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AT PLATTSBURG
by
ALLEN FRENCH
* * * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE HIDING-PLACES . . net $1.35
* * * * * *
AT PLATTSBURG
by
ALLEN FRENCH
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1917
Copyright, 1917, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Published April, 1917
TO
SQUAD EIGHT
MY BOOK THE SQUAD ISN'T AS IT REALLY WAS.
SOME OF YOU ARE NOT THERE, AND THE REST
ARE ALTERED. BUT WHILE, ON ACCOUNT OF THE
STORY THAT I NEEDED AND THE FACTS I WANTED
TO DISPLAY, I COULD NOT DRAW YOUR PORTRAITS,
I HOPE I HAVE SUCCEEDED IN SHOWING THAT
THING IN PLATTSBURG WHICH MEANT MOST TO
ME PERSONALLY, THE SPIRIT OF OUR SQUAD
PREFACE
To describe military scenes is always to rouse the keenest scrutiny from
military men. I write this foreword not to deprecate criticism, but to
remind the professional reader that, while the scenes I have described
are all from experience, the aim in writing them was not for technical
exactness, often confusing to the lay reader, but rather for the purpose
of giving a general picture of the fun and work at a training camp.
Nowadays we are making history so fast that readers may have to be
reminded that last summer occurred the mobilization on the Mexican border
of most of the regular army and many regiments of the National Guard, a
fact which considerably affected conditions at Plattsburg.
The "Buzzard Song," which my company used with such satisfaction on the
hike, was written by a camp-mate, John A. Straley, who has kindly allowed
me to use it, with a few minor changes.
Allen French.
Concord, Massachusetts,
April 3, 1917.
AT PLATTSBURG
RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
On the train, nearing Plattsburg.
Friday morning, Sep. 8, 1916.
DEAR MOTHER:--
Though you kissed me good-by with affection, you know there was amusement
in the little smile with which you watched me go. I, a modest citizen,
accustomed to shrink from publicity, was exposed in broad day in a badly
fitting uniform, in color inconspicuous, to be sure, but in pattern
evidently military and aggressive. What a guy I felt myself, and how
every smile or laugh upon the street seemed to mean Me! The way to the
railroad station had never seemed so long, nor so thronged with curious
folk. I felt myself very silly.
Thus it was a relief when I met our good pastor, for I knew at the first
glance of his eye that my errand and my uniform meant to him, as they did
to me, something important. So strong was this comforting sense that I
even forgot what importance he might attach to them.
But fixing me with his eye as I stopped and greeted him (being within
easy hurrying distance of the station) he said in pained surprise: "And
so you are going to Plattsburg?"
Then I remembered that he was an irreconcilable pacifist. Needing no
answer, he went on: "I am sorry to see that the militarist spirit has
seized you too."
Now if anything vexes me, it is to be told that I am a militarist. "Not
that, sir," said I. "War is the last thing that I want."
"Train a man to wield a weapon," he rejoined, "and he will itch to use
it." I think we were both a little sententious because of the approach of
the train. "Your argument is, I suppose, that the country is in danger?"
"Exactly," I replied.
He raised both hands. "Madness! No one will attack us."
I refrained from telling him that with so much at stake I was unwilling
to accept even treaty assurances on that point. He went on. "The whole
world is mad with desire to slay. But I would rather have my son killed
than killing others."
He is proud of his son, but he is prouder of his daughter. Said I, "If
war comes, and we are unprepared for it, you might have not only your son
killed, but your daughter too."
Horrified, he had not yet begun to express himself on the impossibility
of invasion, when the train came. So we parted. To tell the truth, I am
not sorry that he feels so: it is very ideal. And I regret no longer
having my own fine feeling of security. It is only a year or so ago that
I was just such a pacifist as he.
If I in my new uniform was at home a curiosity, when I reached Boston I
found myself merely one among many, for the North Station was full of
Plattsburgers. There is great comfort in being like other folk. A thick
crowd it was at our special train, raw recruits with their admiring
women-folk or fun-poking friends. The departure was not like the leaving
of soldiers for the front, such as we saw in July when the boys went to
Texas. We should come back not with wounds, but with a healthy tan and
much useful experience. So every one was jolly, except for a young couple
that were walking up and down in silent communion, and sometimes
furtively touching hands--a young married pair, I thought, before their
first separation.
We were off without much delay, a train-load wholly of men, and all
greenhorns. For all of us had nice fresh crinkly blouses, and olive-drab
(properly o. d.) knees not yet worn white (as I have seen on returning
Plattsburgers) while our canvas leggings were still unshaped to our manly
calves. Our hats were new and stiff, and their gaudy cords were bright.
And we were inquisitive of the life that was ahead of us, readily making
acquaintance in order to compare our scraps of information. Dismay ran
here and there with the knowledge that the typhoid inoculation required
three weekly doses. Thank goodness, that is over with for me. We tried to
be very soldierly in bearing, evidently an effort in other cases than
mine. One fellow had his own gun along; he wanted, he said, to make a
good score on the range. So I had my first chance to handle an army
rifle.
