Redney blushed considerably and held up his hand for silence. And when
he got it he explained.
"I ain't a-going to fight no one but our Mess Sergeant. That's what I'm
out here for, and I'll stick here till he comes."
Calls for Mess Sergeant. He wasn't present. A speeding messenger from
Red's company hurried out through the night to find him. Ten minutes
later, said Sergeant, a soggy-looking chap himself, was brought in and
amid yells from the crowd he stepped inside the ring. He looked once at
Brick Top, then spat on his hands and said:
"Where's them gloves?"
Gloves were produced and laced on, then without the preliminary
handshake they squared off and went to it. And what a battle! They
didn't stop for rounds, or time out, or anything. They just ducked and
punched and whaled away at each other until the blood began to spatter
all over and still they kept at it. I don't know what the
misunderstanding between them was and didn't find out, but they sure
meant to settle the thing once and for all.
And the spectators; they went wild.
For ten minutes steadily the fighters milled and I never saw a better
slugging match. The Sergeant had had more experience in boxing, that was
certain, but what Red lacked in skill he made up for in hitting power.
Every time his glove met the Sergeant's face it smacked as loud as a
hand clap.
[Illustration: They didn't stop for rounds, or time out, or anything.]
Then just when it seemed as if they must be tired out, there was a
sudden clash and a whirl of fists and Redney ducked away and started one
from the floor. It was an uppercut and it found a clean hole between the
Sergeant's two arms, and met him flush on the point of the jaw. He
staggered, tried to fall into a clinch, missed the elusive Redney and
went down with a thump.
"1-2-3-4-5-6-" counted the referee.
The Sergeant rolled over and tried to get up. "Don't hold me down; lemme
at him," he said huskily. But no one was holding him down. It was his
refractory nerves. They wouldn't obey his will power.
"7-8-9-10," tolled off the fateful numbers. Then what a yell went up for
Redney, and Red, almost all in, himself, evidently had satisfied his
grudge, for he went over and helped stand the groggy Sergeant on his
feet.
And all agreed it was some battle.
But the Y.M. shacks aren't dedicated to prize fights and swearing and
concerts entirely. They are the nearest approach to home or club life
that most of us come in contact with for weeks at a stretch. The big,
open hearths with their crackling logs are mighty fine places to spend a
pleasant hour or two. Then there are the writing tables, and the reading
rooms with their books and magazines, and the phonographs.
The other night I saw a great big fellow, with burly fists and a stubbly
beard on his chin (it must have been the night before his bi-weekly
shave, which is as often as most of us can find time--or the inclination
to use a razor) snuggled up close to the phonograph and listening
attentively to the "Swanee River," which he was playing as softly as the
instrument would permit, and now and then he would blow his nose in a
big handkerchief and wipe suspicious signs of moisture from the corners
of his eyes. He was having a regular sad drunk and enjoying every moment
of it. I'll bet he thought he was the most homesick mortal in camp.
Then there are the telephone booths. Every night there is a line of at
least fifty men waiting patiently for a chance in the booth. At a dollar
a call they ring up the folks in the city and have five minutes' chat
with them, just by way of warding off an attack of homesickness. I've
used the booth five dollars' worth to date.
These army breeches I'm wearing, I noticed to-night, are very
comfortable. I like the deep, straight pockets in them. I think I'll
have my civilian suit made with those kind of pockets hereafter. But I
haven't gotten over the habit of pulling them up each time I sit down so
that they won't get baggy at the knees.
Wednesday:
Found my dog!
I was over in another section of the cantonment this morning, for a few
moments between drill and mess call, and there was "Local Board No. 163"
as big as life, trotting along beside a chap I knew. It was Billy Allen.
The dog recognized me and so did Billy and we stopped a while and
compared notes.
Billy had the worst hard luck story in respect to the Draft of any man I
know. He's an old National Guardsman, having enlisted soon after we left
school together. Spent eight years in the infantry, and went to the
Border. He left the service after he got back and a little later when a
call came for men for the Officers' Reserve Corps he applied and was
accepted, for the second camp. Meanwhile he had registered as a man of
draft age. Then came his call for Officers' Training Camp, where he was
making out famously; so well in fact that he was recommended for the
aero-plane service.
