A MIDNIGHT MEETING
“Put down your things and put up your hands!” Pug Kennedy fairly issued
the order to Bob as an officer might have done.
“Why should I?” asked the stout youth. “I haven’t finished my dinner.”
“Well, you’re not going to until I finish you. Come on! Put up your
hands! I’m a scrapper, but I won’t hit any one with his hands full. Put
’em up, I say, or I’ll smash you in a minute!”
“Don’t you hit him!” called Ned, hastily arising from the opposite side
of the table.
“Mind your own business!” ordered Pug.
“Take some one your size!” came a voice from the end of the hall.
“I’ll take you if you want me to!” snapped Pug.
He took a step nearer Bob, and the latter, in very self-defense, was
about to set down his plate and cup, when Captain Trainer, who had a
habit of unexpectedly dropping into the mess hall, entered the big
room. He took in, at a glance, what was about to happen.
“Stop!” he cried in commanding tones. “What does this mean?”
“He spilled a lot of hot coffee down my back!” growled Pug, but he had
lost some of his belligerency since the advent of his captain.
“I didn’t mean to,” explained Bob. “It was an accident, some one
jostled me.”
“Very well,” said Captain Trainer. “That is equivalent to an apology,
Kennedy, and I direct you to accept it as such.”
“I’m sure I’m sorry,” said Bob. “I really didn’t mean to.”
“All right,” half growled Pug. “If you do it again, though, I’ll punch
you worse than I did before!” and he glared at Bob.
The captain, seeing that he had averted hostilities for the time being,
thought it best to withdraw. Enlisted men, especially at meals, like to
be free from restraint, and an officer, no matter how much he is liked
by his command, is a sort of damper at times.
Pug squirmed and twisted, trying to wipe some of the coffee stains from
the back of his coat and Bob went on to his place to finish his meal.
“There’ll be trouble with that fellow before we are through with him,”
said Jerry to his chums in a low voice, as they went out of the mess
hall, for a little rest before drill was resumed.
“He’s made trouble enough already,” said Bob. “Though of course it is
rather raw to have coffee spilled down your back. But I couldn’t help
it.”
“Of course not,” agreed Jerry. “But what I meant was that we’ll have
personal trouble with him. He seems always spoiling for a fight, and
more so when we are concerned than any one else. Maybe he doesn’t like
being in the same squad with us.”
“He can’t dislike it any more than we do,” suggested Ned. “Just wait
until I get made a corporal and have charge! Then I’ll make him step
around.”
“Oh, are you going to get promoted to a corporal?” asked Jerry. “I
didn’t know that was on the bill,” and he winked at Bob.
“Sure I’m going to be promoted,” went on Ned. “Aren’t you working for
that?”
And Jerry and Bob had to admit that they were, though it was rather
early in the game to expect anything.
The first step upward from private, the lowest army rank, is to be
made a corporal, and, after that one becomes a sergeant. A corporal
wears two V-shaped stripes, on his sleeves. The V in each case is
inverted. A sergeant has three such stripes. There are various sorts
of sergeants--duty or line sergeants, staff and major sergeants, mess
sergeants, supply sergeants and so on. The first sergeant is often
called “Top,” and sometimes considers himself almost a commissioned
officer.
Sergeants and corporals are non-commissioned officers, and there is a
great difference in rank between a commissioned and a non-commissioned
man.
A commissioned officer can resign, and quit when he wants to, but an
enlisted man, or a non-commissioned officer can not. Commissioned
officers are appointed by the President, and the commission carries a
certain rank, beginning with second lieutenant. Each step upward means
a new commission. The sergeants and corporals are appointed, nominally,
by the colonel of their regiment, by warrant.
“Well, then Pug had better look out for himself, if you’re going to
have it in for him when you’re made corporal,” went on Jerry. “But say,
it must be fun to be an officer--even a non-commissioned one.”
“It is,” agreed Ned. “You get out of a lot of work that isn’t any fun,
such as being the kitchen police, doing fatigue work like cleaning up
the barracks and grounds, digging drains and the like, and when you’re
on guard you don’t have to keep on the go--all you have to do is to
keep watch over the other sentries.”
“Fine and dandy!” exclaimed Bob.
“Me for it!” added Jerry.
“But that isn’t getting us anywhere just now,” said Ned. “I’m detailed
for kitchen police this very day.”
“So’m I,” admitted Bob, and, as it happened, Jerry was, too.
When one is detailed to the kitchen police it does not mean that the
young soldier has to arrest those who eat too much, or too little.
In an army camp the cooking is done, in most instances, by soldiers
detailed for it, though in some cases professional cooks may be used,
such having enlisted or been drafted. Each day certain members of the
company are named to help the cooks, of which there are usually three.