You know that when I left, you had been worrying as to how I should stand
the strain of the coming month's work. I will admit that I have been
wondering about it myself. I have worked very hard for the last few
years, practically without vacation, in order to marry as suited Vera's
ideas. And then, two years after she had said Yes, and when my earnings
ought to satisfy any woman, began the complex strain of the breaking of
the engagement--the heart burnings, the self-searching, the difficult
coming to an understanding. And now that she and I have parted friends,
with both of us quite satisfied, I have been realizing how much run down
I am, so that it has seemed quite possible that Plattsburg life might be
too strenuous for me. But a good look at my companions has made it clear
that I can stand up with the average of them. A fair number of them, to
be sure, are brown and seasoned by the summer. But quite as many are pale
and stooped from desk work, or pasty from good living. If I fall out, I
shall have plenty of company.
I write this letter while the train is approaching Plattsburg. When I
woke this morning we were at a standstill in some railway yard, and
beside us was standing another train, labelled like ours, doubtless
carrying the New York men. It drew out ahead of us, and I suppose its
inmates are now debarked, and gawking about them as presently my
companions and I shall gawk. Tonight I shall write again. Affectionately
DICK.
DAVID RIDGWAY FARNHAM, 3D, TO HIS MOTHER
On the Train to Plattsburg.
Friday morning, Sept. 8th.
DEAR MAMA:--
It is unlucky that both of our cars were out of order just when I was
starting for Plattsburg. For the train has been very hot and stufy, and
so crowded. I tried once more to get myself a statroom, but when the
agent said I should have to be with three other men, then I just gave up,
and got the porter to make up my upper birth early, and climbed into it
though I wasn't sleepy at all. But it was something to get by myself and
be a little privat.
I spoke to a few of the fellows, but I couldn't make much out of them.
One had never been to college, and another knew nothing of automobiles,
and another began talking about the drill regulations, but you know I
never even bought the book. The whole train was one big smoking car, and
some fellows near me were very noisy over a game of poker.
I suppose I shall mannage to get along with these fellows, because I know
I must if I want what father promised me, and if the fellows at the
Casino aren't to laugh at me. But so far as I can see, everyone on the
train isn't at all my kind. Father doesn't understand how I feel about
fellows who are not in our set. I don't look down on them, you know, for
I'm sure most of them are very nice fellows of their sort. But I never
knew anyone of their kind before, and what am I to talk to them about?
Its all very well for father to say that I can get something worth while
from every man I meet; but he's a business man, and so he's used to them.
You mustn't think I'm unhappy if I say I shall miss you and shall hate to
be confined by the camp regulations. I'm not going to back out for father
and cousin Walt have put it up to me to see the thing through and though
I'm kind of used to disapointing father I don't intend that Walt shall
think I'm sandless.
But when the camp breaks up you must be sure to be here, with the
Rolls-Royce, to take me home. I don't think I could stand another trip
like this. Love from,
DAVID.
PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Plattsburg Camp.
Friday evening, Sept. 8.
DEAR MOTHER:--
I had scarcely finished my letter of this morning when the train began to
slow down, and then drew up alongside a wide and gently sloping field,
while on the other side was the lake. With our luggage we poured out into
the field, evidently our training ground, since beyond it were tented
streets, with some big open-sided buildings that doubtless had some
military use, since we saw rookies going in and out. In haste to get our
share of what was to be had, we consulted the printed slips handed to us
in the train.
"On arriving at camp: First, Carry your hand baggage to the Y. M. C. A."
Where was the Y. M. C. A.? There was no building standing near of even
so much as two stories. There were tents and there were shacks, but even
when we came to a street busy with electrics, automobiles, motor trucks,
and foot passers, nothing of any size was to be seen. But as I followed
along with the rest, noting that almost everybody we met, from the riders
in the autos to the drivers of the trucks, was military, I saw a skeleton
structure, tar-paper-roofed, and bearing the magic letters for which we
were looking. There regulars--artillerymen with red-corded hats--received
our bags through the open frontage and stored them alphabetically.
"Second. Go to the mess-shacks for breakfast."
We went. We breakfasted. The mess shacks were those other open-sided
buildings on the drill-field which I had already seen; their
construction, being merely tarred roofs on posts and walled with mosquito
netting, promised no elegance of fare. Nor was the fare elegant: milk,
coffee, cereal, hard boiled eggs, bread, butter, a bruised apple. The
milk was of two kinds, real and canned. Used in the coffee, or with sugar
on the cereal, the canned milk was good enough as poured from a hole
punched in the container; but a wise man near me prophesied that I should
not like to drink it when diluted. Flat, he said. Tasted like chalk.
Doubtless it was chemically correct, but (you see how scientific he was)
the metabolism of the body despises chemical synthesis, and for real
nourishment the palate must be satisfied.
"Third. At once after breakfast go to the Adjutant's Office and enroll."
So we stood in line, and when on nearing the window of the office I heard
the Adjutant say to a predecessor, "Where's your thirty dollars?" I got
out my greenbacks and presently paid them in, twenty-five for our
maintenance at camp, five to be returned if during our stay we had not
damaged any of Uncle Sam's property. And since the adjutant assigned me
to a company, I began to feel that I was getting somewhere.
"Fourth. Exchange your baggage checks for camp claim checks."
