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Prose and Poetry By Men at Camp Hancock
DOES IT PAY? j
BY ORLAND KAY ARMSTRONG.
The other day, shortly after the pay
checks were given out, a private strolled
up to the desk to buy stamps.
"Want a dollar’s worm,” he said.
"Why so many?” 1 asked. “Do you
need that many right now?"
"No; of course not,” he answered, “but
you see, I got to get enough to run me
a month. If I don’t, I’ll have to do with
out in a few day° I never have any
money two days a.flrr pay day.”
I grew' interested in the situation, and
continued the conversation.
"How much do 'ou draw per month?"
"Thirty dollars,” he responded.
“Can’t you save a little out of that
during the month—at least to buy
stamps?" 1 asked. “Does it take all that
for extra, expenses?”
"Well," he said, “l guess it wouldn’t
take all that if 1 had a mind to hold onto
some of it, but it just slips through a
fellow's fingers before he knows it. I
never try to save any of it. What’s the
use, anyhow? 1 never expect to come
bgck, and it won’t do me any good to
save money.”
I wondered if there were any others
like him. Are there?
■ If there are, the trouble wnth them is,
that first, they have the wrong viewpoint
of things; and, second, they lack that
great characteristic known as thrift. Let's
sit down and talk over these two things
for a moment.
As to the wrong viewpoint: I refer to
the expression, "What’s the use, any
how? I never expact to come back.”
More than one soldier has that idea. He
feels that because of the slaughter going
on in Europe his chances for coming
back are not worth considering, there
fore, "eat, drink and be merry, for to
morrow we die.” The soldier with that
idea needs to shake himself out of it.
It’s wrong. In the first place, ail statis
tics point out that fourteen out of fif
teen men who go oyer are coming back.
Peace may come before one out of a hun
dred is killed. Even if the war should
be bloody, and go on long enough, for
half of ttie men enlisted to be killed, and
this is hardly thinkable, a fellow would
have a fifty-tifty chance at it, and that’s
worth holding on to. But the point is.
the man Who "holds the “tomorrow we
die” idea of wgr, isn’t us good a soldier
as the one who fights and hopes while he
is fighting.
.1 can prove that the soldier who hopes
to come back after the war makes the
best fighter. There are two reasons:
First, he holies' to come back alive and
feeling at the same time that he gave
them all he had. He works harder; and
gets the promotion up from the ranks.
The fellow who doesn’t care what hap
pens to him stays at the bottom. In the
second place, the soldier who hopes'after
the war to return, wants to come back
a better man than when he marched
away. He wants to have his health, in
order to live a long life; his money, so
that he can build up a successful trade,
business or profession; and his habits
formed in such away that he can rely
upon his character for straight, clean,
vigorous living—in fact, a credit to his
home, his friends, and’the country he has
fought for. The fellow' w'ith that idea
of things is the best soldier.
Now, as to the thing known as thrift:
The trouble with the soldier who lets
all that thirty dollars slip through his
fingers is, that he hasn’t an idea of what
it-is worth. Oh, of course, he may realize
that it will buy thirty dollars’ worth of
tobacco, street car fares, movie tickets,
a good lime, or pay a few' debts. 1 win
der if it isn’t worth more than that?
How about that buck private 1 found
the other day, who said he sent fifteen
dollars home -every month? How about
the one who said he kept track of every
Tent in a littie notebook, and usually had
from twenty to twenty-five for the bank?
Tight-wads, were they? Not a bit. They
had just as good time as the fellow who
let it all slip through his fingers. To
them, that thirty dollars was worth more
than thirty. Money is worth exactly as
it is saved and used for the right pur
pose. The private who sends sls home
will be SIBO dollars to the good in a year.
Suppose the war goes on two years, liven
if he is the one out of the fifteen not to
return, his saving will benefit loved ones.
If lie is one of the fourteen who return,
his little fund lias prepared him to live.
Do you know that -if the war goes on
three years, and you deposit ten dollars
per month, at four per cent, that it will
amount to $870.10? Do you suppose that
it will be worth anything to form the
habit of depositing that $lO per? If you
keep it up for twenty years, you will have
$3,106.10. Is it worth while?
