A SLIDE FOR LIFE
Tom, who had, with the other two candidates, dragged the bedding and
other things to the room they were to share in common, at least for a
time, looked at his companions. They hardly knew what to do next, for
they had received so many orders and instructions that their minds were
in a whirl.
About them, through the corridors of the building, they could hear
other candidates going to their rooms with their possessions. There was
not much noise, for the “lowly candidates” were beginning to feel how
unimportant they were compared to the “lordly cadets.”
“Here comes some one,” remarked Sam, as they saw their door pushed
open. A corporal--a supercilious and sneering corporal--entered. Watson
his name was, as they learned later.
“Here, you!” he said, sharply. “That’s no way to pile your stuff.
You--what’s your name?” he asked, turning to Harry Houston.
“Er--Houston,” stammered the lad, and in a flash Tom and Sam knew their
friend had forgotten the proper form.
“Mister Houston, sir!” fairly thundered the corporal. “Say it after me!”
“Mister Houston, sir!” imitated the luckless one.
“That’s better,” came in semi-mollified tones. “Now I’ll show you how
to get your room into shape--and keep it so!” he added impressively.
“You’ll be inspected when you least look for it. Don’t get caught,
whatever you do!”
His manner was so important that Tom, at least, resolved that there
should not be a pin out of place. The corporal showed them how to make
up their cots. He indicated the official Blue Book, a copy of which
was required to be kept at all times in a certain place in the room.
This book gave minute directions for keeping the room in order, and
specified much as to the candidate’s conduct.
Though neither Tom nor his companions were cadets yet, the strictest
military discipline must be observed by them. They had to report on
leaving their room, and on coming back, and they could not leave unless
it was absolutely necessary. It was a hard life, but doubtless it had
the intended effect.
Once the beds were arranged to the liking of the corporal, and he
was not easy to please, Tom and the others were taught to stand at
“attention.” This position--as stiff as a ramrod, with eyes straight to
the front, and never, by any chance, allowed to rest on the countenance
of the officer--must be maintained whenever any cadet officer, or the
tactical officer in charge of instructions, came into the quarters of
the candidate. The tactical officers were called “tacs,” and were army
officers, graduates from the Academy, who, in turn, were stationed for
four years at West Point to give military instruction.
“And we’ve got to look out for the tacs,” said Sam Leland, when the
corporal had left them alone for a time. “They’re always showing up
when you least expect them, and if they find a thing out of place in
your room--fare thee well, gentle maiden!” and he sighed, and dropped
wearily into a chair.
“Well, if I don’t get something to eat pretty soon, they won’t have any
trouble with me, nor I with them,” observed Harry.
“Why?” asked Tom, curiously.
“I’ll drop dead from hunger--that’s why. I wonder if they’ll give me
a funeral with full military honors in case I die on their hands?” he
asked, whimsically.
“No such luck!” returned Tom, with a laugh. “But I think it must be
time for dinner. It’s one o’clock and there goes a crowd of the cadets
toward the dining hall.”
They looked from the window to observe the nattily dressed lads march
along to stirring music. Presently came the summons the candidates were
waiting for. In columns of twos they marched to the mess hall, entering
last, and were given seats at a table some distance removed from that
at which the yearlings, or cadets who had been at the Academy a year,
were to eat.
The dinner was excellent, but there was no lingering over it. When the
candidates had been marched back to their barracks Tom and his chums
decided to put in some time at studying. Twice while they were at
work a corporal came in to inspect their room, and each time they had
to rise smartly, and stand at attention until he went out. No fault
could be found with the lads themselves or their room, and at this the
corporal seemed to be deeply disappointed.
Studying went on until parade time, which brought with it a rigid
inspection of each candidate in person, from his collar to his shoes.
Some were reprimanded for not being neat enough.
“Parade rest!” came the order after inspection, after which there
boomed out on the evening air the sound of the retreat gun. Then
followed a march to the mess hall for supper.
“And now for some more boning,” Tom observed with a sigh, when he and
his three chums were in their room again.
