TRANSCRIBED FROM THE MELBOURNE TIMES JANUARY 17, 1918 P.2
Dear Editor:
I have intended to write your paper ever since I joined the marines but as a poet put it: Our best intentions are sometimes put aside for more trivial matters.
Thus I have waived writing to your paper to accommodate the numerous girls that solicit correspondence with the soldier boys, but since the girls have become less patriotic or enthusiastic since I have failed to visit at least one hundred on my furlough, I find myself with a few spare moments with which to materialize my previous plans.
I joined the marines at Muskogee Okla. on July 28 and was shipped out on August 1. Nothing of interest or unusual happened until we left St. Louis. The first morning out of St. Louis, when we awoke, we were passing through the blue grass region of Kentucky. After making several observations I concluded that this region was noted for pretty girls as well as fine horses. Just before we reached Nashville we passed “The Hermitage” home of Andrew Jackson, which is now used as a home for incapacitated confederate soldiers. Many old veterans were out on the lawn and as they became cognizant of our destiny they waved hands, hats and red bandannas until the bend in the road took us out of sight. Doubtless each suppressed sighs as in memory they reviewed the volunteer days of 1861.
Just outside Nashville we passed the National Cemetery situated on a gentle slope but terraced level. It is a beautiful place with well kept shade trees, systematically arranged, and grass--an appropriate symbol of our esteem and memory of the men who fell during the war around Nashville.
We also passed Murfreesboro, a small town near the great battlefield of Stone river. Several old cannon remain on the field just as they were left by the retreating army. The battlefields of Missionary Ridge and Chickamauga were crossed later in the day and at night we reached Atlanta, the objective of Sherman’s march to the sea. These places were of special interest to me as I had tried so often to present them to a class in history. So intent was I upon getting all the information available that for nearly four hours I never received the address of, nor gave my address to a single girl.
The marines is one of the oldest and I consider best, branches in our military organization. It is an old branch within the deserved distinction of first to fight on land and sea. The marines lead the way and take; others follow and occupy.
Paris Island is just across the bay from Port Royal, S.C. As a matter of mere information, I might say Port Royal, the well advertised city of the South, was once a nice sea port, but was razed during the Civil war and is not larger that Lunenburg now. The Island, which is five miles long, two miles wide and contains the camp and a few negro huts, is radiating with historical interest. It is one of a group of about twelve, all of which can be seen by the naked eye, from the water tank. Just to the North and East is Blackhead Island, which was one of the rendezvou of Blackhead, the pirate, who was such a terror to commerce in the seventeenth century. This island was frequented by Edgar Allen Poe. It was here he wrote most of his short stories and some of his best poems, including “Anna Bell Lee.” Every night I sleep by the self same sounding sea that inspired the last poem.
More than six thousand soldiers have passed thru this camp since I landed, and I had them to be the cream of American young manhood. They represent every occupation and profession in the industrial world. Professional actors, mechanics, electricians, writers, cartoonists, farmers, lawyers, pugilists, and a few school feachers heard the alarming cry of their country and rushed to its defense.
Men of refined tastes or ambition do not find camp life congenial or pleasant. It is a common ground for all the varied classes of American manhood. Rich and poor, ignorant and educated, energetic and indolent, ambitiou and indifferent march and sleep side by side, eat the self same chew and clothed in the self same khaki or forest green. They look alike and share equally the “gaff” or respect of the officers. The companion “boat,” when he selects his pals is the only one who looks beneath the khaki for the refined features that characterize best manhood.
Life is not so varied as is usually presupposed. We get up at reveille (5:45); do our assigned work of walloping pans, drilling, washing clothes, and studying French, and retire at “taps” (10:00). In the meantime we may be branded as bums who some in to get their three feeds and a flop, abused for preforming our work to the best of our ability, or derided because our clothes don’t fit properly. To all of which we must listen with silent indifference while standing at attention. Incidentally, I might say our food is plain but wholesome. While the inner man of self respect and conscience smarts and pains under such treatment, the physical man continues to fatten on beans, etc.
A few words in regard to the outcome of this war and I shall close. I have long since ceased to prophecy as to territorial changes, the time when this titanic struggle will end, etc., but the ultimate outcome for us will be a partial elimination of class distinction wrought by a better understanding, a keener appreciation of the needs and possibilities of the North on the part of the South and vice versa and a physical manhood of hot house plants transformed into hardy mountain shrubs. In the words of Abraham Lincoln: “ With charity towards all, malice toward none, the firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us finish the work we are now dedicated too.
Izard county has only three in this branch of the service as far as I know. They are: A Moss boy from Oxford, who enlisted at Lincoln, Nebraska: Joe Seay, formerly of Calico Rock, who enlisted in St. Paul, Minnesota, and myself.
To my old friends and associates who are in other branches of the service I will say: I will drink to your health and preservation of character while away and your safe return when this gigantic struggle comes to an end. I have faith in my star: I presume everyone has, and I believe that I shall meet you again on the streets of Melbourne and talk to you about the reministnses that cling to us through this period of alternated fear and frolic. Then the Old Civil War Vets will have to sit in the shade and chew their tobacco or smoke their pipes as we relate the horrors of the havoc wrought by the worthy successors of their old squirrel rifles and muzzle-loading cannon. Until then, be worthy of your uniform: this implies all the rest.
H. E. Davis
Co. T. New Barracks, Paris Island S.C.
