretty good Christmas at that, but if it’s all the same to all those
concerned I’ll take my next at home.

[Illustration: NOW, IN THE FIRST PLACE—IF WE _DO_ GO WITH THE ARMY OF
OCCUPATION WE WONT GET HOME FOR—SAY—EIGHT MONTHS—

YES! YOU CRAPE HANGER. AND IN THE _SECOND PLACE_ IF YOU DONT DRY UP YOUR
GOING TO GET _CROWNED_!]


                                                      _January 6, 1919._

  DEAR MOTHER:

We have slid into the New Year almost without knowing it. We did,
however, have a small celebration New Year’s Eve; but as there was no
ringing of bells or tooting of horns at midnight, we had nothing to
remind us just what this party was all about.

The night before last the French troops in town put on a show. Stage,
scenery, and orchestra were very much there, even a spotlight. The acts
were mostly singing ones; sad songs, glad songs, and every old kind of a
song were dished up. There were also a couple of monologues thrown in
for good luck. They talked so fast that I wasn’t able to get what they
were all about, but from the laughs and cheers they must have been not
only good but spicy. To wind things up, there was a one-act play. There
were two women parts, both taken by French soldiers. They were right
there with the looks and form divine. I was able to follow the play and
as they say at home, it was rather broad.

[Illustration: AH TAKE A CHANCE _DIC DONC_!

J’AI SI FROID MONSIEUR!

SENTINELS GENERAL ORDER N^O 7

TO TALK TO NO ONE EXCEPT IN LINE OF DUTY.

KH DAY 17]

Today was qualification card day. An officer sits at a table with a
card, that has more questions on it than a questionnaire and shoots
question after question at you. You are asked everything, from who your
favorite actress is to how old is Ann. One question was, “What branch of
the service would you choose, if you had to do it all over again?” Guess
everyone answered that question the same: “Anything but this.” After all
was said and done, it was still a question of when we would get home.

[Illustration: THERE’S ONE PIPPIN OF A GIRL! WONDER WHAT LINE OF GOODS
THIS JOINT CARRIES?

MANY A SALE HAS BEEN MADE THIS WAY IN FRANCE]

Went over to Charleville the other day. Same old reason—to get a bath.
The bath house was closed, however, there being no water. Going over you
came pretty close to collecting on my insurance. We got a ride on a
truck, the driver of which would be a wonder as a tank jockey. After
missing a few pedestrians, he ended up by trying to do a Brodie off a
bridge. Some German prisoners were ahead of us on the bridge, pushing a
field range along. There was a space left about big enough for a baby
carriage to squeeze by, and “dauntless Harry,” seeing an opening, tried
to see if his truck would fit said opening. It didn’t, and the first
thing we knew the camion had crashed through the railing and the front
wheels were dangling in space. The drop wasn’t a great distance, but if
we had taken the fall no doubt we would have been found with the camion
resting on the back of our necks.


                                                                KIRKLAND

[Illustration: HIS COMING-OUT PARTY]


                                                            _January 20_

  DEAR MOTHER:

This week has been full of ’most everything from M. P’s. to Colonels.

Today the Inspector-General gave us the once over, only he isn’t a
General, just a Colonel. You never saw such a scrubbing, brushing, and
general cleaning up, as went on. Our quarters looked like a livery
stable when we started in, but at the finish the Board of Health would
have presented us with a blue ribbon. Clothes were folded up and placed
on bunks, shoes shined to a white heat, faces washed and shaved, nails
cleaned, and guns dusted off. At two o’clock the curtain went up. Down
to the field we marched where we were to be looked over and to look
over. We were all curious to see just what kind of an army bird an
Inspector-General was. Judging from majors and colonels we had seen, we
expected someone who would scare us out of seven years of life when he
asked a question. However, this colonel was O. K. and for once an
inspection was almost a pleasure. After being given the up and down we
marched back to camp where we fell out to stand by our beds for a
barracks inspection. We stood by our beds, on which were laid out all
our A. E. F. possessions. Being in the company office, and being company
clerk, I expected to have all sorts of questions fired at me in regard
to service records, reports, and all that goes to make the life of a
clerk anything but a joy. However, I didn’t have to open my mouth.

[Illustration: WHAT YOU SAY BOUT EATING DOWN STREET THIS SOIR? WITH MY
PERFECT FRENCH AND YOUR BANK ROLL WE OUGHT TO HAVE SOME MEAL!

?

—NOTE—
NEVER COUNT YOUR CHANGE IN PUBLIC.

THE ROLL

KH DAY 17

THANKS FOR THE INVITATION]

[Illustration: DO’NT YOU SEE HIM?

NO I DO’NT SEE HIM NOW—I’M WAITING FOR ’IM TO COME OUT OF HIS DUGOUT

MUST BE A BOCHE COOTIE]

The inspector said that the French had spoken very highly of us and our
work. In fact the French M. T. C. have said that their American Groupes
have done more work, rolled more cars, and kept their camions in better
conditions than any French section. That if the French had had the
camions that we did, the cars would have been in the junk pile long ago.

