BENDING THE TWIG
Only when the three hundred odd new cadets have been transferred to
camp and joined the Battalion, do they begin to feel that they are
members of the Corps. They are, however, ill-formed, crude, ungainly
members, and from the moment they pass the hedge that screens the
camp from the visitors’ seats, the Tactical gardeners begin the
work of bending these natural twigs, so recently transplanted from
the individualistic soil of civilian life to the orthodox ground of
military training.
Realizing how difficult it is for a young man to adapt himself to the
changed conditions that he meets at West Point, the authorities require
the new cadet to report in June, just as the academic year has closed,
in order that he may receive the benefit of the summer-camp training
before taking up his studies. The physical fatigue that the new plebe
experiences is really so great, that he would not be able to plunge
into the academic course before his body has become accustomed to the
demands made upon it. The aching muscles, the drooping eyes, that
awful heaviness of fatigue must all be given time to pass away so that
the mind may be free to pursue its development. To this end, he goes
into camp after his first few weeks in “Beast Barracks.”
The camp is prettily situated in the northeast corner of the Plain
along the bluff overlooking the Hudson. In form it is rectangular, laid
out for six companies whose streets are centrally cut by an avenue
known as the general parade. The streets are parallel to the parade
ground proper, from which they are separated and screened by a hedge.
Nor is the cadet camp lacking in the features that make every permanent
camp comfortable and convenient for the soldier. For these creature
comforts, the cadets have been at times criticised on the ground that
soldiers in the field should be content with the bare necessities of
life. The cadet camp, however, is intended as a camp of instruction
only. In military life there are two kinds of camps, the permanent camp
and the temporary camp. In the latter, soldiers live close to nature
dispensing with the hundred and one little conveniences that all of
us today consider necessary to our physical well-being, but in the
former, such as the cadet encampment, the soldier is provided with a
maximum of comfort--and why not? The illustrated magazines that help
to bring us closer to the Great War in Europe give visual proof that
when men remain for any length of time in one place, even in the zone
of danger, they build and adorn abodes. It may be that an enemy shell
will destroy these shelters the next moment, but the domestic instinct
remains unimpaired. Some of the bomb-proof dugouts on the western front
are miniature triumphs of architecture and comfort. The occupation year
after year of the cadet camp has had the same effect. We therefore see
today a camp with graveled company streets that are illuminated at
night by electricity. The tents, instead of being pegged, are supported
by galvanized iron rails. The dim candle of olden times is replaced by
the brilliant electric bulb, and the cadet, instead of reposing his
weary bones on the hard wooden floor, slumbers luxuriously on a Gold
Medal cot.
A large central tent, like a mother hen watching over her brood, is
reserved for the Commandant of Cadets. The tents of the cadet officers
are on the opposite edge of the space in front of the Tactical
officers’ tents, the next indication of hierarchical authority. Then
come the tents of the non-commissioned officers and the privates.
To have a neat-looking camp, strict regulations govern the arrangement
of the tents. Twice a day they are aligned. Due to changes in the
temperature, the supporting cords lengthen or shorten, so that the
front tent-pole gets out of alignment. Then an authoritative voice
rings out:
“Turn out, ‘B’ company, and straighten your tent-poles!” Whereupon
cadets in all conditions of dress and undress tumble out of the
little brown canvas homes. When it rains the cords must be loosened
at the first pitter-patter of the raindrops on the tent-fly. The new
plebe sitting in his underwear in his tent, probably polishing his
breastplate for the twenty-fifth time that day, does not realize that
this duty must be performed until a dozen or more yearlings command
from the recesses of the canvas bungalows:
“Turn out, you plebes, and loosen those tent-cords!” Out they jump into
the “catacombs” (the space between the tents), bumping their heads
against the rails, and at once commence tugging at the obstinate,
water-soaked tent-cords, while the summer downpour soaks them to the
skin.
* * * * *
To each tent two cadets are assigned, one of whom performs for a week
at a time the duty of tent orderly. Whenever the cadet detailed for
orderly is absent on account of duty or sickness, his tent-mate becomes
responsible. In order that the Tactical officer in charge of any
company may know which cadet is responsible, there is fastened on the
front tent-pole, a revolving octagonal disk of wood, about three inches
in diameter. Both cadets’ names, as well as the words “Guard” “Sick,”
are printed on the face of the disk, along one of the sides, and the
disk revolved to indicate the name of the orderly, or the cause of the
occupant’s absence. The orderly is also supposed to keep the water
bucket filled, but the occupants of each tent usually have some private
treaty whose provisions prescribe which one shall “drag” the water
from the hydrant.
Generally speaking the orderly is responsible for the cleanliness
and police of the tent, and of the ground adjacent and in front, as
far as the middle of the company street where the rubbish is swept
into a pile to be removed by the policemen. These men are civilian
employees, many of whom have been at the Academy so long that they are
intimately identified with the Corps. In time, some of them will fade
into legendary characters much the same as Benny Havens. Promptly at
police call at five o’clock, the wheelbarrow squad commanded by “Mike,”
“Frank,” or “Tony,” moves ceremoniously down the street collecting the
sweepings. At this hour the camp presents an animated scene. Cadets are
busily dragging the ground around their tents with a broom to give it a
“spoony” appearance for inspection, and every few minutes some one man
will dart out to the center of the street with a stray match or piece
of paper and throw it in the passing wheelbarrow.
