Over the Seas for Uncle Sam

by Unknown

I had never before been inside a naval hospital. I had a vague idea that it would be a great machine, rather overcrowded, to be sure, in war times, but running on oiled hinges—completely soulless.

I found instead a huge building, which, in spite of its size, breathed a warm hominess. Its halls and wards are spotless. Through the great windows the sun pours in on the patients, as cheery a lot of boys as you would care to see.

There are always great clusters of flowers in the wards—bright spots of color—there are always games spread out on the beds. There is always the rise of young voices—laughter—calls. And moving among the patients are the nurses—little white-clad figures with the red cross above their heart. Some of them appear frail and flower-like, some of them very young, but all impress one with their quiet strength and efficiency.

I have spoken to a great many of them. They are enthusiastic and eager. They praise highly the splendid work done abroad by their sisters, but they are serious about the work to be done here as well. Their tasks are carried on with no flaunting of banners, but they are in active service just the same, nursing our boys to health every hour of the day—giving sons back to their mothers—husbands to their wives.

It is a corps to be proud of and a great volume of credit should be laid at the feet of Mrs. Leneh Higbee, the national head of the Naval Nurse Corps. It was Mrs. Higbee who built up the Corps—who has given her life's work to keeping up the standard of that organization—of making it a corps whose personnel and professional standing in efficiency cannot be surpassed in the world to-day.

As my visits to the hospital became more frequent, I began, bit by bit, to gather a story here and there, from the men who lay ill—stories of unconscious heroism—deeds they had performed as part of a day's work on the high seas.

They did not want praise for what they had done. They are an independent lot—our sailors—proud of their branch of service. "No drafted men in the navy," they tell you with a straightening of their shoulders.

And from the officers I learned of that deeper love—that worship of the sea—of the vessel placed in their hands to command. From them I heard for the first time of the value of a discipline iron-bound—rigid—a discipline that brooks no argument. There were stories of men who had hoped and dreamed all their lives of a certain cruise, only to find themselves transferred to the other end of the world. Did they utter a word of complaint? Not they! "Orders are orders"—that was enough for them!

And because those of us who send our men to sea are burning to know the tales they have to tell, I have made this little collection—the men's own stories, told in the ward to other round-eyed youths who gathered about the bed to hear, full of eager questions, prompting when the story moved too slowly.

What you read here are their stories—stories of whole-souled youths, with the sparkle of life in their eyes, with the love of adventure in their hearts. Jack Tar is an American clear through to his backbone!