But the recommendation was as far as he got. The drawing had meanwhile
been made in Washington, he was well up in the list and one fine day he
received a notice to appear for examination. Of course he passed and was
accepted. That yanked him out of the Officers' Reserve and now he's down
here, a private in the "Suicide Club," with Buck Winters, an old
classmate of both of us, his commanding officer.
I told him about "Local Board No. 163" whom he had dubbed "Mut" because
he looked it. First we were going to match for the dog, but we decided,
after a moment's reflection, to let him choose his master. Billy said
good-bye and walked one way and I walked the other and the dog, after a
moment's hesitation, went with Billy. And so I lost my dog a second
time. I guess he didn't like my cold water treatment for fleas.
An interesting thing happened here to-day that just shows how vast this
huge cantonment is. The cot next to Fat and two below me has been vacant
ever since we have been here. To-night a chap came in from the barracks
next door, bag and baggage, and took possession of it. Fat made his
acquaintance right off, and the newcomer told him that he had been
transferred to this company about the time we were--a week or so ago--and
since no one told him where to go or where to bunk he went to the
barracks next door and took a cot.
But he really belonged in here and was a member of our squad, which for
some mysterious reason had always remained a seven-man squad, with the
eighth man assigned to it but never heard from. Every roll call he had
been marked absent, and he had been put down as a deserter and an alarm
sent out for him through the country. At the present moment the New York
police are searching diligently for him.
[Illustration: I guess he didn't like my cold water treatment for fleas]
And all the time he has been within a biscuit toss of his proper place.
Over in the other company he was an outcast, and they didn't know what
to do with him. They were on the point of sending him back to the city
as an interloper when somehow the mistake was discovered and he was
summoned to report over here. The interesting part of it is, that he is
an expert accountant, and his specialty is searching out mistakes that
other people make in the way of misplaced figures and things.
So far as the police were concerned, he said, he didn't care much, for
the last place they would ever look for him was down here. Speaking of
deserters, I noticed three sets of finger-prints on our bulletin board
which means that three men have taken French leave and they have prices
on their heads, already.
Thursday:
This has been a moist and soggy day. I don't know that I have ever seen
so much rain before in one storm as I have to-day. Before daylight it
began; a perfect downpour, so violent that for reveille we lined up in
the mess hall. None of us ventured out to wash up, but those of us who
missed a cold sprinkle the most had merely to poke our heads out of the
windows for a moment and then reach for a towel. Some wetness.
The camp is a veritable sea of mud, and those who go outdoors at all do
so to the imminent peril of becoming mired and never returning. From the
mess-hall windows at breakfast we could watch the big heavy motor truck
of the transportation train, skidding and sloshing about in the road,
down which flooded a perfect torrent of muddy rain water. Several of
them became hopelessly stuck in the sticky mud, and their drivers
abandoned them and raced for cover in the Y. M. C. A. shack. Officers
and men everywhere have given up all idea of outdoor work and the camp
streets look forlorn and deserted. They stretch away down the hill to
fade into the misty blur of the rain itself, and on either hand stand
the long, unpainted barracks buildings, with dripping eaves and rain
blowing in sheets from their tinned and tar-papered roofs. Outside, it
is a dismal, deserted-looking cantonment, with scarcely a sign of life,
save now and then a venturesome canine mascot scuttling from one
sheltered spot to another.
Drilling, of course, is utterly impossible and the nearest approach we
have had to anything resembling military training to-day is a lecture on
sanitation in the mess hall by the First Lieutenant.
But the rain has not dampened our desires for amusement and as a result
the interior of the sleeping quarters presents, at the present time, a
picture that only a Remington could do justice to. Atmosphere sticks out
all over the place. Army overcoats, tunics, variegated comforters,
blankets, mess kits, sweaters and flannel shirts are hanging from every
peg, and men are sprawled on their cots, in various attitude, some
trying hard to sleep, some writing, one man thoughtfully locating the
notes of a new tune on a mouth organ, while another over in the
corner--an Italian--is the centre of an enthusiastic group, while he plays
doleful things on an old accordion he has smuggled into camp. The air is
blue with tobacco smoke.
