ANTICIPATIONS
“This certainly isn’t any cinch!”
“I should say not! It’s the hardest grind I was ever up against!”
“Well, you didn’t expect to live in a perpetual camp, with nothing to
do; did you?”
It was Sam Leland who gave utterance to the first remark, and Harry
Houston who spoke the second, with a doleful shake of his head. And it
was Tom Taylor who propounded the question.
The three new cadets, as our three friends were officially designated,
though in reality they were called plebes, and would be for the next
year to come, were in their barrack room, having just come in from a
long and tiresome drill. They were taking what ease they could before
they would again be called upon to take up some other of their new
military duties.
“Camp! I should say it wasn’t like camp!” exclaimed Sam. Shortly before
the three chums had been telling one another some of their experiences
before they came to West Point, and all had agreed that the fun they
had had while camping in the summer was best of all.
“Oh well, we’ll have a taste of camp life here,” observed Harry, as he
looked around the room, to make sure it was in perfect order against
the unexpected inspection of some “tac.”
“Yes we’ll have a taste of it, and that’s about all!” Tom went on.
“We’ll have to drill harder than we do now, and we’ll have to wait on
some of the upper classmen like slaves.”
“Oh well, I suppose it’s good for what ails us,” said Sam, with a sigh.
“If the others went through with it I guess we can stand it.”
“There’s no getting out of it. We’re here for four years, if we’re
lucky enough to stick,” Tom ventured. “After all, we won’t always be in
the awkward squad.”
“We were lucky enough not to be put in the ‘goats,’” remarked Sam.
“Well, I’m going to take it easy. Listen if you hear any one coming,”
and he took a restful position that would not allow him to spring
easily to attention in case of the unexpected entrance of a “tac,” but
he depended on the sharp ears of his companions to warn him.
The boys, as I have said, had just come in from some hard drilling.
This necessary instruction had begun as soon as they had formally been
sworn in as subjects of the United States. Four hours a day were
devoted to “setting-up” exercises, the drill-masters being cadets from
the upper classes, each one of whom was given charge over eight plebes.
And stern drill-masters they were, too, though perhaps not more so than
the necessity required. Certainly a plebe is very awkward, compared
with the military uprightness, sprightliness and precision of the
finished cadet.
Tom never told his mother all he suffered, mentally and physically,
during those first few weeks when he was being given the rudiments of a
military education. He and his two companions who roomed together were
forced to march here and there, back and forth, in all sorts of primary
formations. They had to walk with chins drawn in, stomachs pulled up,
with shoulders farther back than it seemed possible to force them,
and they must never suffer themselves to slump out of this tiresome
position. At least it was tiresome then, though later it became a fixed
posture, that the trained cadet assumed naturally.
Then they had to march under a hot sun, and before the eyes of such
chance visitors and excursionists as came to West Point, and these
visitors did not always restrain their smiles or laughter at the antics
of the awkward squad.
“I’d like to see how some of them would like it,” complained Tom, after
a particularly hard drill, when he and his chums had detected a bevy
of pretty girls smiling at them.
“They’ll be glad enough, later, to have us ask ’em to a hop,” said Sam.
“Huh! Catch me asking any of them!” commented Harry, vindictively.
It is no wonder the boys were mentally depressed the first few days
after their ordeal began--mentally depressed and physically weary. They
tried to realize that it was all for their good, but it was not easy.
“I thought we’d have some larks when we came here,” observed Sam. “All
the stories I ever read about life at West Point were lively.”
“I guess some of the fellows who wrote those stories never came up as
far as Newburgh,” sighed Tom. “It isn’t very lively.”
It certainly was not. The new cadets did not have as much fun as they
would have had at a boarding school or a college where there was not
so much discipline. But on the one hand, this strict discipline was
necessary as the basis of a military education, and on the other hand,
there was scarcely a plebe who had the mental or physical energy to
go out after any fun at the close of a day’s drill, provided such fun
could have been had without undue risk.
In fact, there was not much that could be done in the way of outside
fun those first few weeks. Every hour of the new cadet’s life must be
accounted for. His comings and goings had to be reported on the second.
His superior officers must know where he was, and what he was doing,
every minute of the day or night. And it was too much of a risk to
“take any chances.”
“I think we’ll get the guns, to-day,” observed Tom, one morning about a
week after they had begun to receive their drill instructions.
“What makes you think so?” asked Sam.
“I heard some of the officers talking about it.”
“Well, it will be something new to occupy us,” went on Sam.
“Yes, another load to carry around in the broiling sun,” said Harry,
with a groan. “Just as if we didn’t have enough now. Say, fellows,” he
went on, with a sigh, “do I bend over backwards when I stand up?” and
he stood up straight and turned slowly around.
“Bend over backwards? What do you mean?” asked Tom.
“I mean I’ve been hollered at so much to ‘straighten up’ that I’m sure
I must be getting curvature of the spine the wrong way.”
“They certainly do throw it into us,” observed Tom, sympathetically.
“All that fierce drill-master of ours can think to call us is ‘wooden’
and ‘gross’,” went on Harry. “I’m sick of the sound of it. But maybe
if we get the guns it won’t be so bad. It’ll be a change, anyhow, and
give ’em a chance to ring in some new terms of abuse.”
Up to now the new cadets had drilled without weapons. But that day, as
Tom had anticipated, rifles were issued to those farthest advanced,
including our three friends. The “plebes” were divided into squads, the
least proficient being dubbed “goats” and Tom and his chums rejoiced
that this was not their fate.
It was the first day of the drill with arms, and what little knowledge
the boys seemed to have previously acquired appeared to be oozing away
from them, as they were told how to handle the rifles.
The cadet drill-master waxed wroth, and when Tom saw, coming toward the
squad he was in, Captain Hawkesbury, with a look of contempt on his
flushed face, our hero thought to himself:
“Here’s where we get it.”
And they did. The old army officer, whatever else he was, was a good
soldier and disciplinarian, and he and the cadet officer put the plebes
through their paces without mercy.
Whether it was Tom’s fault or not, or whether Captain Hawkesbury
singled him out, was not apparent, but, at any rate, Tom received
more reprimands than any of the others. Captain Hawkesbury spoke
sharply, almost insultingly, so that even the cadet lieutenant looked
surprised. But Captain Hawkesbury was his superior officer, having been
engaged for just such special instruction work.
“He sure has it in for me,” mused Tom, after an especially sharp
rebuke. “I’ve got to expect a lot of this, I suppose, because I beat
Clarence out in the test. I wonder where Clarence is, anyhow?”
The nephew had left West Point when it became apparent that Tom had
made good, and he had not been seen since.
Again and again Captain Hawkesbury, either intentionally or otherwise,
showed his enmity against Tom as the day’s drilling proceeded. And it
culminated when Tom made a slight mistake in following a complicated
order.
“Mr. Taylor, you seem deliberately trying to do this wrong!” snapped
Captain Hawkesbury. “Report at my office after dismissal!”
Tom knew better than to show any resentment. But when he left his chums
to obey the command later, his heart was filled with apprehensions.