Biltmore Oswald E-Book

Thorne Smith

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A comic diary about entering life in the Navy. Published in 1918 and written for the Naval Reservist journal „The Broadside” while the author Thorne Smith was in the Navy, it is a series of short vignettes poking fun at the culture of the time in general and the military in particular. It’s the diary of Biltmore Oswald, a hapless naval recruit with no appreciable talents besides befriending animals and getting into trouble, and his day to day adventures during World War I. Oswald, a naive innocent young gentleman growing up in the early 1900’s, finds himself in many a compromising situation: showering in the hotel room of the wife of a murderous, jealous man; observing French men greeting each other with kisses, and being pursued by beautiful women, much to the displeasure of his sweetie, Polly. „Biltmore Oswald: The Diary of a Hapless Recruit” is a must-read for anyone in need for a dose of entertaining, worthwhile writing.

Leseprobe

Contents

Feb. 23d. “And what,” asked the enlisting officer, regarding me as if I had insulted him, his family and his live stock, “leads you to believe that you are remotely qualified to join the Navy?”

At this I almost dropped my cane, which in the stress of my patriotic preoccupation I had forgotten to leave home.

“Nothing,” I replied, making a hasty calculation of my numerous useless accomplishments, “nothing at all, sir, that is, nothing to speak of. Of course I’ve passed a couple of seasons at Bar Harbor–perhaps that–”

“Bar Harbor!” exploded the officer. “Bar! bah! bah–dammit,” he broke off, “I’m bleating.”

“Yes, sir,” said I with becoming humility. His hostility increased.

“Do you enlist for foreign service?” he snapped.

“Sure,” I replied. “It will all be foreign to me.”

The long line of expectant recruits began to close in upon us until a thirsty, ingratiating semi-circle was formed around the officer’s desk. Upon the multitude he glared bitterly.

“Orderly! why can’t you keep this line in some sort of shape?”

“Yes, give the old tosh some air,” breathed a worthy in my ear as he retreated to his proper place.

“What did you do at Bar Harbor?” asked the officer, fixing me with his gaze.

“Oh,” I replied easily, “I occasionally yachted.”

“On what kind of a boat?” he urged.

“Now for the life of me, sir, I can’t quite recall,” I replied. “It was a splendid boat though, a perfect beauty, handsomely fitted up and all–I think they called her the ‘Black Wing.’”

These few little remarks seemed to leave the officer flat. He regarded me with a pitiful expression. There was pain in his eyes.

“You mean to say,” he whispered, “that you don’t know what kind of a boat it was?”

“Unfortunately no, sir,” I replied, feeling really sorry for the wounded man.

“Do you recall what was the nature of your activities aboard this mysterious craft?” he continued.

“Oh, indeed I do, sir,” I replied. “I tended the jib-sheet.”

“Ah,” said he thoughtfully, “sort of specialized on the jib-sheet?”

“That’s it, sir,” said I, feeling things taking a turn for the better. “I specialized on the jib-sheet.”

“What did you do to this jib-sheet?” he continued.

“I clewed it,” said I promptly, dimly recalling the impassioned instructions an enthusiastic friend of mine had shunted at me throughout the course of one long, hot, horrible, confused afternoon of the past summer–my first, and, as I had hoped at the time, final sailing experience.

The officer seemed to be lost in reflection. He was probably weighing my last answer. Then with a heavy sigh he took my paper and wrote something mysterious upon it.

“I’m going to make an experiment of you,” he said, holding the paper to me. “You are going to be a sort of a test case. You’re the worst applicant I have ever had. If the Navy can make a sailor out of you it can make a sailor out of anybody”; he paused for a moment, then added emphatically, “without exception.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied humbly.

“Report here Monday for physical examination,” he continued, waving my thanks aside. “And now go away.”

I accordingly went, but as I did so I fancied I caught the reflection of a smile lurking guiltily under his mustache. It was the sort of a smile, I imagined at the time, that might flicker across the grim visage of a lion in the act of anticipating an approaching trip to a prosperous native village.

Feb. 25th. I never fully appreciated what a truly democratic nation the United States was until I beheld it naked, that is, until I beheld a number of her sons in that condition. Nakedness is the most democratic of all institutions. Knock-knees, warts and chilblains, bowlegs, boils and bay-windows are respecters of no caste or creed, but visit us all alike. These profound reflections came to me as I stood with a large gathering of my fellow creatures in the offices of the physical examiner.

“Never have I seen a more unpromising candidate in all my past experience,” said the doctor moodily when I presented myself before him, and thereupon he proceeded to punch me in the ribs with a vigor that seemed to be more personal than professional. When thoroughly exhausted from this he gave up and led me to the eye charts, which I read with infinite ease through long practise in following the World Series in front of newspaper buildings.

“Eyes all right,” he said in a disappointed voice. “It must be your feet.”

These proved to be faultless, as were my ears and teeth.

“You baffle me,” said the doctor at last, thoroughly discouraged. “Apparently you are sound all over, yet, looking at you, I fail to see how it is possible.”

I wondered vaguely if he was paid by the rejection. Then for no particular reason he suddenly tired of me and left me with all my golden youth and glory standing unnoticed in a corner. From here I observed an applicant being put through his ear test. This game is played as follows: a hospital apprentice thrusts one finger into the victim’s ear while the doctor hurries down to the end of the room and whispers tragically words that the applicant must repeat. It’s a good game, but this fellow I was watching evidently didn’t know the rules and he was taking no chances.

