the bugaboo of tent inspection. A good bugaboo, of course, as at home it
always pays to have visitors, we redd up the house so carefully. Our job
this morning was not only to have the tent perfectly neat, but also to
have our kits laid out on our beds according to regulations. One blanket
was spread over the cot, the others were folded at the head, and on them
the sweater and pillow. At the foot were folded the poncho and shelter
half; then all the equipment was spread out. Under the head of the bed
was the blue barrack-bag and the suit-case; under the foot the shoes.
Then we stood in line in front of the tent, and watched while the
lieutenant, coming from tent to tent, left each squad in a state of
despair behind him. To cheer us, someone at the sergeants' tent started a
victrola, but a snap from the lieutenant ended that diversion. Result of
it all: we were told to inspect a certain bed in Tent One, fold our
blankets and ponchos _right_, and lay out our equipment according to a
sacredly prescribed order. A meek procession filed in and out of the tent
for the next half hour.
It appears that blankets must be folded in a certain manner and laid in a
certain way, so that the inspector can see at a glance whether the proper
number of them is present--that none are in hock, I suppose. The manner
of folding ingeniously insures that on making the bed at night the
blankets must first be entirely shaken out; ditto in the morning. Some
sanitary martinet evolved that scheme. We are told that a fourth blanket
will be served out to us. Folded double lengthwise, four will allow seven
thicknesses over us and one below, or any other proportion, according to
the temperature. Sleeping as I do with the tent wall looped up, I shall
be glad of the seven thicknesses.
Cleanliness being next to godliness, many of the men washed clothes
instead of going to church. A little daily washing in this fair weather
keeps a wardrobe always ready for service. It's simple if you combine
your laundry work with your swim.
Bannister, our corporal, got us out on the drill field this afternoon for
squad practice. But as even he is new to many of our evolutions, instead
of monarchy we found democracy, so many of us had something to say. Part
of the time Knudsen gently but firmly managed the squad; we taught each
other how to stack arms; and finally from one argument we could only be
rescued by appeal to the drill regulations. We knelt around the little
blue book, while the opponents of two apparently conflicting ideas
eagerly debated, until of a sudden each saw the other's point, and
discovered that they meant the same thing.
Coming back, we found ourselves heading obliquely toward the company
street, with a half turn to make in order to enter it properly. Corder
suggested that the command should be "Left half turn," but Reardon
contended for "Half left," and at the proper moment the corporal gave
that order. Naturally there ensued at the tent another debate, everyone
putting in his oar, until by the book the Old One proved that while for a
company in column the command should have been "Column half left," for a
squad "Left half turn" was correct. A mixing business, this learning how
to fight for one's country.
Said I to Corder, "You'll take Bannister's job away from him if he
doesn't look out." He laughed. "No," said he. "I like to admire the
scenery rather than attend to business, and I'm a dreamer anyway. But
watch Knudsen. He's a soldier type, and unless I'm mistaken he's had some
training, though he doesn't claim it."
Word has gone forth that we are to go through the drill regulations at
the rate of some forty paragraphs a day. So there is much study up and
down the street, and that not merely on the part of would-be corporals.
This letter is finished under difficulties, for the lantern goes out
every few minutes, as four of us cluster around it with our pens and
paper. A puff, a pop, a flicker or two, and it's out. Then laughter,
curses, two or three failures to light the wick, and we're off again for
another short spell. Clay promises that we shall have no trouble with the
lantern after tonight. Some squads have clubbed together to buy acetylene
lanterns, which illuminate the tents most brilliantly; but the cost is
seven dollars, and though our squad has mentioned the luxury, it is
evident that most of the men wish to avoid the extra expense. Though of
course I could buy the thing as a present to the squad, I think it would
rather mar our present feeling of equality. Moreover, there was a trifle
of an explosion in Tent 13 early this evening, after which the new
lantern was thrown away as junk. If I should come again, I should bring
some compact lighting contraption. Meanwhile the little flashlight is
good for searching in one's suit case, and there is always a table and
electric light at the company tent, close by the captain's.
Good-by, with love from
DICK.
PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER
Monday, Sept. 11, 1916.
DEAR MOTHER:--
I began my day with my usual bucket from the tap; there are always early
birds to serve me, and my helper this morning said it made him feel
virtuous just to souse me. I prefer this to the shower baths, which are
much further away. A very few go early to the lake and make parade of it;
said one to his corporal yesterday, finding him crawling from his bed
into his clothes, "My God, man, don't you ever bathe?" But the poor
corporal was still shaking with his typhoid.