“Say, we’re not getting an awful lot of fun out of this,” said Sam, as
he opened his arithmetic.
“We didn’t exactly come here for fun,” Harry remarked.
Tom looked critically over the room, and straightened a pillow on his
bed, for he knew that inspection was timed for nine-thirty, and he
wanted no reproof.
The “tac” came in, looked over everything with a coldly calm and
critical eye, while Tom and his chums stood stiffly at attention.
“Make up your beds,” he said to them, as he went out, and they breathed
easier.
They would be allowed to have a light until ten o’clock. At that
hour taps was sounded--three beats of a drum--at which signal every
candidate must be in bed, with lights out. A dark-lantern inspection
would follow some time later, and it would not be well for any of the
new lads to be caught with a gleam of light in his room, nor must he be
anywhere but between the covers, and with his room in perfect order. It
certainly was a life of military hardship and exactness from the very
start. And, as yet, none of the lads knew whether he was to be a cadet
eventually or not.
You may be sure Tom and his two new chums did not oversleep the next
morning. They were dressed and waiting for the sound of the reveille
gun which presently boomed out, followed by the thunder of drums and
the shrill squealing of fifes in the hall below.
“Candidates turn out!” came the command, and the new lads came pouring
from their rooms, helter-skelter, anxious not to be late.
“And now for the ordeal,” groaned Tom, as, after breakfast, he and the
others, in squads of ten, were marched toward the cadet hospital, where
they were to undergo a searching physical examination.
Three army surgeons, grim and grizzled, went over each boy minutely.
Their feet were looked at, for the United States government, as well as
that of other nations, has found that a soldier to be of value must not
be troubled with corns and ingrowing nails. It impedes his marching.
And as a chain is no stronger than its weakest link, so a company can
march no faster than its poorest walker. No poor walkers are wanted.
And teeth--
“You’d think we were horses up for sale,” complained Clarence
Hawkesbury, after one of the doctors had made him and the others open
their mouths. Some one recalled the old joke about the recruit who was
rejected because of poor teeth. He had said he wanted to shoot the
enemy, not to bite ’em!
But, after all, a soldier’s digestion depends in a great measure on his
ability to chew often not tender food. And among the few true things
said about war is that “an army fights on its stomach.” No soldier can
be a first-class one if he has such bad teeth that he cannot chew well.
It was a most searching examination, and no one knew whether he had
passed or not, for the doctors merely looked wise and jotted down notes
on papers before them.
However, it developed during the day that some of the candidates
had been rejected as physically unfit, and as Tom and his two chums
received no notification that they had not passed, they took it for
granted that they had gone through--as they had.
In due time came the mental examinations. It was a grilling experience
for all, and a number of lads were on the verge of nervous breakdown
before it was over.
However, Tom had made an excellent preparation and he felt sure he had
gone through, if not with flying colors, at least on a safe margin. The
examination was more severe than he had imagined it would be.
Several days were consumed in getting through with the examinations,
as nothing was done hurriedly. The candidates were kept to themselves
during this period, and though the upper classmen were forbidden to
come to the barracks while the candidates were there, the rule was
often violated, and mild hazing was indulged in, especially in the
bathrooms. Some of the boys were made to give an imitation of swimming,
as they lay face downward on a chair.
It was one day, after a particularly hard examination, that Tom went in
to freshen up with a bath. As he undressed he was suddenly seized by a
couple of yearlings, one of whom yelled in his ear:
“Now for the slide for life!”
“Chuck that water on the floor,” said the other cadet to Tom, who
emptied a pail on the tiles of the bathroom.
“Now slide!” cried the two together. Deftly they tripped Tom up. He
fell rather heavily, and was given a shove that carried him across
the slippery, wet floor up against the other side of the bathroom
with a force that jarred the breath from him, and made him feel sick
and dizzy. Tom’s head swam and black spots danced before his eyes. He
feared he was going to faint, but held himself back from the brink with
an effort, as he heard a sharp voice saying:
“Here! That’s enough! Don’t you know what’ll happen if you’re caught at
that?”