Biltmore Oswald | Page 9

of ice cream and cake. This brought me up at a table where there
was a very pleasant looking C.P.O. holding sway, and with him I
thought I would hold a few words. What was my horror on hearing him
snap out in a very crusty manner:
"How often do you change your socks?"
This is a question I allow no man to ask me. It is particularly
objectionable. "Why, sir," I replied, "don't you think you are slightly
overstepping the bounds of good taste? One does not even jest about
such totally personal matters, ye know." Then rising, I was about to
walk away without even waiting for his reply, but he called me back
and handed me my paper, on which he had written "Impossible" and
underlined it.
The next booth I visited seemed to be a little more hospitable, so I sat
down with the rest of the fellows and prepared to talk of the events of
the past twenty-one days.

"How many Articles are there?" suddenly asked a C.P.O. who hitherto
had escaped my attention.
"Twelve," I replied promptly, thinking I might just as well play the
game, too.
"What are they based on?" he almost hissed, but not quite.
"The Constitution of these United States," I cried in a loud,
public-spirited voice, at which the C.P.O. choked and turned
dangerously red. It seems that not only was I not quite right, but that I
couldn't have been more wrong.
"Go," he gasped, "before I do you some injury." A very peculiar man, I
thought, but, nevertheless, his heart seemed so set on my going that I
thought it would be best for us to part.
"I am sure I do not wish to force myself upon you," I said icily as I left.
The poor man appeared to be on the verge of having a fit.
"Do you want to tie some knots?" asked a kind-voiced P.O. at the next
booth.
"Crazy about it," says I, easy like.
"Then tie some," says he. So I tied a very pretty little knot I had learned
at the kindergarten some years ago and showed it to him.
"What's that?" says he.
"That," replies I coyly. "Why, that is simply a True Lover's knot. Do
you like it?"
"Orderly," he screamed. "Orderly, remove this." And hands were laid
upon me and I was hurled into the arms of a small, but ever so
sea-going appearing chap, who was engaged in balancing his hat on the
bridge of his nose and wig-wagging at the same time. After beating me
over the head several times with the flags, he said I could play with him,
and he began to send me messages with lightning-like rapidity. "What

is it?" he asked.
"Really," I replied, "I lost interest in your message before you
finished."
After this my paper looked like a million dollars with the one knocked
off.
"What's a hackamatack?" asked the next guy. Thinking he was either
kidding me or given to using baby talk, I replied:
"Why, it's a mixture between a thingamabob and a nibleck."
His treatment of me after this answer so unnerved me that I dropped my
gun at the next booth and became completely demoralized. The greatest
disappointment awaited me at "Monkey Drill," or setting up exercises,
however. I thought I was going to kill this. I felt sure I was going to
outstrip all competitors. But in the middle of it all the examiner yelled
out in one of those sarcastic voices that all rookies learn to fear: "Are
you trying to flirt with me or do you think you're a bloomin' angel?"
This so sickened me at heart that I left the place without further ado,
whatever that might be. Pink teas in the Navy are not unmixed virtues.
March 27th. My birthday, and, oh, how I do miss my cake. It's the first
birthday I ever had without a cake except two and then I had a bottle.
Oh, how well I remember my last party (birthday party)!
There was father and the cake all lit up in the center of the table; I mean
the cake, not father, of course. And there was Gladys (I always called
her "Glad"). She'd been coming to my birthday parties for years and
years. She always came first and left last and ate the most and got the
sickest of all the girls I knew. It was appalling how that girl could eat.
But, as I was saying, there was father and the cake, and there was
mother and "Glad" and all the little candles were twinkling, lighting up
my presents clustered around, among them being half a dozen maroon
silk socks, a box of striped neck ties, all perfect joys; spats, a lounging

gown, ever so many