To old Satan Texas was givenBy the Lord who lives in Heaven,And the Devil quoth "I've got what's neededTo make a good Hell," and he succeeded.He put sharp thorns all over the trees,And mixed up sand with millions of fleas;He scattered tarantulas along the roads,Puts thorns on cactus, and horns on toads.He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers,And put an addition to the rabbit's ears;He put a little devil in the bronco steed,And poisoned the feet of the centipede.The rattlesnake bites, the scorpion stings,The mosquitos delight with their, buzzing wings;The sand burs prevail, and so do the ants,And those who sit down, need half-soles in their pants.The heat in the summer is one hundred and ten,Too hot for the Devil and too hot for the men;The wild boar roams thru the back chaparral,'Tis a hell of a place that he picked for a hell.
O'Reilly was a soldier man, the pride of Battery "B."In all the blooming regiment no better man than he;The ranking duty Non Com., he knew his business well,But since he's tumbled down the pole, O'Reilly's gone to Hell.
Chorus:
O'Reilly's gone to Hell, since down the pole he fell.They drank up all the bug juice the whiskey man would sell.They ran him in the mill. They've got him in there still.His bob tail's coming back by mail, O'Reilly's gone to Hell.
2.
O'Reilly hit the bottle after six years up the pole,He blew himself at Casey's place and then went in the hole,He drank with all the rookies and saved his face as well.The whole outfit is on the bum, O'Reilly's gone to Hell.
Chorus:
3.
O'Reilly swiped a blanket and shoved it up I hear;He shoved it for a dollar and invested that in beer,He licked a coffee cooler because he said he'd tell,He's ten days absent without leave, O'Reilly's gone to Hell.
Chorus:
4.
They'll try him by Court Martial, he'll never get a chanceTo tell them how his mother died or some such song and dance.He'll soon be in Company "Q" a-sleeping in a cellA big red "P" stamped on his back, O'Reilly's gone to Hell.
This is the LandThat God forgot.Arizona.This is the landThat the Devil be-got.Arizona.In respects, it's possiblyBetter than Hell,In Naco.Hot air, mixedWith sulphur smell,In Naco.There every acreIs desert sand,To take the placeOf the "Brim-stone" Land.In Hell.Also, we have the Prickley-pear,In Naco.Sage-brush and cactiThat might compareTo pitch-forks.But should you ask meWhere I'd dwell—Naco, or in that place below—Just three wordsFrom my mouth would flow:"Me for Hell."Conditions are settledDown in Hell;While on the Border,You never can tell.Arizona!Hell, yes!No watchful waiting,No peace at a price,Like Naco.The Devil's policyIs firm and concise,In Hell.No friendly raids,Nor Mexican strife;Like Naco.One's die is cast:To boil for Life,In Hell.In case of trouble,Of any kind,—The Devil actsWithout change of mind.Naco—Hell.Think of the wonderfulPeace Sublime,In Hell.I only wishThat peace were mine.
(From a Marine's Diary.)
5:05 A. M.—FIRST CALLI heard the First Call sound, and then—Just yawned and went to sleep again.
5:10 A. M.—REVEILLEAt Reveille I shook the dope,Broke out a towel and a hunk of soap.
5:20 A. M.—ROLL CALLMy name rang out upon the air;I hollered, "Here," for I was "there."
5:25 A. M.—SETTING-UP EXERCISETook exercise, without a rest;I like the Breathing Movement best.
5:45 A. M.—CHOWOh, what a difference breakfast makes!'Twas Punk and Java, Dog and Cakes.
6:10 A. M.—FIRST CALL FOR DRILLFirst call for Drill reminded me—I'll try the rear rank—"number three."
6:20 A. M.—DRILLStreet Riot Drill and Company square;I nearly went up in the air.
7:20 A. M.—RECALL FROM DRILLRecall was music to my ears;I hadn't felt so tired for years.
8:00 A. M.—COLORSThe Guard turned out for Uncle SamAnd handed him the "Grand Salaam."
8:10 A. M.—SICK CALLOne fellow went to show his cornFor there's a Hike to-morrow morn.
8:20 A. M.—FIRST CALL FOR TROOPI shaved and washed, then cleaned the Gat,And had ten minutes left at that.
