The Other Side of the
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! the Philippines
(From a manuscript found in an old warsack at Fort Gibbon.)
Many a long evening have I sat in a
weal her-hoard shack in South Dakota,
where the winds were howling across
the prairie, snow drifting through the
hundred different crevices, the mercu
ry going down like the canteen stock
in a W. C. T. U. convention, and read
weird tales by travelers that, ran some
thing like this: “The Philippines is a
land of sunshine and flower*, waving
palm* and beautiful ferns, majestic
mountains and roaring torrents, luscious
fruits and picturesque people.”
Now, from a business man’s stand
point or that of a traveler of leisure
and in search of the picturesque, this
description fits all right. The mercan
tile opportunities are here and so arc
the scenic novelties; but the regular
soldier pays no heed to these things,
and, although the country may be a
veritable Garden of Eden, he will find
something to grumble about.
I was tempted to enlist by an over
whelming sense of patriotism and the
holes in my shoes. I am here now and
woe betide the traveler who wrote
those enticing sketches should I ever
meet him. The beautiful sunshine is
a glare, hotter than the hinges of h—,
and the average Filipino flower would
stink a t.yeua away from a glue factory.
The waving palms are described by
Mark Twain as resembling dilapidated
umbrellas, and the ferns, one and all,
have stickers that leave a wound as if
a man had been stabbed with a pump
handle. The majestic mountains —
well, just carry a Krag rifle, 100 rounds
of ammunition, blanket, canteen, haver
sack and three days' rations over one
of these mountains and then try and
extract any poetry from the situation.
The load, itself, on a level road would
make a Mexican burro bat his eyes.
The roaring torrents are here all right,
1 know, because I paid $13.15 for a rifle
that lies at the bottom of one of them;
but there lots of romantic people who
have never seen a river tilted up more
than it ought to be and getting a hump
on itself without raving about it. The
fruit—little, dried-up bananas about
the size of a North Carolina peanut,
and cocoanuts at 5 cents apiece. The
Ten Commandments of the hospital
corps are all condensed into “Don’t eat
the fruit or you will have the dysen
tery,” and “Sleep under a mosquito
bar and avoid the fever.” The people
picturesque? Let me tell you about
them: Clothes—well, if you put about
twenty Filipinos together you could
get enough drapery frutn them to pad
a crutch, and no more. Shoes they
never wear, and consequently they
leave a track like a half-grown grizzly
bear. The men wear a hat about three
reel in diameter, and tee general eitect
is that of a bull calf under a shed.
The; are a little, pin-headed, insignifi
cant people, with about as much ex
pression on their faces as a piece of
mince pie. The high-priced war cor
respondents have been charitable
enough to divide them into tribes and
to credit them with distinguishing
traits, but the fact cannot be disguised
that these people are simply the miss
ing link between the baboon and the
human race. One tribe can always be
named by sight—the Igorrotes — for
they wear nothing but a gee-string,
speak a language that sounds like a
combination of bass drum and fife, and
if the word picturesque can be applied
to a Filopino this tribe deserves the
appellation.
Take the bamboo away from the
Philippine islands and they would col
lapse. Nearly everything is made of
it—houses, hats, cooking utensils, cloth
ing, carts, whitewash brushes; why,
they even eat the tender sprouts of one
variety. Give a native a joint of bam
boo and a handful of rice and be can
make a good meal. They don’t need
matches; vany observant soldier knows
how to start a fire by rubbing two
pieces of bamboo together, so the la
dian stories of our childhood are real
ized at last.
As to mosquito bars and malaria, we
are impressedly told that every time a
mosquito jabs a hole in one of us he
either introduces a large dose of mala
ria or presents us with a large, un
known quantity of scientifically called
“elephantiasis.” Now, we don’t know
properly what “elephantiasis’’ means,
but it suggests a horrible nightmare
of trunks, tushes and hind legs bent
forward, so the mosquito bar is indis
pensable. You can follow our trail by
cast-off rifles, belts, canteens, and
emergency rations, but never a mos
quito bar.
A soldier never goes in the hospital
over here except as a last resort. You
may think that I am suggesting incom
petency in the medical corps, but no,
sick soldiers are given the best care
obtainable. They are dieted and wait
ed upon and the convalescents are fed
like kings; but no patient is ever
turned out of the hospital until be is
pronounced absolutely well. That may
mean weeks and weeks of confinement,
and it is the everlasting monotony of
good, clean beds and food that we
dread. I cannot explain this to civil
tans, but ex-soldiers will understand it,.
Malaria and dysentary are not the
only bugaboos; with the cool, dry
weather comes small-pex. Vaccina
tion protects most of us, but occasion
ally it don’t protect, and one more man
is missing at muster, one more “trum
peter” is called on to blow "taps.”