None of that for me. I had known enough to bring but a large suit-case,
leaving behind everything that I could persuade myself was unnecessary.
There was a memorandum on the printed slip to the effect that trunks and
other large pieces of baggage would be stored at the post barracks, where
owners could visit them on Sunday mornings. A sad weekly ceremony for one
who had to choose from an excess of luxuries!
"Fifth. Report to the officer commanding your Company."
I did not find him. Though again I stood in line, this time with men with
whom I was to associate, those to whom I reported in the Orderly Tent at
the head of H company street were but sergeants and volunteers like
myself, though men of more experience, as I could tell by their weathered
uniforms and faded hat-cords. They filled out a card concerning me, led
me to the tent pole, and measuring my height with a crude but effective
instrument, announced "Tent Eight."
"Sixth. Bring your hand baggage to your tent."
So I brought it from the Y. M. C. A. Now the topography of the camp is
thus. Just within the enclosure, and parallel with the street outside,
runs the officers' street, their tents along one side of it, each with
its little sign bearing the occupant's name. From the other side, toward
the drill ground and the lake, lead away the company streets with double
rows of khaki tents facing each other. All were on a thin and barren
soil, where between the tents some few weeds straggled, while everywhere
else men's feet had killed all growth. No! For in front of one of the
tents, under the protection of its ropes, grew a half-dozen thrifty pansy
plants, all in bright bloom. But elsewhere all was brown sand that looked
as if it might blow dust in clouds, but which also, I was glad to see,
looked as if it might absorb all ordinary rains. The street, about midway
of its length, rose a little, then dropped, and straddling this ridge I
found Tent 8, in the best possible position should the weather turn wet.
As I entered, stooping, I peered about the shadowed interior.
The dry floor was ploughed into holes and ridges by the feet of the last
occupants. One man, bearded and grizzled, was sitting on a cot in one
corner, exploring the interior of a big blue canvas bag; a professor or
doctor person, who gave me one keen glance, briefly said "Good day," and
went on with his occupation. A second bed, already neatly set up and
equipped, stood in another corner. Its owner, lithe and keen, a fellow of
about twenty-five, was watching a third, man-sized but boy-faced, who was
struggling with a cot in its chrysalis stage, being apparently quite
unable to unfold it. I knew the lad at a glance, young David Ridgway
Farnham 3d, whose cousin Walter was in my class, to whom I was best man,
as you remember, some five years ago. Now young David has been the
laughing stock of the family, spoiled with riches and an indulgent mamma.
Walter told me that many tutors, on princely salaries, just managed to
get him through Harvard this year. And here he was at Plattsburg!
However, he couldn't know me, so I disposed my things in a corner.
The lithe and keen person seemed lither and keener at second glance. He
was of a splendid blond type, with flashing blue eyes; everything about
him was perfectly straight, his backbone, his nose, his close-cropped
fair hair, the thin-lipped mouth, the drop of his chin, and even the
precipitous fall of his high cheek-bones. He had not noticed me at all,
so intent was he on the struggles of young Farnham. A very efficient
person he seemed, and immediately proved it. For Farnham, with that
appealing helplessness which I remember in him as a charming child (you
know that with his brown eyes, curly hair, and rosy skin he's as handsome
as a girl) looked up at his watcher. He immediately said: "Bend the leg
the other way. Now the next one. Now spread the whole thing out. Now
spring those two cross-pieces into place." But even then, though the cot
had gained a recognizable shape, Farnham was still baffled. His hands
were soft, and so were his muscles. "This way," said the other after a
moment. And sitting on the cot, with his feet he forced the cross-bar at
one end into position, then swung about and put the other one into place,
and the thing was done.
"Thanks," said young David, politely but not warmly, in a way that showed
how used he is to being waited on. "Have a cigarette? I suppose we
shall--er--room together. My name is Farnham."
"Mine is Knudsen," said the other. And then I appreciated the cause of
his blondness.
"I'm from Harvard, class of 'sixteen," said young David. Well-grown as he
is, I couldn't help thinking of him as young.
"I'm from Buffalo," said Knudsen shortly. "I run a foundry there." His
blue eyes were unwavering and quite expressionless as he looked Farnham
over.
"Farnham? Farnham?" said the man with the short pointed beard. The others
turned and looked at him. "I remember now. You were in my section in
English A, your Freshman year."
"Oh," said young David. "Professor Corder. Of course. How de do? I
remember that you flunked me."
"But you got through English D after two tries," said Corder. "Such is
college life."
As none followed up the subject, I asked where they got their equipment.
On their direction I went to the store-tent at the head of the street,
where on the strength of my signature an obliging regular intrusted to me
various listed articles, which I lugged to the tent.
This domicile is in the shape of a pyramid on a three foot wall, about
sixteen feet on a side, the whole supported by a solid post held by an
iron tripod. The tent contains eight beds, the corporal's always to the
right of the entrance, the others in a mystic order which I will not
bother you with. As yet we did not know how we were to fall in, but I set
up my cot modestly among the rear rank, put under it my suit case, laid
on the cot a mattress and pillow, properly cased in light duck, and
garnished the whole with three blue blankets which promise comfort in
this September weather. And then I dove into the blue bag.