8:30 A. M.—TROOPThe Captain sized us up for fair,But no kick comin' anywhere.
8:45 A. M.—GUARD MOUNTGuard Mount, my name wasn't booked;How is it I was overlooked?
No more calls to answer nowTil I hear them holler, "Chow"For this is my easy day:Guess I rate it anyway.
Chow was the regular menu,Spuds et cetera—carabao.I heard "Liberty" when it wentBut I didn't have a cent.
1:00 P. M.—POLICEGlad I have no work today;I'll turn in and hit the hay.
AFTERNOON—NO CALLSWoke up promptly, half past two;Walked around Olongapo.Came in—played a checker game;Wrote a letter to my dame.
5:00 P. M.—CHOWSupper surely was some class!Steak and Onions—Apple "sass."
6:00 P. M.——COLORSSix o'clock when colors went;Guard turned out and gave "present."
8:30 P. M.—TATTOOCame in early, took a shower,Read a book for half an hour.
9:15 P. M.—CALL TO QUARTERSLet down my Mosquito net—Puffed a Durham Cigarette.
TAPS—P. M.Safely in my bunk I curledAnd was soon—dead to the World.
Tis strange, but yet 'tis true, we seeSane men who seem to think that we,Who wear the blue, are not the sameAs other men. We have a nameScarce thought of with respect; 'tis usedTo frighten children, and abusedBy those who only wish to showA few of the many things they don't know.
We read "the soldiers came to townAnd raised particular ——," and so on downA column or more of such vile stuff;'Twould make us all cry "Hold! Enough!"You see, there's scarcely anythingTo write about. While these things sting,What's that to us? We may lose by it;But the public's fed, ye gods, the diet.
An old saw, which, perhaps, e'en youHave heard, and some thought true,Seems to have been forgotten, quite,Or else we do not think it right.Our fathers used to think that way,But we are wiser (?) in our day.Try to remember it, if you can,Tis this: "The clothes don't make the man."
Don't turn the soldier down. You may,For aught you know, or others say,Be entertaining, unawares,An angel; and, if not, who cares?For, be he good, bad, weak or strong,'Mid summer's sun or winter's storm,You call on him to right your wrong,Altho he wears a uniform.
Bring me a dry Martini, waiter,Chase in something that's wet,I was out to a clam bake yesterday,And I haven't got over it yet.
Throw me a pleasant look, waiter,Smile at me pretty, don't frown,And pour some glue on my breakfastSo I can keep it down.
I hear they have discovered the pole, waiter,I wish I had it here now,They can't come any too cold for meTo put on my aching brow.
Many a schooner was wrecked last night,And the waves ran mountain high.Personally, I was soused to the gills,But today I'm awfully dry.
It was a terrible night at sea, waiter,And many are missing, I think,But as near as I can rememberI never missed a drink.
The one in blue got my purse, waiter,Her side-kick got my clock,I don't want to know what time it is,Please lead me down to the dock.
Lead me down to the dock, waiter,For a watery grave I pine,The place for a man that is pickledIs over my head in brine.
Tell them in Olongapo,I died as a hero should,Up to the neck, in cold, cold sudsGuaranteed drawn from the wood.
I'd like to leave you a gift, waiter,Just to remember me byAnd to show you that I'm not tight,You can have my piece of pie.
And after I sink in the water, waiter,You'll do me a favor, I hope.Tell them, if I blow up bubblesIt wasn't from eating soap.
They told me that the Army was a joy for evermore;They told me of the pleasures I'd have in it by the score;They told me of its comforts and the jolly life I'd lead,But by thunder they have fooled me and I'm sorrowful indeed—I ever joined the Army.
They told me of the polished boots and the buttons bright I'd wear,And of the splendid things I'd find upon the bill-of-fare;But never a word they told me in the fine recruiting shop,Of hoeing weeds upon the roads, or hauling out the slops—When I joined the Army.
They told me of the pleasant hours, away from every care,I could spend when not on duty, in town or anywhere;But a thing they never told me is the punishment they'd meteOut to a luckless rookie who went absent from retreat—In Uncle Samuel's Army.
