No Delay About Moving In.
Our Uncle Samuel, be it remembered, is a cautious old gent, and looks well on both sides before getting into a scrap; but once he gets in—and the canny old customer always picks the right side—he's in to stay until the whole job is cleaned up, and he's in right up to his shoulderblades. No more convincing proof of America's determination to see the thing through could be had than a sight of Uncle Sam's big storage depot and all-around tool shop. And, to clinch the argument even further, as fast as the shops on the big reservation have been put up, the machinery has been shoved into them and the work in them started as soon as the machinery was in place and oiled up.
No, Mr. Infantryman, Mr. Artilleryman, Mr. Machine-Gun-toter, Mr. Aviator, Mr. Wireless-buzzer, this has not been "the winter of our discontent"—as footless and no-use-at-all as your own work may have seemed to you sometimes. It has been the winter during which your old uncle has been laying a firm foundation for your comfort and safety and for that of the men who will follow you over—and believe us, he's done an almighty big, an almightily far-sighted, an all-around almightily creditable and thoroughly American, workmanlike job.
——
A NEWS STORY IN VERSE
——
(The incident this poem describes was told by a
British sergeant in a dug-out to the author—an
American serving at the time in the British
Army, [but now fighting under the Stars and Stripes.)]
——
Joe was me pal, and a likely lad, as gay as gay could be;
The worst I expected to happen was the leave that would set him free
To visit the wife and the kiddies; but they're waiting for him in vain.
All along of a Boche wot peppered our water and ration train.—
[You see, w'd been pals from childhood;] him and me chummed through school,
And when we growed up and got married we put our spare kale in a pool,
And both made a comfortable living; 'twas just for our mates and the kids,—
Now the Hun—damn his soul—has taken his toll, and me pal had to cash in his bids.
That night when we left the ration dump to face the dark ahead,
I can never forget the look on his face when he picked up his kit and said
"Another trip to the front, old lad; we'll take 'em their bully and tea;
[We'll catch hell to-night], but we'll get there all right; take that little tip from me."
And Joe swung up in his saddle; I crawled in the trailer behind;
The train moved off with a groan and a squeak, for the midnight work and the grind
Then Joe looked 'round as we started off, I could see his face all alight;
"I got a letter from home," he said; "I'll read it to you to-night."
We pulled along through Dick Busch, through Fairy Court and Dell.
When word came back from the blokes ahead to give the nags a spell.
Joe slid outen his saddle, with a chuckle deep down in his throat,
An' he walked back to me, as gay as could be, and pulled the kid's note from his coat.
Says he, "Listen, lad, for a kid it ain't bad—it's her birthday—she's five to-night—
It's a ripping note this—she sends you a kiss—" and Joe, poor old pal, struck a light.
He held up the kiddie's letter—we were laughin' a bit at the scrawl,
All warm inside with a feeling—well, you know what I mean, damn it all!
When along come a German bullet, and Joe, he wavered a mite,
Then without a word he wilted down. They carried him West that night:
A bullet hole in his temple, by God, but clutching that letter tight.
I've forgot all me bloomin' duties, for me blood is boilin' with hate;
And I'll get that sniping rotter what drilled me pal through the pate.
I'll teach the dirty beggar how an Englishman sticks to his friend:
I'm saving a foot of cold steel for the rat—so help me God to the end.
——
HE OUGHT TO BE GOOD.
——
"Jim, I see that old Bill Boozum, from home, has been drafted."
"Well, Hank, he ought to pass out some nifty hand salutes, all right."
"How's that?"
"Why, look at the practice he's had in bending his elbow!"
Don't Forget that War-Risk
Insurance. February 12 is
Your last chance at it.
ARMY'S MOTOR ARMADA
TO BE 50,000 STRONG
——
Uncle Sam's Garages and Assembling Shops Demand
the Services of 150,000 Chauffeurs
and Repair Men
——
FIRST AID AMBULANCES FOR BREAKDOWNS
——
Experts from American Factories to Take Charge of
Efficiency Problems
——
Uncle Samuel has gone into the garage business here in France. He has gone into it feet first. He knows the importance of the automobile game in modern warfare; he realizes that if Napoleon the Great had only had one "Henry" at the battle of Waterloo, Marshal Blucher's famous advance through the mud would have been in vain. So he is determined, by aid of all the up-to-date motors, all the up-to-date mechanics and chauffeurs and technical experts he can muster, to prevent any of Marshal Blucher's Prussian successors from stealing a march on him.
Fifty thousand motor vehicles, roughly speaking, represent Uncle Samuel's immediate needs for his charges in France. Of these, some 38,000 will be trucks, some 2,500 ambulances, some 3,000 "plain darn autos," and some 6,500 motorcycles. To take care of this vast motor fleet, to run it, keep it in repair, and so forth, our Uncle will need about 150,000 men—a young army in itself.
When one stops to consider the factories, repair shops, rebuilding stations and what not that will be required, one can see that Uncle Sam's garage is going to be no five-and-ten affair. It is going to be a real infant industry all by its lonesome; and already it is a pretty husky infant, with a loud honk-honk instead of a teething cry. In fact, in the few months since our collective arrival in France Uncle Sam has built up such an organization to keep his cars on the roads as to stagger the imagination of the men of big business, both of our own country and of our allies who have come to look it over.