First on the list, a sweater, o. d., like all the outfit, and very heavy.
A poncho. A rubber oblong with button-holes along three sides, and a
slit, provided with a collar, less than halfway down the middle.
A shelter-half. That was the strangely shaped piece of brown duck, in
pattern something like a big old-fashioned kite, with unsymmetrical
button-holes and loops of rope.
Five tent-pins. Aluminum, ridged and bent.
A pack. A queerly outlined piece of canvas, provided with straps of
webbing, wider or narrower, with buckles, rings, and a big pocket. Its
attachments numerous and incomprehensible.
A cartridge belt. Easily recognized, with its many pockets and numberless
eyelets.
A first-aid kit. In a sealed tin box, buttoned in a pocket attached to
the belt.
A canteen in a cloth case. Not flat and circular, but solid and bulky.
A bacon tin. Hm--a small box?
A condiment can. A double ended contraption, in one end of which had once
been powdered chocolate.
A meat can. An oval sauce-pan, with a lid over which the hinged handle
shuts down.
A knife, fork, and spoon.
I stuffed them away again, shed my blouse, as I saw the others were
doing, and was therefore ready when, our squad having filled up, the call
came for us to fall in. Out into the street we tumbled, each of the dozen
and a half tents furnishing a squad, the squads falling in according to
number. The sergeants formed us, got us into column of squads, and
marched us away down the public street, where military persons of all
kinds went by, from lone privates to officers driving automobiles, and
where the only notice taken of us was by civilians in motor-parties, who
came to see our zoo.
So here I was, for the first time in my life marching in the ranks, like
any private not knowing where or why. For a quarter, a half, three
quarters of a mile we went at a quick pace on the macadam, till my soft
tissues knew what was meant by the "hammer, hammer, hammer on the hard
highway." And my misery had plenty of company. The man in front of me, a
bulky person, was wringing wet, and I saw another fellow with the sweat
actually dripping off his chin. It was a welcome relief to turn in at a
big gate, pass between brick buildings, and come onto a great grass field
across which we marched directly toward a building with a long portico,
on which the sight of rookies waiting promised us rest. Very willingly we
broke ranks at command. We learned from our predecessors that we were
there for physical examination.
When our turn came at last it was all very brisk and business-like, and
soon I was passed as being sound in body and feet. With most of us the
ordeal was equally successful; but one poor chap sat melancholy in a
blanket, waiting for a second test. Then I straggled back to camp with
Professor Corder, who confessed himself just under the age-limit of
forty-five. In spite of his successful examination he acknowledged a
little anxiety as to whether he could stand the work; has coddled
himself, he acknowledges, for years; worries about the effect of woollen
stockings: I imagine that most men of his age here have some such
anxiety.
When enough of us had dribbled back to camp we were again assembled, and
were taken down to the drill-field by the sergeant. And there for the
first time in my life I saw a West Pointer at his work. He appeared from
somewhere, and the sergeant handed us over to him. A tall and lithe
fellow he is, so graceful that not even his military carriage can
disguise it. He has an olive-dark skin, hair that curls at the temples,
black eyes, nose straight and thin, and lips curving like a woman's. Give
him the drooping mustache of older days, and what a romantic figure he
would make! I knew him at once for a Southerner, from his coloring, his
physical beauty, and a slight trace of languor, real or affected.
But he knew his business. There is an uncertainty about the sergeants, as
thinking "Am I doing this right?" But though he looked at us out of eyes
that were a little sleepy his tenor was clear as a silver bugle, and (if
you can excuse the mixture of similes) it snapped like a whip. No
hesitation, nor even any thought as to what he should do next. We
straightened at the first command he flung at us, and in three minutes we
were working to please him. The position of a soldier! Was there the
slightest spark of amusement in his eyes as he described it to us, as if
to say "You mob of clerks and manufacturers and professional men can't
really take this position"? I never "lifted and arched" my chest so
thoroughly. Did he intimate as he gave his other commands, "You men may
play at doing this, but really it takes a soldier to succeed"? If this
was his meaning, certainly it put us on our mettle. What he gave us were
the facings and the steps and marchings, the simple movements by fours,
guiding and dressing. When we blundered, there was his little concealed
smile to make us swear to do the thing right next time. As we marched he
kept pace with us, and then all his languor was gone. His step was
springy, his arms swung, his eye roved up and down the line, and he
snapped out his "One, two, three, four!" each like a little pistol shot.
Remarked Corder, beside me, "His time is absolutely perfect--do you
notice?" I had noticed. The sergeants tried to imitate his counting, but
compared to him they were hoarse and spiritless.
And he was only our lieutenant! The first sergeant called him such, in
answering a question; and then I noticed the single bar on his collar.
What would the captain be like?
The bugle blew Recall, and it was very welcome. We were marched back to
the company street and dismissed. My rear rank man was one Pickle, a
hardware clerk from a town in central Pennsylvania, who never in his life
saw a big league baseball game, and yet can tell you the names and
records of all the chief players, especially of the Brooklyns, for which
club he is a rooter. He said of the lieutenant: "One of those wiry
wonders, Tireless Thomas of the Training-field. Doesn't he never remember
that we are flesh and blood? Me for my little cot!" Following his
example, more than half of the squad lay down till roused by the news
that our rifles were being served out. So we flocked out in haste to get
what would give us lamed shoulders and tired arms. Being thus roused, I
next went for a swim in the lake, which was stony and cold and altogether
invigorating.
