CONSCRIPT 2989_Conscript 2989: Experiences of a Drafted Man

Thursday:

Once when I was an enthusiastic freshman (it seems ages ago) I joined a

Latin society that had for its inspiration the phrase, _forsan haec olim

meminisse juvabit_.

All I can remember about the society is the motto, and there is nothing

particularly pleasant about the recollection, either. But somehow

to-night that fool phrase comes back to me and makes a pessimist of me

right off. I wonder how pleasant these things are going to be and

whether I will want to remember them hereafter. Perhaps I won't have

much choice. I'll probably remember them whether I want to or not.

Already my first eight hours of active service as Conscript 2989 have

some sharp edges sticking out which I am likely to remember, though many

of them are far from pleasant.

I am now truly a member of the army of the great unwashed and

unwashable--no, I take that back. They are washable. I saw a grizzly old

Sergeant herding four of them out to the washroom this evening. Each of

them carried a formidable square of yellow soap and a most unhappy

expression. But the Sergeant looked pleased with his detail.

Never in my wildest flights of fancy can I picture some of these men as

soldiers. Slavs, Poles, Italians, Greeks, a sprinkling of Chinese and

Japs--Jews with expressionless faces, and what not, are all about me. I'm

in a barracks with 270 of them, and so far I've found a half dozen men

who could speak English without an accent. Is it possible to make

soldiers of these fellows? Well, if muscle and bone (principally bone)

is what is wanted for material, they have got it here with a vengeance.

But, then, from the looks of things they have been doing wonders and

they may make creditable soldiers of them at that. Goodness knows, they

may even make a soldier out of me, which would be a miracle. Here's

hoping.

Friday:

I only need to glance back over the page I wrote last night to see how I

felt. This conscripting must have gotten under my skin a little deeper

than I thought. I'll admit I was homesick, and I guess it made me a

little testy. I think I really should tear that page out and begin over.

It isn't exactly fair, and, besides, it doesn't fulfil the function of a

diary, anyway, which, I take it, is a record of events and things--not a

criticism of everybody in general and an opportunity to give vent to

disagreeable feelings.

[Illustration: Never in my wildest flights of fancy can I picture some

of these men as soldiers]

From a "close-up" view yesterday may have seemed like a trying day, but

to-night it looks a lot different and a lot more interesting. I must

confess that all the "good-byes," and the bands, and the weeping mothers

and sweethearts, and the handshakes, and the pompous old turtles (who

dodged the draft in the Civil War or bought substitutes) who slapped you

on the back and told you how they wished they were young again, along

with the arrival of the "Kaiser Kanners," who unquestionably were

"kanners" of another variety, and the parade and the Home Guard and the

dozen and one "Comfort Kits" that every one handed you, and the mystery

of what was to come, and the scared look on every one's face, including

my own, and the vacant feeling in the pit of one's stomach, superinduced

by sandwiches and coffee, fudge, oranges and chocolates in lieu of a

real meal, did get on my nerves.

[Illustration: Every one of them had a fiendish grin on his face]

But, hang it, when I look back we got a great farewell, at that. And the

local Board did things up mighty well. I find myself possessed of a

razor, razor strop, wrist watch, two pocket knives, unbreakable mirror,

drinking cup and a lot of other things that I never expected to own or

need. I haven't the remotest idea where many of them came from.

Then there was that long, almost never ending train ride, which seemed

to be taking me on an unbearable distance from the place I really felt I

belonged.

And the arrival; all I saw when I tumbled off the train were thousands

of unpainted buildings and millions of fellows in khaki, and every one

of them had a fiendish grin on his face as he shouted: "Oh, you rookey.

Wait, just wait; you'll get yours! When they bring on the needle. Oh,

the needle."

I had a vague idea of what the "needle" might be, but it wasn't pleasant

to hear about it from every one I met. But I guess there were a lot of

fellows who were not quite certain what this threatening "needle" was.