The American public, the censor of
our morals and motives, says: “Well,
he knew the risk when he enlisted,
and he probably joined the army be
cause he was a failure at everything
else.” Dear American public, don’t
throw all the bouquets to the volun
teers; give us some credit. This ap
peal is not made to the Western people,
for I punched cows for years over the
Texas and mountain trails to the
north, and I am aware that the social
ladder, west of the Missouri, is as fol
lows: Lowest rung is the regular,
next the army mule, next the Indian,
and from there on among the belter
grades of society, train robbers, etc.
But I am getting too serious, and this
little affair we are having over here
should not be taken too seriously.
Night after night have I sat around
the campfire and joined in the chorus
of “Christ to make men holy. Let us
fight to make men free,” and the next
day made a record of stealing chickens
from the natives that would make an
Afro-American minister turn green
with envy. I often wonder if any one
in the United States cares to read any
thing written by the private in the
regular army. We read long stories
on the moral aspect of the Philippines,
biased business opinions by sugar mag
nates, pathetic letters from homesick
volunteers, most of which we are in
clined to take too seriously, but I have
never seen anything in the way of a
combination from the real thing, “the
buck private of the regulars.” I don’t
mean one of King’s or Remington’s
privates, for the dust-covered Arizona
private passed away with the cowboy
and the buffalo; the private-of-today
fin-de-siecle article of the twentieth
century.
I was goaded to this outburst by an
article in a well-known weekly for
young people. Following the closing
of the canteen, this sketch seems like
mockery. The writer was lavishing
bunches of American-beauty roses on
the government for the thoughtfulness
in establishing commissaries at which
the boys might purchase condensed
milk, canned pineapple, candy, ginger
ale, chewing gum and peanuts. The
main point shown was that if the boys
failed to get enough to eat from the
hardtack and bacon issued by the gov
ernment they were at liberty to fill the
void with canned goods purchased from
the commissary with their $15 60; but
mis aimj %uuu—u wuuiu uo serious 11
it were not so amusing. It’s comfort
ing to me, too, for if it were not for
the familiar names of “Armour” and
“Swift” on cans and barrels the private
would never see anything to remind
him of home except possibly the U. S.
on a set of summary court charges.
Everything bears the legend, “Made
in Germany.” The commissary is a
theoretical inspiration, but works out
as follows: One week after payday
four fifth* of the country’s defenders
are broke, for gambling has a centrifu
gal force which puts the other fifth on
Easy street, in ragtime. For a few
days the lucky fifth live in clover, and
the commissary does a regular canteen
business, but human nature has its
limits in the army as well as else
where. It is hard to refuse a comrade,
especially one you have just decked;
so the lucky ones soon tire of paying
40 cents a can for butter and only get
ting a covering for one slice of bread
therefrom, so the canteen gets into the
game, holds the winning hand for a
few days, and then every one is broke
for another three months.
The grub is good, wholesome and as
a rule well cooked, but our bill of fare
lacks variety. It is very aptly de
scribed in Hebrews xiii, 8. And the
emergency ration! I dislike to speak
of it, for some one has said, “If you
don’t like a man don’t pick on him.”
The emergency ration has, like all
candidates, its friends and its enemies.
To its friends it is a relief from bacon,
and to its enemies it is “imaginary
ration,” "condition powders,” “first aid
to the hungry,” etc. The emergency
ration is put up in a small tin box
about the size of a generous bar of
soap, and contains a cake of very good
bladk tea, two small boxes of salt and
pepper and three cakes of stuff that
smells like a very poor grade of fertil
izer. If I can keep away from the
canteen one payday I intend to send a
can of emergency raaion to some relia
ble party to be analyzed—not from a
vindictive standpoint or a desire to
cause too much sensation, but from idle
idle curiosity. It is amusing to see a
“rookie” tangled up with a can of this
compressed vitality. Perhaps he has
been on a long hike and it is raining
so that he can’t build a fire. Meal
time comes and a halt is made.
“Rookie” remarks that he is hungry
enough to eat a polecat, opens the can
GLEAN AND REFRESHING
BATHS
All Hours Wednesdays and Saturdays
—AT—
Williams' New Barber Shop
Front St., Tanana.
of emergency ration which is intended
for a day’s ration, and says “It’s a
damn shame to ask a big hungry man
to make a meal off these three little
cakes,’’ takes a couple of bites, drinks
some water and swells up like a poi
soned pup. After eating two thirds of
a cake “rookie” declares himself satis
fied as to quantity and rolls the inevi
table cigarette. The most common
complaint I hear about this new emer
gency ration is about the label, which
is yellow and thick and makes a very
poor cigarette paper.