The lieutenant had us out again in the afternoon, us and the guns.
Consequently we were put through the manual of arms until the anticipated
lameness is now a reality, not only of the arms but of the whole body. I
find it is not enough to shift your rifle according to prescribed
motions; it must be snappy, and in cadence. "Like a clock-work," muttered
Pickle in despair. And it is a crime to drop a rifle. Its first
commission roused our lieutenant from his languor. "Who dropped that
piece?" he thundered. Then he outpoured contempt. "There'll be glue on
little Willie's fingers next time, sure," whispered Pickle.
Tired at the end of the day, I yet feel virtuous, having devoted to my
country a pound of my flesh. I write by lantern light in the tent, there
having been no conference tonight on account of rain. Most of the squad
are away, exploring the city; but Corder is already abed and sleeping--
"as insurance," he said to me, explaining his middle-aged caution. I
shall follow him soon. Good-night from
DICK.
Postscript, written Saturday morning at 5.30, waiting for breakfast.
We have in our squad one Randall, a person of recent Yale
extraction--though (having good Yale friends) I don't lay it up against
the college. Yesterday he established his bed in the corporal's place,
which so far the rest of us had modestly avoided; and he fell foul of
young David ten minutes after he had come among us. The two are evidently
the youngest of us, with "college" sticking out all over them, and so
might naturally draw together. But there is a still more natural
antagonism between them, of the thoroughbred for the mongrel. For young
Farnham, in spite of his effeminacy, has the instincts of his ancestors;
and Randall, in spite of a magnificent physique, carries round with him
something that says to David, "Don't trust him!" What makes personality?
I declare I cannot put my finger on the thing that makes me sure that
Randall is yellow; but David has seen it, and has drawn back from it.
Ninety-nine Yale men may slang Harvard, and the Harvard man will take it
in good part--and _vice-versa_; but Randall is the hundredth, and he said
a few things that made David tremble, not with anger but with disgust.
"Have a cigarette?" asked Randall at the end. "No, thanks," answered
David.--"Oh, he doesn't smoke!" cried the other. "I do," said David, and
lit his own cigarette. I'm sorry for it. Probably Randall can make David
pay for this declaration of war. Yet I'm glad too. And you should have
seen Knudsen's eye flash, and then soften as he looked at the young
fellow.
War has been continuing these last few minutes. In the most ridiculous
way David, after his shower bath, messed round with a shaving brush and a
piece of soap, trying to get a lather on his face. Randall saw it first,
and with roars of laughter called our attention to him. Corder, who
instantly understood, quietly twinkled; but Knudsen wrinkled his brow at
the boy. "Have you never done that before?" he demanded. Said innocent
David, "I forgot to get my man to show me." "Your _man_?" asked Knudsen.
"His valet!" screamed Randall, overcome with the humor of the situation.
Knudsen, never having been acquainted with the Harvard Gold Coast, showed
in his keenly intelligent face first amazement, then disgust, then to my
pleasure a kind of pity. In a moment he had both brush and soap in his
hands, and soon plentifully lathered David. The boy then took his razor,
one of the old style, and immediately gashed himself.
With indulgent impatience Knudsen took the razor, sat the boy down, and
muttering to himself that he'd never tried this job before, skilfully
shaved one half of David's face, at each moment explaining the use of the
weapon. "Why didn't you get a safety razor?" he demanded. The lad
answered, "My cousin Walter uses this kind." I remember that he used to
idolize Walt, as all the younger fellows did; if he still has some of the
feeling there's hope for him. Knudsen made him shave the other half of
his face himself--a botched job, but still David finished it. Randall
remarked that safety razors were best for girls, and when David finally
emerged fresh, pink, and handsome in spite of his wounds, Randall said,
"Now you're yourself again, Miss Lucy."
The boy's face is very sensitive; I saw that he was more hurt than angry,
and he flushed deeply with the pain of it. It was Knudsen who was angry,
but he said nothing. Corder still watched quizzically. I know that the
title will stick. It is not ten minutes since the word was uttered, and
we are already taking it up as David's name. Randall uses it flagrantly,
the rest of us as a matter of course, all except Knudsen. "Come on,
Lucy," he said just now when the first call for assembly sounded, and
with his hand on David's shoulder he went with him into the street,
protectively, I think.
I shall close this and send it off. Again love from
DICK.
PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Saturday, Sep. 9, 1916.
At the Y. M. C. A. Nearing 9 P. M.
DEAR MOTHER:--
My tremendous postscript of this morning has somewhat led me out of the
order of the day. I found myself awake at reveille, and rolled willingly
out of bed. At the spigot, the one and only article of convenience at the
lower end of the company street, I found a helpful comrade who gladly
soused me from a bucket, and the day was begun. Back in the tent I found
the fellows slowly coming to consciousness, all except that accurate and
careful elder, Corder, who was dressing with great preciseness after a
shower bath, and was calmly pleased at having no particular symptoms of
old age to report. He and I have a valuable distinction as the only men
in the squad with foresight enough to have been _typhinated_, worth while
on this day when the others must submit to inoculation, if they want to
run no risk on the hike. Then David's shaving, as described. It was cold
when we finally turned out, and our humane lieutenant, placing himself on
a table at the head of the street, while we in open formation faced him,
put us through setting-up exercises that warmed us sufficiently to brave
the chilly mess-shacks for our breakfast.
