The scenes of the great treaties of the modern world must present interesting studies in internationalism. Picture the scene at Versailles in 1918 when the representatives of all the Allied and Entente Powers met to discuss and arrange the fates of the losers and portion out the winnings- to the victors. Consider the races and nations represented and the number of languages and modified tongues spoken between delegates in discussions outside the peace chamber. More recently, and closer to the Navy, picture the scenes attending the Naval Disarmament Conference at Washington in 1922. Here indeed was a chance for a naval linguist. Imagine one’s self in an ante chamber during recess, around coffee cups, with mellow cigar smoke dulling racial animosities and suspicions, the English delegate talking Italian to the delegate from Rome; the latter turning to vociferate fluently with the Frenchman, while the Japanese takes up the Englishman’s attention in purest English; the American explains the viewpoint and aims to the South American delegates, as onlookers, in Spanish. Up then comes the Chinese to join in, probably engaging the American and causing a regrouping and a quick shift of fluent tongues. Meanwhile the representatives of half a dozen other nations mingle in and further complicate the babel while endeavoring to understand or clarify the issues. Each national, in courteous deference to his partner for the moment, probably attempts to speak the other’s language.
It is undoubtedly true that the naval officer, visiting as he does in the course of his career probably all the countries fronting on the sea, must, though strengthening his Americanism by such contact, become hopeful of the time when all the principal races will speak the same language or at least be able to speak each other’s fluently. And how often does he discover, to his amused interest, the native heath of some of the hybrid words and idioms of his supposedly “pure English.” The usual reaction on the average American officer is, however, one of keenest regret that he has failed to keep himself groomed in the two or three tongues that he studied in school.
The China station, bringing, as it does, all nations together with frequent opportunity for free mingling and conversation, is most apt to bring this lamentable deficiency home to the American officer. Every port has its half dozen or more principal nations ably represented at the club on any evening or at any social function. The fact that English, being firmly established as the commercial language, naturally becomes the general tongue on such occasions, does not detract from the nicety of being able to discuss with the national concerned, the latest reaction of the franc in French, the last attempt on Mussolini’s life in Italian, or the superior merits, and the reasons therefor, of Munchen beer in German. And when official or wardroom calls are made or received, the easy poise is hard to maintain while groping for the simple phrases and idioms of etiquette, or while listening with strained attention to a foreign officer while he speaks his piece in broken and perspiring English.
The gunboat Asheville, on a recent visit to Tientsin, was the scene of one of the most —shall I say international—conversations for a small group of American officers that has occurred since the Naval Conference. For the number of languages spoken per officer present and the nationalities represented, this informal parley set, I believe, a new highwater mark in genial internationalism.
The Asheville, unable to proceed to Tientsin because of low water in the Pei Ho, had been forced to lay over at Tangku, a small village about four miles up the river from the sea. The captain had proceeded to Tientsin by rail on official matters and all the officers except the two with the day’s duty were ashore. Enter the messenger, announcing two foreign officers in uniform. Greeted by the officer of the deck and conducted to the wardroom, they proved to be a French army captain and a Japanese army captain, each commanding the troops of their respective countries stationed in the vicinity. The Frenchman, though voluble, could not speak English, while the Japanese ran true to form and was retiring, if not actually taciturn, so that we could not tell if he could speak anything but his native tongue.
To forestall any flattering misunderstanding, I announced at once with one of my few phrases, that I could speak and understand French only very slightly. However, with true Parisian enthusiasm, the French captain, delighted at my attempt, took off on a long and speedy verbal flight far over my head. Perceiving my lack of comprehension, he raised his eyes, shoulders and hands despairingly and turned to the Japanese captain. Conceive our amused amazement when we two Americans realized that he, the Frenchman, was talking German to the Jap! Following a brief reply by the latter, they gave us a second surprise when the Jap turned, snapping to a smart attention, and bowing courteously, announced in good English that they had come to pay their respects to the Captain. This I thought was going to be easy after all. The oriental could act as interpreter between the whites, even though he had to use a third language to do it 1 But receiving my reply in English that the captain was in Tientsin, and this having been relayed in German to the Frenchman by the Jap, the latter lapsed into a dignified silence and the Frenchman took charge again with a fluent oration accompanied by earnest but graceful gyrations. His positive and serious manner convinced me that he was trying to deliver an important message. Catching, here and there, the words, "le commandante Anglais—le general Japonais—le capitaine Francois—le capitaine du vaisseau de guerre Americain—Tientsin conference—demain— apres midi—tres important," etc., I pieced together that there was to be a conference of the allied commanders at Tientsin on the following day and they wanted our captain to be present. Considering the nature of our mission, it sounded reasonable. To avoid a misunderstanding, I asked for the rostrum for a moment and unburdened myself of what I had gleaned, assuring him, that if he would put it in writing in French I would see that the captain received it properly translated upon his return. This at once caused a mild and good natured tantrum. I must have made a mistake somewhere.