They told me of the canteen, where good lager beer is sold,And of the fine post hospital, that cures all kinds of colds;But a hint about the guard-house they never to me gave,That skeleton they kept hidden as though buried in a grave—Until I joined the Army.
They showed me good looking chromos of good looking soldier men,With little V's upon their sleeves and hats they shone like tin;But there is one uncanny picture they never to me showedOf a soldier with a knapsack, and he hitting up the road—In the U. S. Army.
They told me of the nice soft bunk, made out of woven wire,Where I could lay my carcass, whenever my bones would tire;But a whisper of the pick and shovel was never to me told,So I'm pondering o'er my contract, and I think I was sold—When I came into Uncle's Army.
They told me of the non-coms, who knew a soldier's worth,Who made the Army jolly, a place of endless mirth;But not a word they told me of the amount of beer I'd buy,Just to keep a "stand in" with those that rank up high—In Sammy's splendid Army.
They told me of the bill-of-fare that changed with every day,And when landed in the Army for thirty years I'd stay;But not a word they told me (No wonder they were mum),About the stuff they feed us, commonly known as "Slum"—In our conquering Army.
It is hinted that experience of all others is the school,Where common sense alone is learned, by him that plays the fool;And though I hate the medicine, I must take it with a will,And keep convincing myself, it does me good—It's time to leave the Army.
When your first hitch is over, and you have cashed your finals few,And a breakfast and a boat ride are all that's left for you,And you toy with your collar as you don your suit of "citz,"While your bunkie, sitting near you, has the bluest kind of fits;You a-bubbling over with pleasure at the thoughts of going out;The friends at home will welcome you, of that there's not a doubt;And it never seems to strike you that you have made a beaten track,In these years you've been a soldier—that you might come back.So you hasten out as boat call goes—last call you have to stand—And you wave farewell to comrades as you push away from land.First call for drill is sounding from the bugler's throat of gold,But you are free—"don't have to stand no drill in heat or cold."Altho' you get to wondering as things fade from sight,If drilling really was so bad as walking post at night.You think, of course, when first discharged, one feels just sort of sad;But it's Army fever symptoms—And you've got 'em bad.You're in business on the outside, and you're making good, it seems;But the bugle keeps a-calling, and a-calling through your dreams.Then some day you meet a soldier on a furlough for a week;And you think it only friendly to go up to him and speak;And you find you knew his brother, or his cousin, or his friend,And your job upon the outside has found a sudden end;For a longing fierce comes over you, and you cannot resist—It's the crisis of the fever—and you reenlist.
I've eaten funny dishes on Luzon's tropical shore,I've eaten Japan's bamboo shoots and oysters by the score.Of caviar I've had my share, I love anchovies, too,And way down in old Mindanao I've eaten carabao;Of Johnny Bull's old rare roast I nearly got the gout,And with chums at Heidelberg I dined on sauerkraut;In China I have eaten native rice and sipped their famous teas;In Naples I, 'long with the rest, ate macaroni and cheese;In Cuba where all things go slow, manana's their one wish;I dined on things that had no names, but tasted strong with fish.In Mexico the chili burnt the coating off my tongue;And with Irish landlord I dined on pigs quite young,Yet you may have your dishes that is served to kings and queens,But I am happy and contented with a dish of Army Beans.
Little drops of water,Little grains of sandMake the mighty oceanAnd the desert land.
Little hours of drilling,Little "rifle shoots"Make efficient soldiersOut of raw recruits.
Little hours some spend inBreaking liberty,Oft' amount to somethingMore than E. P. D.
Little words of kindness,When you spare a few,Sound all right to some one;Do they not to you?
Sing-a-song-a-sixpenceEvery-body dry—Half-a-dozen PrivatesOpening some rye.
When the rye was openedThe Bucks began to sing:Every blessed one of themFeeling like a king.
The Sergeant at the Guard-houseSaw them walking straight—Marked them "Clean and Sober,"When they passed the gate.
But, when Taps was over,They sang and danced a jig,Along came a CorporalAnd slammed them in the Brig.