Here’s a true story you can be thinking
about: During the Civil War, a young
man with some ideas of thrift and a de
termination to come back from the busi
ness of fighting with some preparation
for the business of living, put away a few
dollars every month. He wasn’t getting
S3O per, either but sl3. What could he
save out of that? Enough to buy a lit
tle land and a calf or two, when the war
was over. You see, through the war he
carried a picture of some one, - and he
wanted to come back ready to build her
a hofiio. And he did. When his com
rades were struggling to get a start, he
Was making his past thrift work for him.
He became a successful farmer, teacher,
banker, judge, and legislator. This is a
true' story, for that soldier is my grand
father. The picture he carried in the
fighting was that of my grandmother.
is it worth while?
PrepareVto live! The fellow who wants
to come back worth more to his loved
ones and to the world in general can do
so. How about that picture you carry?
flow apout the home you intend to build?
Prepare to live!. The opportunity is all
about you. Save an allotment each
month. If the home folks don’t need it,
deposit it! Use*’the army deposit fund.
Take out government insurance. Buy
- Liberty Bonds!
It is worth while.
A little money can be made to go a
long way toward making children happy.
—Albany Journal.
When two or more women get together
one of the things you don’t hear is sil
ence.—Chicago News.
In the interest of economy Great Brit
ain proposes to abolish the waistcoat.
Another blow at the vested Interests!—
Boston Transcript.
TRENCH ATI D CAMP
Charge! Charge! Forward Dash!
(TUNE: STAR SPANGLED BANNER)
B. F. M. SOURS.
Charge! Charge! forward dash, valor
burnisned and bright,
Charge! Charge! for ttie homes that
are ravished and sundered;
Go forth to the fray with the rage for
the right,
To slay the vile crimes at which earth
has wondered—
On the land, on the main, mothers,
babes have they slain,
And chastily died, in her tears, on
the plain;
Charge! Charge! God be with us to
make our hands strong
To wrench from the foe all his
prowess of wrong.
So we match neath the flag, with its
fold upon fold,
And our .hearts and our youth are the
bright golden treasure
That We lay on the altar, like patriots
of old,
Who with sorrow wrought glory in
fruitfulest measure.
And the record shall ring in the songs
they shall sing
We rejoice in their freedom, —THAT
JESUS IS KING,—
And His holy Democracy where we
have stood,
Shall abide through the price we
have paid with our blood.
So avaunt boasting kaiser!—we know
but One King,
And his sceptre is love, and his sol
diers are purer
Than the lust of the German whose
crimes backward sting,
And will bring to the dust manarchs’
spectres the surer.
Then glory to God who avenges the
blood
Os the babes and the mothers and
maidens down-trod;
And we march, and we strike—r-and re
member, He saith
That the murderer must, like his
victim, find death!
THE KAISER’S
BUSY DAY
\ .
(Episode No. 1.)
The Kaiser was lounging at ease in a
chair,
In ati elegant office which showed every
where
The presence of Kultur—some gold- plat
ed Krupps
Were ranged ’long the walls—a few silver
cups,
Won by the Kaiser himself for his
bravery,
When the poor Belgians he took into
slavery.
A half dozen sabers, or possibly more—
Rusty and twisted and covered with gore.
One for each nation where this learn’d
Aristocrat
Ordered his soldiers to carry his Kultur
at.
A number of trophies were heaped in a
pile,
Relics of art treasures Straffed in style,
Bits of cathedrals which “stood in the
way,”
Clothing of infants the Huns stopped to
slay. *
While in the corner in several huge pots,
Wer% bushels of Iron Crosses cast in job
Ifts.
A few simple mottoes were hung on the
wall, —
Such mottoes as “Gott Strafe England”
and all
Os her Allies) —such peace loving ditties
were seen,
Intended to set forth'the Kultur of spleen.
Showing how great were the deeds it
had wrought.
And on the front door.
This sign and no more:—•
“HER KAISER und Gott.”
There rapped on the door a Kultured
Lootenanter,
Who goose-stepped his way in when bid
den to Kam enter.
Slauted the Kaiser, and scraped on the
floor.
Surrendered and bowed and saluted some
more.
Stood while the Kaiser his moustache
did poke up, •
And the great teacher of Kultur then
spoke up:
“Mein Herr Übeniehts,
What kind of a fix.
Iss everything in today?
llass der Britons giff up?
Vill Gott mit us sup?
Vill der Frenchmans giff up and ’vay?
Now open up. Übeniehts, giff me der
news.
Und some day I giff you a new pair off
shoes.”