A number of us are writing, including myself, but the chief centres of
interest are the two big poker games and the big crap game down at the
end of the room.
They are all playing with that oppressive quietness that portends big
stakes. I was startled a while ago upon walking over to the nearest
group to discover eighty dollars, in ones, fives, and tens on the top of
the army cot that served as a table in a single jack pot, and they were
still betting. Our two Regular Army Sergeants are members of one group
and Fat is sitting in at another. From the length of time he has stayed
and the smile on his face, I can only guess that luck is with him for
once.
But it has failed a lot of others. Now and then a man leaves one game or
the other, looking sort of hopeless. There is always some one to take
his place, however.
One of these fellows, gone broke, hit upon a happy idea which caused no
end of interest for an hour or two this afternoon. After he had gone
broke he left the game and sat thoughtfully on the edge of his cot for a
while. Then he dug down into his duffel bag under his cot and brought
forth a razor. Speedily he made up some raffle tickets on slips of note
paper and presently, with the razor in one hand and his campaign hat in
the other, he started through the room selling chances on the razor at a
dime a chance. The raffle was held over in our corner, and one lucky
chap got the razor, easily worth two fifty, for a single dime and the
erstwhile owner, with five dollars worth of change in his pockets,
returned to the game.
That started the raffle bug, and presently a wrist watch was put up,
then another razor of the safety variety, a fountain pen, an extra hand
knitted sweater which some one had luckily acquired, several boxes of
crackers which every one took a chance on at a cent a chance and a
variety of other things. But the crackers were the most popular and that
helped one ingenious and venturesome chap to evolve a money-making
scheme.
In the height of the rainstorm, he was seen to don his slicker, and
hurry out into the storm. He splashed all the way over to the Post
Exchange (about half a mile) to return a half-hour later with four pies
for which he had paid forty cents each and three dozen boxes of crackers
all in good condition. The crackers went for double their value and the
pies he successfully split up into twelve fair-sized portions which sold
for ten cents each. That trip in the rain netted him nearly seven
dollars he told me, and that seven dollars later on, invested in the
crap game, trebled itself; so, all things considered, he has had a more
or less successful day.
Friday:
It is fast getting home to me now that in spite of the heterogeneous
conglomeration, of races and creeds and languages, the National Army is
going to be the real thing as a fighting force after all. Every one is
keen for the thing now that the first violent attacks of homesickness
have worn off and they are going at their work of becoming soldiers with
a will, except, of course, for a few: the conscientious objectors; and
their life is no merry one. They are mighty unpopular, as numerous black
eyes attest. Every one takes the slightest opportunity to emphasize
their displeasure at the stand these men have taken. And some of them
are going around here under a cloud. For instance, the one in the
Machine Gun outfit who drills in pumps and summer suit but who has the
pleasure of knowing that after his soldiering is all over with, he has
three years to spend in Atlanta or some other Federal jail for little
things he has done and views he has expressed.
We have one of the breed in our company, a Jew; and he's the most
unpopular man in the outfit, even among those of his own race. All of
this variety, (the "objectors" I mean), who have come to my notice, are
sorry specimens of manhood for the most part and I can't blame an
able-bodied chap for despising them.
The foreign element is taking hold like real Americans. It is
interesting to get their slant on the whole affair. Many of them didn't
want to come. They had their own ideas of army life, suggested,
doubtless, by tales they have heard of service in the European armies of
former days. But when they were called they came; and behold, when they
arrived and lived through the first days, they were surprised to find
that they still were treated like human beings, had certain indisputable
rights, were fed well and cared for properly and worked under officers
who took a genuine interest in their welfare. This was something most
unexpected. Right off they decided that they were going to get all they
could out of this new life and give in return faithful and honest
service.
[Illustration: "Make-a me strong, make-a me beeg, an' best-a make-a me
good American"]
"It's fine, I like it," assured a little Italian friend of mine in the
infantry. "I like it because it help make me spick good English, make-a
me strong, make-a me beeg an' best-a what is, make-a me good American,
jus like-a de boss Lieuten'."