The interior of the tent contains a wooden clothes-press and usually
a canvas stretcher suspended from the ridge pole. Each cadet has a
certain section for his clothes. All articles, belts, gloves, socks
must be folded and arranged in a prescribed manner. The cots are folded
and kept out of sight during the day. Gray, painted wooden lockers for
storing cleaning material and clothing border one side of the tent
floor. Many cadets, however, secrete food, known as “Boodle” in these
convenient places, and I am sure that an unexpected inspection would
reveal many tins of saltines, bottles of olives, and jars of peanut
butter. During my cadet days, the officer in charge of my company
never, for some reason, looked into the lockers. My tent-mate and I
therefore grew more and more bold about filling them with vast supplies
of “Boodle,” and we began to think that the “Tac” was inspired by a
sort of _noblesse oblige_ where the lockers were concerned, a sort
of sympathetic remembrance of his own cadet-gnawing appetite. One
Saturday, however, just as he was leaving and I was offering a silent
prayer of thanksgiving, he ordered the lockers opened. A gallon jar in
which some fifty olives lay submerged and a slovenly looking pineapple
cheese met my humiliated gaze. A reprimand that as a cadet officer I
should set an example to the rest of the company, and five demerits,
were awarded to me forthwith.
When the tents are not prepared for inspection, however, cadets may
make down the cots and rest. How wonderfully refreshing it is to rest!
to throw oneself down on the blankets and forget the heat, the weary
march, the grime, the dust, and abandon oneself to the delights of
the imagination, dreaming of the sweetness of the past or building
vast plans for the future! How precious to the cadet is each moment of
repose snatched from the busy day! But it is in the morning that the
real longing for sleep becomes most acute.
Every morning at 5:20, the solitary boom of the reveille gun is echoed
throughout the hills, rudely dissipating the fog of unconsciousness
that envelops the sleeping cadets. Little by little the deathlike
slumber of the camp is broken. Indistinct sounds, a sigh, a yawn, float
gently out upon the air; drugged forms twist and roll uncertainly
beneath the mosquito bars, as if struggling in a bewildered sort of way
to preserve the pleasing heaviness that charms their bodies.
Suddenly the air is torn by the shrill garrulous fifes and the lusty
rub-a-dub-dub of the drums. The reveille march has begun. Around the
camp the “Hell Cats” march, up one street, down another like demons
possessed. The shrieking sounds of the fifes and the deep rolling
noise of the drums brusquely rout the stillness of the dawn, while the
semi-conscious forms toy with danger, beguiling themselves that there
is plenty of time until the assembly. Presently from near the general
parade the familiar warning notes of _Yankee Doodle_ change the camp to
a place of intense animation. Up go mosquito bars and in a twinkling,
almost as if by magic, tents disgorge their sleepy occupants, hastily
and feverishly buttoning their uniforms as they run to their places in
ranks to the fading rolls of the drum corps.
After reveille it takes but a few minutes to police the tents and
perform the necessary ablutions before breakfast. The drills commence
within a half-hour after the morning meal and continue until noon.
They are of various kinds, the majority of which will be described
in the chapter entitled “Lessons from Mars,” but I will speak of the
plebe’s work in his first camp, since it is somewhat different.
The physical exercises given to the new cadet in “Beast Barracks”
are continued in camp. In addition, he is sent to the Gymnasium for
swimming, where a professional instructor is present to see that no
one drowns, and to teach the various strokes. As many of the cadets
are adept swimmers upon entrance, they are tested, and those found
qualified are excused from further attendance. The men who cannot swim,
the real “land lubbers,” attend daily until they are proficient.
The most diverting instruction, however, in plebe camp is the dancing
lesson. A civilian professor spends the summer at West Point to
instruct the fourth classmen in the Terpsichorean art. Every morning
at hour intervals, squads of cadets carrying their pumps march across
the parade to Cullum Hall. Here they remove their coats, put on their
pumps, and line themselves along the wall. The waltz step is first
taught as the basis of all dancing, then later the two-step, and,
since the new dances have come upon us, the fox-trot and one-step
are rehearsed toward the end of the course. The dancing lesson is
not open to visitors. Once upon a time it was, but long cadets,
short cadets, fat cadets, lean cadets, awkward and graceful ones,
all tiptoeing, “one- and two- and threeing” around the room like a
lot of coy young hippopotami with compass bearings lost, became a
famous sight for tourists, who wanted to enjoy a good laugh. How could
anyone learn to dance in the presence of a giggling crowd! But the
crowd wasn’t to blame! Here in one corner was a little slender chap
delicate as a reed, perspiring in his efforts to steer his six-foot
partner, a regular steam roller, through the mazes of Professor Vesay’s
old-fashioned waltz. Again, all over the room, self-conscious boys in
white shirt-sleeves were in a bewildered state trying to execute the
Professor’s directions:
“Right foot in second position--glide and cut!” Nowadays an officer
excludes all sightseers during the lesson.
The instruction of the plebe in infantry drill continues
uninterruptedly, for it is essential that he should not spoil the
appearance of the rest of the battalion. Together with swimming,
dancing, and infantry drill, his morning is completely occupied. After
the midday dinner, he is assembled in squad for instruction in hygiene
and guard duty, or he may be required to spend his time working upon
his equipment, his brasses, his bayonet, and rifle.
Very little social diversion is permitted to the plebe, because he is
usually awkward in appearance and unfamiliar with military customs and
deportment. Consequently he considers that his life is excessively
hard, to him unnecessarily so; but as I have observed cadets for
thirteen years I am convinced of the wisdom of holding them in a
distinct class for one year. Then they emerge from the cocoon of
plebedom as dazzling yearling butterflies.