It was there that David found me out. He first got my given name,
Richard. Then he made me acknowledge that I was in Harvard, 1910. At the
next pause he said, "My cousin Walter Farnham was in that class." "Yes,"
said I, and talked to the man on my other side. That stumped David, that
anyone should know his cousin Walt and not be eager to talk about him. He
did not approach the subject again till he and Knudsen and I and Corder
were together in the tent. Then he put it right up to me. "Weren't you my
cousin's best man?" "I was," said I, and Sick Call having just blown, I
went out, saying that I wanted to see who answered it. I know Knudsen and
Corder looked at me hard; as for David, he cried out, "Oh, I beg your
pardon!" I have reasoned out that with his delicate social perceptions
and the stock of gossip that his mother supplies him with, he must have
concluded that I was not in the mood to talk of weddings; but the real
fact is that I don't intend to be enlisted as his nurse. As for the other
side of it, I know I can depend on him not to tell the others about Vera
and me.
When I came back, it being about time for drill, I found him explaining
that while of course he'd not had his "man" at college, he always used a
barber there. The man, I'm sure, was with him at all other times. Then
when we fell in I heard a fellow from another squad call David Lucy. That
was Randall's doing. Presently it will be all up and down the street. But
Randall will be the only one to have any feeling about it. With the
others now it is a matter of course, even with David himself.
Our morning's work began on the drill-field, with its open drainage
trenches yawning for our feet and its scattered mounds to stumble on. Gay
work, this learning to walk in the right place, stand in the right way,
toss your nine pound rifle about as if it were a straw, and all with but
a moment or two for thought between the first order and the second. Even
Pickle was silent this morning, intent like the rest of us on his job. We
are all so green that, except for the occasional old-timer, no one was
giving his neighbor any advice.
Then on a sudden we were tested. "All who have had any previous
experience" were required to step one pace to the front. There were not
many of them. Then "all who wish to be corporal," or words to that
effect. With about half the company I took the forward pace. The
lieutenant separated these goats from the humbler sheep, sent us under a
sergeant to another part of the field, and himself took charge of the
remainder. The sergeant divided us up into twos and set us by turns to
drilling each other, evidently to test our knowledge and our ability to
give commands.
Pickle was my victim, or I was his. We eyed each other doubtfully. "You
begin," said I. "No, you," retorted he. "Gee, what a gink I was to think
I wanted to be corporal!" So I tackled the job; and of course, not being
used to it, I made long pauses between the commands, gave them wrong,
could not assume a proper military accent. It's not so easy. I have
heard, in the armory at Boston, a militia captain (_captain_, mind you!)
give the command "Attention!" in three different ways, continually
experimenting. So how could I, for the first time in my life, rap out my
orders like a veteran? What we had to do was absurdly simple; but poor
Pickle, when I balked, succeeded no better than I, so finally we fell to
consulting each other about it and became idle, like other groups that we
saw. Then came our way another pair, who being as experienced as we are
green, speedily took us in charge and manhandled us almost as skilfully
as the lieutenant. I presently saw our West Pointer observing the
drilling groups, and with him another with two bars on his collar, the
same erectness, and the same natural air of knowing his business. The two
were like farmers judging cattle, disposing of each one with swiftness,
taking rapid notes, and then herding us together into our original ranks
for a final shaking down. The captain disappeared, but I hoped he was to
be ours, for though I had had but sidewise glimpses of him, there seemed
a fine frank openness about him that I liked.
Sure enough, in the afternoon he appeared in this wise. The company was
assembled and marched out onto the highway, where we stood in double rank
with our hats off, for a final sizing up. I heard a new voice, deep and
powerful, at the further end of the line; then along he came with the
lieutenant, rapidly sizing us up, counting us off, thrusting in a new man
here and there, the new men to be our corporals. Randall disappeared into
another squad, and we have now as corporal one of those two who drilled
Pickle and me this morning. There are these others of us: Pickle, Corder,
Knudsen, Lucy, Clay, a handsome young Southern medical student, and
Reardon, a grocer's clerk from a little town in Connecticut. Our corporal
is Bannister, manager of the routing department, whatever that may be, of
a tool-making establishment near Detroit. For a mixed crowd, of ages from
grizzled Corder down to the very new graduate, what could be better? The
captain, having put us all in place, called us to attention without any
fuss, and stated that the new Number Four men were to be our squad
leaders "until such time as other men proved themselves to be better.--So
go to it," he added grimly. Then he marched us back to the street, where
the tents were all freshly numbered with chalk, and dismissed us to put
our beds in the proper order.