“Now repeat what I say,” said the doctor.

“‘Now repeat what I say,’” quoted the recruit.

“No, no, not now,” cried the doctor. “Wait till I whisper.”

“‘No, no, not now. Wait till I whisper,’” answered the recruit, faithfully accurate.

“Wait till I whisper, you blockhead,” shouted the doctor.

“‘Wait till I whisper, you blockhead,’” shouted the recruit with equal heat.

“Oh, God!” cried the doctor despairingly.

“‘Oh, God!’” repeated the recruit in a mournful voice.

This little drama of cross purposes might have continued indefinitely had not the hospital apprentice begun to punch the guy in the ribs, shouting as he did so:

“Wait a minute, can’t you?”

At which the recruit, a great hulk of a fellow, delivered the hospital apprentice a resounding blow in the stomach and turned indignantly to the doctor.

“That man’s interfering,” he said in an injured voice. “Now that ain’t fair, is it, doc?”

“You pass,” said the doctor briefly, producing his handkerchief and mopping his brow.

“Well, what are you standing around for?” he said a moment later, spying me in my corner.

“Oh, doctor,” I cried, delighted, “I thought you had forgotten me.”

“No,” said the doctor, “I’ll never forget you. You pass. Take your papers and clear out.”

I can now feel with a certain degree of security that I am in the Navy.

Feb. 26th. I broke the news to mother to-day and she took it like a little gentleman, only crying on twelve different occasions. I had estimated it much higher than that.

After dinner she read me a list of the things I was to take with me to camp, among which were several sorts of life preservers, an electric bed warmer and a pair of dancing pumps.

“Why not include spurs?” I asked, referring to the pumps. “I’d look very crisp in spurs, and they would help me in climbing the rigging.”

“But some officer might ask you to a dance,” protested mother.

“Mother,” I replied firmly, “I have decided to decline all social engagements during my first few weeks in camp. You can send the pumps when I write for them.”

A card came to-day ordering me to report on March 1st. Consequently I am not quite myself.

Feb. 27th. Mother hurried into my room this morning and started to pack my trunk. She had gotten five sweaters, three helmets and two dozen pairs of socks into it before I could stop her. When I explained to her that I wasn’t going to take a trunk she almost broke down.

“But at least,” she said, brightening up, “I can go along with you and see that you are nice and comfortable in your room.”

“You seem to think that I am going to some swell boarding school, mother,” I replied from the bed. “You see, we don’t have rooms to ourselves. I understand that we sleep in bays.”

“Don’t jest,” cried mother. “It’s too horrible!”

Then I explained to her that a bay was a compartment of a barracks in which eight human beings and one petty officer, not quite so human, were supposed to dwell in intimacy and, as far as possible, concord.

This distressed poor mother dreadfully. “But what are you going to take?” she cried.

“I’m going to take a nap,” said I, turning over on my pillow. “It will be the last one in a bed for a long, long time.”

At this mother stuffed a pair of socks in her mouth and left the room hastily.

Polly came in to-night and I kissed her on and off throughout the evening on the strength of my departure. This infuriated father, but mother thought it was very pretty. However, before going to bed he gave me a handsome wrist watch, and grandfather, pointing to his game leg, said:

“Remember the Mexican War, my boy. I fought and bled honorably in that war, by gad, sir!”

I know for a fact that the dear old gentleman has never been further west than the Mississippi River.

Feb. 28th (on the train). I have just gone through my suit-case and taken out some of mother’s last little gifts such as toilet water, a padded coat hanger, one hot water bottle, some cough syrup, two pairs of ear-bobs, a paper vest and a blue pokerdotted silk muffler. She put them in when I wasn’t looking. I have hidden them under the seat. May the Lord forgive me for a faithless son.

The departure was moist, but I managed to swim through. I am too excited to read the paper and too rattle-brained to think except in terrified snatches. I wonder if I look different. People seem to be regarding me sympathetically. I recognize two faces on this train. One belongs to Tony, the iceman on our block; the other belongs to one named Tim, a barkeep, if I recall rightly, in a hotel I have frequently graced with my presence. I hope their past friendship was not due to professional reasons. It would be nice to talk over old times with them in camp, for I have frequently met the one in the morning after coming home from the other.

March 1st. Subjected myself to the intimate scrutiny of another doctor this morning. I used my very best Turkish bath manners. They failed to impress him. Hospital apprentice treated me to a shot of Pelham “hop.” It is taken in the customary manner, through the arm–very stimulating. A large sailor held me by the hand for fully fifteen minutes. Very embarrassing! He made pictures of my fingers and completely demolished my manicure. From there I passed on to another room. Here a number of men threw clothes at me from all directions. The man with the shoes was a splendid shot. I am now a sailor–at least, superficially. My trousers were built for Charlie Chaplin. I feel like a masquerade.

A gang of recruits shouted “twenty-one days” at me as I was being led to Mess Hall No. 1. The poor simps had just come in the day before and had not even washed their leggings yet. I shall shout at other recruits to-morrow, though, the same thing that they shouted at me to-day.

Our P.O. is a very terrifying character. He is a stern but just man, I take it.