Don Martin diary entry for Sunday,
February 17, 1918:
Another air raid – 10 to 12:30 p.m.
Went for long walk this afternoon through
the poorer districts. Stopped in office to do some writing but didn’t stay
because I was unable to get a fire started. Had dinner in Simpson’s with Hacker
and Motherwell, Canadians, and a nephew of Hacker’s who has been 4 Christmases
in the trenches. Went to the office and left there at 10:00 o’clock when
another air raid warning was given. Went to Savoy where I stayed until 1 a.m.
(that is in the lobby) when the all clear was given. A shrapnel shell struck in
front of the hotel but didn’t explode. Report that St. Pancreas hotel and
station struck by bomb. Outlook for this week pretty bad. People are very
nervous. The bombing is very serious business.
Weather clear but raw.
Don Martin wrote about the first-time celebration in London of Lincoln's birthday in a dispatch dated
Feb 17, which was published in the New York Herald on Sunday, March 10.
AMERICANS
GATHER AT LONDON DINNER TO HONOR
LINCOLN
Representative Lentz and
Irving Cobb Speak at
First Celebration of Lincoln's Birthday
[Special to the Herald]
Herald
Bureau, No. 130 Fleet Street, London, Feb. 17
For the first time in London’s history
the anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday was celebrated here. The affair
was a dinner held at the Monaco restaurant, under the auspices of the Navy
League of America. Newton Crane, the well known Anglo-American lawyer,
presided. The American Ambassador, Dr. Page, was cheered when he came into the
room and received a chorus of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!” Lord Charnwood was
one of the most distinguished of the English guests, and other well known
Americans included Consul General Skinner, Representative Lentz, from Ohio; Mr.
Fort Newton, Dr. A Hastings Jones and John Blair Macafee, Irving Cobb,
America’s own humorist; W. F. Harkness, James Van Allen Shields, John D. Meyer,
W. E. Fiske, R. S. Underwood land about two hundred others.
 |
| Ambassador Walter Hines Page |
 |
| Godfrey Rathbone Benson, Baron Charnwell |
Representative Lentz raised a laugh and
a cheer by opening with, “Mr. Chairman and follow democrats.” “Why not?” he
asked. “Is this not a war in which the Allies are fighting for the democracy of
the world?” Mr. Lentz said he had been
surprised to learn that this was the first time that Abraham Lincoln’s birthday
had been celebrated in London. He said that perhaps they had not understood in
England what Lincoln stood for, or he might have been recognized in England
before. “I once heard Lincoln described as one who had been born of very humble
parents, in very poor circumstances,” he continued. “In fact he was so poor
that he was born in a little cabin that he built himself. But, though people
had a certain admiration for the man who was born in a palace, they also were
proud of their great men though they had been born in cabins. They were the
sort of men they made their presidents in the United States.”
“And, thank God,” observed some one,
“we have another Lincoln in at the White House to-day.”
Irvin Cobb opened in merry mood,
telling a story of a colored woman whose husband had been knocked down by a
train and rendered a total loss. The widow went for the railroad company and
succeeded in getting $500, which was more money than she had ever possessed in
her life. “And what?” asked a lady friend, “are you going to do with all that
money, Caroline?” “Don’t know,” replied the new made widow, ”that I’ll do
anything first spell; but if ever I do marry again, my second husband gwine t’
be a railroad man.”
Then, taking a serious turn, he said
that he had found it to be quite correct what he had been warned about before
he left America—that the English people were rationing themselves but they were
doing it in America, so that their friends in England who were fighting for the
democracy of the world might share what they had to share. And nothing had
impressed him more than the spirit of the young American soldiers who had come
over on the Tuscania last week, who, while leaving the sinking ship, sang,
“Where Are We Going From Here, Boys?” That was a little song which would live
in America long after this war was over. Where were they going? Along with
their English brothers, shoulder to shoulder, to fight the battle of freedom
and to show the world that flesh and blood is worth more to the world than
blood and iron, and to drive the maniac out of Germany.
A whimsical dog dispatch dated Feb 17 was published in the New York Herald, Wednesday, February 20, 1918.
Dog Mourns as Career as Flyer Comes to an End
Herald Bureau, No. 130 Fleet Street, London, Feb. 17
When Maurice Hewlett, of Great Britain, son of the noted novelist, was a commander in active service for the Royal Flying Corps his inseparable companion was a Scotch terrier. Perhaps it might be said that the dog was his first assistant. Mr. Hewlett, now a staff officer, has a brilliant record. He says his dog deserves as much credit as himself.
I saw the dog—Jim—to-day curled up in a corner of the Inner Temple. The modern benchers of that historic neighborhood say he is heart broken because his career as a “mechanician” is ended. He has been a changed dog ever since he ceased to be an habitué of the hangars and airplanes and became a quiet resident of the city.
If half the stories told of the dog are true he deserves a prominent niche in the Dogs’ Hall of Fame, as he no doubt will get some day. Mr. Hewlett scarcely ever made an ascent without Jim beside him. And his aeroplane never left the ground until Jim had conducted an inspection tour.
Just where he learned all about machinery, batteries, propellers and the other intricate parts of the winged craft no one pretends to know, and while Jim can almost talk, he has never enlightened his master with regard to his uncanny knowledge of things about which dogs are supposed to be entirely ignorant.
To start with, a suggestion of uncleanliness about the Hewlett airplanes disgusted Jim. He would not rest till everything was made immaculate. If there was anything wrong with the mechanism Jim would bark and jump about till the defect or imperfection was remedied. When he was satisfied that everything was in shipshape he would hop into the machine, snuggle down and sleep till the flight was over unless something went wrong in the air. In that event he would rouse himself and make known in unmistakable ways that things were not as they should be. Usually the flier had made the discovery first, but that doesn’t in any way distract from the importance or value of Jim’s intuition.
He flew across the Channel a hundred times. When he was quiet his master knew that everything was all right.
He was the idol of all the flyers. If the machine went away without him it was a tragedy in his young life, but this seldom happened. When he found himself alone at the squadron base he sat down and waited, whether it was an hour or a day. He would never enter a machine unless his master was at the rudder, and he never volunteered his remarkable services to any of his master’s colleagues.
Now he is a retired dog.
To see him slouching around the Inner Temple, making friends with just ordinary members of his own branch of the family, you would hardly suspect that he is a genius with a history.
“Genius is found where genius is least looked for, least expected,” says the London constable in the Temple. And at that, Jim seems to wag his tail in approval.
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