Clay, who was up early on mysterious errands in the dusk, has just
brought in boards to lay in front of his cot. Reardon asked, "What are
you going to do on the hike? You'll have to put your feet on the ground."
But Clay evidently likes a bit of luxury, and when he gave me his surplus
boards I found I liked it too, for I prefer keeping my feet out of this
sand, which has a creeping quality and gets everywhere. Out in front of
the tent there had appeared a bench. "Hi!" cried Bannister, "where did
that come from?" Clay said nothing, and Bannister, who appreciated the
new convenience, thought it best to ask no more. I, with a mind on
further conveniences, suggested that we club together for a bucket for
our washing. Clay offered to get this without cost, but late in the
afternoon reported failure. "I couldn't get one, though I looked in every
tent in the other companies." Then he missed our new bench. "Where has it
gone?" he demanded. Corder answered dryly, "Back to its original owners,
I suppose." But the lantern works better tonight, as the fellows all
remark, avoiding mention of the fact that it has a somewhat different
shape.
This morning we had our first drill in calisthenics. We were spaced in
very open order, advised to take off our shirts, and Captain Wheeler, a
magnificent figure of a man, strong as an oak in spite of his gray hair,
stood on a platform and put us through exercises that searched out, so
the boys agreed, muscles that you didn't know you had. You get a new idea
of the "position of a soldier" after he has shown it to you. "Oh, no, no,
no!" he cried when first we came to attention at his command, his voice
rolling away over the lake into infinite distance. And then he made us
try to show that we were proud of our uniforms.
This afternoon's platoon drill, under our lieutenant, made me very sure
that, though I already feel as if I had been here for weeks, I am not yet
master of my work. The drill kept me thinking. As it is no pleasure to be
publicly called down, I am all the while trying to make no mistakes. A
fellow must instantly--instantly!--know the difference between "Platoon
right," for instance, and "Right by squads," even though the commands may
not have been given for an hour. And one must know it whether corporal or
not, for half the time the corporals do not yet know it themselves, and
either mumble their commands or are silent, so that they are no help. And
even if a fellow knows what to do, but lags in the doing of it, then he
is likely to put the whole line out. Further, freight trains rumble by at
the bottom of the drill field, the wind whistles in your ears, other
officers near at hand are shouting commands to other platoons, and so you
are likely not to hear a command at all. But on the whole I think I am
improving.
The short time that we had with the captain was enough to prove that he
is, as Clay claimed, a Southerner, if only from his use of the word
_like_. As we came down from the right shoulder, he said, "Don't climb
your rifle lahk it was a rope." And at Present Arms, "That man is holding
up his piece lahk it was a Christmas tree." "Swing your arms," said he,
"lahk you were proud of yo'selves!" Other little localisms slip in. When
a man had explained a question that the captain at first did not
understand, he said when he grasped it, "Oh, Ah see; Ah didn't locate
yo'." But it is a pity to misspell so broadly. The differences of accent,
though evident, are slight and pleasing, even musical.
Love from,
DICK.
FROM ERASMUS CORDER, ASSISTANT PROFESSOR
IN HARVARD UNIVERSITY, TO HIS WIFE
Plattsburg, Monday, Sept. 11.
MY DEAR PRISCILLA:--
You will want to know, now that I have shaken down into this life, how on
the whole it suits me. I feel as if I had been here a fortnight, such
being the power of routine. You know I am among perfect strangers, for
though Nelson is in my company, I see very little of him. We actually
have not looked each other up since Saturday. And though Watson of the
Philosophy department and Jones of the Library staff are both here, they
are in other companies, and the best I have done is to pay each of them a
hurried call. The real life is the life of the squad, and I find myself
among interesting fellows.
The work is not too hard, for the officers give us periods of rest, and
we are gradually hardening up. I live very cautiously, always change my
stockings and rest my feet whenever I come off the drill-field, and
whenever I can I lie down for a nap. But I am getting so lively that I
find myself tempted to ignore these precautions, and hope that before
long I can take not only the work but the fun as it comes. The excellent
stockings which you knit for me are not too heavy nor too hot; you were
wise to mark every thing that I wear, as in this camp articles of
clothing very much resemble one another. My sewing kit, with all its
threaded needles, called out the wonder of the corporal the other day,
and the whole squad stood around and admired it.
