Adventure Magazine Cover, April 1916 — page 140: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

138 and fall heavily upon that snoring person- age’s prostrate anatomy. This episode dignified poor Fullick with all the pomp and _ opprivilege of a general court martial, which tribunal coldly dealt him ‘Twenty-eight days First Field Pun- ishment.”’ in that. First Field Punishment in the British Army is as unfunny as most things British. It imposes a ten-hour working day unload- ing supply ships at the docks. The day is punctuated with two two-hour rest periods. It is these rest periods that hurt. During these four hours the culprit stands on tip- toe, lashed to a post, his arms pulled high above his head and tied there by the wrists. It isn’t pretty nor does it seem civilized. But the British army has been doing it since the Middle Ages, and apparently intends to keep on doing it. How Fullick’s rum-soaked old carcass stood the gaff of four weeks “F. F. P.”’ is just one of those physiological mysteries. We thought it would kill him, but it didn’t quite. He came back thinner, dirtier, more ragged than ever, with a deeper droop to his narrow shoulders and a hungrier look in his bleary eyes. They stopped his pay en- tirely. Only when some other Ally Sloper took pity on him could that emaciated body know the tang of the drug it craved. I was thinking of old Fullick and his ways as I pulled my water-logged boots over those nice dry socks. ‘“Wot’s up,’ asked the corporal, snug- gling down in his damp blankets. “Night guard,” I grunted, getting into my clammy, dripping overcoat. “? Ard luck, matey,’ condoled the corporal blowing out his candle as I splashed out in- to the darkness to respond to the sergearft* major’s mighty bellow— “Fall in—the guard!” Up and down between two long lines of picketed horses I tramped my four hours guard. It rained steadily, mercilessly. It was always raining. Since October we had known no day without rain—the cold, biting rain of those northern latitudes. The horses stood quietly in their dejection and physical misery. Now and then it was necessary to step into the lines and straight- en a muddy horse-rug that had slipped from some beast’s back. Here and there along the line a sick horse coughed, wheezingly. There was nothing humorous Adventure ‘““*Lo, matey!” The low hail came from a lank, drooping figure edging toward me through the murk. It was Fullick, ostensibly guarding the lines next tomine. He had come for a pipeful of tobacco. His bare, swollen hands trem- bled as he stuffed the bowl. In the glow of the match his thin face looked painfully old and haggard. A raw gust swept across the plateau out of the blackness and drove the rain through our shoddy uniforms as through tea-strain- ers. We pushed in between two great Yorkshire heavy-draft horses for shelter. One of the big beasts turned his head and coughed abysmally in our faces. “Poor ole bloke,” said Fullick, slapping the sick animal’s dripping neck. “Wot a game this be—for man an’ beast.” From the dimly lighted tents below the paddock came a rough voice lifted in song. The words were familiar to us all, a sort of camp joke: W’y did I leave me ’appy ’ome? W’y did I join the arm—y? W’y did I come to sunny France? I must a’ been bloomin’ well balm—y. “Were you?” I asked Fullick. “Not balmy—bloody drunk, I was.” I offered a few platitudinous suggestions as to swearing off, pulling himself together and the like. “Lor’ love yer, matey,” whined Fullick. ‘“Wot’s the bleedin’ good. I’m an ole, wore- out bloke. The drink’s all there be for the likes 0? me. ’Oo cares wot ’appens to me? Nobody. They ain’t a soul in the world ’00’d give a tinker’s ——’”’ ‘But there must be some one, some- where,” I urged. ‘‘Who is it you’re ex- pecting a letter from? It must be some- thing special, you seem so anxious about it every evening.” Fullick pulled at his pipe for a moment before replying. “Well, y’see, its like this ’ere, matey: I ’ad a wife once, before—well before I was like as you know me, quite. She got a deevorce, nine years ago. I ain’t seen nor ’eard nothin’ of ’er since. But w’en I ’listed I write a letter to ’er brother an’ asked ’im to send it on t’er. I thought as ’ow if she needed it I might be able t’get ’er some 0’ this ere “lot ment money. “But she ain’t writ, so I s’pose as ’ow she didn’t get my letter—or leastways don’t need the money. I ain’t been expectin’ COMmMichoooks (©