Foolishly two of them asked one of the Sergeants who met us at the train

and what they heard in reply to their queries made them paler than they

were before, if that were possible. Thereafter, for the rest of the

afternoon and evening, the "needle" was the subject of earnest

conversation among us all, and the doubts and misgivings about that

instrument of torture, coupled with a thoroughly good case of

homesickness on the part of every one of us helped to make a pleasant

(?) evening. And that most of us worried until far into the night is

certain. I know I did, and the Italian on my left cried himself to

sleep, and didn't try to hide his unhappiness either. Oh, it was a

delightful evening, all things considered.

Forty-seven of us, all from my own district, came down together, and

while we remained in one group there was a measure of consolation to be

had for us all. But our hopes that we would stay together at camp were

dashed immediately we got off the train. In fact we were so thoroughly

split up that I managed to get into a squad composed entirely of

foreigners, and I'm still with them. But the prospects of a change are

excellent.

Quite as docile as sheep, and just as ignorant, we were marched down one

camp street after another. My friends of foreign extraction, with due

regard for anything that looked like a uniform, saluted every one that

passed, and they were tolerably busy until we were halted outside of our

present abode, a big two-story, unpainted barracks building.

Here mess kits were served to each of us, and though we did not know the

combination that unlocked the mysterious looking things, we were glad to

get them, because they added so much to the dozen and one things we were

already carrying. Then, completely smothering us, came two tremendous

horse blankets and a comforter. Those comforters were everything their

name implies. Not only did they afford warmth, but amusement as well.

They ranged in shades from baby blue and pink to cerise and lavender,

and some one with a sense of humour must have distributed them. The

stout, pudgy, black-haired Italian to my left reposes under the

voluminous folds of a beautiful pink creation, and across the room sits

a huge Irishman, with hands as big as hams and shoulders of a giant,

with a baby blue comforter wrapped about him. Mine is a bewitching old

rose. But, believe me, it's there with the quality if it isn't much on

looks. I found that out last night.

Then, after the Sergeant showed us where we bunked and where we could

expect to find something to eat about supper time, every one left us

severely alone, which was mostly what we wanted, because we all had a

lot on our mind between homesickness and that blessed "needle." But

there was some work to do, such as stuffing mattresses with hay,

sweeping out the barracks and similar occupations until bed time.

[Illustration: A baby blue comforter wrapped about him.]

Some one, who had evidently heard some weird tales about the punishment

meted out to those who overslept at camp, brought an alarm clock along

with him, and the blooming thing went off at 4 A.M. Of course we got up,

switched the lights on over head, and proceeded to get dressed with that

resigned now-what-are-you-going-to-do-with-us air.

But dressing was interrupted by a string of the most beautiful cusses I

ever heard, coming downstairs just in advance of a mighty mad looking

Sergeant:

"Who in ---- tarnation bow-wows has got that ---- alarm clock? Pitch it out

the ---- window, and git back to bed."

It went and we went. But that's as far as we could go. Thoughts of the

"needle" and other forms of torture which we were to face in a few short

hours kept most of us awake until a quarter after five, when every

officer in camp began to blow letter-carrier whistles. Then we all got

up and were introduced to some physical exercises guaranteed to stretch

every muscle in our makeup. I took a cold shower bath after mine, and

was the object of interest of the entire barracks. Great stuff (I mean

the shower).

Most of us might have been tolerably happy after that, if it hadn't been

for the fact that every man in uniform made some evil suggestion about

the "needle." And when they saw us all, white and corpsey looking and

more or less unsteady on our legs, line up in front of the barracks and

march off under our Second Lieutenant, the groans and sorry faces they

feigned were enough to make one's blood run cold. And then we got the

"needle."

[Illustration: An alarm clock went off at 4 A.M.]

I, for one, was disappointed, and so were most of the rest of us. But

there were a few who didn't give themselves a chance to be disappointed.

They promptly fainted: not because of the injection but because of the

state of their nerves which they all admitted afterward. There were a

few things about the examination calculated to scare a man to death such

as the question: "In case you are shot and killed to whom do you wish

six months' pay to be sent?" Many of us stammered a bit before

answering.

