Biltmore Oswald | Page 7

get
enough. We're shaping up into a fine body of men, our company
commander told us this morning, and added, that if we continue to pick
up cigarette butts several more weeks we'll be able to stack arms
without dropping our guns. Eli, the goat, seems unwell to-day. I
attribute his unfortunate condition to his constant and unrelenting
efforts to keep the canteen clear of paper. It is my belief that goats are
not healthy because of the fact that they eat paper, but in spite of it, and
I feel sure that if all goats got together and decided to cut out paper for

a while and live on a regular diet, they would be a much more robust
race. The movies were great to-night. I saw Sidney Drew's left ear and
a mole on the neck of the man in front of me.
March 21st. A fellow in our bay asked last night how much an
admiral's pay was a month and when we told him he yawned, turned
over on his side and said, "Not enough." He added that he could pick
up that much at a first-class parade any time. We all tightened our wrist
watches. Been blinking at the blinker all evening. Can't make much
sense out of it. The bloomin' thing is always two blinks ahead of me.
It's all very nice, I dare say, but I'd much rather get my messages on
scented paper. I got one to-day. She called me her "Great, big, cute
little sailor boy." Those were her exact words. How clever she is. I'm
going to marry her just as soon as I'm a junior lieutenant. She'll wait a
year, anyway.
March 22d. I made up verses to myself in my hammock last night.
Perhaps I'll send some of them to the camp paper. It would be nice to
see your stuff in print. Here's one of the poems:
THE UNREGENERATE SAILOR MAN
I
I take my booze In my overshoes; I'm fond of the taste of rubber; I oil
my hair With the grease of bear Or else with a bull whale's blubber.
II
My dusky wife Was a source of strife, So I left her in Singapore And
sailed away At the break of day-- Since then I have widowed four.
III
Avast! Belay, And alack-a-day That I gazed in the eyes of beauty. For
in devious ways Their innocent gaze Has caused me much extra duty.
IV

I never get past The jolly old mast, The skipper and I are quite chummy;
He knows me by sight When I'm sober or tight And calls me a "wicked
old rummy."
A sort of sweetheart-in-every-port type I intend to make him--a
seafaring man of the old school such as I suppose some of the
six-stripers around here were. I don't imagine it was very difficult to get
a good conduct record in the old days, because from all the tales I've
heard from this source and that, a sailor-man who did not too openly
boast of being a bigamist and who limited his homicidical inclinations
to half a dozen foreigners when on shore leave, was considered a highly
respectable character. Perhaps this is not at all true and I for one can
hardly believe it when I look at the virtuous and impeccable exteriors
of the few remaining representatives with whom I have come in contact.
However, any one has my permission to ask them if it is true or not,
should they care to find out for themselves. I refuse to be held
responsible though. I think I shall send this poem to the paper soon.
It must be wonderful to get your poems in print. All my friends would
be so proud to know me. I wonder if the editors are well disposed,
God-fearing men.
[Illustration: "LIBERTY PARTY"]
From all I hear they must be a hard lot. Probably they'll be nice to me
because of my connections. I know so many bartenders. Next week I
rate liberty! Ah, little book, I wonder what these pages will contain
when I come back. I hate to think. New York, you know, is such an
interesting place.
March 25th. Man! Man! How I suffer! I'm so weary I could sleep on
my company commander's breast, and to bring oneself to that one must
be considerably fatigued, so to speak. Who invented liberty, anyway?
It's a greatly over-rated pastime as far as I can make out, consisting of
coming and going with the middle part omitted.
One man whispered to me at muster this morning that all he could
remember of his liberty was checking out and checking in. He looked

unwell. My old pal, "Spike" Kelly, I hear was also out of luck. His girl
was the skipper of a Fourteenth