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Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Camion
cartoons
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Camion cartoons

Author: Kirkland Hart Day

Release date: April 16, 2024 [eBook #73407]

Language: English

Original publication: Norwood: The Plimpton Press, 1919

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Nahum Maso i Carcases, and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMION

CARTOONS ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.
CAMION CARTOONS

BY

KIRKLAND H. DAY

BOSTON
MARSHALL JONES COMPANY
MDCCCCXIX
 COPYRIGHT, 1919
BY MARSHALL JONES COMPANY

All rights reserved

THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE

The writer of these letters and maker of these drawings went

overseas with the first Technology unit; landed in France on the
Fourth of July, 1917; began his service as a member of the Reserve
Mallet, and was mustered into the American Army on October 1,
1917. In preparing the letters and cartoons for the press, it was
thought best to begin where rumors of impending German surrender
first appear in the correspondence, thus confining the humorously
illustrated story to the last weeks of the war. Mr. Day wrote his
letters with no intention or expectation of having them published;
that is entirely the work of his friends, who believe that his
impromptu sketches will be found to furnish ample justification for
the existence of this book.
Mr. Day served in the Reserve Mallet, a camion unit to whose
spirit and efficiency Stars and Stripes has paid the following
unaffected and authentic tribute:

“In a summer when again and again the historic phrase ‘Franco-American
troops’ makes its appearance in the communiqués, the distinction of being the
complete amalgam of the two armies belongs to the flying squadron of emergency
transportation, that trundling troop of trucks, that charging company of camions,
the Mallet Reserve.
“This organization consists of 700 five-ton trucks—American trucks driven over
French roads, driven now by French now by American drivers, officered by French
and American officers, carrying French and American troops, French and
American ammunition.
“The Mallet Reserve is so named because its commanding officer is Major Mallet
of the French Cavalry, and is called a Reserve because it is attached to no Army
Corps, but rather is held in reserve for emergency duty whenever a crisis in the war
brings a crisis in transportation.
 “This means that the interminable line of camions bearing the Mallet mark will
invariably appear wherever things are hottest, that the trucks and their drivers
know no rest from one year’s end to the other.
“Thus you saw them along the roads up Cambrai way last fall. When French
troops were rushed into the gap that opened during the German drive of March,
Mallet trucks carried them, and they were Mallet trucks which bore northward the
French soldiers who made their sudden and startling appearance among the
British in Flanders during the April fighting. The American troops and
ammunition that were moved with a rush to the lines of the Chateau-Thierry front
were transported, many of them, in the home grown camions of the Mallet
Reserve.
“The trucks themselves, if you examine them, tell many a story of transport
under shell-fire, tell of machine gunners borne to the very rim of the battle so that
gunners need only drop from the camion, run down a field and start firing.”

When this book went to press, Mr. Day was still in service, with the
American Army of Occupation.
 CAMION CARTOONS

October 6, 1918

Dear Mother—

Today the war ended!—at least, one of the buck privates read it so.
He got hold of a French newspaper, and caused some excitement
until one of the boys, who could read the Lingo, commandeered the
sheet. At any rate, the Huns are beginning to squeal. Just wait until a
few Boche villages begin to get theirs, and peace notes will begin to
come over....
Well! I arrived back in camp again after some jumping about
France. We got away from Aix without any trouble, but from then on
we began to wonder if we would get back into camp for Christmas.
The trains over here hate to get anywhere.
It was night when we arrived in Paris, late as usual, and so dark we
had to hang on to each other to keep from getting lost. Having been
there before, I was elected guide, and I got the gang to the Provost
Marshal O. K., where we got our passes stamped, and then I left
them for the University Union. Coming back from permission, I was
not loaded down with money, but did have enough to see me through
one night. The Union was crowded, but I found a place at a nearby
hotel—a dandy room on the ground floor, which rather surprised me.
During the bombing season, ground floor rooms are the first to be
taken.
 The next afternoon I went, with a lieutenant I had met at the
Union, to take a look at Napoleon’s tomb. We walked over—the
lieutenant’s pocketbook must have been as flat as mine. I will never
regret going, and I shall never forget the thrill I got when standing in
the doorway of the chapel and seeing that golden light flooding the
cross.
That golden light, that living cross, and the pale blue-gray rays
falling from the side windows, made me feel miles from any one.
The tomb itself was covered with sandbags. I remember going to
the tomb when I was here with you, before the war; but how I could
have forgotten that inspiring sight is beyond me.
 There was no more time for sightseeing, as I could not take a
chance on missing my train.