[Illustration: Jabbed at the iodine mark and pulled the trigger]

After that we stripped, lined up and started on our way. Then measured,

marked and finger-printed, we arrived before a physician who stamped a

quarter section under the left shoulder blade with a sponge covered with

iodine, while another one scratched the skin on our upper arm to mark

the acreage to be covered by a vaccination. We moved on to two more

physicians, and while one dug a hunk out of our arm and inserted vaccine

in place of the skin removed, the other man, with a villainously long

hypodermic, jabbed at the iodine mark and pulled the trigger. And now,

by George, if any one else around here tries to kid me into worrying

about anything at all, I'm going to talk back proper. They sure had me

scared stiff and I'll admit it. Why, hang it, I would rather have had

typhoid than face that "needle" before I really knew what it amounted

to. But here I am, with germs variously estimated at from 15,000 to

250,000 circulating around inside of me, due to said "needle," and aside

from a little wooziness in the head, and a sore shoulder, I'm quite

contented and ready to turn in. Good-night.

Saturday:

The serum injections of yesterday produced some queer, and in one case

unfortunate, results. Last night after taps were sounded and lights were

out, I lay awake a long time in spite of the fact I was very tired.

Couldn't understand it, and my arm and back were as sore as could be.

Hour after hour wore on, and I couldn't get to sleep. Some did, however,

and I had a regular frog's chorus of snores to keep me company. I became

a veritable specialist in snores and wheezes and grunts. Every time I

heard a new variety I formed mental pictures of the men who probably

made them.

Then the chorus was interrupted by some one not far from me who called

out mournfully: "Oh, my back, my back! The needle!" Then in sharper

tones: "Count off. 1-2-3-4." I wondered what horrors his overwrought

nerves were causing him to dream of.

But when I did get to sleep I slept soundly, certainly, for they told me

this morning that one chap had become seriously ill, and had been

carried from the barracks to an ambulance and whisked away to the

hospital sometime during the small hours of the morning. It seems that

he had an excess of germs circulating around inside of him, due to the

fact that he did not know enough to move on after the doctor had given

him the first injection, and the physician, looking only for the nearest

iodine spot, shot him twice in the same place.

However, I am reasonably certain I'll sleep to-night all right, for I've

been pulling stumps all day, or rather during the time I wasn't learning

to recognize my right foot from my left, and a few other things that

every man thinks he knows until some one takes the pains to expose his

ignorance. Oh, I have the qualities of a really capable soldier in me--if

some one can find them. As an infantryman I'm a much better stump

puller. I proved that this afternoon. I have a beautiful double handful

of blisters, not to mention a ruined suit of clothes and hopeless shoes,

to my credit in this war of exterminating the Hun. I hope we get

uniforms soon, because if we don't, I'll be going about clad in my old

rose comforter and some summer underclothes.

Stump pulling is rough on clothes, but it certainly is an appetite

builder. I've discovered already that it is good policy to be among the

first on line with a mess kit, then if you can bolt your beef a-la-mode

fast enough, and get outside and wash up your kit, you stand a good

chance of joining the last of the line, thereby getting a second

helping. Indeed, several fellows have it down to such a science already,

that they get three helpings before the cook begins to say things.

The barracks is beginning to look picturesque. The atmosphere of a

western mining camp, arranged for stage purposes, prevails. The

Italians, swarthy-faced, heavy-featured fellows, for the most part,

gather in little groups, smoke villainous pipes and play cards

incessantly, whenever they are allowed much time in the barracks. Our

Semitic friends linger in the vicinity of the door that leads to the

mess hall and kitchen, especially about meal time. And their mess kits

are always handy. Nicknames have already become common, and we have

among us such worthies as Fat, Doc, Peck's Bad Boy, Toney, Binkie,

Shortie, Shrimp, Simp and Pop. The last name has been applied to me,

inspired, no doubt, by the suggestion of baldness aloft.

[Illustration: Italians gather in little groups]

Sunday:

Didn't sleep much last night, for some reason. Think I was too tired.

This is the third night I've lost time. Beginning to feel it now. But no

one else seemed to sleep well either, or at least they didn't go to

sleep right off. Lights out at ten and all supposed to be "tucked in."

