June 18, 1918

Tuesday

I spent most of Sunday and all of yesterday reading. Woe is me! The apple of my eye had a bad spot! For the bookbinder slipped up, and left out 17 pages leading up to the climax of the “Way of All Flesh”. It is the part leading up to Ernest’s arrest. But I guessed at it and came through all right. It’s a great book.

In the past two days the water has been absolutely blue. We are really on the ocean. The ship has rolled just a bit more, and several fellows have been sick. So far I have not, but cheer up – we haven’t met any real weather yet. I’ve been trying to keep to myself which of course is not to be done. Tempers get short when quarters are close. The deck is much pleasanter anyhow than downstairs.

Some of the soldiers are a strange lot. The other day I was talking to one who has crossed 13 times. He has lived 4 years in Germany, 1 in France and spent some time traveling all over Europe. He is a college man, speaks several languages and is highly cultured. He is sitting not far from me now. Next to me, on the other hand, is a chap who has never heard of golf and one of his friends is explaining it to him. Verily the army is a leveler. I dare say he who doesn’t know golf will make a better fighter, and so, in these times, must be rated the better man.

Do you remember, not so long ago, when I said I had read of shadows being purple, in book after book, but had never until then been able to see them so? It is much the same with this water. “The Ocean Blue” is old to me in story but eternally new in reality. I cannot stop wondering at it. You know it doesn’t change from the green until you are some distance out, and in deep water. Also I have seen some flying fish, which I had always through were somewhat like haddock, but which in reality are very small – like flounders, I should say, and almost white. They fly only a foot or so above water for a distance of about 100 feet, then dive into a wave.

There is a French class aboard, conducted under the auspices of the omnipresent Y.M.C.A. The boys go round the deck with vocabulary sheets in hand, saying aloud; “untsigoreeta” and “oon feem” and laughing at what a “damfool language French is”.

Ship’s time you know, changes, but I have not made the correction on my reliable Ingersoll. It says 4:15 P.M. In reality it must be about 4:50.

The point, however, is that we have fine long evenings. Our last meal is about 4 o’clock, and then there is nothing in the way of duty until morning. It is light enough to read until about 8, and from then till 10, one may stay on deck and get the air, as indeed everyone seems to do.

Today there were movies in the mess hall. There is a portable m.p. machine, and several reels of slapstick comedy, vintage of 1909, were shown. And our old friend Dizzy was the officious if not efficient operator.

Ivan Watson goes around with an “I mourn my loss” expression. The reason is that whenever he thinks of the ship it is a case of “I knew her when”. It seems he made a round the world cruise in her in 1911.

Frank Philips and Jean Crunelle are about the only sun-dodgers I see much of; Frank because he sleeps next to me, and Jean because he needs help in his French. Otherwise the crowd is not so cliquey as customary, which, as I said before, is not a misfortune in these close quarters. It is agreeable to get acquainted with the Metees anyhow. Jones is really nice chap, interesting and educated above little Rose’s fool head. How he ever managed to like her I don’t know.

Next post June 19.