CHEWING GUM
LONDON, August 6, 1943—At the port the
stevedores are old men. The average age is fifty-two, and these men handle the
cargo from America. Their pace does not seem fast, but the cargo gets unloaded
and away. The only men on the docks anywhere near military age who are not in
uniform are the Irish from the neutral Free State, who are not subject to Army
call. They stay pretty much to themselves; for while they may approve of then:
neutrality, it is not pleasant to be a neutral in a country at war. They feel
like outsiders.
Little old Welshmen with hard, grooved faces
handle the cargo. There is a shrunken man directing the big crane. He stands
beside the open hatch and with his hands directs the cargo slings as though he
were directing an orchestra. Palm down and the fingers fluttering brings down
the sling. Palm up raises it, and by the tempo of his motions the operator
knows whether to go slowly or rapidly. This man has a thin, high voice which
nevertheless cuts through the noise of the pounding engine and grinding gears.
His fingers flutter upward and the locomotive rises into the air on the end of
a sling. The man seems to waft it over the side with his hands. Eighty-seven
tons of locomotive, and he lowers it to the tracks on the docks with his hands.
On an imaginary line the children stand and
watch the cargo come out. They are not permitted to go beyond their line for
fear they might be hurt. There are at least a hundred of them, a little shabby,
as everyone in England is after four years of war. And not too clean, for they
have been playing on ground that is largely coal dust. How they cluster about
an American soldier who has come off the ship! They want gum. Much as the
British may deplore the gum-chewing habit, their children find it delightful.
There are semi-professional gum beggars among the children. “Penny, mister?”
has given way to “Goom, mister?”
When you have gum you have something permanent,
something you can use day after day and even trade when you are tired of it.
Candy is ephemeral. One moment you have candy, and the next moment you haven’t.
But gum is really property.
The grubby little hands are held up to the
soldier and the chorus swells. “Goom, mister?”
“I don’t have any,” the soldier says, but they
pay no attention to that. “Goom, mister?” they shriek and crowd in closer. A
steward comes down the gangplank from the ship. He is a little tipsy and he is
dressed for the town. He is going to have a time for himself. A few children go
to him and test him out. “Goom, mister?” they ask. The steward grins genially,
pulls a handful of coins from his pocket and throws them into the air. The dust
rises and covers a little riot, and when it clears the steward is in full
flight with the pack baying after him.
