When America entered the war in 1917, the thirty-two-year-old Lardner—his three young sons providing him with a draft deferment—had Keefe sign up in his place, and he features in two books: Treat ’em Rough, recounting his comic misadventures in stateside training camps, and The Real Dope, where Keefe sails to France and serves in the trenches, ducking—despite his braggadocio—every dangerous situation he can.
Lardner wrote a third book on the war, the non-fiction My Four Weeks in France, about his comic attempts to get to the front line to actually report on something without being continuously hassled by officialdom.
“Take me somewhere west of Ireland where they know I’m not a spy.
Where nobody gazes at me with a cold, suspicious eye.
To the good old U.S.A. where a gent can go his way
With no fear of being picked on forty thousand times a day.”
Lardner’s fans included Virginia Woolf.
“Mr. Lardner has talents of a remarkable order. With extraordinary ease and aptitude, with the quickest strokes, the surest touch, the sharpest insight, he lets Jack Keefe the baseball player cut out his own outline, fill in his own depths, until the figure of the foolish, boastful innocent lives before us.”
Lips Under Sod
—Florence L. Barclay
My dear Wife—wrote Jim—
Now don’t you be startled, my girl, to find that I am on the same side of the English Channel as yourself and Tiny, and Home. It’s the right side of it, I can tell you!
I’m in a Red Cross hospital in London. I’m wounded—but nothing to matter; so don’t you worry. A German ran his bayonet into my shoulder, and a bullet found a billet in the muscle of my leg. But the steel made a good clean wound, which is healing quickly, and they moved on the bullet, before they brought me over.
My dear, this is no end of a grand place, and I feel like the King, in fine pyjamas, full of pockets, and lots of ladies—tip-top ladies, mind you, for all they wear caps and aprons—to wait on me.
They do make a lot of me. And yet I know quite well it is not because it’s me and my wounds; it’s because I stand to them for what they feel for the whole great glorious British Army. While they’re doing me, they’re thinking of all the other chaps, still fighting in the trenches, or lying helpless and wounded on the battlefields. Ay, and some of them are thinking of quiet graves, left behind, lying silent and alone, where the thunder of battle has passed on; of lips under the sod, they’ll never kiss again; or tumbled hair they would like just to have smoothed at the last.
It gives me a lonely kind of feeling, and makes me downright hungry to get to the one woman who’ll nurse me for myself, and want me to get well, because I’m her man and she can’t do without me. Well, please God, it won’t be many days before I walk up the little path; and we’ll get best part of a month together—you, and I, and Tiny.
I can’t close without telling you the best thing of all; a sort of crowning thing—not that they had ’em on. Oh, no!
Well, the very day I was brought here, the King and Queen came to see the hospital, walked through all the wards, and spoke to the men.
I heard afterwards that as soon as they knew the visit was going to be, everybody was getting out their Ps and Qs, and brushing themselves up. But I was too dead beat by the journey, to know much about it. Oh, nothing to matter; don’t you worry; just, so to say, sleepy.
But, by and by, something sort o’ made me open my eyes, and there, by my bed, stood the King and Queen, looking down at me. I knew them at once, by their pictures—as I naturally would, seeing we have them framed in the parlour. It made it seem very homelike to see them standing there; which was perhaps why, when the King asked me what I wanted most, I up and said to see my little village home again, and my wife. Polly—I thought you’d like to be named to the King—and my baby girl we call Tiny, though her name is Mary, after her mother. At that, the King smiled, and looked at the Queen. And I knew I hadn’t been quite honest, because it was in Coronation Year we named her. So I up and said: “And after the Queen, Sir, if I may make so bold as to say so.”
Then the sweetest kindest voice I ever heard, said: “I am glad your little Tiny is called after me, as well as after her mother.” And I looked up; and the Queen was smiling down at me with a kind of glisten in her eyes, like very gentle tears.
I lay there, calm and proud; answered all questions about my wounds and how I got ’em; and about our little home. You might have thought there was nobody else in the hospital—nobody else in the whole army—wounded but me, for just those few minutes while They stood beside my bed. And the King told me to make haste and get well, because I was the sort of chap he wanted.
Polly—it’s one thing to read in print on a placard, YOUR KING AND COUNTRY WANT YOU; and quite another thing to hear it from himself, as man to man, so to speak—straight from him to you.
After They had gone, though I hadn’t been able before to do much more than whisper, I felt as if I must lie and shout “God save the King” right through, from beginning to end. And I wanted to be up and out at the Front again, to start “scattering his enemies,” right away. Then, all of a sudden, I found myself up on my elbow, laughing and cheering and singing, in a shaky kind of voice, “See how they run! See how they run!”