I am prevented by common decency
and the Sixty-second Article of War
from naming the favorite dish on a
hike, but I will give the receipt, with
apologies to Mary J. Lincoln. Soak
hardtack in water for— well, as long as
the circumstances will allow and then
fry in a mess pan, half a canteen, or
anything that is handy; add plenty of
sugar and serve on a dogtrot, shouid
the commanding officer give the com
mand, “Forward, march!” Hikes are
always hailed with delight by the epi
cures, for they mean plenty of chicken.
By the way, hogs and chickens are the
only connecting links between this
God-forsaken home of the malaria and
dysentary and the United States. The
very sight of a native barrio seems to
suggest chicken to the average sol
dier’s mind, and he don’t have to be
long to a colored regiment either. But
it is weil to know that the Philippines
do not recognize any breed of chicken
but gamecocks, and they are game,
too, and awfully tough. I remember
one instance in point in which I
watched a big, strong corporal just
naturally wear out a piece of bamboo
on a likely looking rooster, and Mr.
Rooster never even looked around—
just kept on picking gravel and lizards
and snails. Eating one of these “war
lords is like chewing a brand new
Goodyear boot, but at that it is a
change and a relief. The chickens
have one redeeming feature, they are
handsome along athletic lines, but the
hogs are a disgrace to the half-caste
savages that own them. I have seen
Georgia razorbacks, but they are mod
els of beauty—veritable swine Apollos
—in comparison with these wrecks.
They are two thirds nose and their
eyes resemble beads stuck in a cucum
ber. But their intelligence is some
thing wonderful; so much so that I
never order chops in a Filipino restau
rant. It would seem too much like
cannibalism.
As to the American soldier buying
popcorn balls and blue neckties from
the commissary, it is out of the ques
tion until some parties who have made
the canteen a fond memory succeed in
getting the bylaws of the Y. M. C. A.
passed by congress as additional arti
cles of war—get a sort of “Moody and
Sankey” hold on the enlisted men. The
closing of the canteen has been a hard
thing for the boys in khaki, with beer
at 50 cents a quart. It was possible to
keep comfortable for three or four days
after payday, but now we feel justified
in using “bino”—I will not say drink
it, for no christianized man can drink
it. The only possible way to get out
side of it is to get in a trance and ab
sorb it. _
Job Printing at The Leader office.
ST, JAMES’ CHAPEL
First Sunday in each month, Holy
Coramunionlll a.'m. Other Sundays,
Evening Prayer. 7:30 p. ra.
Winthrop .Peabody,
Priest in Charge.
NOTICE OF MARSHAL’S SALE
United States of America, District of
Alaska, Fourth Division.
Public notice is hereby given, that,
by virtue of a writ of fieri facias (or
special execution), dated December 8th,
A.D. 1909, issued out of the District
Court of the United States, for the
Fourth Division, District of Alaska, on
a judgment rendered in said Court, on
the 14th day of October, A.D. 1909, in
favor of Peter Vachon, J. S. Sterling
and Andrew Vachon, and against W.
W. Nelson, I have, on this 13th day of
January, A.D. 1910, levied upon the
following described real estate in the
town of Tanana, and District of Alaska,
to-wit:
One (1) lot, sixty (60) by one hundred
and fifty (150) feet in size, facing on
Front street.
Also building located thereon twenty
(20) by forty (40) feet in size known as
the “Nelson Restaurant.”
Also a building oighteen (18) by
twenty-four (24) feet in size located on
said above lot.
And that I will, accordingly, offer
said real estate for sale, at public ven
due to the highest and best bidder, for
cash, on the 18th day of February, A.
D. 1910, at 2 o’clock p.m., at Tanana
in front of the Marshal’s office.
Dated at Tanana, Alaska, January
13th, A.D. 1910.
H. K. LOVE,
U. S. Marshal, Fourth Division, Dis
trict of Alaska.
By JOHN J. DONOVAN,
Deputy.
McGinn & Sullivan,
Plaintiff’s Attorneys,
2 here’ll Be
Mashers
Galore
On the trails this winter looking for good places to stop—
more than ever before known in the history of Interior
Alaska—and the roadhouse and hotel keepers who introduce
their places of business and their accommodations to the
man along the route is the fellow who’ll get the trade. The
Tanana Leader makes a specialty of printing large and small
CLOTH
SIGNS
On Heavy Muslin, designed especially for out-of-door adver
tising—they will endure for years,"and will ’withstand the
rigors of the Northland elements.
Send in your order at ones for the “business
promoters” and be prepared to do business when
winter travel starts in
Tanana, Alaska
On One of the Last Steamers We Received Our Yearly
Supply of Paper for
Commercial Job Printing
OF MANY KINDS