Since my return I have heard the news that our company clerk is
leaving, and that I am to take on his job as well as have charge of the
mess. It will be pretty nice in the winter, but I hate inside work and
would much rather ride a camion.
 October 12

Dear Mother—

Today has been another rumor day. Those coming back from
convois sure have one hot line from the front. “William the Hun” has
agreed, and the Boche have stacked arms and are doing the goose-
step back to Germany. Would that it were true! Still, the way the
Huns are going now, they haven’t time to goose-step, it’s more of a
fox-trot.
I’m enclosing one ticket good for a visit from Santa Claus. Tell him
to pack the cigarettes and gum with care. Don’t chase around to get
stuff to fill the box—just pack it full of cigarettes and send it along.
Don’t put in a Christmas card, it takes up room.
 October 18

Dear Mother—

Once upon a time I went to church and they sang a song about
“Rest, rest, for the weary.” When I get home, I’m going to climb into
bed and let them sing me to sleep with that song. Weary! Sleep! I
could make a hibernating bear look as though it had insomnia.
 Did I ever write a letter in which I didn’t say “We have moved.” If
so it must have been when little apples were made. We have moved!
The way the Huns are going backwards, my next letter should be
headed “Somewhere in Germany.” This move has been one for the
better in regard to quarters. The Germans didn’t do much hating in
this village. No doubt they didn’t have time. At any rate the houses
are standing on their own feet and the roofs are pretty much all
together.

Germany is down and out. Everywhere you notice and see it. The
French are rubbing the defeat in. Before this wonderful drive you
never saw a light anywhere. Now everywhere you see them. Autos go
by with their head lights thumbing their noses. In the woods, in the
field, in houses, and barracks, there is no attempt to conceal lights.

October 31

Dear Mother—

I have just finished up with the “Flu.” Believe me, eight days with it
is enough for me and I don’t want to see it again. Feel about as useful
as a pair of pajamas in the army. The Flu hit me when I wasn’t
looking and got me down before I knew what struck me. They took
me over to the camp infirmary and put me to bed. When you are
once in bed you have no desire to leave. If you do get up you find that
your legs are no longer mates, and refuse to work together.
 Just now I’m back in my old room wondering what it has all been
about. I slept most of the time at the infirmary and had some fine
dreams. Pushing logs about and driving over cliffs in camions were
my favorites. Once in a while I would dream that I was at home
again, but every time I was to see you they would make me crank up
my camion and go somewhere else. I hope some day I’ll be able to
dream without having a camion enter into it. I still don’t feel much
like sitting down to any kind of a meal. The first shave I had since I
was taken was yesterday. It nearly killed me, and I left my moustache
on until my arm gets a little stronger. The camp is shy a barber or I
would have let someone else do the job. If we don’t get a barber soon
I’m going to start braiding my hair....
 Over here nothing is ever stolen, swiped or pinched. It is always
“Système D.” As I understand it there are three right ways of getting
things in the French army. Either by Système A, B, or C. If you can’t
get what you want through these three channels, you “Système D” it.
All sorts of things from coal to pianos have been obtained through
this “let not your left hand see what your right is doing” method.
Some one said that by the end of the war we would all be first class
crooks. There may be more truth than poetry in that. At any rate it’s
a safe bet that we won’t starve to death while the war is going on. You
would think that “Gott Mit Uns” was made in the United States
instead of Germany, if you were to look at the belts. I thought, until I
went on permission, that only the boys in the Reserve Mallet wore
the Hun belt. As far as I’ve seen practically every “Yank” has and
wears one of these belts. Fully as many pants in the United States
Army in France are held up by “Gott Mit Uns” as are held up by the
regulation belt.
 November 9