NOTES:
TRANSCRIBED BY: ISAAC WOLTER
Dear Editor:
I have intended to write your paper ever since I joined the marines but as a poet put it: Our best intentions are sometimes put aside for more trivial matters.
Thus I have waived writing to your paper to accommodate the numerous girls that solicit correspondence with the soldier boys, but since the girls have become less patriotic or enthusiastic since I have failed to visit at least one hundred on my furlough, I find myself with a few spare moments with which to materialize my previous plans.
I joined the marines at Muskogee Okla. on July 28 and was shipped out on August 1. Nothing of interest or unusual happened until we left St. Louis. The first morning out of St. Louis, when we awoke, we were passing through the blue grass region of Kentucky. After making several observations I concluded that this region was noted for pretty girls as well as fine horses. Just before we reached Nashville we passed “The Hermitage” home of Andrew Jackson, which is now used as a home for incapacitated confederate soldiers. Many old veterans were out on the lawn and as they became cognizant of our destiny they waved hands, hats and red bandannas until the bend in the road took us out of sight. Doubtless each suppressed sighs as in memory they reviewed the volunteer days of 1861.
Just outside Nashville we passed the National Cemetery situated on a gentle slope but terraced level. It is a beautiful place with well kept shade trees, systematically arranged, and grass--an appropriate symbol of our esteem and memory of the men who fell during the war around Nashville.
We also passed Murfreesboro, a small town near the great battlefield of Stone river. Several old cannon remain on the field just as they were left by the retreating army. The battlefields of Missionary Ridge and Chickamauga were crossed later in the day and at night we reached Atlanta, the objective of Sherman’s march to the sea. These places were of special interest to me as I had tried so often to present them to a class in history. So intent was I upon getting all the information available that for nearly four hours I never received the address of, nor gave my address to a single girl.
The marines is one of the oldest and I consider best, branches in our military organization. It is an old branch within the deserved distinction of first to fight on land and sea. The marines lead the way and take; others follow and occupy.
Paris Island is just across the bay from Port Royal, S.C. As a matter of mere information, I might say Port Royal, the well advertised city of the South, was once a nice sea port, but was razed during the Civil war and is not larger that Lunenburg now. The Island, which is five miles long, two miles wide and contains the camp and a few negro huts, is radiating with historical interest. It is one of a group of about twelve, all of which can be seen by the naked eye, from the water tank. Just to the North and East is Blackhead Island, which was one of the rendezvou of Blackhead, the pirate, who was such a terror to commerce in the seventeenth century. This island was frequented by Edgar Allen Poe. It was here he wrote most of his short stories and some of his best poems, including “Anna Bell Lee.” Every night I sleep by the self same sounding sea that inspired the last poem.
More than six thousand soldiers have passed thru this camp since I landed, and I had them to be the cream of American young manhood. They represent every occupation and profession in the industrial world. Professional actors, mechanics, electricians, writers, cartoonists, farmers, lawyers, pugilists, and a few school feachers heard the alarming cry of their country and rushed to its defense.
Men of refined tastes or ambition do not find camp life congenial or pleasant. It is a common ground for all the varied classes of American manhood. Rich and poor, ignorant and educated, energetic and indolent, ambitiou and indifferent march and sleep side by side, eat the self same chew and clothed in the self same khaki or forest green. They look alike and share equally the “gaff” or respect of the officers. The companion “boat,” when he selects his pals is the only one who looks beneath the khaki for the refined features that characterize best manhood.
Life is not so varied as is usually presupposed. We get up at reveille (5:45); do our assigned work of walloping pans, drilling, washing clothes, and studying French, and retire at “taps” (10:00). In the meantime we may be branded as bums who some in to get their three feeds and a flop, abused for preforming our work to the best of our ability, or derided because our clothes don’t fit properly. To all of which we must listen with silent indifference while standing at attention. Incidentally, I might say our food is plain but wholesome. While the inner man of self respect and conscience smarts and pains under such treatment, the physical man continues to fatten on beans, etc.
A few words in regard to the outcome of this war and I shall close. I have long since ceased to prophecy as to territorial changes, the time when this titanic struggle will end, etc., but the ultimate outcome for us will be a partial elimination of class distinction wrought by a better understanding, a keener appreciation of the needs and possibilities of the North on the part of the South and vice versa and a physical manhood of hot house plants transformed into hardy mountain shrubs. In the words of Abraham Lincoln: “ With charity towards all, malice toward none, the firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us finish the work we are now dedicated too.
Izard county has only three in this branch of the service as far as I know. They are: A Moss boy from Oxford, who enlisted at Lincoln, Nebraska: Joe Seay, formerly of Calico Rock, who enlisted in St. Paul, Minnesota, and myself.
To my old friends and associates who are in other branches of the service I will say: I will drink to your health and preservation of character while away and your safe return when this gigantic struggle comes to an end. I have faith in my star: I presume everyone has, and I believe that I shall meet you again on the streets of Melbourne and talk to you about the reministnses that cling to us through this period of alternated fear and frolic. Then the Old Civil War Vets will have to sit in the shade and chew their tobacco or smoke their pipes as we relate the horrors of the havoc wrought by the worthy successors of their old squirrel rifles and muzzle-loading cannon. Until then, be worthy of your uniform: this implies all the rest.
H. E. Davis
Co. T. New Barracks, Paris Island S.C.
NOTES:
TRANSCRIBED BY: ISAAC WOLTER