“Nothing’s up,” laughed the aide. “But we’re all gasping for our mail. We thought you’d never get here.”
“Any fighting?” asked a particularly war-like officer.
The aide laughed merrily and then informed us of the Intelligence Division that the busiest time we would have each day would be when we made our morning toilet. Smith, self-appointed assistant to the General Staff, almost collapsed at this news.
“What’s the price of ham and eggs?” shouted a practical-minded doughboy from a porthole to a soldier on the dock.
“How long will it take us to get into the fighting?” persisted one of our belligerent officers.
“What’s the words for ‘How much’ in this Rooshan language?” called a serious-minded machine-gun corporal to a sergeant ashore.
“‘Skulky stoy,’” replied the sergeant, and then betraying his disgust and disillusionment, added: “Aw, you won’t see no war here—only thing you’ll fight is the grub. Them skirmishes up at Nikolsk is all over. The Bolsheviki are clear to the Ekaterinburg front, and still runnin’. And the only kind of fool money they got here is postage stamps with pictures on ’em of the Rooshan Cee-zar.”
“I thought the Rooshans was off that feller for life,” said the corporal.
“Don’t you think that because they put the crusher on him, they don’t want him. They don’t know their elbers from breakfast without a boss. How you expect anybody who says ‘da-da-da’ for ‘yes’ to have any sense?”
Who says an army is not supposed to think? Our army does—our doughboys in Siberia could have given pointers to statesmen at home. It is a good thing to bear in mind.