Since military regulations cover the positions of beds in the tent,
almost every man had to shift his place. A genius discovered that this
was a good time to begin with a level floor, the idea ran rapidly from
squad to squad, and presently the street was filled with piled cots and
heaped baggage, while from each door came clouds of dust. Our floor
levelled, taking care to preserve the pitch of the ridge that runs
through it, we moved in again, even before the dust was settled. As I am
Number One of our front rank, I bunk to the left of the door; peer around
the opening, and you will see my feet. Our rifles and bayonets we keep in
a gun rack that leans against the tripod of the tent-pole; and our
surplus clothes we hang from a square frame that is suspended higher up.
These two conveniences are squad property, being bought at a dollar each
from a Jewish-looking gentleman who offered them for sale, their evident
usefulness forcing the bargain. As they are most roughly built of light
lumber, and have plainly served in each of the previous camps this year,
there is good profit to the speculators who supplied them in the first
place, and who gather them up when they are abandoned at the breaking up
of each camp, only to sell them again. The tax on the squad is not great,
but I wonder why the camp management allows outsiders such princely
takings.
Feeling energetic, I began digging out the old ditch that surrounds our
tent, to make it better able to carry off water in the next storm.
Knudsen insisted on doing his share, then Corder took the spade from him
for the next side. When Pickle, who was standing ready, said "_You_ don't
need to work," Corder asked plaintively, "Do I seem as old as that?" So
he was allowed to do his stint. Lucy placidly watched us.
Then, it being yet early afternoon, the typhoid candidates, more than
half the company, were gathered up and taken away to be punctured. The
small remainder of us were taken to the drill field and were delivered to
the sergeants, apparently that they might show their mettle in the
presence of the officers. Now you know that every calling has its tests
of a man; in this soldier business the first lies in the ability to stand
up and give your orders with such confidence in yourself that your men
shall feel confidence in you. There were two of the sergeants that I
noticed for their difference in this respect. The one was sunburned,
tall, and lean; his brows jutted, his eyes under them were steady and
sharp, his shoulders were square, and he had a very firm pair of
bow-legs, which in some men is not displeasing. He knew his job; his
voice rolled like the deep notes of an organ; we knew what he meant for
us to do, and we did it. The other man was narrow and chicken-breasted,
his long legs weak, his smile a smirk, his pronunciation so affected that
we disgraced him because we blundered from pure lack of comprehension.
Why is it that men's outsides so often correspond to their innards? And
how did the latter of these two get his job? I suppose he has done some
service to warrant his sergeant's stripes.
Corder and I went to the lake to swim. He interests me by the careful
study of his condition; is afraid that some sign of old age will develop
to send him away, and is almost boyishly pleased to find himself able to
do all the work. "And I hope," said he, "that I shall learn to stand
straighter. One feels a certain pride when in uniform, and I try to fill
mine out, if only to escape hearing some youngster say, 'Gee, get onto
that hollow-chested professor chap as a rookie!' But it's hard to keep
straight." The prime of life, he said to me again, isn't so very prime.
When we came back the street was full of invalids. Army serum must work
quick, for half the arms of the inoculees were lame, and when I
thoughtlessly touched Pickle on the shoulder he howled. "The guy that
counted out my half billion bugs," said he, "must have thrown in an extra
hundred thousand for good measure. And they're all working overtime." At
Retreat there was some difficulty in coaxing arms into blouses, and a
number of men asked to be excused from evening duties for the sole
purpose of lying upon their couches and staring at the canvas.
The rest of us marched to our first conference, on the slope of the drill
field below the furthest mess-shacks, where we were massed in a
semi-circle. It was an interesting sight, a thousand men in olive-drab
slowly blending with their background as the dusk grew, yet with the
faces of most of them showing up in the coming moonlight. Behind the
speaker were the lake and the mountains, with the moon just beginning to
glimmer on the little waves. It was the General himself who addressed us,
welcoming us, speaking briefly of the purpose of our coming, expressing
confidence that we would work as hard as our predecessors: a fine
man-to-man address. I could not help thinking of a German general that I
once heard speak to _Einjaehriger_--stiff, short, and unapproachable.
Wood was stimulating, and made us readier for our duties.
The moon was brighter when we got back to the company street, and someone
had lighted a fire at its head. Here a hundred of us, including some of
the invalids, packed together in a circle around our new captain, while
he spoke to us briefly. I had a good view of him. Shorter than the
lieutenant, yet still a tall man, very strongly made, he spoke, like the
general, as man to man, and the least thing he appeared to expect was any
difficulty with us. He told us that the work was hard and tiresome; he
would make it as easy as possible, but he knew we were there to work, and
we could depend on him (without a twinkle) to give us everything that was
coming to us. His tent was right at the head of the street; he wanted us
to come to him at any time for any question; it was his business (and
again no twinkle) to make our minds as well as our bodies comfortable.
Thus I get the impression that he is something of a humorist, yet also
that his chief trait is aggressiveness. I cannot tell you why, for all
was spoken with a quiet voice, even with a certain gentleness that
disguises what I am sure is the basic character of the man. Knudsen felt
it too, for as we walked away from the conference he said: "The captain's
a scrapper."
"He's a Southerner," said Clay with satisfaction. It had been plain in
his accent.
This letter, begun Saturday night, I finish Sunday morning. Send me,
please, a dozen clothes pins, to keep my washing on the tent-ropes.