Then came various remarks from the darkness; choice, unprintable remarks

about the Kaiser, the Government, the Sergeant, certain Corporals, who

doubtless heard all their well-wishers had to say, but could not

identify the speakers. Indeed, it struck me that the fellows had hit

upon a choice way of telling certain non-coms what they thought of them,

without the possibility of getting in bad. Then arguments started in the

darkness, and the vocal combatants were urged on by catcalls and

encouraging yells from various sections of the unlighted room, and

presently shoes started flying.

About that time the Top Sergeant upstairs woke up, and decided to

investigate. Silence fell in the big room when the stairs, creaking

under his weight, gave warning that the crusty old veteran of fifteen

years' service with the Regulars was on his way down.

[Illustration: The Top Sergeant made the round of the cots]

The door opened and a pocket flashlight began to travel from cot to cot.

But strangely enough every one was slumbering contentedly, and some even

snoring. The Top Sergeant made the round of the cots, reached the door

and "doused his glim."

Then with a most impressive introduction of profanity he remarked that

"The next ----, ----, son-of-a-bandmaster, who started anything would spend

the rest of the night out on the porch in his underclothes," whereupon

some wag from the darkness replied: "Put t' Kaiser out there, he started

it." While others sweetly remarked: "Good-night Ser_geant_." "Pleasant

dreams, dear." "Come kiss me good-night." and "Don't forget to tuck us

all in."

But things eventually subsided and I dozed off, only to be awakened

later by some one kissing me on the cheek. It was startling to say the

least, and I sat up. I thought perhaps the Sergeant had come back to say

good-night. Then it happened again, only this time on my hand, and I

heard an eager little whine, and a sniff-sniff-sniffing that told me

plainly a dog was beside my cot.

I chirped encouragingly and up he came. Then he dived between the

blankets and burrowing deep worked his way down to the foot of my cot.

Evidently he had slept in army cots before. All my efforts to dislodge

him were futile and I knew that unless I got up and unmade my bed he

would not come out. So I left him, and he in gratitude kept my feet

warm.

This morning he appeared at reveille, waking me up with his frantic

efforts to dig himself to light again and kissing me good-morning, by

way of showing his appreciation. He was just a plain yellow dog, with a

lop ear and a habit of wagging all over when he could not get enough

expression in his stump of a tail. Attached to a strap that he wore in

place of a collar was a tag on which was scrawled: "Presented to Local

Board No. 163--Hold the fort for we are coming." I concluded that if they

held onto the fort, when they arrived, as well as they held onto their

dog it wasn't worth while having them come at all.

"Local Board No. 163" stood guard on the foot of my bed, or rather, sat

guard, until I got dressed, and although he created no end of interest

among the rest of the fellows in the room, who whistled and called to

him, he refused to leave his new-found "bunkie." He just sat tight. He

even stayed when I got up to go, but he looked at me with a most

reproachful air, as if to say, "I think a lot of you even though you do

want to leave me."

He remained after every one had left the room and when I returned an

hour later to get my mess kit for breakfast, he was still there.

But the rattle of mess tins must have suggested something to him for

when I got up to go this time he was right beside me, and he even braved

the crush at the mess-hall door to stick near me.

That dog never had so much to eat in all his young life as he got for

breakfast that morning. First he visited our Japanese cook, who liked

him and proved it by giving him a piece of meat. Then he visited the

kitchen police, who found something for him, after which he made the

rounds of the mess tables, coming back to me actually bloated with food.

He looked up at me and I'll swear he grinned and tried to say: "This is

the life--eh, Ol' Top?"

"Local Board No. 163" has already become a favourite, but with all his

petting from his many well-wishers, he seems to want to call me Boss.

He's on the cot beside me now as I write, snoring with disgusting

impoliteness, but I guess, being just a plain yellow dog, he don't know

any better.

This has been a day of visitors, and little work. Early this morning

they began to arrive. I never saw so many motor cars anywhere, except at

football games, or the races. And girls; thousands of them, and pretty,

too. But shucks, I'm outclassed. In fact I began to feel like my dog

to-day. I'll admit it was pretty soft for the fellows who had uniforms,

but for the poor tramps like myself, who still wear their civilian

clothes (or what is left of them, which isn't very much all told) it was

sort of a lonesome day.