The helpers are known as the “kitchen police,” and they do all sorts
of work, peeling potatoes, washing the pots and pans, scrubbing the
floors, waiting on table, bringing in coal and wood.
This kitchen policing goes by turn, so no one man gets too much of it,
or has to do it too steadily. It was the first time Ned, Bob and Jerry
had been assigned to this duty, and they went at it without grumbling,
which is what every good soldier does. Their many camping experiences
stood them in good stead in this, and the efficient manner in which
they went about their tasks in cleaning up the pots and pans drew a
compliment from the professional cook.
“We’ll know our soup comes out of a clean pot the next time we eat,”
said Bob, as he gave the copper a final polish.
“And by the looks of things we’re going to have a good feed to-morrow,”
added Ned.
“We always do on Sunday,” said Jerry.
On Sundays in camp, reveille, mess and sick calls are one hour later
than on week days, giving more opportunity for slumber, and on
Saturdays the first call for drill is not until 7:35 instead of 6:50,
which is also a little relief.
“Yes, there’ll be a good dinner to-morrow,” resumed Bob, as he passed
the ice chest, having occasion to open it. “Plenty of chicken and the
fixings.”
The Sunday dinner in camp, in fact, is usually the long-looked-for meal
of the week, and the supper, likewise, is more elaborate than usual.
The feeding of the boys of the army is a science, and it is worked out
to what might be called mathematical exactness.
For instance, at Camp Dixton each enlisted man received, or was each
day credited with, what is called the “garrison ration.” This consisted
of a certain amount of fresh beef, flour, baking powder, bran,
potatoes, prunes, coffee, sugar, evaporated milk, condiments, butter,
lard, syrup and flavoring extract.
Of course each man did not actually receive these things, for, if he
had, he would have had trouble in getting them cooked, or in shape
to eat. But that was his allowance and he was entitled to it or its
equivalent, each article mentioned being issued in certain specific
measure or weight.
The soldiers were allowed to trade what they did not want for things
they did. They could swap beef for mutton, bacon for hash and so on.
They could have rice for beans, or dried apples for prunes, there being
substitutes for almost every ration issued.
“And a nice thing about it, too,” said Jerry, when he and his chums
were discussing it, “is that you don’t have to eat it all.”
“Don’t tell Bob that, it’ll scare him,” suggested Ned.
“Well, I mean you can save some,” Jerry explained, “and turn it into
cash.”
“Do we spend the cash?” asked Bob.
“It isn’t usual. It’s turned back into the company fund, and used to
buy extras for special dinners--ice cream and the like.”
While the ration spoken of is supposed to be issued to each soldier, in
reality it is not. He has to take the meal the cook prepares each day,
and this is supervised by the mess sergeant. This official is given
the task of looking after the kitchen. He is supposed to save a little
here and there, where he can, and convert mutton into ham and eggs on
occasions, and save enough on the prunes to have them turn into lemon
pie once in a while.
All this Ned, Bob, and Jerry learned as they went along. They finished
their kitchen police work, and were relieved from duty, taking the
occasion to go to the Y. M. C. A. headquarters to write some letters.
“I wonder how things are in Cresville,” observed Bob, as he carefully
sealed one envelope, and took care that his chums did not see the
address.
“I had a paper from there the other day,” said Jerry. “The old town
seemed to be getting along in spite of our absence.”
“No more fires?” asked Ned.
“No; didn’t read of any.”
“Crooked Nose wasn’t arrested for stealing the old Frenchman’s money,
or my father’s watch, or Mrs. Hopkins’ brooch, was he?” inquired Bob.
“No. But the article said that the old man insisted that he did lose a
big sum on the occasion of the blaze. He tells the same story he told
us, but I guess few believe he had much money.”
“All the same it was a mean trick, if some one robbed the old man, and
I’d like to catch Crooked Nose, if there is such a person,” declared
Ned with energy.
“I’m with you!” added Bob. “Say,” he went on, “have any of you written
to Professor Snodgrass?”
“No, and we ought to,” said Jerry. “We ought to invite him down to
camp. I heard he was given a leave of absence, and there are some queer
bugs down here in camp that he might like to look over.”
“I’ll drop him a line,” promised Jerry.
That night the three motor boys went on guard together for a two-hour
period just before midnight. Their posts adjoined, and as they marched
back and forth they could speak now and again.
It was shortly before twelve o’clock, when the camp was wrapped in
darkness and very still, that, as Jerry passed a certain spot where
there was a small hollow among some trees, he saw, dimly outlined
against the sky, a figure crawling along in a stooping position.
Jerry was about to challenge, for those were his orders, when he saw a
second figure crawl along, from the direction of a public road outside
the camp, and join the first.
“That’s queer,” mused Jerry, as he observed the midnight meeting. “I’ll
have to look into this.”