If you wake, why, call me early—call me early, won't you, bunk?The captain says I'll be a non-com., if I don't get on a drunk.Then some day I'll be a sergeant with three stripes upon my arm,Zig zag, like the old rail fences on Dad Posey's Country farm.Call me early, though I'm dreaming, wake me up that I may seeHow the sun that sinks in grandeur rises in obscurity.I've been a private, bunkie, such as privates seldom are,Borne my share of public censure, let it heal without a scar.Till upon the fair escutcheon of my name and humble rankCaptain says he'll add the title and a stripe on either flank.Then I'll be a non-com., bunkie, wake me up that I may seeMy own glory bubble appearing, hear it burst at reveille.Wake me early from my slumbers, henceforth I would early rise,Health and wealth are common virtues—dawn will brand me both, and wise.Bunkie, I'll be boss tomorrow, uniformed in blue and white,Knew I'd get it, if the captain only did what's square and right.But I will not chastise the comrades who may doubt my word is law,I'll be easy with them, bunkie, patient, 'tho they feel no awe.Bunkie, I'm growing sleepy; wake me when the morning breaks;For upon the track of merit, I will land the non-com. stakes.Let me hear the joyful clamor when I wake from pleasant dreamsThat the fellows rise when greeting a noncom., who is what he seems.Wake me early, bunkie, comrade, tell the fellows who I am,Not forgetting all the favors I will do you when I can.Tell them that I wouldn't have it, if it sacrificed their love,Tell them that I'm the same as ever, though they think me far above.Bunkie, I have dreamed so often of the buff that I shall wear,That I feel the honor greater than a man like me can bear.Long I've waited; long I've cherished thoughts of how I'd look and feelWhen the captain said: Howard, here's a stripe to aid your zeal.Then I'd be a non-com., bunkies, then I'd write to dad and say,Modest-like: "A Corporal's greetings to his folks so far away!"
As I sit in the gleam of the camp fire,'Neath the Oriental skies,In fancy I picture the homeland shoreAnd a town I highly prize;It's Gardner, dear old Gardner,A town so dear to me,But I'm many miles awayAcross an endless sea.
I at the age of 17 was—Fickle as a clamI took a train for FitchburgAnd joined old Uncle Sam.They sent me on to Slocum,And filled me up on beans.They made me take a rifleAnd a pair of khaki jeans.
They sent me to the Philippines,We call it no man's land.We never see a flake of snow,We bake our eggs in sand,We hike o'er burning mountains'Til it drives us near insane,We pitch our camp in a rice fieldIn a storm of drizzling rain.
At night we walk our outpostWith a great big heavy gunAnd 90 Dum-Dum bulletsTo make the Moros run.They're accurate as a weaselAnd, boys, they never fan,You have to keep your ears pricked up,For they'll get you if they can.
Now, boys, you may think Gardner slow,But that notion you'll destroyIf you ever hold your hand upTo be a soldier boy.You have no dear old Mother.To mend your tattered pants,When you stick yourself with a needle,With rage you'll fairly prance.
So, boys, I found my big mistake,I was altogether wrong,And that's the simple reasonI sing this little song.So take a piece of fool's advice,And never run away,Just stay in dear old GardnerWhere life is bright and gay.
"Where're all the soldiers goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,"What are they all a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;"I dunno where they're goin' to," said Files-on-Parade,"I dunno what they're goin' to do," the Color Sergeant said.For they're goin' back towards U. S. A. and leave the Philippines,They're tirin' of the Islands and the Army "pork and beans,"That "single time," and "two per mile"—they all know what that means—So now they're all a'goin' to leave the Army.
"Where is the 'Doughboy' goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,"And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;"Back to his farm! Back to his farm!" said Files-on-Parade,"Behind the plow! Behind the plow," the Color Sergeant said.No hiking o'er rice paddies,—but furrowed fields of corn,To go to bed real early and get up in the morn',To be his own "K. O." once more, in the country where he's born,So soon he'll be a-quittin' of the Army.
"Where is the Trooper goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,"And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;"Perhaps he'll pack an Army mule," said Files-on-Parade,"Or go out West to 'cow-boy,'" the Color Sergeant said.He's fond of his "caballo," and he loves his old "outfit,"And if they'd change those Army bills, he wouldn't ever quit,But Chairman Hay, and others, have forced him into it.So soon he'll be discharged from out the Army.