Pickle hung up his wet towel today, and had to chase it into the next
company street. As everywhere is the same black sand, you can imagine its
condition, likewise that of a moist cake of soap when you accidentally
drop it--excellent for scouring, but not good for other cleaning purposes
until its new covering is dissolved away. Send me also some paper napkins
folded; the supply at the mess-shacks sometimes gives out.
A bit of character. Lucy was looking this morning rather helplessly at
his silk pajamas, and wondering where he could get them washed, when
there entered the tent a handsome and stalwart regular. "Washing?" he
inquired respectfully. "Oh," asked Lucy hopefully, "are you an agent for
some laundress?" "No," said the man, "I wash them myself. I guarantee to
return everything tomorrow, properly done." The boy was not merely
surprised, but almost shocked. "_You_ do the work?" he asked. Then his
native kindness came to his aid, and he was about to bundle all his
clothes into the fellow's hands, when Knudsen said, quietly but very
pointedly, "When I'm here at camp I wash my own clothes." David flushed
quite pink. "Then I think I'll do the same."
"It's good for him," said Knudsen to me afterward. "It's good for him to
be called Lucy. It's good for him to learn to shave himself with that
razor. I was going to tell him to buy himself a safety razor, but thought
I'd better not."
I'm glad I left David to find his own nurse. Knudsen manages him with
certainty. On the other hand the boy likes him immensely, even though the
taciturn Swede does but a small share of the talking when they are
together. He is a foundryman, had a hard struggle to establish his
growing business, and has in consequence a fierce outlook on the world,
as one who at any time may have to fight for his own. David, by
persistent but most tactful questioning, has brought out two salient
facts in his biography. Knudsen is first the son of an immigrant, talks
Swedish in his home, has none of the American background which to David
is a man's birthright. And second he is a college man, from Hobart. Over
these two facts the boy is sadly perplexed. Legally, Knudsen is as
American as the rest of us--but can he be? Socially he is also all right,
since he is a college man--but after all can you call Hobart a college?
Don't blame David. It's not his fault if he's narrow-minded.
I shall close and mail this letter now, and at the first convenient
opportunity shall begin the next. I foresee that my letters to you will
be practically a continuous performance. Love from
DICK.
FROM PRIVATE SAMUEL PICKLE TO HIS BROTHER
Plattsburg Training Camp.
Sunday, Sept. 10, 1916.
Say, Tony, what a mutt I was not to get myself jabbed for typhoid before
I came here! It would have been worth the money. Today my arm feels like
a hornet's nest, with roots up into my shoulder and down my ribs. And my
head is light and wavy--that's fever. I saw one guy keel over stiff when
the doctor stuck him, and the poor corp of our squad says he'd swap jobs
with his rear-rank man if he could only feel like a boy again.
They feed you here with food that's like ourselves, coarse and plentiful.
I'll never again call sister's doughnuts sinkers; wish I could see any
kind of a doughnut. The table china is delicate French--nit. The waiters
are in livery. The man with a long reach will grow fat while others
starve. Take care not to spill anything; it may fall into your hat that
hangs under the table. Iced tea should be iced and should be tea; milk
should be milk. When you see a thing that you want, ask for it; the
platter will get to you even if the food don't. Elbows on the table are
comfort but bad form, same as at home. The men that stay longest at table
take pains to tell you that they eat slow. Eat first whatever is handiest
when you sit down; why be idle while your soup is coming?
It's considered impolite to drink at the company spigot, but there's no
rule against cleaning your teeth there. The best way to rinse your
stocking after soaping is to hold it over the nozzle like a bag, and
squeeze it while the water runs through. It takes so long to get hot
water here that you'd better learn to shave with cold. I never before
made my toilet out on the sidewalk, but a fellow can get used to
anything.
You may talk of being chambermaid to a cow, but it's worse being groom to
a gun. These rifles have been in use all summer, and they're all et up
inside. They're like fat men, they sweat. Then they rust. Put in some
dope and swab the barrel, then take twenty-five dinky little squares of
cotton flannel and run them through, and the last will be just as dirty
as the first. Let it go at that, and put in some oil, and say Damn.
It takes three lacings below the knee to get yourself dressed, and three
unlacings to get to bed, unless you want to be a real soldier boy, and
sleep in your clothes. And only two hooks in all these lacings--the rest
eyelets, eyelets. The cartridge belt has ten pockets; I found a clip of
blanks in mine, and am keeping it to celebrate with. The proper way to
draw your bayonet is not to cut your ear off. They tell me it's been
done. The outfitter lied to me. He sold me a tight blouse because we wore
our sweaters over them, and here it's against the rule and my sweater
will never go under the blouse and I'll freeze to death. Never believe
anybody that says he knows.
When the horn blows pay no attention. It's the top sergeant's whistle
you've got to jump for. If you want to know what to wear don't ask him;
the lieutenant will change the order and the captain will change it
again. Ask the major, unless the general happens by. Always salute unless
you happen to be smoking; if you have a pipe in your mouth, don't see
him. Fall River!
SAM.
PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Sunday evening, Sep. 10th, 1916.
DEAR MOTHER:---