Dear Mother—

Isn’t the news wonderful! One of the boys drifted in with a French
newspaper and translated the armistice terms laid down to Austria.
The Allies certainly left out the silver platter when they handed them
over. Wouldn’t I like to be there when the Hun comes running out
with the white flag to call on General Foch. We are all saying, “When
we move let’s take a trip to Austria.” It may be a case like the fellow
who said, “Why learn French when we will be talking German in
Berlin soon.” Only it will be Vienna if we should roll to Austria. Just
think of their being eighty minutes from Berlin by air. Soon the
aviation report will be, “So many tons of bombs dropped on ‘Unter
den Linden.’” Won’t the Huns yell!
 One of the boys that has come in since I started this letter has just
gone out to get a bottle of wine so that we can celebrate the glorious
reports. If we start in celebrating all such news, it will be—“Vin tous
les jours.” Italy showed that she had a punch in each hand. Sad news
from the front—“No wine.” Some one else must have decided to
celebrate....
All the talk these days is, “When I get home.” I’ve heard what every
man is going to eat, wear, and do, when he gets to the other side.
Each one has his own taste in regard to food. In the clothing line,
anything but a uniform is popular. As for doing—I am afraid the
wheels of progress are not going to move very fast. All the boys are
going to just sit or sleep.
 There is now a barber in town—A French one. Although I need a
hair cut pretty badly, I think I’ll stay away. From the work he has
done on a few of the boys, I have come to the conclusion that I can do
as good a job myself. Over here a bald headed man has the
advantage. Nothing doing with the clippers, however, once was
enough for me with a convict head....
The latest in regard to what becomes of us after peace is declared,
is that we will be with the Army of Occupation. That doesn’t sound at
all good. It is a good thing that hearing is not believing in most cases
or I would be on pins and needles all the time.
 November 10

Dear Mother—

The night before last there was wild excitement in camp. All
afternoon we had been hearing the latest news from the front, and
the war was finished at least every five minutes. That night one of the
boys returned from the mission and said that a Lieutenant told him
that there was no doubt about it, Germany had thrown up the
sponge. I wasn’t there, being asleep in bed at the time, but they woke
me up and told me between—hics—that the war was over. The piano
in one company’s house was playing all the war music that was ever
written and the air rang with cheers, popping of corks, songs, and
whatnot. It wasn’t long before our door was banged open. We were
paged and told that the war was fini, and to come out and join the
party. I’m afraid they didn’t get much of a response from us, both of
us being pretty tired. Some day they won’t be crying wolf and we are
going to miss out on the party. The Frenchmen are just about crazy,
and who can blame them? When the end comes, and it’s coming
sooner than any of us realize, you in the States will get the all over
feeling long before we do. Things will go on for us camion drivers just
about as they are going now, and not until both feet are planted on
the other side of the pond will the guerre be really finished for us.
 November 11

Dear Mother—

Am I awake or is it a dream. It doesn’t seem possible that the war

is OVER. When it was brought home to me that the armistice had
been signed, it left me not dancing with joy but numb. It didn’t seem
possible and now, two hours after, I’m just beginning to cheer. Think
of the millions that are made happy these days, and think of those
whose boys will never return. Just about two weeks ago the
lieutenant I had in C Co. was killed. He was a fraternity brother of
mine, and one of the finest fellows I have ever had the pleasure of
knowing. I am glad that I have had the privilege of being one in the
great Army of Right. My only regret is that I could not have come
over about three years sooner.

