July 10th. I had the most terrible experience in mess to-day when a guy having eaten more rapidly than I attempted to take my ration.  When I told him he shouldn’t do it he merely laughed brutally and kicked me an awful whack on the shin.  This injury, together with the sight of witnessing my food about to be crammed down his predatory maw, succeeded in bringing all my latent patriotism to the fore and I fell upon him with a desperation bred of hunger.  We proceeded to mill it up in a rather futile, childish manner until the Master-at-arms suggested in a certain way he has that we go away to somewhere else.  Hereafter if any one asks if I did any actual fighting in this war I am going to say, “Yes, I fought like hell many hard and long battles in camp for my ration,” which will be true.

“Say, buddy,” said my opponent, after we had landed quite violently on the exterior of the Mess Hall, “you didn’t git no food at all, did yer?”

“No,” I replied bitterly; “at all is right.”

He looked at me for a moment in a strange, studying manner, then began laughing softly to himself.

“I don’t know what made me do it,” he said more to himself than to me.  “I wasn’t hungry no more.  I didn’t really want it.  I wonder what makes a guy brutal?  Guess he sort of has a feelin’ to experiment with himself and other folks.”

“I wish you’d tried that experiment on some one else,” I replied, thinking tenderly of my shin.

“Sometimes I feel so doggon strong and mean,” he continued, “I just can’t keep from doing things I don’t naturally feel like doing.  I guess I’m sort of an animal.”

“Say,” I asked him in surprise, “if you keep talking about yourself that way I won’t be able to call you all the names I am carefully preparing at this moment.”

He peered earnestly down on me for a space.

“Does my face make you talk that way?” I asked, feeling dimly and uncomfortably that it did.

“Yes,” he replied, “it’s your face, your foolish looking face.  I can’t help feeling sorry for it and your funny empty little belly.”

“You’re breaking me down,” I answered; “I can’t stand kindness.”

“I ain’t no bully,” he said fiercely, as if he was about to strike me.  “I ain’t no bully,” he repeated, “I’ll tell you that.”

“No, sir,” I replied soothingly, keeping on the alert, “you ain’t no bully.”

Here he took me by the arm and dragged me along with him.

“Come on, buddy,” he said, “I’m going to take you to the canteen and feed you.  I’m going to do it, I swear to God.”

So he fed me.  Stacks and stacks of stuff he forced on me until the flesh rebelled, after which he put things in my pockets, repeating every little while, “I ain’t no bully, I’ll tell you that, I ain’t no bully.”  He spent most of his money, I reckon, but I did not try to stop him.  He wanted to do it and I guess it made him feel better.  After the orgy I took him around and let him pat Mr. Fogerty.  He seemed to like this.  Fogerty took it in good part.