TRANSCRIBED FROM THE ARKANSAS DEMOCRAT March 17, 1919 P. 2
Speaking of mud, if you ever saw this camp you would grow web feet and most likely squawk like a mudhen and try to dive through the floor when you speak. Mud! You don’t know what mud is.
There is real mud here. There is so much that the buildings float around from one place to another. Last night, the colonel’s headquarters floated around so much it changed placed with the quartermaster supply house and this morning the Q.M. issued out all the colonel’s clothes before he finally made the discovery. The colonel came down to his office about 9 o’clock in his rowboat and ate a lot of moth balls that were in the Q.M.’s desk, mistaking them for candy he had placed on his own desk the night before. A hurry-up call was sent to the doctor, and the orderly rowed to 22 different buildings before he finally found the infirmary, which had floated around back of the camp.
The doctor had a terrible time finding the infirmary, and when he treated the colonel with what he thought with “C.C.” pills, he discovered that it was horse medicine.
There is so much mud here our top sergeant rows out to a telephone pole in front of our barracks and stands on top the pole while he calls the roll. As fast as he calls off the names, we go to the door and answer present. When this formation is concluded the “top” turns round and salutes the captain, who sits on a raft 30 yards away, and reports all present or accounted for. The captain returns the salute and goes paddling off, hunting for his billet, that changes every time he leaves it.
As to drill, we do that too, only in boats. We were having a squad drill yesterday with two rows of four boats each, when the major dropped his paddle and ran into the “top’s” boat. The major surely did bawl the “top” out. Last night our mess sergeant rowed out to the gate so he could go to town after some eggs. When he came back his boat was gone. He shouted to us, but we didn’t hear him, so he ate the eggs and swam back to the mess shack.
If you care to send a reporter out here, wire ahead and we will arrange to meet him with a launch at the main gate.
Wagoner H. F. Neighbors.
Co. F. 3 d Corps, Art. Park.
NOTES: Homer Franklin Neighbors was writing from a camp in France. He was born on December 29, 1895/6 in Mt. Vernon, Arkansas, and died on July 24, 1960, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He is buried in the Santa Fe National Cemetery. His military headstone identifies him as a New Mexico, Wagoner Co. F, Corps Arty Park serving in World War I. He was described as being of medium height and build with brown eyes and hair.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT
Speaking of mud, if you ever saw this camp you would grow web feet and most likely squawk like a mudhen and try to dive through the floor when you speak. Mud! You don’t know what mud is.
There is real mud here. There is so much that the buildings float around from one place to another. Last night, the colonel’s headquarters floated around so much it changed placed with the quartermaster supply house and this morning the Q.M. issued out all the colonel’s clothes before he finally made the discovery. The colonel came down to his office about 9 o’clock in his rowboat and ate a lot of moth balls that were in the Q.M.’s desk, mistaking them for candy he had placed on his own desk the night before. A hurry-up call was sent to the doctor, and the orderly rowed to 22 different buildings before he finally found the infirmary, which had floated around back of the camp.
The doctor had a terrible time finding the infirmary, and when he treated the colonel with what he thought with “C.C.” pills, he discovered that it was horse medicine.
There is so much mud here our top sergeant rows out to a telephone pole in front of our barracks and stands on top the pole while he calls the roll. As fast as he calls off the names, we go to the door and answer present. When this formation is concluded the “top” turns round and salutes the captain, who sits on a raft 30 yards away, and reports all present or accounted for. The captain returns the salute and goes paddling off, hunting for his billet, that changes every time he leaves it.
As to drill, we do that too, only in boats. We were having a squad drill yesterday with two rows of four boats each, when the major dropped his paddle and ran into the “top’s” boat. The major surely did bawl the “top” out. Last night our mess sergeant rowed out to the gate so he could go to town after some eggs. When he came back his boat was gone. He shouted to us, but we didn’t hear him, so he ate the eggs and swam back to the mess shack.
If you care to send a reporter out here, wire ahead and we will arrange to meet him with a launch at the main gate.
Wagoner H. F. Neighbors.
Co. F. 3 d Corps, Art. Park.
NOTES: Homer Franklin Neighbors was writing from a camp in France. He was born on December 29, 1895/6 in Mt. Vernon, Arkansas, and died on July 24, 1960, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He is buried in the Santa Fe National Cemetery. His military headstone identifies him as a New Mexico, Wagoner Co. F, Corps Arty Park serving in World War I. He was described as being of medium height and build with brown eyes and hair.
TRANSCRIBED BY CAROLYN YANCEY KENT