Chapter XXVI: Marines

This paper does not deal with the marines fighting in France, but with the marines such as one finds them on the greater ships. The gallant "devil dogs" now adding fresh laurels to the corps have army correspondents to tell of them, for though they are trained by the Navy and are the Navy's men, the Army has them now under its command. It is rather of the genuine marine, the true "soldier of the sea" that I would speak. Having been myself something of a soldier and a sailor, the marines were good enough to receive me in a friendly fashion when I was a guest on one of the battleships now on foreign service.

Even as the traditional nickname for the sailor is "gob," so is "leatherneck" the seaman's traditional word for the marine. I am guileless enough not to know just how marines take this term, but if there is any doubt, I advise readers to be easy with it, for marines will fight at the drop of a hat. All those aboard declared, by the way, that the antipathy between the sailor and the marine in which the public believes, does not exist, nor do the marines according to the popular notion "police the ship." The marine has his place; the sailor has his, and they do not mix, not because they dislike each other, but simply because the marine and the sailor are the products of two widely different systems of training. Moreover, the marine is bound to his own people by an _esprit de corps_ without equal in the world. It was very fine to see each man's anxiety that the corps should not merely have a good name, but the best of names.

We swopped yarns. In return for my gory tales of shelled cities, gas attacks, and air raids, they gave me gorgeous ... gorgeous tales of the little wars they have fought in the Caribbean. I realized for the first time just what it meant to Uncle Sam to be Central America's policeman. Now, as they spun their yarns, I could see the low, white buildings of a Consulate against the luminous West Indian sky, the boats on the beach, the marines on patrol; now the sugar plantation menaced by some political robber-rebel, the little tents under the trees, the business-like machine gun. A harassed American planter is often the _deux ex machina_ of these tales.

We used to talk in a little office aboard the battleships down by the marines' quarters, which lie aft. I believe it was the sergeant's sanctum sanctorum. There were marine posters on the wall, a neat little stack of the marines' magazines handy by, a few books, and some filing cabinets. Just outside were the marine lockers, each one in the most perfect order, and a gun breech used for loading drills. The sergeant, himself, was a fine, keen fellow who had been in the corps for some time. His men declared themselves, for the most part, city born and bred.

"What happened then?"

"Just as soon as they got the message, a detail was sent into the hills for the defence of the plantation. It was a big sugar plantation. The American manager was seeing red he was so peeved, the harvesting season had come and the help, scared by the insurgents, were beating it off into the hills. What's more, the insurgents had told the manager that if he didn't pony up with five thousand dollars by a certain date, they'd burn the place. Actually had the nerve..."

"In fiction," said I, "a lean, dark, villainous fellow mounted on a magnificent horse which he has looted from some fine stable dashes up to the plantation door, delivers his threat in an icy tone and gallops back into the bush. Or else a message wrapped round a stone crashes through the window onto the family breakfast table. Which was it?"

I think the marine telling the story wanted very much to utter: "How do you get that way?" however, he merely grinned and answered:

"Neither. A big, fat greaser in a dirty, Palm Beach suit came ambling up one morning as if somebody had asked him to chow. This was his game. A holdup? Oh, no! Only his men were getting a bit restless under the neck, about five thousand dollars restless, and if they didn't get it, there's no telling what they wouldn't do. He thought he could restrain them till Tuesday night, of course it would be a pretty stiff job to hold them in, but if something crisp and green hadn't shown up by Tuesday P.M., those devils might actually burn the plantation. Did you ever hear such a line of bull? And that's the honest truth of it, too; none of this stone in the mashed potatoes guff."

"And then," I broke in, "the faithful servant gallops through the valley to the shore; a stray bullet knocks off his hat, but he gets there, and delivers his message to the warship in the bay. A bugle blows, the marines rally, launches take them to the beach; they rush over the hills, and get to the plantation just as Devil's-hoof Gomez or Pink-eyed Pedro has set fire to a corner of the bungalow. Rifles crack, bugles sound a charge, the marines rush the Gomez gang who take to their heels. Brave hearts put out the fire. Isn't there always an exquisitely beautiful señorita to be rescued? There always is in the movies. Now, please don't destroy any more of my illusions."

"The message comes all right, all right, but I doubt very much if that faithful servant comes in a hurry. Down there, if a man goes by in a hurry, everybody in the village will be out to look at him.... The major gets the message, works out his plan of campaign, and away we go. Arrived at the plantation, we pitch camp, establish pickets, and generally get things ready to give the restless greasers a hot time. Sometimes the greasers try their luck at sniping; other times, they go away quietly and don't give you a bit of trouble. There aren't any beautiful señoritas, ... no broken hearts. Yes, it's tough luck."

Thus were my illusions dispelled by a group of Uncle Sam's marines. They forgot to tell me that many members of their little company had been wounded, and seriously wounded in these West Indian shindies. The list of wounds and honours in the records was an impressive roll.

The visitor aboard a warship will see marines acting as orderlies and corporals of the guard and manning the secondary batteries. I attended many of their drills, and never shall forget the snap and "pep," of the evolutions. Nor shall I forget the courtesies and friendly help of the gallant officer under whose command these soldiers of the sea have the good luck to be stationed.

N.B. (Very secret), to Huns only. The marines man the gun in the "Exec's" office and the corresponding one in the line officers' reading room. If you want to get home to the old home canal, ... keep away from their range.