[Illustration: Pretty soft for the fellows who had uniforms]

Then there were the lucky fellows who had passes to leave camp. They

looked fine, tramping down the road toward the station. Of course they

were all uniformed; they are not allowed to leave camp unless they are.

But "Local Board No. 163" and I take consolation in the fact that

perhaps next Sunday we will be all spick and span in a nice new uniform,

and then we'll strike for a pass, too, and go home and swagger about a

bit ourselves.

Feeling delightfully tired and sleepy; and I know I'll "press some of

the creases out o' my blankets" to-night. This place seems almost

comfortable and homelike now, and the men--well I've changed my original

opinion of them considerably. They all (or most of them) have their

hearts in the right place, and there aren't so many muckers as I thought

there might be. In fact I'm beginning to like things mighty well; really

enjoying myself. Only, hang it, I think I'm getting a good case of

hives. Haven't been afflicted thus for about five years. If they keep up

I'll report to the hospital shortly. "Come on 'Local Board No. 163'

we'll turn in."

Monday:

Several things of importance happened to-day. For one thing we got some

clothes. I say _some_ clothes advisedly, for I'm not all clothed yet,

being minus such important articles as an undershirt, socks and shoes.

But those I brought from home, though sanctified and made holey by

arduous labours in other fields, will do for the present. I possess a

pair of winter breeches and a summer coat, but what matters that. It is

sufficient to know that they fit, which is not the case in several

instances, notably in that of friends Fat and Shrimp, who, I have

learned, were not optimistic from the first about being fitted properly.

It seems that from years of experience they have both learned never to

expect to be fitted anywhere, anyhow. Fat's shirt covers him with an

effort, but that is all. He can't find a shoehorn with which to get into

his breeches. As for Shrimp: his belt is pulled tight about his chest

and the sleeves of his tunic are rolled up to where his elbows should

be, only to disclose the tips of his fingers.

But I must confess to a grave error right here. It startled me this

evening at retreat. Indeed, several things startled me this evening at

retreat, including my fast developing case of hives.

[Illustration: His belt is pulled tight about his chest]

A few days ago I made some rather boorish and very sarcastic remarks

about the possibilities of ever making soldiers out of the men I found

myself among. I humbly take it all back and eat mud by way of apology.

Khaki, a campaign hat and a shave, together with a certain amount of

training in how to stand up straight and step off correctly, have made a

vast difference. Why, hang it, I'm mighty proud to belong to this

company. Jews, Italians, Poles, etc., all look like fighters; act like

fighters; and a lot of them are fighters, too. Why they are soldiers

already, and glad of it. Which leads me to state quite modestly the

surprising fact that I think I am nearly a soldier, too, and gol-dinged

set up about it. Honestly we looked fine this evening. What if there

were a few misfits? A process of barter and exchange has already

eliminated a great deal of that (save in the cases of Fat and Shrimp,

who have gone back to civilian clothes until special uniforms are built

for them) and when we lined up and snapped to attention while the band

over on Tower Hill played "The Star Spangled Banner" and the old flag

came slowly down, we looked like real soldiers every inch. We knew it,

too, and I'll bet there wasn't a prouder company in the entire camp.

[Illustration: Back to civilian clothes until a special uniform is

built]

Of course, I had to gum up the ceremony. But I guess I'll pay for it

to-morrow. Here's how it happened:

We've been drilling, drilling, drilling, all day to-day, drilling with a

vengeance, and now we can do squads right and right front into line with

as much pep and vigour as a company of Regulars. Our Sergeant said so,

which is some admission for the old moss-back to make. Of course, we

were tired. I was about ready to drop in my tracks when five o'clock

came, which is time for evening parade or retreat; a very impressive

ceremony by the way. My hives had been bothering me all day, and every

time we were at ease, I got in some likely scratches in itchy places.

One beautiful lump developed right under my arm just at five o'clock.

Holy smokes, how it did itch! It was just as if something had staked an

oil claim right there and wasn't losing any time about drilling a well.

Of course, standing at attention a chap can't scratch, at least he's not

supposed to--but I did. I tried to show extreme fortitude. I stood and

stood and stood, and the darned thing kept boring and boring and boring.