To afford instruction in guard duty the camp is surrounded by
sentinels. A quota of cadets from each company marches on guard
immediately after parade in the evening. There are three reliefs for
each of the ten posts: three corporals, a sergeant, and two officers of
the guard, and an officer of the day. The guard is under the control
and supervision of the officer in charge, who is one of the Tactical
officers. Each sentinel walks two hours and rests four, so that during
the twenty-four hours the cadet walks eight hours. The effect of this
duty upon the cadet is lasting, for it teaches him the fatigue a
sentinel experiences and prevents him, when an officer, from demanding
too much of his men. The borders of the camp are divided into posts,
numbered from 1 to 10.
The first important duty demanded of the plebe is guard. With what
quivering sensations this youthful soldier approaches his first real
test! Before he goes on guard he is instructed in his orders, both
general and special, but few feel as if they knew them well enough
to stand the ordeal of an inspection by a yearling corporal. No
opportunity is lost, therefore, before the hour to march on post to
perfect his knowledge, so that after supper little groups of excited
and nervous plebes study diligently these orders under the pale and
insect-infested lamp-posts near the guard tent. In the obscure light
these slim gray forms, some seated and some standing, seem shadowy and
motionless except for their gloves, little dabs of white that move
restlessly to and fro, attacking the ubiquitous mosquitoes.
The nearby guard tents under the elms are dark except the main one
where sit the officers of the guard, who keep the record of a stream
of gay upper-classmen, signing out for the hops and concerts. How far
off they are to the plebe! It seems to each one, as he watches them
from the shadows, that there is an impassable gulf between them, and
he wonders as he listens to their hurried voices calling, “Ducrot, hop
with,” or “Dumbguard, hop with, extended” if ever his year of plebedom
will roll by. What are those unintelligible remarks? It is some time
before he understands that the above expressions mean that Cadet
Ducrot is taking a young lady to the hop, and that Cadet Dumbguard
also, except that the latter’s girl lives at some distance so that
he is allowed ten minutes more after the conclusion of the dance to
escort the young lady to her home. Today, as I stroll by the camp in
the evening and see the same scenes reënacted, I re-live the first
impressions of my own plebe days.
Often while I was waiting my turn to go on post, I sat fascinated
as I watched the scene at the guard tents in the twilight of the
summer evenings. From the obscurity of the camp, stalwart figures
were constantly coming. Their gray coats and the evening mists merged
into one so completely, it seemed as if only animated pairs of white
trousers were flitting across the parade, all converging toward Post
No. 1. Little by little, as they approached the light of the guard
tent, the rays that were stabbing the darkness illumined the bell
buttons of the gray coats, and for a brief moment gleaming forms with
happy laughing faces filled the picture and then into the darkness of
the Plain quickly disappeared.
Such reveries, however, are usually interrupted by a sharp voice
calling:
“Turn out the second relief!” “Hurry up, you plebes,” and away the
novitiates scamper to perform their first guard tour. As the relief
marches around the graveled paths under the command of a very military
corporal, the plebe has, in spite of his feeling of uncertainty, a
sensation of pride in being entrusted with the guard of a part of the
camp. Each time that the corporal commands “Relief Halt No. 2!” and
the rifles hit the ground in unison, a pleasurable thrill pervades
his being, a consciousness of a certain importance. Before very much
pride can swell his breast, he is brought back to reality by the
stern corporal exclaiming, “Wake up, Mr. Dumbguard, and come to port
arms!” or “Drag in your chin!” In goes the chin, and the shoulders
instinctively draw to the rear. Glory was brief; humiliation reigns
anew.
Then commences in earnest the lonely two hours of marching up and down,
back and forth, at the end of which time the nine pounds of the rifle
has tripled at least. The arms ache, and legs feel as if they would
bore holes in the body.
The early part of the tour is filled with interest. The animation
in some company streets in contrast to the silence in others, the
occasional tinkling of mandolins, the cries from one tent to another,
the laughter over a surreptitious bucket of lemonade, the Y. M. C.
A. phonograph, the confusion over the wash lists, scampering cadets
noisily returning from hops and concerts--all keep a sentinel from
thinking of himself. It is not until the three taps of the drum,
when the camp is magically plunged into obscurity and silence, that
the plebe begins to feel the monotony of his duty and, while walking
mechanically back and forth on his post, to become introspective.
The stillness of the camp only accentuates his slow nonchalant step on
the path. In his imagination the air seems to be filled with invisible
spirits--the spirits of the night that have come forth. First he is
conscious of only a few timid ones here and there, but as the hours
wear on they seem to grow bolder and bolder, filling the surrounding
atmosphere and whispering in his ear their ghostly messages. Each
nerve becomes more alert as he listens for the crunch, crunch, crunch
of some official step on the gravel. How vivid and eerie seem his
surroundings! The lonesome hours of the night strike a sympathetic
chord in his sensitive nature and the balmy stillness calls forth
his starry fancies. At this hour when his comrades lie in their
tents bewitched by sleep, the most beguiling of enchantments, he is
conscious that another mysterious world is awakening all around him
in the solitude and silence. The air is filled with fairies holding
their imperceptible revels. He hears the rustling of the leaves, the
intermittent chattering of the crickets, the soughing of the breeze in
the branches, as if the trees in great distress were calling mournfully
to each other. Should this be the first time that he is alone at night
on post, he is a little afraid, and starts at the faintest sound. It
seems that when man reposes, the _Things_ come forth to their daily
tasks, performed in a world unknown to us.
