We have received our new men transferred from the 12th, 14th, 23rd and 71st N. G. N. Y. Our band played them into Camp with the Regimental Air of “Garry Owen” mingled with the good-fellow strains of “Hail! Hail! the Gang’s All Here.”
All in all, the newcomers are a fine lot. A couple of our sister organizations have flipped the cards from the bottom of the pack in some instances and worked off on us some of their least desirables. On the other hand, all the Regiments have made up for that by allowing men anxious to come to us to change places with those who prefer to stick where they are. This gives us a large number of the men we want—those that feel their feet on their native heath in the 69th, and those that like its recruiting slogan, “If you don’t want to be amongst the first to go to France, don’t join the 69th.” For the rest, the Company Commanders and Surgeons know “Thirty-five distinct damnations,” or almost that many, by which an undesirable can be returned to civilian life to take his chances in the draft. Our recruiting office has been reëstablished at the Armory. We can get all the good men we want.
As he had put the matter in my hands Kilmer did not come over with the men from the 7th, but I had the matter of his transfer arranged after a short delay.
CAMP MILLS
September 26th, 1917
I do not know whether to take it as a mark of general interest in the Old Regiment or as the result of the spontaneous big-heartedness of a kindly and enthusiastic Irish artist—but John McCormack sang for us tonight. Sang in the open air with no stinting of voice or program. Our lads could have listened to him till morning; I never saw such an eager mob. They kept calling for their favorite McCormack songs and he, like the fine big Bouchal that he is, laughed at their sallies and gave them their hearts’ desire, until I closed the unique performance by reminding them (and him) that we had a financial interest in his voice because he was to sing for the benefit of our Trustees Fund at no distant date. While I write, the camp is buzzing around me with talk of the great tenor. A voice from the darkness sums it up. “I always knew he was a great singer. We got a lot of his records at home. But the records never learned me that he’s such a hell of a fine fellow.”
CAMP MILLS
Sunday
I mess with the Headquarters Company, and James Collintine, who has the job of looking after us, always welcomes Sunday morning because it gives a chance for a friendly chat between the two of us. James had been a deep-water sailor for a good many years since he first left his home in the Old Country, but has taken up with the Infantry because it gives more prospects for fighting service in this war. This morning he said, “Father Duffy, did ye iver hear of Father Hearrn of my parish in the County Longford?” “No, Jim, I never did.” “Well, he was the grandest man in all Ireland. There was eight hundhred min in Maynooth College where they study to be priests and he could lick ivery dam wan of thim. He was a fine big man, six foot two in his stockin’ feet. He used to come down the sthreet with a big stick in his hand, and if anybody gave anny throuble he’d knock you down just as quick as look at you. The whole parish loved him. Wanst there was a fight in the village green between the peelers and the people, and Father Hearrn was sent for to keep the peace and he came down the road bowling over the peelers as if they was nine pins. There niver was a nicer man within the four seas of Ireland.”
A soldier of Company K came to my tent one afternoon last week and stood at the entrance fumbling his hat in his hand like an Irish tenant of the old days that had not the rent to pay the landlord. “What’s the matter, Tom?” “I took a dhrop too much, and Captain Hurley got very mad about it and brought me up before Major Moynahan. I wouldn’t mind if they’d fine me and be through with it, for I know I deserve it. But the Major and the Captain say that they’re not going to stand anything like this, and that they won’t lave me go to the war. And sure, Father Duffy, if I couldn’t go to the war it’d kill me.” The smile that came to my lips at this very Irish way of putting it was suppressed when I thought of the number of men born in the country who were worried sick lest the Draft should catch them and send them to the war. I assured Tom that I would use my powers of persuasion with the Captain and the Major to give him his heart’s desire, if he would take the pledge. But we shall keep him worried by a suspended sentence until we get him safely away from the temptations of New York.