I hope in time to attain a more military carriage, but it is a hard fight
with habit. I wish I were as springy as these boys around me; even as I
work the fat out of my bacon, I don't find myself perfectly elastic. For
I get a bit stiff in the knees from long standing at the manual; and as
the evening chill comes on I find it gets more into my joints than I
like. And so I am watching the development of a problem with which I,
that is, my mind, can have very little to do. Question: shall I get
stiffer as the days grow colder, until on the hike they will discharge me
as an old man; or will it all work off as I get used to the exercise,
until I am limber? It is really a very serious matter, my dear, this
being forty-five years old. One should turn life into a profession, and
study how to become young. There are a number of men of my age or older
here at camp, and I find we all have this same preoccupation, and very
eagerly ask each other how we are getting on, and give advice. And the
hike--that looms ahead of us all as an ordeal which we are afraid we
shan't pass.
I never tire of the view from our drill field. The mountains are never
twice the same, and the lake is quite as changeable; they vary their
aspect every hour from morning to evening. We are lucky just now in our
full moon, to light us about the unaccustomed streets. In contrast are
the ugly tents, which yet have a romantic interest in their possible
warlike use, and in their perfect uniformity, which is so forbidding that
it becomes interesting. And for one who has come from a skirted sea-side
resort, it is not unpleasant to see around me nothing but men, men, men.
Your letters make me feel easy about the family. We are very lucky that
Mildred did not get a bad fall when the handle of her bicycle broke. Tell
Florence to make a proper distinction between _to_ and _too_, and to form
her capital Cs more carefully. Little Elinor's letters are much admired
in the whole tent. It must be about time to pick the Gravenstein apples.
Tell Robert to handle them as if they were eggs.
You see I am well. Do not worry about me. Love to all the youngsters.
ERASMUS.
PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Plattsburg, Tuesday, September 12.
DEAR MOTHER:--
Today we have had something new. We have so far been drilling in close
order formation, so called because we always maintain our front and rear
ranks together as such. This order has two purposes, one for parade and
review, the other for quickest marching to any given place. But for
fighting, which after all is our real purpose, the close order must be
discarded in favor of extended order, which you will understand better if
I call it skirmish line formation. Here front and rear rank form in one
long line, in order not to do damage to each other in firing.
Our drill field at the camp distinctly has its drawbacks. Across part of
it are open drainage ditches; and another part, where no ditches are, is
a slippery bog after any rain. Drilling on such a field distracts you
between the natural desire to pick your footing, and the officers'
constant command to keep your eyes up. We are told that the city of
Plattsburg is very generous in providing this ground, and doubtless it
was to begin with; yet I wonder if after two very prosperous seasons, due
to our presence and our visitors', the city couldn't afford to put a few
hundred dollars (it would cost no more) into finishing draining the field
with tile, and filling the ditches in. That would give us good dry ground
and firm footing.
At any rate, it was a relief to be marched this morning to the military
post, to practice our new formations on its great smooth field. The
parade-ground is a wide level space by the edge of the lake, and on the
inner side is a long row of the married officers' houses, all exactly
alike, yet with shrubs and vines not unhomelike. I saw three children at
one place, two at another, plus two nursemaids; but as a whole the houses
look deserted, as they are. For all our regiments of this department are
on the Mexican border, and while papa is away it is natural for mamma to
take the babies to visit grandpa, if indeed she doesn't go to the border
too. As a consequence of this absence of the infantry regiments, we are
ministered to here by some companies of coast artillery, which are
useless to the government in this crisis, and so are unwillingly serving
here as cooks, waiters, and equipment orderlies. Our officers are scraped
up from everywhere, the captain of my company even coming from Panama.
Unless they can persuade themselves that there is to be no more fighting
in Mexico, they must hate to settle down here as mere missionaries of the
preparedness movement.
Well, we were taken onto the field, and were given our first dose of
skirmish drill. The captain explained how the squad should do the
expanding movement on which the whole is based. "Being at a halt," as the
regulations are fond of saying, the corporal takes position three paces
in front of his Number Two man, extends his arms as a signal or gives his
order, and the men at a run take given positions on a line with him. A
corporal and his squad being ordered to illustrate this for the benefit
of the rest of us, the corporal forgot to stand fast, and so away the
eight of them went, heading directly for the lake, the captain watching
them with amusement, the rest of us snickering. Over the edge of the
bluff they went, we heard crashes in the bushes, and presently, when the
rest of us were beginning our demonstration, we saw the sheepish return
of our lost squad. No one in our company will ever now forget that when
we begin our deployment at a halt, we advance those three paces and no
more.