Never will he forget, however, the ineffable beauty of the scene, so
beautiful that he is filled with a little sadness. The buildings across
the Plain, stern and melancholy even in the darkness, seemed to be
companion sentinels ever watchful over their traditions, and guarding
the sleeping hills dimly discernible through their misty blankets.
Occasionally a graceful river steamer, like some huge Jack-o’-Lantern
ruffling the smooth waters of the Hudson, glides softly by under the
cliff, her throbbing engines seeming to send forth a certain warmth
that dispels the chill of the early morning.
It is at this hour especially that his thoughts wander to his “ain
Folk” and reveal to his senses the full aroma of his days at home.
The clanking of a sword in the darkness calls him back to earth and to
the realization that the dreaded inspection is at hand.
“Halt! Who goes there?” he quickly challenges.
“Corporal of the Guard,” answers a sepulchral voice from the shadows.
“Advance, Corporal of the Guard, with the countersign,” uncertainly
commands the plebe. When within whispering distance, the corporal
faintly breathes the countersign, “Saratoga,” or “Burgoyne” (or maybe
Tannhäuser or Dumbguard, to test the sentinel), whereupon the corporal
is allowed to pass by the sentinel’s order:
“Advance, Corporal of the Guard.”
In the eyes of the yearling corporal, a plebe is habitually wrong,
so that for a few trying minutes the benighted sentinel endeavors to
“take charge of his post and all government property in view,” while
his preceptor picks him to pieces, his bearing, his accoutrements, his
knowledge, admonishing him at intervals, to “Drag in his chin--way
in.” But soon, the solitude of the night begins to work even upon the
yearling corporal constraining him to indulge in a partial intimacy
with the plebe, adding in softened tones:
“Mister, where are you from?”
“South Carolina, sir,” proudly responds the sentinel, touched by the
upper-classman’s near-cordiality.
With a gruff “Pretty fine State, mister,” the corporal virtuously
departs to interrogate his next victim.
How welcome now is the first faint tread of the relief as it makes its
bi-hourly round to take the sleepy sentinel back to the guard tent
where a bed of camp stools awaits his aching muscles.
* * * * *
The tour of guard of a new cadet is sometimes made uncomfortable by the
pranks of the upper-classmen, although since the abolition of hazing
at West Point, this form of diversion has greatly diminished. The
regulations against hazing have been made so stringent that few cadets
indulge in the practice. As a matter of fact hazing no longer exists at
the Military Academy. A few heedless chaps from time to time, forgetful
of the future, unconscious of the heartburns that they will suffer
later on, indulge in hazing the plebes, but they pay the price for
their fun. Formerly, hazing was tolerated among the cadets because some
of its features were not harmful or objectionable, but, as in all cases
where a little liberty is granted to lads of immature judgment, license
followed. The practice was carried too far and moderation ceased to
exist. In 1901, at the instance of a former cadet’s parents, Congress
ordered an investigation of hazing conditions, with the result that the
Superintendent was directed to abolish all semblance of mistreatment of
plebes by upper-classmen.
The more vicious practices disappeared at once, but from time to time
investigation revealed isolated cases of the innocent kind. In the days
of hazing, the favorite and most injurious punishment meted out to a
plebe, if he were at all fresh, or “B. J.” as the cadets say, was a
series of exercises known as “eagles.” The new man would be taken in
a tent, stripped to the waist, and compelled to execute a setting-up
exercise, “Full bend knees.” The knees are separated and bent as
much as possible; point of knees forced forward and downward, heels
together; trunk and head erect; but instead of placing the hands on
the hips, he was required to raise the arms laterally. It is not the
exercise itself that was injurious, but the duration of the punishment.
Some men were required to “eagle” 100 or 150 times without a rest, and
if they had committed a particularly heinous offense, this physical
rebuke was administered under the broiling sun in the “catacombs.”
Another form of punishment consisted in making plebes, stripped to the
waist, hold pieces of matches or tissue paper, between their shoulder
blades for half an hour or more, while their tormentors stood around
insisting that they flatten their chins to their necks.
But this punishment was not viewed by the plebes with as much dismay
as was the servitude to “Tabasco Sauce.” The prowling yearlings would
descend into the Fourth Class sink, line up the plebes, and order them
to stick out their tongues, upon which they dashed a flop or two of the
burning liquid and fled. Sometimes, at the Mess Hall, as much as half
a teaspoonful was meted out for some unconscious transgression by the
plebe of the upper-classmen’s wishes. Fortunately the above practices
have long since disappeared.
On the other hand, the greater part of the hazing consisted of what
is known at college as “fagging,” such as dragging water, sweeping
tents, making beds, cleaning brasses and rifles, making lemonade,
running errands, sewing buttons on white trousers, etc. Each
upper-classman selected a plebe for his “special duty man” to perform
the aforementioned tasks. Most of the plebes did the duty cheerfully,
buoyed up by the thought that next year their turn to have a plebe
would arrive. A large part of the hazing, moreover, was the so-called
“deviling” the plebes, a generic term applied to all kinds of humorous
and mischievous pranks. Any cadet, for example, who possessed any
peculiarity of size, appearance, or temperament was given a “tech”
or technical name, to be used always in lieu of his own. One of my
classmates, whose tent was in a part of the camp called “Paradise
Alley,” was given in consequence of his auburn hair the following
“tech” with strict instructions to use it no matter who asked him his
name. In reply, therefore, to the same inquiry, “Who are you?” many
times daily, he scrupulously replied:
“I am a too-loo-loo bird, sir! Peep-y-ty-peep, sir! Poop-y-ty-poop! Ah!