"Where is the 'Gunner' goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,"And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;"He's goin' to be a 'jackie,'" said Files-on-Parade,"A sailor lad a'fore the mast," the Color Sergeant said.For he'd rather try the Navy, and draw a sailor's pay,Than "single-time" in Jolo with three long years to stay,Where there ain't no "two-cent mileage," while a'cruisin' across the Bay,So now he'll soon be quittin' of the Army.
"Where is the Army goin' to?" said Files-on-Parade,"And what is it a'goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;"The boys will soon have done their time," said Files-on-Parade,"And few of 'em will 'hitch' again," the Color Sergeant said.For the Transports bring one "rookie" to take the place of ten,"Old Timers," who are goin' home, and won't "hitch" up again,And they'll have a Rookie Army—instead of Soldier Men.For they're breakin' up the Army in the Islands.
When a crude and hopeful rookieTo the Philippines I cameTo hike the glorious pathwayOn to shoulder straps and fame,I thought of mother's counsel,And I scorned the drunkard's cup,But I landed on the sick report,And that's what did me up.
"You've been drinking," said the surgeon,"You've been drinking on the sly.You've been disobeying orders;'Tis useless to deny.Let me tell you on the Q. T.That I am going to mark you 'duty'You've been drinking unboiled waterI can read it in your eye."
I've a bunkie who is a restless dog,And he doesn't care a fig,So they marched him to the guard-houseAnd they made him do fatigue.He's a gamblin', ramblin' rascal,An all around jovial sport.They had him up the other dayBefore a summary court.
"Charged with drinking," says the captain,And he seemed to "wink an eye.""For you could not stand temptationAnd you drank when you was dry.You are grinning, Private Brady,And you will draw five less next pay-day,And for drinking unboiled waterDon't forget I cinched you high."
Since old Pharoah followed Moses,And was followed by the sea,Sergeant Potter's been a soldierAnd 'til Gabriel's reveilleHe'll be answering to the bugle callAt sunset, noon, and morn,But he's got the Dengue fever,And it makes him flush and worn.
"You've been drinking unboiled water,"Says the captain, "that is why.""No, the captain is mistaken,"Says the sergeant with a sigh."I never do drink water,Though maybe at times I aught'er;I never do drink waterWhen 'John Stink' and Tuba's nigh."
The band it played a mournful tune;The soldiers crowd aroundAs a comrade wrapped in Glory's flagIs lowered in the ground.There are three resounding volleys,Taps die out in tender tonesAnd we're marching to the quick stepFrom the grave of Corporal Jones.
"It was drinking," says the captainAs a tear was in his eye."It was all through drinking waterThat the corporal came to die.'Twas the unboiled water that killed him,With germs and things it filled himBut now he is drinking from the JordanWhere we'll join him by and by."
Once I was a farmer boy, a tiller of the soil,I liked the work—I never was a chap to shirk from toil.But I thought I'd choose a broader life (I must have been an ass).I took on in the Army—and now I'm cutting grass.
I thought my farm life narrow, for there my simple workWas planting things and tending them, and this I did not shirk.I'd charge of all the horses, too, and handled them first class,But since I joined the Army, I am simply cutting grass.
I get up in the morning to the sound of martial strain.The sergeant says: "Go get that scythe and sharpen it again.The grass has grown six inches, men, while we have been in bed,So hustle, soldiers, hustle—don't let it get ahead."
The Chief of Staff sits up above and wonders "wot fell?"The money goes by millions, but the Army is a sell.We privates, if we dared to, could easy hit the mark,It's grass that takes up all our time from early dawn to dark.
We all would like to soldier and get prepared for war;It's what we left our happy homes and joined the Army for.We'd like to learn our duties from "skirmish drill" to "mass."But all we learn with Uncle Sam is grass, grass, GRASS!
I hate the sight of anything that has a color green;My disposition's ruined and I have a swoolen spleen.And when my time to cash in comes, I pray a gracious God,That I'll be buried out at sea—not placed beneath the sod.
The Sergeant says: "My gun is rusty,And I guess it must be right.But you ought to see my pick and shovel;They are always shining bright."