“Ach, Kaiser, AU-hightest, der ruler off
all,
Dare ain’t any news I could tells you
at all,
Eggseept dat your Army hass von a
great fight.—
Dey captured some women in France in
der night;
Det shot at a hospital ofer in Belgium, ■
And burned down der same, viteh surely
( iss going some.
Also Von Hindenburg von a pig victory,
Und covered hisself mit crosses und Hun
glory.
He handed der British a crushing defeat;
By sending der word der whole line t-o
retreat.”
“Ach gute,” quoth der Kaiser, "Go get
on a steeple,
Und say to der people,
Der Army hass von der remarkable fight,
Und war vill be ended by Saturday
night.”
Neath the Stars and Stripes, neath the
glory that comes,
Neath the God who is just,, and who
sees the oppression,
We march and we soar, and our flyers
drop bombs,
And the Eye of the Lord will direct
our procession.
Not in battleships, cannon, or numbers
we trust,
For all may alike quickly turn to
the dust;
But the Mighty, the Glorious, Omnip
otent God
Will bring peace to the lands where
His loyal have trod.
To “Go forward God” our hands must
be clean,
Our lives must be pure, our foes all
victorious;
No hate we know, and no passion
unseen
Defile the pure might of our man
hood ail glorious.
Then to victory go. for God wills it so,
With valorous charge, hearts stain
less as snow; ’’’»
And the great God of battles our
Triumph shall be,
For the Red, White and Blue, and
the laflds of the free.
Be pure from all stain, from the sin
that appeals;
Let not a vile passion lay low by de
filement;
Let the -Red, White and Blue, as the
glory reveals,
O’er purity wave, till the war’s re
concilement.
And praises we sing until Jesus our
King,
Till peace shall our prayers for vic
tory bring;
Bo we march, march neath banners, all
loyal and true.
With otjr God. neath the Stars of the
Red, White and Rlue.
Meehan icsbur'g, Fa,
FIFTEEN CENTS
1 " i ■" 1
About half PAST <*
* * *
Two the OTHER
• * •
Day I walked INTO
My tent and ONE
• » *
Qf the boys said TO
• • •
Me, “Slim do YOU
Happen to HAVE*
• • •
A copy OF
• • »
Trench and CAMP?
* • *
And I answered SURE,
* »
What did you WANT
* * *
To do with it? And HE
* * *
Said that he WAS
• « •
Going to send IT
* * *
HOME.
• A «
Then I said, "PAL,
* * *
Do you KNOW
-i- , • • •
lou can have IT
• • »
Sent homo TO
* * »
Mother and ALL
The folks for THREE
Months for ONLY *
Fifteen CENTS?” * *
■■our hTtchTTn HELL.”
(From Border Experiences. I!U6 )
I m sitting here and thinking things I
lef behind,
And I hate to put on paper what is run
, nmg through my mind,
vte ve dug a million trenches and cleared
ten milles of ground,
And a.meaner place this side of hell I
know it can’t be found; '
But there’s still one consolation, gather
closely while I tell.
When we die we’re bound for Heaven for
we’ve done our hitch in hell. !
We’ve built a hundred kitchens for the
cooks to stew our beans,
We’ve stood a hundred guard mounts,
,and cleaned the camp latrines,
vve’ve washed a million mess-kits and
peeled a million spuds,
We’ve strapped a million blanket-rolls
and washed a minion duas;
The number of parades we’ve made is
very hard to tell:
But we need not drill in Heaven for we’ve
done our hitch in hell.
We’ve killed a million rattlesnakes that
tried to take our cots.
And shaken a hundred centipedes from
out our army socks;
We've marched a hundred thousand miles
and made a thousand camps,
And pulled a million cactus plants from
out our army pants;
But when our work oti earth is ended our
friends behind will tell —
“When thev died they went to Heaven,
for they’d done their hitch in hell.”
Whe nthe final taps are sounded and we
lay aside our cares,
And we’ve done the very last parade right
up the golden stairs.
And the angles bid us welcome, and harps
begin to play,
And we draw a million canteen checks
and spend them in a day;
It is then we’ll hear St. Peter tell us
loudly with a yell—
“ Just take a front seat, privates, for
you’ve done your hitch in hell,”
—By One of the Boys.
Nov. 28, 1917.
How The Cook
Checked Swearing
The editor of Trench and Camp has al
ways believed in presenting bouquets to
be living.
And here goes a little story about a
cook iii Camp Hancock.