... there. I’m the sunshine of Paradise Alley, sir; I am a queen, sir.
My hair is sky-blue pink with a heavenly border, sir! Don’t you think
I’m handsome, sir? I don’t give a damn, sir!”
This “tech” became famous, the peep-y-ty-peep part fastening itself
upon him as a nickname. Of course, all of these pranks were carried
on _sub rosa_ and presumedly without the sanction or knowledge of the
authorities. One night, however, the cadet was detailed for guard for
the first time. It happened that his tour of duty was from 2 A.M. to 4
A.M., those awful hours of the night. “Peep-y-ty-peep” was patrolling
his post ready to charge anything that came along. Suddenly the huge
shadow of a cavalry Tactical officer with a rattling saber and jingling
spurs loomed out of the darkness. Frantically “Peep-y-ty-peep” charged
down the post screaming, “Halt! Halt! who’s thar?” (in good old Alabama
English), until most of the sleeping cadets in the vicinity of the post
were awakened. After a few minutes of backing and filling the massive
cavalry officer arrived in front of the now thoroughly bewildered
“sunshine of Paradise Alley,” and began to ask him his orders. Poor
old “Peep-y-ty-peep” forgot them all, general and special. After vain,
fruitless efforts to obtain an expression of opinion of some sort
from the sentinel, this officer said in desperation: “Who are you,
anyway?” Whereupon perfectly seriously the rooky sentinel cried at the
top of his voice, while the nearby tents shook with laughter, “I’m a
too-loo-loo bird, sir! Peep-y-ty-peep, sir! Poop-y-ty-poop, sir! Ah...!
there. I’m the sunshine of Paradise Alley, sir! I’m--” The Tactical
officer hurriedly disappeared.
Such incidents as the above kept the plebes from becoming too
depressed. The fun of the upper-classmen found many other outlets. On
days when watermelons were served in the Mess Hall, the plebes were
required at the conclusion of the meal to fill their mouths with seeds,
and thus loaded to the gunwales to march back to camp. The wriggling,
squirming, slippery little black particles fought with one another to
burst open the encircling mouth _en cul de poule_ and leap to freedom,
and occasionally their efforts were successful, on the march back to
camp, to the detriment of the blouse of the plebe’s front rank file.
More frequently, however, upon arrival at camp, the plebes of A Co.
were lined up at six paces from those of B Co., and at a given signal
the human machine guns belched forth their glossy black bullets. One
upper-classman ordered me to gather a handful from the battlefield and
plant them around his tent. To my dismay and chagrin they sprouted,
whereupon I was instructed to care for them, keep them in health or
sickness, and train the growing vines on slender cords.
The plebes were hardly allowed a moment to themselves. Every spare
moment was employed in cleaning guns, brasses and other equipment,
chiefly of upper-classmen for whom one happened to be a “special duty
man.” If some unoffending sparrows alighted in the company streets,
half a dozen yearling voices rang out, “Turn out, you plebes, and
chase those eagles!” Lads in all sorts and conditions of undress fell
precipitately out of their tents, bayonets in hand, to drive away the
innocent feathered marauders. If an upper-classman wished to know the
time, he would yell, “_Quelle heure est-il?_” a whole chorus replied,
“Two o’clock, sir!” Again, every plebe was required upon inquiry to
give his P. C. S., or previous condition of servitude. Those who
had none, never having worked in their lives, were made to answer
“schoolgirl,” as a mark of immaturity and unworldliness. Never was a
plebe permitted to say: “I don’t know.” “Say something, Mr. Dumbguard,”
was the admonishment followed by: “If you cannot think of anything, say
‘steamboat’! Never say that you don’t know!”
I once stood behind a man in ranks who weighed, he said, 190 pounds.
I weighed but 120. It became my daily duty to weigh and report to him
how much of his frail body I, as his near rank file, left uncovered and
exposed to the elements. When a plebe was on guard at night, some of
the yearlings would appear on his post covered with sheets which they
fluttered at a great rate.
“Halt! Who goes there?” cries the sentinel.
“A flock of angels,” was the reply, and before the sentinel could get
the corporal of the guard, the flock had flown.
* * * * *
The _pièce de résistance_ of the camp was, however, a rat funeral
for which elaborate preparations were made. Efforts for days were
exerted to catch a rat or a mouse, but if neither could be beguiled
into the trap, a grasshopper served the purpose. In a plebe’s tent an
imposing catafalque, equal to that prepared for any crowned head, was
constructed of wooden lockers covered with black rubber ponchos. Upon
the top of this bier surrounded by candles was Mr. Rat.
During the night preceding the obsequies a guard of honor of the
plebes, fantastically dressed, kept a running watch over the
fast-stiffening rodent. Next day, after drill, came the funeral. Orders
were issued by the upper-classmen for all plebes to attend and for
those having musical instruments to appear with them. One plebe was
detailed to act as chaplain and prepare the funeral oration, another
as leader of the band, another as chief mourner. The remainder of the
plebes were the afflicted relatives whose weeds were the most bizarre
and fantastic costumes that they could create. In the procession,
therefore, were plebes in underdrawers and dress coats buttoned in the
rear, hats reversed, breeches with no shoes, shoes without breeches,
ponchos over nature only, and sometimes _in puris naturalibus_. Each
mourner, moreover, came with a galvanized bucket to catch his tears.