Sympathizing with my embarrassing predicament, the officer of the deck finally entered the arena with the fifth startling international announcement. He could speak Spanish. Why not try that one on him? I announced this and received ejaculations of what I believed to be pleasure. The Frenchman turned a torrent of Castillian upon my brother officer and the latter listened earnestly, nodding his head in comprehension. Soon, however, his eyes assumed a far-away look and he turned to me with a hopeless expression.
“He started in Spain, but he finished in Italy,” he said with a hurt look. I am sure he was right because I myself noted a shift in the vocal gearing. He told the French captain that he was afraid that his Spanish was not equal to the occasion, whereupon the latter turned to me again and started in in German. Quickly realizing that he had again mixed his races—myself for the Jap— and his tongues, he turned once more to the oriental interpreter and started speaking French. By this time he was really excited and I noted that the Japanese vernacular crept into his speech frequently. The ward room mess boys had appeared and were setting the table. Time pressed, his mission looked hopeless. Master of French, German, Spanish, Italian and some Japanese; yet he was unable to speak his piece intelligibly to the only audience that mattered! Truly an international complication!
A rejoinder from the Japanese officer diverted the Frenchman’s French into German again, and a parley ensued between the two. Then the oriental assurred me once more that they had come to pay their respects to the Captain of the American warship. Good! That was fine, but how about this important conference in Tientsin tomorrow? Yes, both he and the French captain were going to Tientsin tomorrow to a conference, and they regretted, therefore, that they would be unable to call again to see our captain on that day. A light 1 Now I comprehended the scattered bits of the Frenchman’s explanation. Well, then, couldn’t they call on Monday? Followed another conference between France and Japan in German. The impatient Frenchman again turned to me and said that he would be delighted to call on "lundi.” Unfortunately, I could not recall the correct names for the days of the week, but believed firmly that “lundi” was Sunday—it certainly sounded like it. I explained that the Captain would not be back “lundi” but would return the following day (which day I could not name in French). Surprised and believing himself double-crossed by the Japanese interpreter, he broke into German again, and I heard the more familiar weekday words, “Sontag” and “Montag.” While they were talking—and the conversation was rapidly becoming a semaphore message by the Frenchman, and even the Jap was punctuating his points by concise pokes of his forefinger—I grabbed a key idea from the Frenchman and decided to talk in two languages myself. Meanwhile our international background was forming still further. Cheng and Charlie Yong, the two Chinese mess boys, with cautious smiles, were discussing the show in Chinese while Lasica and Olaes, Filipino mess boys, were twittering away in insular Spanish. Finally I announced once more in French that the American captain would return on a German “Sontag,” very late, and would be
pleased to receive the French and Japanese captains on a German “Montag” “a dix heures.”
The perspiring Frenchman, by this time wrought up and tense, relaxed with a wide smile of joy and admiration. Immediately the two took up their caps and prepared to depart. As they stepped over the gangway, the Frenchman saluted with a friendly smile and said, with an emphatic and complimentary nod of his head.
“Vous paries jrangais ct allcmande tres bon, monsieur!”
Just like the Peace Conference, I thought. Three nations had had serious difficulties, great misunderstandings, but they had been adjusted. Six languages had been spoken— all the principal ones—two other races had stood by as observers and discussed the affair in their own tongues. The Frenchman, to get his message through, had had to speak German to a Jap, and had even essayed Italian and Spanish; and the Jap had relayed it to an American in English. The American reply had been in duo-tone, so to speak, French and German in the same sentence. Internationalism had finally won out.