Then when the Lieutenants had their backs turned and stood at salute

while the flag came down, I took a chance and scratched.

That First Lieutenant of ours either has eyes in the back of his head or

else the Sergeant is a tattletale. Anyhow, after the ceremonies and

before we were dismissed, I was commanded to step out, whereupon I was

given a most beautiful call down, after which I said, "thank you, sir"

to a detail as kitchen police, for the next week to come starting

to-morrow.

When I got back here to my barracks the first thing I did was to peel

off my shirt and look for that hive. I caught him. And then the whole

terrible plot to get me detailed as kitchen policeman was revealed.

"Local Board No. 163" has fleas; or, rather, he had 'em. I've got 'em

now--no, wrong again. I got rid of them, or I hope I did.

[Illustration: I picked him up in one hand and a cake of yellow soap in

the other.]

Upon making the hideous discovery, I summoned "Local Board No. 163" in

court martial proceedings. He was guilty; I could see it by the way his

spirit sagged in the middle when I began to cross-question him. I picked

him up in one hand and a cake of yellow soap and a towel in the other,

and we proceeded toward the shower baths. Bur-r-r-r but that water was

cold. "Local Board No. 163" didn't enjoy it either, but I could with

justice assure him that this form of punishment hurt me as much as it

did him, and what is more I am likely to suffer a heap worse to-morrow.

"Local Board No. 163," you sleep _under_ the bed to-night.

Tuesday:

Too blasted tired to write to-night. I did a whole winter's work this

morning. Shovelled nine tons (almost) of coal into the coal bin, as a

starter. Then peeled a sack of potatoes, scrubbed an acre of floor and a

half-acre of table tops and benches, washed twenty ash cans, and other

kitchen utensils and--oh, I'm too tired now, think I'll wait until

to-morrow.

"Local Board No. 163" sleeps _out on the porch_ to-night.

Wednesday:

Still kitchen policing. Yesterday I thought I had pulled some job when I

peeled an ash can full of potatoes, but that was nothing. To-day I got a

better one. I had to peel the same amount of potatoes, only they were in

a washboiler this time. Yes, right off the fire. I can't see why the

Government has to serve potatoes with the jackets off anyway. Why don't

they let the men peel them? They are just as well able to do it as we

are. If some one ever wants to invent a choice way of punishing

refractory prisoners in jail I suggest they send said refractors into

the kitchen and give them the gentle job of peeling hot potatoes, by the

washboilerful.

I have a side partner on the kitchen police. His name is O'Flynn and he

runs into even better luck than I do. To-day he shared the job of

peeling "hot ones" with me. Yesterday while I had the little task of

peeling 'em raw, he was handed the nice detail of attending to twelve

pounds of onions; a tearful occasion, until some one with a conscience

suggested that he get a bucket of water and peel them under water.

O'Flynn got the water, with the remark that if he waited just a little

longer the onion pan would have been full of tears, which he assumed

would have served just as well.

O'Flynn is kitchen policing because he tried to come into the barracks

after taps. Lights out at ten and O'Flynn arrived about 2 G.M. He

avoided the fire-guard successfully and went around to the back of the

barracks. There he jimmied a window with his pocket knife and got it

opened, only to have it fall on his neck when he was about half-way in.

By way of exercise he put his elbow through it. Then to add to the

situation he found himself in the darkened mess hall instead of the

dormitory, and the noise he made when he knocked over several benches

naturally grated on the Sergeant's nerves. Said Sergeant arrived in the

hall in his union suit about the time O'Flynn had untangled himself,

and, after cussing him out to perfection, he handed the Irishman a week

at kitchen policing.

"And now," said O'Flynn, "t' next time I come in through t' windey, I'll

stay out."

A week of this and I'll be able to qualify as a first rate housekeeper

for a lumber camp. Already I can lay down a few very necessary rules

which the average housewife will appreciate, as for instance:--

1. Never take it for granted that a man has only one appetite. We have

two hundred and seventy men here, but they carry around an aggregate of

six hundred appetites.

2. Never plunge your hands into an ash can full of greasy water without

first removing your wrist watch.