First appeared the band composed of mandolins and guitars, a stray
violin, and perhaps a lonely cornet, followed by the deceased borne
upon a canvas stretcher strewn with dandelions. To the tune of
Chopin’s funeral march, the grotesquely arrayed mourners followed
the bier, chanting from time to time a parody written for the music
and entitled “Somebody Hit Me with a Codfish Ball!” At a signal from
the chief mourner the cortège halted to allow the plebes to deliver
themselves with abandon to their grief. By order, they raised the
galvanized buckets to catch the “tears that stopped the flood-gates
of their eyes,” while they filled the air with agonized mournings and
lamentations. If the sobbing and blubbering appeared too faint, the
upper-classmen who lined the route increased the wailings by yelling,
“Weep louder, you plebes!”
At the grave, somewhere in the rear of the camp, the “chaplain,”
“Daddy” Singles, spoke feelingly of the departed one’s nobility of
soul. The gnawing grief of the multitude gave way once more to despair
(and usually to laughter) as they lowered into the ground poor old Mr.
Rat, whose rigid whiskers gave him an amused expression, as if he were
enjoying his honorable end.
* * * * *
After two months’ training in camp, the cadets return to barracks to
begin their academic duties. At once, all nonsense ceases, and the new
cadet is in no wise interfered with, even in fun. The routine changes
completely and the day becomes fuller. Reveille is a half hour later,
but the work increases and there are fewer leisure moments.
It is to the more serious and inexorable side of his training that the
cadet must now turn. Life in barracks is more sedate, more formal, more
cold than the free existence of camp where he and his comrades were
living close to Nature. The time has arrived to renounce the pleasure
of sleeping in the open, of breathing the fragrant out-of-doors,
of living in the midst of scenery that appeals to every æsthetic
faculty. It is in the rooms of barracks that the next nine months
must be passed, the severe unadorned rooms whose bareness, however,
is forgotten in the ineffable sweetness of the friendship of one’s
roommate. At no place, perhaps, are closer friendships formed than at
West Point. They are not of the whirlwind kind so common elsewhere
today, that sweep one off his feet for the time being. Nor are they
like some great roaring wind that shakes one’s nature to its depths
and then leaves him bruised and torn, but wide awake at last, to spend
its force in other directions. Rather are they friendships of slower
growth, but deep and sincere, belonging more to a mature age than to
the irresponsible years of a cadet when his enthusiasm, his likes and
dislikes, seem to be the only things necessary to foster.
The difficulties of his studies, the homesickness, the fatigue of
the drills, the irksomeness of the routine, are all lightened by the
intimacy with his chum, by the smile of sympathy, or the word of
encouragement that greets him at all times. It is a great privilege
to live in close contact with a human being and be allowed a glimpse
into his soul. It compensates for all the stony paths of life, for all
hardships, and sends one forth to his duties with a feeling of joy and
gladness, strong in heart and thankful to God.
In every room in barracks dwell two chums, each the “wife” of the
other. The increased number of cadets and the negligence of Congress to
provide extra barracks have caused the introduction of Mormonism, for
in some rooms are three chums, each with _two_ “wives.”
The most striking feature about the rooms is their plainness. Here
the cadet is “allowed not more than nature needs,” or scarcely more,
for an inventory of the furniture discloses two iron cots, one iron
washstand, two plain wooden tables, two wooden chairs, and two steel
clothespresses. The walls and floors are bare, for the Regulations
prohibit rugs, carpets, pictures, placards, banners, or any other
adornment. Upon the plain black iron mantel in the middle is a mirror,
flanked by black tin frames containing the hours of instruction and a
time schedule designed to indicate at all times the whereabouts of the
occupants of the room. Not to have the hours of instruction correctly
posted is a military offense. No matter where the cadet is, at
recitation, barber shop, church, lecture, hospital, library, his card
must so indicate. In addition, a small inexpensive clock may be kept on
the mantel.
To give each occupant of the room a little privacy, a wooden partition
juts out half way into the room dividing this space into two alcoves,
in which are placed the cots. During the day the mattresses are folded
and upon them the bedding is piled. Only during release from quarters,
and after 9:00 P.M., are the beds allowed to be made down and used.
Along the sides of each alcove are hooks for the clothing, which must
be hung in a prescribed manner; for example, 1st hook, raincoat; 2d
hook, overcoats; 3d, sweater coat, and so on. The shoes are aligned
toes out, along the side of the bed, in a definite order, the high
overshoes as right guide, then the low overshoes, and other shoes
according to height.
Upon the top of the clothespress are the books, arranged according to
height, newspapers, periodicals, stationery, cameras, and tobacco.
In the shelf section each of the various articles of clothing has a
prescribed place, and in the coat section the uniforms are hung in a
regular order. Only on the top shelf of the clothespress may the cadet
keep a photograph.
In front of and against the alcove partition is the washstand with its
two wash bowls. The water, hot and cold, is drawn from a hydrant in the
hall. This arrangement is a great luxury in comparison with the old
days when, to heat water for shaving, we poured it over a joint in the
radiator.
In barracks as in camp there is a room orderly who is responsible for
the condition, cleanliness, and general police of all parts of the
room. The cadets sweep their own rooms and make their own beds. The
halls are swept by the civilian policemen, who also scrub periodically
the floors of both rooms and halls. By Regulations, cadets are not
allowed valets, nor are they permitted to own an automobile, horse, or
dog.
The cadets are in uniform, of course, at all times. Every detail of
their clothing is prescribed. The collars, for example, must project
above the coat collar just one eighth of an inch, and a like display of
cuff is required. Only certain kinds of shoes may be worn, and certain
kinds of gloves both for drills and hops. Although not prescribed by
Regulations, a custom of long standing among the cadets prohibits the
plebes from wearing their overcoats with the end of the capes thrown
back over the shoulder, nor may they wear lisle thread gloves to
chapel, but must content themselves with the thick, coarse Berlin gun
glove. The lowered capes of the plebes give them an air of humility
alongside of the upper-classmen, and the gun gloves accentuate the
crudity of the poor plebe’s military appearance.