And in that last sentence, I believe, lies the charm of it all to most
of the foreigners. They have learned that America and things American
are fine and clean and good and their ambition now is to become a real
American "jus like-a de boss Lieuten'." And when they get to be real
Americans, they are going to be proud of the fact and they are going to
fight to prove it; that's certain.
The camp is still soggy to-day and we have drilled ankle deep in mud. My
feet have been wet from the time I stepped out of the barracks until an
hour ago, when I changed my socks and put on my dress shoes. But shucks,
what appetites we brought back with us from the parade grounds. I never
did care for fish, but I'll be hanged if I didn't eat three helpings of
the creamed salmon and spaghetti to-night.
A new wrinkle has developed here. We find out what the fellows are going
to have for supper in nearby barracks and if the feed promises to be
better than what we are to have several of us take our mess tins and go
over and stand in line there. The Mess Sergeant never knows the
difference.
Saturday:
Sad news this evening. Only twenty-five per cent. of each company is to
be allowed to go home to-morrow, because of the disorder and general
trouble at the railroad terminal last Sunday. And the twenty-five per
cent. is to be drawn out of a hat. No chance for Fat or me, that's
certain. We're mighty unlucky when it comes to passes and we are laying
odds now that neither of us will get permission to go to the city.
Anyhow, Fat is still in the same predicament. If he does get a pass he
won't be able to leave the camp.
At the present writing we are all waiting for the mess call. And
immediately after mess the Sergeant will do the drawing of the names for
the passes. If I am not among the lucky ones I'm going to try and--there
goes the mess call!
Sunday:
I am ready to die with a smile on my lips and a great happiness in my
heart, for I've spent one night between clean sheets, on a really soft
bed. I've eaten with a silver knife and fork from real dishes
and--whispered softly--in the privacy of my own home I had a glass of
beer!
No, I wasn't lucky (neither was Fat) but I think I put something over on
Uncle Sam.
The passes for the city were drawn for as per schedule and since I was
down at the bottom of the list I was not included in the first
twenty-five per cent. The passes issued read for New York City, and the
men holding them were privileged to leave by certain trains, being
marched down to the station under the watchful eye of the Second
Lieutenant.
Then, after these men were all away, came the opportunity for the men
who lived near the camp and the men who wanted to visit nearby towns to
apply for leave. This was my opportunity. I applied for thirty-six
hours' leave to visit the town of R----, twenty miles distant, and secured
it.
Back in the barracks an interesting scene was taking place, scores of
tickets of leave had been handed out to the men, to take the night and
following day off, but to get out of camp they must be able to pass
inspection with perfect and well-fitting equipment, and since all of us
had not our full outfit, we had to hustle around and borrow articles of
clothing that would fit and look satisfactory. I, for instance, have a
full winter uniform except for overcoat (which I have not received) and
tunic, the one I am wearing being a summer coat of cotton and hardly
matching the wool trousers I possess. So I had to join the crowd who
were bartering, exchanging and renting uniforms. And since the first men
to leave had done the same thing to a certain extent, there was not much
desirable clothing left in the barracks. Overcoats were going at a
dollar a day and breeches and jackets for fifty cents each. After a
diligent search I did find a chap who had a winter tunic and summer
trousers and, wonder of wonders, his jacket fit me perfectly. We made an
exchange and I borrowed an overcoat at one dollar for the day, from a
chap who was not leaving camp, and sallied forth.
Tramping down Twenty-third Avenue (the streets are all named here and
our barracks is on Fourteenth Street and Third Avenue), whom should I
behold but friend Billy, bound in the same direction. He had had the
same inspiration as I and he, too, had a pass for R----. We wandered on
together, but upon reaching the railroad station, our hopes of getting
to our destination were dashed. There were no more trains for R---- until
the morning!
We wept. But our tears didn't blind us to the fact that there were
occasional machines passing along the highway. So we walked out and
stood there in the moonlight and looked as lonesome and forlorn as
possible.
And the first machine to come along was a beautiful big Pierce Arrow
limousine, with an old dowager, a pleasant and generous old soul, its
single occupant, save of course the chauffeur. We went to R---- in style;
and, moreover, we went there in a hurry, for with khaki in the machine
the chauffeur assumed that he had the right of way and full permission
to wreck the speed laws.