And the next thing that happened, was that I felt tears running down my cheeks. I couldn’t think where they came from. Sister wiped them away with a very soft handkerchief.
This war, Polly, is more than a fight for earthly crowns and kingdoms; ay, more even than a struggle to keep our homes safe, and our wives and little children free from perils worse than shot and shell. We’re fighting for right and justice, against treachery and wrong.
It’s a righteous war, my girl; and every man who fears God and honours the King should be up, and out, and ready to do his share; and every woman who loves her home must be willing bravely to do her part, by letting her man go. And if she has to hear that he has given his life, she must stand up, brave and true—as a soldier’s wife or a soldier’s mother—and say: “God save the King!”
From My Heart’s Right There, by Florence L. Barclay; G.P. Putnam’s Sons; New York, 1915.
Thoughts Rode Him like a Nightmare
—John Buchan
The door opened and Stumm entered. There was a proud light in his eye.
“Brandt,” he said, “you are about to receive the greatest privilege that ever fell to one of your race. His Imperial Majesty is passing through here, and has halted for a few minutes. He has done me the honour to receive me, and when he heard my story he expressed a wish to see you. You will follow me to his presence. Do not be afraid. The All-Highest is all merciful and gracious. Answer his questions like a man.”
I followed him with a quickened pulse. Here was a bit of luck I had never dreamed of. At the far side of the station a train had drawn up, a train consisting of three big coaches, chocolate-coloured and picked out with gold. On the platform beside it stood a small group of officers, tall men in long grey-blue cloaks. They seemed to be mostly elderly, and one or two of the faces I thought I remembered from photographs in the picture papers.
As we approached they drew apart, and left me face to face with one man. He was a little below middle height, and all muffled in a thick coat with a fur collar. He wore a silver helmet with an eagle atop it, and kept his left hand resting on his sword. Below the helmet was a face the colour of grey paper, from which shone curious sombre restless eyes with dark pouches beneath them. There was no fear of my mistaking him. These were the features which, since Napoleon, have been best known to the world.
I stood as stiff as a ramrod and saluted. I was perfectly cool and most desperately interested. For such a moment I would have gone through fire and water.
“Majesty, this is the Dutchman I spoke of,” I heard Stumm say.
“What language does he speak?” the Emperor asked.
“Dutch,” was the reply, “but being a South African he also talks Eng
lish.”
A spasm of pain seemed to flit over the face before me. Then he addressed me in English.
“You have come from a land which will yet be our ally to offer your sword to our service? I accept the gift and hail it as a good omen. I would have given your race its freedom, but there were fools and trailers among you who misjudged me. But that freedom I shall yet give you in spite of yourselves. Are there many like you in your country?”
“There are thousands, sir,” I said, lying cheerfully. “I am one of many who think that my race’s life lies in your victory. And I think that the victory must be won not in Europe alone. In South Africa for the moment there is no chance, so we look to other parts of the continent. You will win in Europe. You have won in the East, and it now remains to strike the English where they cannot fend the blow. If we take Uganda, Egypt will fall. By your permission I go there to make trouble for your enemies.”
A flicker of a smile passed over the worn face. It was the face of one who slept little and whose thoughts rode him like a nightmare.
“That is well,” he said. “Some Englishman once said that he would call in the New World to redress the balance of the Old. We Germans will summon the whole earth to suppress the infamies of England. Serve us well and you will not be forgotten.”
Then he broke out fiercely.
“I did not seek the war … It was forced on me … I laboured for peace … The blood of millions is on the heads of England and Russia, but England most of all. God will yet avenge it. He that takes the sword will perish by the sword. Mine was forced from the scabbard in self-defence, and I am guiltless. Do they know that among your people?”
“All the world knows it, sire,” I said.
He gave his hand to Stumm and turned away. The last I saw of him was a figure moving like a sleep-walker, with no spring in his step, amid his tall suite. I felt that I was looking on at a far bigger tragedy than any I had seen in action. Here was one that had loosed Hell, and the furies of Hell had got hold of him. He was no common man, but in his presence I felt an attraction which was not merely the mastery of one used to command. That would not have impressed me, for I had never owned a master. But here was a human being who, unlike Stumm and his kind, had the power of laying himself alongside other men. This was the irony of it. Stumm would not have cared a tinker’s curse for all the massacres in history. But this man, the chief of a nation of Stumms, paid the price in war for the gifts that had made him successful in peace. He had imagination and nerves, and the one was white hot and the others were quivering. I would not have been in his shoes for the throne of the Universe.
From Greenmantle, by John Buchan; Thomas Nelson and Sons; London, 1916.
I Brag of Bear and Beaver
—Robert W. Service
The Man from Athabaska
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that ’twas nothing but the thrumming
Of a woodpecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
Of the mustering of legions, and ’twas calling unto me;
’Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.