Chorus:
Farewell, Bunkie, I must leave you,And leave you mighty quickFor I'll be d——d if I can soldierWith a shovel and a pick.
There is hash that's hot, and hash that's cold;There's hash that's new and hash that's old;And Hash that's mixed into skilligbee;But with me they don't agree.
Chorus:
So, Farewell, Bunkie, I must leave you,And I leave you with a dash;For I'll be d——d if I can soldierOn Uncle Samuel's corn beef hash.
B-ache—to complain.
Beans—the commissary sergeant.
Bean-shooter—a commissary officer.
Belly-ache—to complain.
Black strap—liquid coffee.
Blind—sentenced by court-martial to forfeiture of pay without confinement.
Bob-Tail—a dishonorable discharge, or a discharge without honor; to be "bobtailed"—to be discharged or to be given a discharge without honor.
Bone—to study; to try; to cultivate.
Bone bootlick on—to cultivate the favor of.
Boots and Saddles—trumpet call.
Bootlick—to flatter.
Brig—guard-house.
Bow-legs—cavalrymen.
Buck-private—a term sometimes used in referring to a private.
Bucking for Orderly—giving clothing and accoutrements extra cleaning so as to compete for orderly.
Bunkie—a soldier who shares the shelter of a comrade.
Bust—to reduce a non-commissioned officer to the grade of a private.
Butcher—the company barber.
Canned Horse—canned beef.
Chief—name by which the chief musician of the band is usually called by the enlisted men.
Cit—a civilian.
Cits—civilian clothes.
C. O.—commanding officer.
Coffee Cooler—one who seeks easy details away from troops; one who is always looking for an easy job.
Cold-feet—fear, lack of courage (to have cold feet is to be afraid, to lack courage).
Commissaries—groceries.
Crawl—to admonish.
Dog-robber—name by which the enlisted men call a soldier who works for an officer. (An offensive term, the use of which generally results in trouble.)
Dough-boy—infantryman.
Dough-puncher—the baker.
Down the Pole—to drink, after having stopped.
Duff—any sweet edible.
Fatigue—extra work.
File—a number on the lineal list.
Fogy—ten percent increase in pay for each five years' service.
Found—to be found deficient or wanting in anything, especially an examination.
French leave—unauthorized absence. Absent on French leave—absent without authority.
Goat—junior officer in post, regiment, etc.
Goaty—awkward, ignorant.
Guard House Lawyer—a soldier with a smattering knowledge of regulations and military law; quite loquacious and liberal with advice and counsel to men in the Guard House or other trouble.
Hand-Shaker—a soldier who tries to win the favor of first sergeant or troop commander.
Hardtack—hardbread, biscuits.
Hash Mark—enlistment or service stripe, worn on sleeve.
Hike—a march; to hike; to march.
Hitch—a term for enlistment period.
Hive—to discover, to catch.
Hobo—the provost guard.
Holy Joe—the chaplain.
Hop—a dance.
How—form of salutation in drinking, meaning "Here's to your health,""My regards," etc.
I. C.—condemned by an inspector.
Jaw-bone—credit (to get things on "jawbone," is to buy on credit).
Jump—to admonish.
K. O.—the commanding officer.
Major—name by which the sergeant-major is usually called by the enlisted men.
Mill—Guard-house.
Mule-skinner—a teamster.
Non-Com—non-commissioned officer.
O. D.—the officer of the day.
Officers Line, or Officers Row—the row of houses where the officers and their families live.
Old Issue—an old soldier.
Old File—an old officer.
Old Man—the company commander.
On Official Terms—not to be on speaking terms except officially.
On the Carpet—called before the commanding officer for admonition.
Openers—cathartic pills.
Orderly Buckle—a soldier when going on guard who strives by extra neatness of appearance to be designated as orderly for the commanding officer.
Orderly Room—company office.
Outfit—one's organization in the army.
Over-the-Hill—to desert.
P.—Prisoner.
Pills—the hospital steward.
Punk—light bread.
Q. M.—the quartermaster.
Q. M. D.—quartermaster's department.
Ranked-out—to be compelled to vacate by a senior, as "to be ranked out of quarters."
