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| WWI magazine illustration |
The American artist Charles Burchfield (1893-1967) served briefly as a US Army camoufleur near the end of World War I. In his journals, he recalled a wartime incident that involved an attempt to build a hollowed-out papier maché replica of a dead horse (in which to conceal an observer).
Charles Burchfield, Charles Burchfield's Journals: The Poetry of Place. Albany NY: State University of New York Press, 1993—
It was Capt [William] Yarrow's (the camouflage commander) idea to model a dead horse, which being hollow would be used for a periscope outlet over a dugout, an ingenious idea. Pearson was given the job, as he was a budding sculptor. He thought it would be simpler and more realistic to make a cast from a dead horse itself. Dead horses were not easily procured, and so after a two weeks wait, they had to content themselves with a dead mule secured from a nearby farm. The mule was already two days on the way toward disintegration; nevertheless, Pearson and his helpers, who had requisitioned a truck for the errand, sat on the mule as they went thru the camp, and sang ribald songs, at the tops of their voices, much to the amazement of lookers on.
Pearson's work proceeded slowly, and the odor of the mule grew more frightful with each passing hour (Eskridge & I were sure that Pearson brought it to the barracks with him, and treated him accordingly)—One afternoon, Pearson said—he and his helper Peck, were busily working, when all at once, as one will often do, he realized that for some time someone had been calling him, but it had not completely penetrated his consciousness. Turning he beheld this major (his name eludes me, but he was some rich man's spoiled brat) at some distance, on his horse, gesticulating wildly with one hand, and holding his nose with the other—Pearson hurried over and saluted—
"What the [hell] have you got over there" the major roared—
"A dead mule, sir" was Pearson's reply, with as much sang froid as he could muster—
"A dead mule—You know it's against the regulations to allow a dead animal to lie in the camp—Who gave you permission to bring it here?"
"Capt Yarrow sir?"
"Where the hell is he?"
"I presume over in the woods there, sir" (some of the camouflage work took place in a pine grove near at hand)—
"Well, I'll show him whether he can bring dead mules into the camp," and putting spurs to his horse, he rode furiously off, only, a few minutes later, to plunge thru the artificial [camouflaged] hill, which had been so skillfully constructed that few would know it was not real, unless they had been told. It threw him from his horse, and by the time, with the aid of whatever soldiers were around, he had extricated himself, he was speechless with rage.
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