And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder
For I heard a savage roaring and ’twas coming from afar;
Oh the wife she tried to tell me ’twas only summer thunder,
And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War;
’Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.
Then down the lake came Half-Breed Tom with russet sail a-flying,
And the word he said was “War” again, so what was I to do?
Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying,
As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe;
Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbering till an island hid the view.
Says the factor: “Mike, you’re crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.
You’re as grizzled as a badger, and you’re sixty year or so.”
“But I haven’t missed a scrap,” says I, “since I was one and twenty.
And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers—no!”
So I sold my furs and started … and that’s eighteen months ago.
For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter
In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away;
And the partner on my right hand was an apache from Montmartre;
On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburgh, U.S.A.
(Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)
But I’m sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago,
And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and blagues me all the day.
I’m their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago,
And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away.
Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.
And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming
In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea;
Where the musk ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing,
And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be:
Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me!
And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle,
Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore;
And I tell them of the ranges of the pack-strap and the saddle,
And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more;
While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.
And I tell them of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling,
And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track;
And valleys packed with purple gloom and mountain peaks appalling,
And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac;
And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.
So I brag of bear and beaver, while the batteries are roaring,
And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe;
And I yarn of fur and feather when the marmites are a-soaring,
And they listen to my stories, seven poilus in a row,
Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cigarettes aglow.
And I tell them when it’s over how I’ll hike for Athabaska;
And those seven greasy poilus they are crazy to go, too.
And I’ll give the wife the “pickle-tub” I promised and I’ll ask her
The price of mink and marten, and the run of the cariboo,
And I’ll get my traps in order, and I’ll start to work anew.
For I’ve had my fill of fighting, and I’ve seen a nation scattered,
And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore,
And a city all a-smoulder, and … as if it really mattered,
For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin’s on the shore;
And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly,
And I’ll rest in Athabaska, and I’ll leave it nevermore.
From Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, by Robert W. Service; Barse & Hopkins; New York, 1916.
Settling Down to His Dastardly Work
—William Le Queux
True, the British public will never be able to realise one hundredth part of what Germany has done by her spy-system, or of the great diplomatic and military successes which she has achieved by it. Yet we know enough to realise that for years no country and no walk of life—from the highest to the lowest—has been free from the ubiquitous, unscrupulous and unsuspected secret agents of whom Lewin Rodwell was a type.
In Germany’s long and patient preparation for the world-war, nothing in the way of espionage was too large, or too small for attention. The activity of her secret agents in Berlin had surely been an object-less
on to the world. Her spies swarmed in all cities, and in every village; her agents ranked among the leaders of social and commercial life, and among the sweepings and outcasts of great communities. The wealthiest of commercial men did not shrink from acting as her secret agents. She was not above employing beside them the very dregs of the community. No such system has ever been seen in the world. Yet the benefits which our enemies were deriving from it, now that we were at war, were incalculable.
By every subtle and underhand means in her power, Germany had prepared her supreme effort to conquer us, and, as a result of this it was that Lewin Rodwell that night sat at the telegraph-key of the Berlin spy-bureau actually established on British soil.
He waited until the call had been repeated three times with the secret code number of the Koeniger-gratzerstrasse, namely: “Number 70 Berlin.”
Then, putting out his cigarette, he drew his chair forward until his elbows rested upon the table, and spreading out the closely-written document before him, tapped out a signal in code.
The letters were “F.B.S.M.”
To this kind of pass-word, which was frequently altered from time to time, he received a reply: “G.L.G.S.” and then he added his own number, “0740.”
The signals were quite strong, and he drew a long breath of relief and satisfaction.
Then, settling down to his dastardly work, he began to tap out rapidly the following in German:
“British Naval Dispositions: Urgent to Q.S.R.
“Sources of information H.238. To-night, off the Outer Skerries, Shetlands, are battleships King Charles, Mole, Wey, Welland, Teign, Yare, Queen Boadicea, Emperor of India, King Henry VIII; with first-class cruisers Hogue, Stamford, Petworth, Lichfield, Dorchester; second-class cruisers Rockingham, Guildford, Driffield, Verlam, Donnington, Pirbright, Tremayne and Blackpool; destroyers Viking, Serpent, Chameleon, Adder, Batswing, Study and Havoc, with eight submarines, the aircraft-ship Flyer, and repair-ship Vulcan. Another strong division left Girdle Ness at 4 p.m. coming south. The division in Moray Firth remains the same. Trusty, Dragon, Norfolk and Shadower left Portsmouth this evening going east. British Naval war-code to be altered at midnight to 106-13.”
Where Wars Go to Die Page 27