Our Groupe commander received the Croix de Guerre last Sunday. He says
it’s for the work done by his men at the front when they hauled tanks.
It was at the time when Lieutenant Edwards was killed.

I’ve been to Luxembourg. Our Lieutenant gave us his permission and Ford
to make the trip. Last Saturday at noon we started out. We got to
Luxembourg at seven and three of us went into a hotel to get rooms and
see about supper. The other two went out on a hunt for a garage. We got
the rooms (you never saw such beds), arranged for supper, and then went
out to the corner to wait for the return of the jitney jockeys. We had
no sooner started waiting than two M. P.’s (military police) gave us the
glad hand. Wanted to know what we were doing and if we had passes.

[Illustration: ABSOLUTELY BLANK

WHEN IT COMES TO WRITING MY MIND IS JUST ABOUT BLANK.]

We told them we were waiting for two boys who had gone to stable a
flivver and that our pass was with them. That didn’t seem to please the
M. P.’s. (They are always hard to please.) They wanted to know just what
our business in Luxembourg was and just what kind of a pass we had. We
told them we were in Luxembourg for pleasure only, and that our pass was
a red auto pass signed by Major Mallet and countersigned by our
Lieutenant. That answer didn’t make the M. P.’s feel any more friendly.
Instead they told us in no polite terms to come with them. We went!

[Illustration: HALT! WHO GOES THERE?

A RABBIT! LETS SEE YOU CATCH ME!!

GET SOME SALT MR. SENTINEL

KH DAY 17]

The three of us were marched to the city hall where our names, number,
and A. E. F. address was taken, everything but finger prints. The room
where this third degree took place was no doubt the club room of the
Luxembourg police, as three or four of them were scattered about the
scenery. (Their uniform is good enough for any general, if brass buttons
count.) After getting our pedigree, an M. P. picked up a very
businesslike looking key and invited us to come with him. We went. We
were taken to a six by four cell which was already inhabited by two
other law breakers. Just about this time we woke up to the fact that we
were arrested and questions came thick and fast. The questions didn’t
get us anywhere, so we asked to see an A. P. M. officer. There wasn’t
any but at twelve o’clock we could see the sergeant of the guard in
another jail. Good night! One hundred and fifty kilometers—to be
pinched!

[Illustration: DO’NT I WISH I WERE BACK IN FRANCE!

I BET THEM FRENCH GIRLS HAVE NOTHING ON ME.

HERE COMES A SOLDIER.

I MUST GET ANOTHER LIBERTY BOND TODAY.

I JUST KNOW THE TRNCHES ARE FULL OF WATER.

MUST SEND THOSE SMOKES ACROSS RIGHT AWAY.

I SHALL WRITE JOHN IN REGARD TO LIGHT WINES AND BEER.

WHEN WILL IT END?

I MUST GET A LETTER OFF TO FRANCE TO-DAY.

I HOPE PAPA GETS THE SOCKS I MADE.

WISH I WAS A SOLDIER.

WHAT ARE THEY THINKING ABOUT IN THE STATES?]

All the time we were wondering what had become of the other two. In
about an hour we heard the door out front open and then heard voices in
the club room. It was they! The pass was no good, to be good it needed
only a General’s scrawl. The gate opened and in they came.

At twelve o’clock we were pulled out and lined up with the rest of that
night’s haul. About twenty of us, I should say. We were then marched to
the other side of the river to the railroad station. Through the waiting
room and upstairs we were taken. A very heavy door was opened and we
were pushed into a room. In this room were gathered the round-up from
all the smaller jails. There were about fifty of us, and the room was
overflowing. No chairs, bunks or pictures, just a dirty floor and a
blank wall. The gathering was a rummage sale.

[Illustration: [Taking a photograph]]

About six o’clock the corporal of the guard came in. He looked the room
over and asked where the five men were who had the French pass. We spoke
up and were told to come with him. We went and were told that our pass
was no good, that we could go but would have to leave town at once.

Luxembourg, from what I saw of it, is a wonderful city. Street cars,
electric lights, cafés, hotels, stores and at least one good-looking
girl, were a few of the things we saw.

No doubt you have noticed that each division has some sort of shoulder
insignia. Ours is a yellow trumpet on a green background. It is the coat
of arms of the Mallet Reserve. If ever you see on the left sleeve right
where it joins the shoulder the yellow trumpet on the green background,
you will know that the Mallet Reserve is on its way.

                                                                KIRKLAND

[Illustration: WE’RE GETTING THERE! IT’S A CINCH THEY’LL SHIP US ACROSS
SOME DAY!

SURE THEY WILL! BUT WHEN?]

[Illustration: FINIS

NACH HUNLAND]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 2. Retained spelling in the cartoon captions.
 3. Enclosed underlined font in _underscores_.
 4. The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to
      individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like
      1^{st}).



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73407 ***