Every company lias ''its cook —some
good, and some worse—but the cook of
our story is a regular chef. He knows
the game from beans to macaroni—ami
then some.
When he isn-’t supervising the savory
dishes concocted for the men of Battery
C. 108th Field Artillery, he's doing some
thing more important. In fact, he’s at it,
even while stirring the rich bean soup
over the fire.
lie’s trying to break up the habit 4f
swearing. ».
George M. Tomes is from Philadelphia.
To the men of Battery C, he is known as
“Dad,” and there’s a reason for it. He's
a real father to the boys—officers and
men. So far as a man can play the part,
he's a mother, too.
“Dad” Tomes is unique, as cooks go.
Over t,he counter, where the men line up
for the chow, is a placard on which is
printed in bold, black type:
CHRISTIAN SOLDIER
Reverence
THE HOLY NAME
Os Jesus.
Inside the kitchen is a similar sign star
ing the men in the face. The editor takes
an occasional meal with the battery and
the presence of the placards aroused our
curiosity and when asked who was re
sponsible for the cards, the answer was
“Dad” Thomas.
We got acquainted right away with
“Dad,” and if there’s a simon-pure
'Christian in Camp Hancock, we believe
the cook of C is such a chap,
and we hope “Dad” will not blush when
he read this unsolicited eulogy.
One day while we were waiting for the
spuds to fall apart over the fire, ohe of
the men got an attack of swearitis. It.
was a virulent case. Instant treatment
was applied by “Dad” in his own kind and
tactful way and the malady disappeared
suddenly.
Every now and then it breaks out. but
with “Dad” and the two'Signs on the job,
there’s very little danger of an epidemic.
One night, "Dad" was in his tent—and
lus son sleeps with him—when one of
the men became violently profane. He- ad
dressed some lurid remarks at "Dad,”
but without response. Finally, he stop
ped in sheer amazement and asked .“Dad”
what he was doing.
.".I'm praying for you that God will not
visit your profanity on your head,” was
the reply, and that was the end of the
long string of maledictions.
Needless to say, “Dad” is a member of
the Holy Name society of Philadelphia,
and his friend, James J. McNamara, who
has a printing shop, sent "Dad” the cards
for his use. The editor liked the mes
sage of the cards so well, that “Dad”
exhausted his supply so the Y. M C. A
huts might have them, and now it’s -up to
friend McNamara to send some more.
If you want one for your mess shack,
send your application to "Dad” Tomes,
Battery C, 108th Field Artillery.
DEATH OF AN
ARMY MULE
Os all melancholy specimens of the
army mule at Ambulance Company 109,
Senator John held first rank. At first
his outiook on life was hoptdess and
his spirits drooped with the arrival of
each new day. A painful object to
behold and a depressing personality
with which to associate, the only pleas -
ure he appeared to get out of existence
was in creating a graveyard gloom
over the stable. He was lonesome and
homesick—perfectly miserable. But
he had one rival —Hell’s Fire Pete,
who looked almost as .bad, felt almost
as bad, and had almost as bad an in
fluence over the morale of the corral.
So he had lain down and died in des
pair and Georgia sand. Then his
friends in their glee packed up a corpse
and a mule shoe, a wreath of pine
needles and an epitaph, thus;
DIED
Suddenly, Tuesday, November 21st,
at 5:11 p. m., Senator John, son of
the late Luke, the Duke, age 101 years,
4 months and 10 days, at his late resi
dence, Camp Hancock, Ga. Funeral
services Thursday evening at 8. In
terment Friday evening, Augusta Pack
ing Company.
HELL’S FIRE PETE,
Pastor.
AH mule-skinners and sergeants in
vited.
IN MEMORIAM
O tragedies of tinfoil time,
And fearful happenstances: %,
Beneath the myrtle and the thyme,
The happy houri dances.
Beneath the. sinful chestnut tree,'
Besidd the singing brook.
No more his homelv frame we’ll see
This mortal coil he’s shook.
No more his clear and ringing voice
Will call to reveille.
No more his vicious s*eel clad heels.
Will gyeet the double tree.
For he is gone, dear Senator.-John,
He’s hauling red-hot. coal.
While we lament his sad demise,
\Ve’re glad he’s left no foal.
Oh. well, it’s as easy to lick a three
cent stamp as a two!—Baltimore Ameri
can.
A man can love any kind of a face if
there’s a girl back of it. —Bingham*'
Press.