[image ALT: Much of my site will be useless to you if you've got the images turned off!]
Bill Thayer

[image ALT: Cliccare qui per una pagina di aiuto in Italiano.]

[Link to a series of help pages]
[Link to the next level up]
[Link to my homepage]

[image ALT: link to previous section]
February 27

This webpage reproduces a section of
The Collected Works
of Ducrot Pepys

Ronan C. Grady

Newburgh, N. Y., 1943

The text is in the public domain.

This page has been carefully proofread
and I believe it to be free of errors.
If you find a mistake though,
please let me know!


[image ALT: link to next section]
100th Nite
This site is not affiliated with the US Military Academy.

 p43  March 13, 1942 . . . .

Monday. My guardian angel must have been drinking on the job today.

Tuesday. When I was constructed somebody pocketed quite a large ill‑gotten gain by skimping on the specifications. I am not complaining but I would like to see someone besides me suffer for it. For one thing, my teeth, shoddy imitations to begin with, are going to have to be replaced or shored up or something very soon. Even drinking water erodes them. And as there is nothing wrong with my nerves except for their tendency to ring like bells if even the wind blows on them, I am not looking forward to visiting the dentists. Some of the happiest moments of my life have been passed out of a dentist's chair. There are thousands of things I am afraid of but none can so effectively reduce me to a state of gibbering fear as the sight of a dentist's chair. In my halcyon civilian days every visit of mine to the dentist's involved three days. One to catch me and drag me kicking and screaming to the dentist's office, where I would be chained to the chair, and two to starve me into opening my mouth. Today one of my corpuscles deserted to the Red Cross.

Wednesday. Our tactical officer is pursuing a scorched earth policy in his campaign against cadets. Today he even tore up a Barracks Policeman's overshoes. An obliging germ has taken the place of my deserted corpuscle. He is doing a better job. Instruction in riding on horses has ceased and I have fooled the authorities once more. They are bound to get me in the end, however.

Thursday. Today we spent two healthful hours in the open air taking a short refresher course in grenade throwing, donning the gas mask, and manual of the pistol. Upon hearing those old familiar words, "Pull pin, prepare to throw, throw!" I was so irresistibly reminded of Summer Camp, I fell into a fit of shuddering sobs. However the fact that my tears formed a large icicle that hung from my chin brought me back to reality. Good old plain old reality. My other wife caused a contretemps by carelessly throwing a grenade straight up but he saved the situation by cleverly catching it in his mouth. He will do all his future chewing at a point in back of his palate. Later when we were renewing our acquaintance with the pistol and as my other wife seems to arouse only a spirit of blind animosity in any piece of machinery with which he comes into contact he covered himself with glory again. In some way which is not yet clear to me he succeeded in getting his right thumb, left ring finger, left ear, and the clip all jammed in that oddly shaped hole in the butt where the clip goes. After this outing was over we returned home where I was treated for exposure.

[image ALT: A drawing of a man wearing a large bowl-type helmet, holding a hand grenade in his right, and his left index finger in the ring of the grenade pin; he seems to be weeping and shuddering. It is a cartoon of a West Point cadet practicing grenade throwing.]

"I was so irresistibly reminded of Summer Camp. . ."

Friday. I am more convinced than ever that my guardian angel drinks. And probably takes dope too.

Saturday. Although he may just have died.

Sunday. Yes, he must have died all right.

[image ALT: Valid HTML 4.01.]

Page updated: 16 Aug 12