Camp Mills
Camp Mills–As It Were
“California Avenue! BACK way to Camp!” Far away in sometime Sunny France we heard it afterward—the only line to any camp that ever tickled us much. “BACK way to Camp!” some Buddy’d yell as we hit the dugout. “BACK way to Camp!” as we trudged up the hill to Havre, or waded the mud to D’Auvours. It was the line that made Camp Mills stay famous.
“Rockaway Beach!” A joint debate. “Aw, come on! We may never hit this neck of the woods again.”
“Halt! Who’s there?” Pause. “Soldier. And say, Jack, whereinall is the artillery?” Grins from the guard. “Seven rows of tents back and three over.” A compree look with an as-you-were feeling. Then business of navigating the sea of canvas without stumbling over more than thirteen ropes and getting more than a battery of cusses.
“No drill here, boys. No place for it.” This from plenty of the countless buddies who gave us the double O as we marched in. But we policed up a place, hugging the fringe of the aviation field.
Sharp staccato explosions overhead. “Gosh, they’re noisy!” Business of sunburning the roofs of our mouths until our necks hurt. The idea being that if we atmosphered enough we wouldn’t break the camouflage book regulations Over There and turn photographable countenances to enemy airmen.
“Overseas caps, men. We’ll knock ‘em dead now!” Grins from Old Sol and Jupiter Pluvius. Then business of learning to squint agreeably.
“Keep wrappin’, Jack, you’ll reach your neck, all right. Gad! Your legs look like O. D. stick candy!”
“B-r-r-r-! Hold ‘er, Luke! Wow, but that’s frigid! Who ever heard of piping water from Iceland for shower baths. Hawr! Hawr! He fell in the sink hole. Here, Jack, I’ll throw you my Lifebuoy!”
Mornings. “Say, you! You don’t need to swallow that faucet. There’s others to wash, y’know.”
Day-times. “Damn these drills in the heat! Damn this tent furling business! Damn these inspections! Damn the dust! Damn this double shuffle clothing issue! Damn—! Oh, sure, I’ll take a pass! Delighted!” Aside to Bunkie, “Got five simoleons, Bill?”
Li’l Ole N’Yawk! Rubberneck busses! Broadway—lit up, be it dry or wet! Follies! Coney—and more follies! “Mills ain’t so bad as it might be.”
“Wonder if I can get all that junk in one roll.” And, “Let’s get one more striped ice cream cake, eh? Darn near forgot those sandwiches, too.” The last hurried postcards out the car window via the Kid and Nickel Route. The ferry again. The hot wait in the dock shed. The printed postals with “Arrived safely overseas” on them. One more good word for the Red Cross. The gang plank. “Goodbye Broadway! Hello, France!”
“California Avenue! BACK way to Camp!” Far away in sometime Sunny France we heard it afterward—the only line to any camp that ever tickled us much. “BACK way to Camp!” some Buddy’d yell as we hit the dugout. “BACK way to Camp!” as we trudged up the hill to Havre, or waded the mud to D’Auvours. It was the line that made Camp Mills stay famous.
“Rockaway Beach!” A joint debate. “Aw, come on! We may never hit this neck of the woods again.”
“Halt! Who’s there?” Pause. “Soldier. And say, Jack, whereinall is the artillery?” Grins from the guard. “Seven rows of tents back and three over.” A compree look with an as-you-were feeling. Then business of navigating the sea of canvas without stumbling over more than thirteen ropes and getting more than a battery of cusses.
“No drill here, boys. No place for it.” This from plenty of the countless buddies who gave us the double O as we marched in. But we policed up a place, hugging the fringe of the aviation field.
Sharp staccato explosions overhead. “Gosh, they’re noisy!” Business of sunburning the roofs of our mouths until our necks hurt. The idea being that if we atmosphered enough we wouldn’t break the camouflage book regulations Over There and turn photographable countenances to enemy airmen.
“Overseas caps, men. We’ll knock ‘em dead now!” Grins from Old Sol and Jupiter Pluvius. Then business of learning to squint agreeably.
“Keep wrappin’, Jack, you’ll reach your neck, all right. Gad! Your legs look like O. D. stick candy!”
“B-r-r-r-! Hold ‘er, Luke! Wow, but that’s frigid! Who ever heard of piping water from Iceland for shower baths. Hawr! Hawr! He fell in the sink hole. Here, Jack, I’ll throw you my Lifebuoy!”
Mornings. “Say, you! You don’t need to swallow that faucet. There’s others to wash, y’know.”
Day-times. “Damn these drills in the heat! Damn this tent furling business! Damn these inspections! Damn the dust! Damn this double shuffle clothing issue! Damn—! Oh, sure, I’ll take a pass! Delighted!” Aside to Bunkie, “Got five simoleons, Bill?”
Li’l Ole N’Yawk! Rubberneck busses! Broadway—lit up, be it dry or wet! Follies! Coney—and more follies! “Mills ain’t so bad as it might be.”
“Wonder if I can get all that junk in one roll.” And, “Let’s get one more striped ice cream cake, eh? Darn near forgot those sandwiches, too.” The last hurried postcards out the car window via the Kid and Nickel Route. The ferry again. The hot wait in the dock shed. The printed postals with “Arrived safely overseas” on them. One more good word for the Red Cross. The gang plank. “Goodbye Broadway! Hello, France!”
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