Red-tape—official formality; that is, the close or excessive observance of forms and routine in the transaction of business.
Regimental Monkey—the drum major.
Re-up—to re-enlist at once.
Rookie—a new recruit.
Sand-rat—an officer or soldier on duty in the rifle pit at target practice.
Saw-bone—the doctor.
Shave-tail—a new second lieutenant. So called, after the young, unbroken mules in the Quartermaster's Department.
Shoved up—to pawn.
Shutters—camphor or opium pills.
Sinkers—dumplings.
Sky-scout—the chaplain.
Sky-pilot—the chaplain,
Slap-Jacks—pan cakes.
Slum—a stew of meat, potatoes and onions, mostly potatoes and onions.
Soap Suds Row—the laundresses' quarters.
Soldier, to—to soldier, to serve; also to shirk.
Soldiers' One Per Cent—one hundred per cent.
Sow-belly—bacon.
Stars and Stripes—beans.
Striker—a soldier who works for an officer.
Take-on—to re-enlist before the expiration of three months after discharge.
The Old Man—term sometimes used by officers and soldiers in referring to the commanding officer; sometimes used by soldiers in referring to their company commander.
To Take Another Blanket—same as "Take-on."
Top Sergeant—first sergeant.
Up the Pole—to swear off drinking.
Yellow-leg—cavalryman.
Youngster—a young officer (a first or second lieutenant).
Wagon-soldier—light or field artilleryman.
Wind-jammer—a trumpeter or bandsman.
Wood-butcher—company artificer.
Gravel Crushers—infantry soldiers.
Poultice Wallahs—Royal Army Medical Corps men.
Doolally Tap—when a soldier becomes mentally unbalanced he is said to have received the "Doolally Tap." "Doolally" is a corruption of the name of an Indian town, Deolali.
Bun Wallah—a soldier who drinks nothing stronger than tea, and is in consequence supposed to eat voraciously of buns.
Chips—the regimental pioneer sergeant, who is usually a sergeant.
Lance Jack—a lance-corporal.
Quarter Bloke—the quartermaster.
Rookey—a recruit.
Scrounger—a man with plenty of resource in getting what he wants.
Yob—one who is easily fooled.
Bobygee—a soldier cook. In India a native one.
Baggies—sailors in the Navy.
Badgy—an enlisted boy.
Long-faced Chum—a cavalryman's term for his horse.
Rooty—bread.
Slingers—a meal of bread and tea.
Muckin—butter.
Bully Beef—the tinned meat ration.
Lamping—eating heartily.
C. B.—confined to barracks.
Chucking a Dummy—when a man faints on parade he is said to "have chucked a dummy."
Clink or Mush—the guard room.
Brief, Cheque or Ticket—discharge documents.
Dock—a military hospital.
Swinging the Lead—the equivalent of "telling the tale."
Weighed off—when a soldier has been awarded punishment for an offense he is said to have been "Weighed off."
High Jump—an appearance before the C.O. to answer a charge of breaking regulations.
Lost His Number—a man is said to have "lost his (regimental) number" when he is reported for any offense. It is "lost" because it is placed on the report sheet.
Stir—imprisonment in a detention barracks.
Chancing His Arm—committing an offence in expectation that it will not be discovered. A N.C.O. is said to be "chancing his arm" because he may be deprived of his stripes.
Jankers—defaulter's drill.
Dog's Leg—the first stripe received on promotion.
Bundook—a rifle.
Bobtack—powder mixed into a paste to clean buttons and brass work on equipment.
Muck-in—share in.
Square-Pushing—courting. Your best boots, cap, etc., are called square-pushing boots, etc.
Square-bit—your best girl.
Atcha—all right.
Blighty—home.
I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can'tget 'em up in the morning;I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can'tget 'em up at all;Corp'rals worse than the privates;Sergeants worse than the corporals;Lieutenants worse than the sergeants,And the capt'n's the worst of all.
Chorus—
I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, etc.
Soup-y, soup-y soup,Without a single bean.Pork-y, pork-y, pork,Without a streak of lean;Coffee, Coffee, Coffee,Without any cream!(Or, the weakest ever seen!)