At R---- we looked up time tables and discovered that we could get a train
into the city at ten-thirty, which was not so bad. Then, because our
passes really limited us to R----, we concluded that it was only fair to
the Government to at least eat a meal in that town and since we were
both hungry in spite of our recent mess, we searched for a restaurant.
We found one; a French restaurant, which looked peculiarly deserted. The
door was locked, for some strange reason, yet there were several men in
aprons inside apparently hard at work. We rattled on the door and in a
moment the frowning proprietor came forward. But the frown changed to a
smile when he saw us. It was the khaki. He unbolted the door and, with a
ceremonious bow, welcomed us in, then closed the door and bolted it.
And then he explained that this was a new restaurant not yet opened for
patronage. He expected to open up in a day or maybe two. But, of course,
he could not turn away two hungry soldiers, never. _Merci non!_ He had
nothing to serve us with, but what were our desires? Express them and he
would send out for the provisions, cook them and serve them. Steak!
Indeed, yes. In twenty minutes we would have a wonderful steak, French
fried potatoes, salad, coffee and ice cream. Jean would attend to it.
And Jean did. He rustled up the steak and the rest and we alone occupied
the restaurant, and soon were eating the most delicious piece of beef we
believed we had ever put our teeth through. The bill! Nothing; nothing
at all--what?--well if we insist, one dollar each. Thank you! And now here
is a pen and some ink. You will please autograph each bill and behold,
when you return from glorious France, covered with glorious glory, you
should come in and see these two bills--the first money taken in at the
restaurant--framed and hanging there over the desk. And so, I suppose,
the future generation of visitors to R---- will be able to view these
immortal monuments to our--I don't know what, unless it be our khaki
uniforms--hanging there in the French restaurant possibly surrounded by
wreaths as each anniversary of day before yesterday rolls 'round.
We got the ten-thirty train for the city, and we almost got into trouble
too; or at least I did, for as we hurried into the smoker whom should I
see sitting buried in a magazine but the First Lieutenant of our
Company. Had he made the trip the same way we did? I don't know and, of
course, I didn't ask. We just walked through the car very swiftly and he
never looked up.
It was fifteen minutes of midnight when I arrived home, let myself in
with my latch key which I have been carrying as a silent reminder of my
former terrifically wild (?) career; routed out the folks, and sat
swathed in bath-robe and dressing-gown until 3 o'clock, just talking. It
was bully. And then I tumbled into my own bed and slept and slept and
slept. I woke up at reveille all right--(it was just daylight)--grinned,
rolled over and slept and slept and slept some more.
Then I had a real bath in a real tub with real hot water, and a lot of
real things to eat and real cigars to smoke and real friends to talk
with until five o'clock in the afternoon, when I crawled into my
regimentals once more, and went out to meet Billy by appointment.
Going back via R---- route (which was necessary) curtailed our leave which
really continues until to-morrow morning at reveille, but then we were
very happy; so happy that when we arrived in R---- we chartered a taxi-cab
for the twenty mile drive out here and now I'm nearly frozen through
from the cold wind that blew in at us. And I'm tired, too, but I'm happy
and ready to turn in ten minutes before taps.
Monday:
I'll need no "Melody in Snore Minor" to lull me to sleep to-night, for I
am thoroughly weary. It was intimated a day or so ago that our training
would be hurried a little so that we would be ready for a quick shift at
any time. But hurried doesn't exactly describe it. It looks like an
early fall drive to me.
We began at the beginning, this morning, and had our squad drills all
over again, and somehow in the juggling about of men to make up our
company formation I managed to get last place in line, and pivot man in
the front rank of the last squad.
Before to-day I've been in the rear rank and had a screen of front-rank
men to cover up any blunders I might make, but being in the first file
gave me stage fright. And, of course, with the stage fright I
bungled;--forgot which was left and which was right. We began by facing,
and first chance I managed to turn left when the command was right. That
blunder made me more self-conscious. If I had had to talk I'm sure I
would have stuttered. As it was I stammered with my feet.