The day is filled with duties. From the return of the Battalion from
breakfast until 8:00 A.M., is a study period. From 8:00 A.M. until
12:35 P.M., the different classes attend recitations in the prescribed
courses, or perhaps have instruction in gymnastic exercises or in
riding. Dinner comes at 12:40 P.M., after which recitations are held
until 3:50 P.M. In the fall and spring drills commence at 4:00 P.M.,
followed by parade at 5:30 P.M., and retreat and supper at 6:30 P.M.
Cadets do not proceed individually to their classrooms, but are formed
in the area of barracks in sections, under the command of a section
marcher, who, after reporting to the officer of the day any absentees,
marches his men to their section rooms.
In like manner there is a meal formation. The Battalions are formed
in front of barracks and marched by the two senior captains to the
Mess Hall. Just as much observance to step, alignment, and bearing is
required as though marching to parade.
Upon entering the hall, “at ease” is commanded, whereupon the cadets
proceed quietly to their places at table and remain standing back of
their chairs until the cadet captain commands: “A Co., take seats.” The
food is always ready so there is no delay. Thirty minutes are allowed
for breakfast and supper, and forty for dinner.
As soon as seated, cadets begin to talk and laugh. The only
restriction upon them is that they must conduct themselves at mess
like young gentlemen. No throwing of food or waste is tolerated. One
first-classman, known as the table commandant, is in charge of each
table and is held responsible for all breaches of regulations upon the
part of the cadets thereat.
Civilian waiters bring the food from the kitchen and place it upon
the table. The cadets are then required to help themselves. Custom
makes the three or four plebes at each table perform the most onerous
duties. One plebe, known as the “water corporal” pours the water and
milk. Another, the “meat corporal,” carves the “bone,” and another, the
“gunner,” pours the coffee, and exercises a general supervision over
the supply. Their duties keep them very busy, for the upper-classmen
constantly demand food.
[Illustration: Marching to Barracks from Dinner
The Academic Buildings]
The life at the Mess Hall is replete with customs, and the vocabulary
of the cadets filled with terms unintelligible to the uninitiated. Some
of their customs would not be approved in polite society but would be,
perhaps, by modern efficiency. If, for example, a man at the end of
the table wishes more water or milk, bang! goes his glass on the table
preliminary to its flight through the air to the outstretched nervous
hands of the “water corporal.” The plebe eats in spasms, so to speak,
one eye on his food, and the other on the alert for aërial glasses.
“How’s the cow?” yells an upper-classman, meaning how much milk is in
the pitcher.
“Almost dry, sir!” replies the plebe.
“Milk her again!” is commanded as the glass comes speeding down.
Every morning the “gunner” who sits at the end of the table, in
capacity of hostess, so to speak, “sounds off” the number of days
until June. Instead of grace, he commences the meal, “282 days until
June, sir!” On the 300th, 200th, 100th day before June, the plebes
write speeches in which they are allowed great latitude in satirizing
the upper-classmen. The yearling who has been particularly annoying
during the year sees all of his faults held up to ridicule, but he must
swallow his medicine at the hands of the plebe.
It is a real treat to see the men at mess. No melancholy stillness
pervades the Mess Hall. One can hardly hear himself in the din of
rattling dishes, knives, forks, the peals of laughter, the roar of
eight hundred voices all talking at once, punctuated by the plebes
repeatedly shrieking, “Bread! please!” or whatever they want. In
beholding them, one realizes vividly the meaning of the expression
“teeming with life.”
Occasionally, orders are read in the Mess Hall by the Adjutant. It
would seem impossible to get the attention of the cadets, but when he
commands:
“Bát-tál-yón ... at-ten-tion!” the roar almost instantly subsides,
like a balloon suddenly pierced. A wave of silence engulfs the hall,
accentuated at times by the fall of a fork or spoon on the tiled floor.
Quietly the cadets sit, as the Adjutant reads his order, on “skins”
(delinquencies). There are no soft notes in his tone. They are all
fortissimo and run together until they become “monotonous,” like the
hum of a factory. Some mischievous cadet, unable to bear the enforced
inactivity, enlivens a small group around him by stealthily firing a
bread ball at an unobserving neighbor.
Each cadet has a silver napkin ring with his name and class inscribed
thereon. At graduation all of the rings are melted into a loving cup
which is given to the member of the class who has the first son. This
child is known as the “Class boy.”
Just before the conclusion of the meal the first captain makes an
inspection, calls the Mess Hall to attention, and commands: “1st
Battalion, rise.” The cadets file out quietly, form in front of the
Mess Hall, and return to their barracks.
* * * * *
The rooms are subjected to a continual series of inspections. First,
there is a rather superficial inspection by the subdivision inspectors,
cadets of the First Class, twenty minutes after reveille. They give the
rooms a _coup d’œil_ chiefly to see that the floors have been swept and
the bedding folded and piled. During the forenoon, the Tactical officer
in charge of the company makes a careful survey of everything. This is
known as the “Tac” inspection, and may occur any time from 8:00 A.M.
to 11:00 A.M. Until the “Tac” makes his morning visit the cadets are
required to wear their uniforms buttoned. The majority of the cadets
sit around in their sweater coats until they hear the authoritative
knock of the “Tac” on the doors of the first-floor rooms. They then
quickly don their blouses until after he leaves, when sweaters are
again brought forth. This time is a study period and it is almost
impossible to concentrate on problems that make you feel like tearing
your hair, when dressed in a tight-fitting uniform.