Come and get your quinine, come and get your pills,Oh! come and get your quinine, come and get your pills.
Come all who are able and go to the stable,And water your horses and give 'em some corn;For if you don't do it, the Col'nel will know it,And then you will rue it, sure as you're born.
1 2
Fades the light; Love, good night.And afar When the dayGoeth day, Must thou goCometh night; And the nightAnd a star Day is doneLeadeth all, Leave me so?Speedeth all Fare thee well;To their rest. Night is on.
When your lastDay is past,From afarSome bright starO'er your graveWatch will keep,While you sleepWith the brave.
The following hints are only intended as a reminder to assist you when in doubt.
TO STOP BLEEDING.—Place a pad of clean cloth on the wound and bandage firmly. Raise the part affected. If raising the limbs or applying the pad does not control the bleeding, compress with your two thumbs over bone and as near the wound as possible. Give no stimulants as long as bleeding remains uncontrolled.
BURNS AND SCALDS.—Exclude the part from the air at once, by dusting flour on it and covering with cotton wool. If there is a blister do NOT pick it for 24 hours.
Soothing applications are Carron Oil, Salad Oil, Vaseline, Lard, etc. If there is severe shock, give it immediate attention, even before attending to the burn or scald.
FRACTURES.—The two main classes of fractures are simple and compound and the first aid treatment you give is to prevent the simple fracture from becoming the more serious compound fracture, which has a wound caused by the jagged end of the broken bone.
Attend to the patient on the spot, and fix the injured limb, at once, by splints and bandages. Use great gentleness.
If there is a wound, cleanse it and apply antiseptic dressing before putting limb in splints.
Disturb the limb as little as possible and make the patient comfortable until arrival of doctor.
SNAKE BITES.—Tie something tightly around the limb, between the wound and the heart. Give patient a good dose of brandy or some other spirit.
Encourage the bleeding by squeezing the bitten part and bathe with warm water. If breathing is bad, use artificial respiration.
POISONS.—In the first place endeavor to find out the poison. If you cannot, and there are no stains about mouth or lips and no burning sensation in mouth and throat, give an emetic or tickle throat to make patient vomit. Emetics are: three-teaspoonfuls of mustard in pint of tepid water; salt and water, two tablespoonfuls to pint of warm water. (See First Aid for Poisoning.)
When there are stains, etc., give cream, white of eggs, olive or linseed oil (no oil with phosphorus poisoning). Antidotes to follow.
GRIT IN THE EYE.—Do not rub the injured eye. By rubbing the other eye you will bring tears, which may wash the grit out. If not, roll back the upper eyelid over a match or pencil, and remove the grit with the corner of your handkerchief or small camel hair brush.
If lime in eye, wash out at once with water, then drop olive or castor oil between the lids.
Do not attempt to remove anything deeply imbedded—drop in olive oil and bandage.
FAINTING—-The patient is very faint and partially or completely unconscious. Pulse is weak and rapid and breathing quickened. No convulsions.
Place the patient in a lying position with the head lower than the rest of the body. Loosen his clothing at neck and chest. Give patient plenty of fresh air. Sprinkle face and chest with cold water and apply smelling salts to nose. Rub the limbs toward body. Give stimulant when patient is able to swallow.
SPRAINS.—A sprain is the tearing of the ligaments or capsule of a joint and bursting of small blood vessels, and swelling.
Apply cold water dressings as long as they give comfort, and afterwards apply hot fomentations. Rest the part in an easy position. If movement of limb be essential, bandage it tightly. If in doubt, treat as a fracture.
5 centimes (one sou) ……= 1 cent 25 " ……= 5 cents 50 " ……= 10 " 1 franc ……= 20 " 2 " ……= 40 " 5 " ……= 1 dollar
Half Penny ……………= 1 centOne " ……………= 2 centsThree Pence ……………= 6 "Six " ……………= 12 "One Shilling……………= 24 "Two " ……………= 48 "Half a CrownorTwo Shillings Six Pence .. = 60 "Five Shillings ……….. = $1.20Ten " …………. = 2.401 Pound ……………… = 4.80
[*]French currency has depreciated since the war about 10 per cent., so that ten per cent. deduction should be made for accurate reckoning.