I remember when I first got here, early in July, 1917, how we

looked forward to the day when America would have its army in the
field. There was no question in our minds about their showing
something. When they did get in they showed something all right,
they showed more than something. It was a case of “The best is none
too good.”
We have moved along twice since I last wrote. To look at the signs
in this place you would think you were in Germany. German names
for streets and German signs everywhere. This isn’t the first of that
kind that we have struck, but it was more so than the others. We are
in a huge farmhouse that used to be for Hun officers only. Its roof
hasn’t a hole and we haven’t a broken pane of glass in our windows.
We have the best room yet, and a fireplace that could take a tree,
roots and all. The Boche turned a nearby farm into a bath house and
it is a wonder. Showers beaucoup and tiled bath rooms with
enameled tubs. They moved so fast that there isn’t much damage
done. They did leave their trade mark though. There is a chateau that
looks perfectly O. K. from the outside, but inside it is a total loss.
They planted a mine and wrecked it. Mines are planted all over the
road. Yesterday afternoon two went off. The last blew our windows
open.

Understand we are on our way to Somewhere in Germany.

We will be on the move, I expect, for some time now so my letters
may be few and far between. Will try and keep them coming through.
 November 20

Dear Mother—

Wars may come and wars may go, but we go on forever. Believe
me! when we heard that the armistice had been signed, you would
have thought we had all gone suddenly crazy. It took some time, I’ll
admit, for the good news to sink in—but when it did—Oh boy!
We are now on the way towards Germany. It is almost a certainty
that we will travel along with one of the French armies of occupation;
carrying Ravitaillement (grub for man and beast) to them. Talk about
moving, ever since the last shell was fired, that’s all we have been
doing. You would think we were a checker game. I can’t say we were
tickled to death at the “Army of Occupation” news as we expected to
be on our way towards the States within a couple of months.
 November 22

Dear Mother—

They say that a tug boat, or some kind of a water animal, is going
to brave the dangers and carry mail across to the folks at home. I am
therefore stealing a few moments from my soldierly duties to throw a
bit of ink. I’d much rather take the place of this letter and let them
ferry me across instead, but as we are elected to be a part of the
clean-up squad, it can’t be done.
It is sad but true, but we are a part of one of the French armies of
occupation and are now “Nach Berlin.” We are making the grade by
the instalment plan—stop here today and move on tomorrow. Our
job is carrying “Ravitaillement,” and we are just as busy now as we
were during the days of shot, shell, and bomb. Just as busy, but it’s a
great deal more tiresome without any excitement.
 That is, it’s more tiresome for the drivers and some sergeants. The
clerk’s duties are just the same, although I have been told that I’m to
take over the mess and supply sergeant’s jobs along with what I am
already doing, which is nothing at all. Guess they decided I was
wearing out too many chairs, and drawing too many pictures for a
“Soldat deuxième classe.” There was enough yelling with the old
mess sergeant and I can see a battle royal ahead of me when I begin
to dish up the chow. As for getting clothes, it can’t be done. Some of
the men are running around in pants held together with wire, pins,
and string.
It is going to be a cold winter, and I hope that those at the other
end get a little pep and begin to unwind Mr. Red Tape.
 All day troops have been passing here, going up; part of the army
that we are attached to, so I wouldn’t be surprised if we were on the
go again soon.
Have seen thousands of returning prisoners, refugees full of spirit,
but so pinched and hungry looking, clothed in rags and even in the
uniform of the Boche soldier. We fed some at our kitchen one night
and they were starved.
In the town I sent my last letter from, the son of the people whose
house we had taken over dropped in to look the place over. It was the
first time in four years that he had seen his parents’ home. His
mother, sixty-four, and his father, sixty-eight, were carried off by the
Huns in February. They were expected back almost any day and he
wanted to see what there was left. The house was in perfect condition
and there were a few sticks of furniture about, but the Boche had
taken the meat and left nothing but the bone. His parents were more
fortunate than many, having a home with a roof, but even then it’s
pretty tough for two old people to return to their home and find it
stripped of the things they loved.