3. Never attempt to mop up after your men folk. Just turn the hose on,

lash the nozzle to a convenient table leg and walk away and forget about

it.

4. In carrying out a pan full of hot ashes never grab the handle. Thrust

a stick through it, it saves the temper and the floor.

5. Never let any one kid you into trying to take the black off the

kitchen pans with sapolio, rather throw the pans away.

[Illustration: Never let anyone kid you into trying to take the black

off the kitchen pans]

Delightfully brief and entertaining job, that of removing the black from

ash cans that are used to cook soup in. Our Mess Sergeant, the pirate,

noticed that for about three seconds during this afternoon I wasn't

doing anything in particular, so he gave me a cake of sapolio and a mop

and told me to get busy and shine up the outside of the pots and pans

and get all the black off. I went to it and stuck--until our Jap cook,

the slant-eyed angel, came in about two hours later and told me the

honourable ash cans always got blacked up again so what's the use; and

anyhow he wanted to use the mop. I almost kissed him.

Thank goodness the coal shovelling is all over with. Finished it

yesterday. To-day during my moments of leisure I split a few cords of

kindling wood and carried it into the kitchen, but I like splitting wood

better than heaving coal when it comes to making a choice.

I've been very popular with "Local Board No. 163," since I've been in

the kitchen. Honestly, if that dog had intelligence enough, I could

almost believe that he induced that flea to start this dirty work, for

he's the only one in the whole company who has benefited by it. He hangs

around the galley all the time and is waxing fat, prosperous and greasy;

greasy because he got in the way of some dishwater that was being

emptied out the back door. And now I'll have to give him another

scrubbing before we turn in, or he'll be crawling in under my blankets

again.

Strange I haven't received any letters yet. Some chaps are lucky.

Letters seem to make a big difference in things, even if it's only

listening in on some other fellow's. Every one reads letters out loud so

that we can all enjoy them, for letters, no matter whom they are from,

are real events here and one always gets a sinking feeling when he

discovers there aren't any for him.

Thursday:

Real luck at last. No more kitchen policing, thank goodness. It all

happened thus:

About the time we had cleaned up the remains of breakfast and I was

getting ready to turn out for "settin' ups," along comes the Captain

with two Lieutenants in tow, all with official looking papers. We lined

up and he looked us all over very critically. Then he read:

"Any members of this company qualified to fill the following positions,

step one pace," and a list of occupations followed that included

everything from barber to horse trainer and stage carpenter. Quite a few

of us stepped out. About ten of the Italian contingent responded at the

word barber. Fat came forward as stage carpenter, and when he said

artist I stepped three paces forward instead of one and, saluting,

handed him my recommendation for the Camouflage Corps. I knew I wasn't

doing quite the proper thing. But you see we were all young and innocent

of such things as military courtesy, and the Captain overlooked the fact

that one pace didn't mean three, and after he had mentally debated the

question of calling me down in front of the company and had given me the

benefit of inexperience, he read the recommendation.

[Illustration: Fat was looking for the same barracks]

The result was that I was ordered to report immediately to the 2-6

Company, 5-2 Depot Battalion. And with visions of avoiding physical

exercises for about two hours and the preparing of a midday meal, I

needed no urging. I gathered up my bed, hay mattress, blankets and all

and proceeded to find the barracks of the 2-6 Company, 5-2 Depot

Battalion.

Of course, it had to be located at the other end of the twenty-four

square miles of reservation. But I had company. Fat, loaded down like a

dromedary under bed, blankets, a suitcase and all, was looking for the

same barracks. So we started on our wanderings together, hopeful of

finding our new home before dinner was served.

We found it. And we found a lot of other fellows looking for the same

home. It seems this Depot Battalion, of which I am now a part, is

composed entirely of specialists, lawyers, linguists, engineers,

artists, architects, carpenters and what not, and just about the time we

were being transferred, other specialists were being selected from other

companies and sent on their way to the Headquarters Divisions of the

various regiments. So our corner of the camp has been quite popular all

day, with men staggering in under loads of personal belongings like a

lot of gipsies looking for new places to hang their O.D's.

