SOMETHING NEW FOR THE MARINES
“IF CORPORAL —— ever wrote a better story for his newspaper than the one he has sent to us, I should certainly like to read it.” This high praise comes from Maj. W. H. Parker, head of the Marine Recruiting Service in New York, and is bestowed upon a letter in The Recruiters’ Bulletin, which was written by a marine, formerly a reporter in Philadelphia and now “Somewhere in France.” He rejoices at the start that “at last it is happening,” which “happening” is that the marines, “every scrapping one of them down to the last grizzled veteran, are undergoing new experiences—learning new tricks.” Of course this is beyond possibility, everybody will say, and the ex-reporter admits that—
One would think so after hearing of their experiences in far-away China, Japan, and the Philippines, near-by Cuba, Haiti, and Mexico, and other places which God forgot and which you and I never heard of; after hearing stories of daredevil bravery, fierce abandon and disregard for life and limb in the faithful discharge of their duties as soldiers of the sea and guardians of the peace in Uncle Sam’s dirty corners.
And yet here in France, among people of their own color and race, of paved streets and taxicabs, among the old men and women of the villages, among the poilus coming and going in a steady stream to and from the front, the marine is learning new things every day.
Packing up “back home” on a few hours’ notice is no new experience to the marine. Marching aboard a transport, with the date and hour of sailing unknown, is taken as a matter of course by the veteran. There is no cheering gallery, no weeping relatives, wife, or sweethearts, as he leaves to carry out the business in hand. It is just the same as if you were going to your office in the morning. You may return in time for dinner or you may be delayed. The only difference is that sometimes the marines do not return.
Although life aboard the transport which carried the first regiment of marines to new fields of action in France was a matter of routine to the average sea-going soldier, there was added the zest of expectation of an encounter with one of the floating perils, the “sub.” It was but a matter of two or three days, however, when everyone became accustomed to the numerous lookouts stationed about the ship, the frequent “abandon ship” drills, the strange orders which came down the line, and the new-fangled rules and regulations which permitted no lights or smoking after sundown.
Kaiser “Bill’s” pet sharks were contemptuously referred to as the “tin lizzies” of the sea. “We must play safe and avoid them,” was the policy of those entrusted with the safety of more than 2,000 expectant fighters, however. And we met them, too. Not one or two of them, but—(here the censor interfered.)
Since his arrival in France the marine has spent day after day in learning new things, not the least of which is that contrary to his usual experience of finding about him a hostile people, rifle in hand, and unknown danger ahead, he is among a people who welcome him as a friend and ally in the struggle against a common enemy. With the arrival of the American troops, the appealing outstretched hands of France were changed to hands of welcome, creating an atmosphere that might easily have turned the heads of men more balanced than the marines after being confined for more than two weeks aboard a ship, but—
Here, again, one comes in contact with the matter-of-fact administration of the marines. Arriving under such circumstances, the landing and encampment of the marines were effected with a military precision and businesslike efficiency which allowed no one for a moment to forget the serious nature of the mission upon which he had embarked.
Stores and supplies were loaded on trucks and, in less than three hours after the order was given to disembark, the marines, with their packs strapped over the shoulders, were marching to their camp just on the outskirts of the seaport town of ——. Within another hour the whole regiment was under canvas, field-desks and typewriter-chests were unlocked, and regimental and other department offices were running along at full swing.
And that was the beginning of the period of training during which the marine is learning everything that is to be known about waging twentieth-century warfare. He is taking a post-graduate course in the intricacies of modern trench-building, grenade-throwing, and barbed-wire entanglements. And the very best men of the French Army are his instructors.
The marine is also learning the “lingo” of this country, the nicer phrases of the language as well as the slang of the trenches. But in the majority of cases experience was his teacher. Upon the arrival of the transport liberty hours were arranged for the marines, and, armed with a “Short Vocabulary of French Words and Phrases,” with which all had been supplied, they invaded the cafés, restaurants, and shops of the little old seaport town.
And it was the restaurants where one’s ignorance of French was most keenly felt. All sorts of queer and yet strangely familiar noises emanated from the curtained windows of the buvettes along the streets. Upon investigation it would be discovered that a marine, having lost his “vocabulary,” was flapping his arms and cackling for eggs, earnestly baahing for a lamb stew, or grunting to the best of his ability in a vain endeavor to make madame understand that he wanted roast pork. Imagine his chagrin to find that “pig” and “pork,” as shown on page 16, are “porc” in French and are pronounced just the same as in good old American. But the scenes that presented themselves on Sundays or fête days—take the 4th or 14th of July, for example—were such as never had been seen in any French town before. Picture a tiny café, low and whitewashed, ancient, weather-beaten, but immaculately clean, with its heavy ceiling-beams and huge fireplace with brass and copper furnishings. With this background imagine just as many tables as the little place can hold about which are crowded French and American soldiers, sailors, and marines.
The table in the corner there, for instance: two poilus, two American “jackies,” two marines, and an old Breton peasant farmer with his wife, fat, uncomprehending, and wild-eyed, and his daughter, red-lipped and of fair complexion—these three in from the country for a holiday, the women arrayed in the black cloth and velvet costumes, bright-colored silk aprons, and elaborate linen head-dress which identify them as native of a certain locality.
One of the “jackies” sings with gusto service songs of strong and colorful language, singing to himself save for the half-amused and wondering stares of the peasants. The younger of the Frenchmen shows by taking off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt where the shell-fragment penetrated which caused the paralysis in his left arm and sent him home on a month’s furlough, and the Americans eye with interest the actual fragment itself, now doing duty as a watch-charm.
But the hubbub and racket cease, and every one rushes to the windows and door as the Marine Band comes swinging along the water-front, playing with catching rhythm “Our Director.” The French burst out in cries of “Vive l’Amérique!” The fever spreads, and our soldiers and sailors yell “Vive la France!” or as near to it as they can get, as the procession marches by, and the fat old peasant woman says with full approval, “That’s beautiful!”
Another letter from the permanent training-camp of the marines, published in The Recruiters’ Bulletin, tells of an inspection of the regiment by General Pershing and General Pétain, the French Commander-in-Chief. We read “that the piercing eyes of ‘Black Jack’ rarely miss an unshaven face, badly polished shoes, or the sloppy appearance of anyone” among the soldiers under inspection, and the writer relates:
Together with the Commander-in-Chief of all the French forces and accompanied by several French generals, representing the most important military units in France, General Pershing made one of his now famous whirlwind inspection tours and descended upon the marines amid a cloud of dust which marked the line of travel of the high-powered French touring-cars which carried the generals. Not so very long before that the field-telephone in the regimental office rang and a voice came over the wire:
“The big blue machine is on the way down, and will probably be there in ten minutes.” That was sufficient. Two or three telephone-calls were hurriedly made, and the Colonel, accompanied by his staff, proceeded on “up the line,” met the General’s party, and the marines were ready.
The result of the inspection is summed up in the memorandum issued to the command and which says in part: “Yesterday, at the inspection of the regiment by General ——, Commander-in-Chief of all the French forces, General Pershing, Commander-in-Chief of the American forces in France, and General ——, commanding the —— Division Chasseurs, who are instructing our men, General —— congratulated the Colonel of our regiment on the splendid appearance of officers and men as well as the cleanliness of the town. General Pershing personally told the regimental commander that he wished to congratulate him on having such an excellent regiment.”
This announcement was read to the marines as they were lined up for their noonday meal. And where is the marine whose chest would not swell just a bit at this tribute paid by General Pershing to those upon whose shoulders rests the responsibility of maintaining and perpetuating the glorious history and fine traditions of the United States Marine Corps?