The Ely miner., 1943-10-14

| On, tnat, ne SAID. we saved
so much on cigarettes since you left
the battery that I could afford to
eat uptown now if wanted to. And
let's leave any remarks about Bun
combe County out of this. And let's
leave your feet out of my waste
basket"
From now on I must deny myself
one of the fundamental rights and
| joys of mankind. I must quit bum
ming matches from those near and
dear to me-that is, if I want them
to remain near and dear to me.
Whenever ! ask anyone around Gen.
ter Headquarters-even Mulvehill or
Bishop or Bushemi-for a match, I
| get one of two answers, both of which
are getting very tiresome by now.
I hear either whats the mat
ter? Has your fire gone out?" or
"Just light your cigarette on one
of our conflagrations; there should
be small arson in yonder corner"
Since / am a patient and long
suffering child, I make no scathing
remarks in return for these jaded
witticisms. I merely shrug my
frail shoulders pathetically and seek
greener pastures. It isn't so bad,
their refusing the match. The worst
| part of it is the reminder of an Incl
dent which might well be forgotten.
The incident is of no consequence,
but it might as well come off my
chest.
Being slave to the despoiler of
human health and well-being, the
cigarette, I still have fondness for
an occasional switch to a pipe. I
don't especially enjoy the taste of
pipe tobacco, and I don't believe
even the most avid pipe smoker
especially cares for it. Most of them
like me, merely like the feel of a
pipe in their mouths and the dignity
and solemnity a pipe gives them
when they punctuate their conversa-
tions by jabbing the air with it.
Smoking pipe only occasionally,
I still have not become overly pro-
ficient at keeping the little things
burning. When I buy a can of to-
bacco, buy a five cent box of
country matches with it. Half my
smoke is tobacco; the other half is
Georgia pine smoke from the match
| sticks.
I was busy today typing out a
story, and I had Lit my pipe for
about the twenty-second time.
threw the match into the wastebas-
ket and forgot all about the whole
thing. I was absorbed in my work.
I noticed by degrees that our Of
fee was becoming lighter and
warmer. I noted the fact with a
rich feeling of comfort, but no great
interest in finding out the cause. It
wasn't until I reached for another
match to light that pipe again that
I noticed my wastebasket. The thing
had in it a cheerful little blaze
bright enough to take action photo
graphs on moonless night.
There was nothing to get excited
about, told the remainder of the
public relations staff, the sergeant
majors corps of assistants, and the
fling department. I nonchalantly
put my foot into the basket and
started stamping out the fire. The
thing would have worked, too, ex-
cept that the length of my foot was
| greater than the diameter of the
wastebasket. The foot stuck and
could not stamp.
Corporal Sager, of Plans and
Training, leaped to the rescue, pried
the foot from the basket, grabbed
the basket and sped away to the
water cooler. I followed him and
poured myself cup of water. I
still saw no cause for excitement.
To the bystanders' catcalls, un-
seemly laughter, and accusations of
arson, turned fatherly ear and a
quieting voice. explained patient
| ly that setting fire to wastebaskets
| was an ancient and honored pastime
| in the newspaper world. I told them
that one of the best newspaper men
! North Carolina has ever Seen-"Un-
Gle John" Dickson, former city edi-
tor of the News-used to set his
wastebasket on fire at least twice a
week by tossing cigarettes or burn
ing matches into it. It was a mark
Of certain industry, sign that a
man was wrapped up in his work.
Nevertheless, the incident has es-
tabished for me a new reputation
| of carelessness and absent-minded-
ness, one which do not deserve. I
shall be hooted at from the win
dows of the Service Club; even
| green rockies will snicker when I
dodder down Headquarters Street.
It does no good to point out Bu-
shemi, who often walks out of the
mess hall with his dirty dishes in
his hands, or Mulvehin, who puts
new blades in his razor without re-
moving the old ones and thereby
gives his face the old bacon-slicer
treatment. Nothing does any good.
Whenever I try to defend myself, I
get deeper in the mess.
Idleness and soft living have made
my comrades bunch of drawing
room hecklers. Boy, wouldn't like
to get these babies out on maneu-
| vers with mel
| Ia
Maury Sher, my old buddy when
we were together in the student
cooks battery, had been on an ex-
tended furlough. Before he returned,
I had left on three-day pass for
Charlotte. We had not got together
for two or three weeks, so I went
over to his battery to look him up.
| The battery street was almost
empty; the mess-han door was
locked. The mess sergeant was no
where to be seen. Finally I found a
soldier who had seen Sergeant Sher