We, I mean Fat and myself, are among a different class of fellows now

and this moving business has changed my opinion of the camp. From a hit

or miss proposition as it first appeared, it has become a very

systematic and well-organized cantonment. It is being worked out like a

gigantic piece of machinery and there isn't any question in my mind now

but that we will all, sooner or later, fit into the places where we will

be able to serve the Government best. Here I have been trying for months

to discover how I can get into the Camouflage Corps, which so far as I

could learn was a mythical organization which no one knew very much

about. Meanwhile, I have been hoping to keep out of the draft army for

fear of being side-tracked and given a bayonet, instead of a paint

brush, to beat the Huns with.

[Illustration: Material for the camouflage unit]

And here I am conscripted, and inside of a week singled out as material

for the Camouflage unit, with a nice place waiting for me to stay until

said unit needs me. They are doing it up in really businesslike fashion

and no doubting it.

But in the shuffle I've lost my dog. He's only been with me a few days

and he's done nothing but get me into trouble all the time, yet I miss

the little beggar. He wasn't about when I gathered up my belongings this

morning, and I haven't had time to look him up all day. Perhaps, before

taps I'll wander down to the other barracks and see if I can find him.

Friday:

Real work began in earnest here this morning, for the officers in

command of the various companies of the Headquarters Divisions, or Depot

Battalions, or whatever it is these particular departments are called,

are determined to rush our drill instructions as fast as possible,

because there is no telling when any one or any number of us will be

needed somewhere else in the U. S. A. or in France, all of which sounds

promising for a quick change. I'm willing, and I sure hope it's France.

Our day is just filled full of hay-footing and straw-footing and squads

righting and all that sort of thing. I am learning things gradually by

dint of much cussing on the part of our Sergeant, who is also late of

the Regular, and who certainly has as choice a vocabulary as our former

drillmaster.

We must have a very capable Mess Sergeant in this barracks, for the

meals here are mighty good; better than those we received in the other

barracks. We actually had ice cream and tea this noon, a thing unheard

of in most of the barracks.

And our cook is a wonder. He's an old cockney sea-dog, who looks like a

regular buccaneer, and he has a parrot, too, whom he calls Jock. Jock

spends most of his time sitting on the edge of the coal bin shrieking

"Lazy Pig." But neither Jock nor his master has a sense of humour; the

cook gets mad when he finds a man trying to ring in a third helping and

when he gets mad, Jock screams: "Lazy pig, lazy pig," and dances up and

down in a frenzy.

[Illustration: Our cook looked like a regular buccaneer.]

I went back to the old barracks last night, to find the place almost

filled with new men, all worried looking and pale, and much disturbed

over that first night horror, the "needle." I didn't relieve their

mental anguish a particle, which was most unchristian-like.

Several of the men remaining from the former company told me that most

of the original company had been split up between the "Suicide Club"

which is the machine gun companies, the transportation division and the

infantry. As for "Local Board No. 163" no one had seen him about.

Possibly he has become disgusted with high-toned individuals who object

to fleas, and has gone off and joined the infantry. Well I wish him

luck.

I really believe I'm taking a very deep interest in this soldiering

after all. I didn't think I would at first, but now I find I'm watching

the colour of my hat cord with interest. I want to see it lose its

newness and get faded-out looking, like a regular soldier's hat cord.

Saturday:

On the camp calendar, to-day is marked down as a half-holiday, which is

another one of the pleasant little jokes they have down here. It is a

half-holiday. We quit drilling at twelve o'clock. But there is a Sunday

ceremony they have called inspection and sometimes when the Lieutenant

wants to leave camp early on Sunday he decides to hold inspection on

Saturday afternoon.

About twelve o'clock some one reminds some one else that the

aforementioned ceremony is on the program of weekly events, and thereby

spoils the whole pleasure for the day. At inspection the Lieutenant

saunters through the barracks, inspects the beds and the stacks of

underclothing, socks and similar equipment piled thereon, and if said

underclothing, etc., do not show signs of recent acquaintance with soap

and water, almost anything is likely to happen.

And, of course, since no one is systematic about doing washing, all the

dirty clothing and extra socks pile up until Saturday, and then on the

half-holiday the scrubbing tables in the rear of the barracks are the