When roommates attend morning recitations at different periods, the
first-hour men are notified of the inspection by their comrades who
leave the mirror turned to the wall as a signal, or, sometimes, just a
sign--“He has.” Once a Tactical officer with a sense of humor traced in
the dust across the face of a cadet’s mirror, during his absence, “He
has.”
Upon the return from first-hour recitations the divisions ring with
shouts, “Has he?” “Has he?” mingled with the cries to the plebe mail
carrier of, “Mr. Dumbguard, has the mail?”
After dinner the officer of the day inspects to see that the cadets
are not visiting and that the rooms are in order. During the evening
study periods, from about 7:30 to 9:30 P.M., the cadet sentinels posted
in the halls of barracks inspect three times. They open the doors of
each room, inquiring, “All right, sir?” whereupon the occupants reply,
“All right, sir!” or “Cadet Ducrot is absent.” The reply “All right”
signifies that all occupants are present, or if any are absent that
their absence is authorized. Any cadet who intentionally makes an
incorrect report is dismissed from the Academy.
The day ends, as it begins, with an inspection of the subdivision
inspectors. At the three taps of the drum in the Area, cries of “Lights
out!” fill the air. The buildings are plunged into darkness except for
a dim hall light, and the inspectors, armed with bull’s-eye lanterns,
flit through the halls like nervous fireflies. Each door is hurriedly
opened; a beam of light seeks first one bed then the next, while the
dark form on the threshold calls out sharply, “All in?” “All in, sir!”
replies the room orderly from the depths of the alcove. Bang! goes the
door and the shadow disappears. From all the divisions the fireflies
swarm into the Area and align themselves like a string of shining beads
in front of the officer of the day to whom they report.
* * * * *
For all breaches of regulations the cadets are reported, “skinned”
in their parlance. The list of delinquencies is read out at retreat,
and the next morning the cadet must submit a written explanation of
the offense. The majority of the reports are for minor offenses, such
as lates, absences, inattention, buttons off uniform, and so on.
Ordinarily, no explanation for these offenses is requested, although
the cadet has a right to offer one if he so desires. The more serious
offenses, however, must be explained.
In their explanations cadets must confine their statements to plain
facts. No criticism or argumentation is allowed. Occasionally some
wit transcends the limit and amuses himself for the moment at the
expense of his conduct grade. Once a report was entered against a
cadet for having worn his night-shirt to the Drawing Academy. It seems
that, lacking a plain white shirt, he hastily donned a night-shirt,
stuffing the flowing tails in his trousers. He was betrayed, however,
by the blue embroidery down the front. An instructor, seeing the queer
garment, reported the cadet. Since he had been obliged to attend a
number of lectures in drawing, at which he invariably fell asleep, he
submitted the following facetious explanation to the Commandant of
Cadets:
* * * * *
SIR:
In explanation of the report “wearing a night-shirt to the Drawing
Academy on the 10th inst.” I have the honor to state that I heard
that there was to be a lecture in drawing; consequently, I wore my
night-shirt.
* * * * *
I need not add that he walked a number of punishment tours for his wit.
The punishments that may be awarded a cadet are:
(_a_) Confinements; that is, restriction to room
during release from quarters.
Restriction of limits.
Deprivation of privileges.
Punishment tours.
Reprimands.
Reduction of officers or non-commissioned
officers to the grade of private.
Loss of furlough.
(_b_) Suspension.
Dismissal.
Punishment tours are of one-hour duration, during which time the cadet
walks an assigned beat. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons the Area
is filled with cadets walking to and fro, like pendulums, each tracing
in the gravel a little path. They resemble in their animation the
goings and comings of a colony of ants. No cadet enjoys walking tours.
It is viewed as a particularly disagreeable punishment, much worse
than serving a confinement in one’s room, where he may “bone fiction,”
chasing away the gloom of imprisonment with some interesting book. In
the winter months the chill and snow fill their thoughts and hearts as
they pace to and fro, beating their hands together for warmth. But it
is in the autumn and spring when the athletic contests with outside
teams take place that the misery of walking tours becomes terribly
acute. The cheering of the fortunate cadets witnessing the games is
like some magnet which draws and draws. The longing must be resisted
and stifled while they continue upon their monotonous walk, chained to
an inexorable task.
The work demanded of a cadet is hard, but without the restrictions,
obstacles, the petty annoyances, the young plebe that comes to West
Point so plastic and yielding would never grow and develop. At first
the limitations that surround him baffle and bewilder him for a time,
but as the days pass by and he begins to be imbued with the spirit of
the Corps, and to feel the traditions and atmosphere of West Point, he
insensibly rises superior to every annoying restriction. He may indulge
in occasional grumbling and ill-humor but what of that? He knows now
that a reason exists for every obstacle, and he sees in the hardships a
way that leads to the development of his higher self. His moral force
is gradually crystallized and he gains the spirit of willingness to do
his duty toward the Academy and his little bit in keeping strong the
spirit of West Point.
The main idea of West Point after all is to develop the mind and
character of the cadet, to instill into him the proper ideas of
discipline. It does not aim for a discipline where a man’s spirit or
will is broken, so that he obeys through fear, but a discipline of the
soul, wherein a cadet performs his duty for the deed’s sake. Without
this high moral spirit, no army can be successful, despite the most
brilliant galaxy of officers.