You see now the real value of the corporal. He is of use in close order
formation, yet there, with a little drill, the company could get along
without him. But in extended order he is in independent command of the
squad, takes his orders from his superior, translates them according to
circumstances, and separately leads his little bunch of men to the place
where they are to deploy. Moreover, since his problem varies according as
we are marching or at a halt, in line or in column, and according as we
are to guide centre, right, or left, the corporal needs (we proved it
today) to have a cool head and a firm hold of his men. In one case we go
forward, in another we march to one side before deploying, in still
another we make a letter S, going backward and then forward again. There
was a wonderful confusion this morning, with all of us greenhorns trying
to learn this new work. Moreover, since we are volunteers, and men of
intelligence, and by this time pretty well acquainted, every man of us
thought he understood everything, and was bursting to tell the others how
it should be done.
And then began to appear which of our corporals were corporals indeed.
Some squads were little Babels, each man uttering forth his voice, with
the poor squad-leader either vainly trying to make himself heard, or
silently trying to make his own ideas square with the contradictions of
the other seven. Other squads may have been repressed volcanoes, but
still they were repressed, with the corporal making his mistakes in his
own way, but learning by blundering how the thing should be done. As for
Squad 8, Knudsen was guarding the corporal's peace of mind. Once when
Bannister had mistaken the order, and I burst out with a whispered "Too
far!" Knudsen snapped at me, "No speaking to the corporal!" Now since
once or twice he had given advice, that was a touch too much; but I
caught a significant twinkle in Corder's eye, and held my peace. I shan't
soon forget the puzzled expression on Bannister's round, honest face when
he found himself many yards out of the way, and his involuntary "Whoa!"
Then Knudsen quietly took charge of us, and led us where we belonged.
"This is going to be interesting," whispered Corder to me. "Remember what
I told you."
In the afternoon, among other drill work, we were taught how to make our
packs. The strangely shaped piece of webbing which I once tried to
describe to you, with all its straps and hooks, is a haversack worked out
by a commission headed by a Major Stewart, who evolved this Stewart pack,
the lightest by many pounds of any army pack in the world. Now give
attention. On the ground you spread your poncho, rubber side downward. On
it you lay your shelter-half and fold it till it too is an oblong,
smaller than the poncho. Next you fold one blanket thrice and lay it with
its stripe lengthwise of the poncho. Lay on it your tent-pegs, rope,
bacon box and condiment can, a change of underclothes, your soap and
razor, tooth-brush and towel. Lap over it the edges of the poncho and the
shelter-half. Now roll this from the blanket end, packing tightly; and
when you approach the end of the poncho, fold eight inches of it toward
you, and into this pocket work the roll. Thus you have made a tight
waterproof sausage, firmly enough packed to be thrown about without
coming open. The first stage of making your pack is now finished.
The roll is now, by means only to be learned by actual doing, to be
strapped to the haversack, which also carries the bayonet and, in its big
pocket, the meat-can, knife, fork, and spoon. The pack is next, by its
complicated straps, attached to the belt, and the whole is put on like a
vest, the arms through its broad straps. These should be so tightened
that the top of the pack comes well above the level of the shoulders, so
that the straps will not drag and cut. The belt is buckled in front, but
should be loose enough to hang over the hips. Thus the whole weight of
the pack and belt is carried by the shoulders, which are braced back as
by the old-fashioned shoulder brace, leaving the chest free for
expansion, and carrying no weight.
The pack weighs about eighteen pounds, the belt (with full canteen and
cartridge pockets) another eight, the rifle nine. Thirty-five pounds, for
light marching order, is much less than any other army than ours is
blessed with. And this outfit is to be, as our captain grimly remarked
today, our constant companions. Oh my poor back!
I know it will be hard to read this letter, my hand shakes so. This is
because all this morning I carried my rifle "at trail," which means that
I gripped it a foot from the muzzle and carried it with the butt just off
the ground, the butt constantly exercising a heavy leverage on the wrist.
Naturally I am lame.
Your letters come daily, which saves me much anguish. At each
distribution of the mail there is much quiet disappointment, which later
is very likely to express itself in the tent. Said Reardon today, the
silent man of the squad, "I'm going to write a letter home that will
raise hell." Bannister, whose wife had missed a day, remarked gravely,
"I'll have to say something to her." And Pickle came into the tent mad,
savagely remarking, "If I don't get a letter next mail, I'm going home."
Luckily it came.
But yet the men don't always sympathize with each other. Clay was
bitterly complaining of his luck. Said Knudsen, "But man, you can't
expect an answer to your letter yet. It had to go to Maryland." Then
Bannister, taking his mind from his own disappointment, added, "And great
Scott! look at the letter you writ. It was so long that she would need
three whole days to read it in, before she could begin her answer. And as
to your writing such an amount to your mother--!" "It was only eight
pages," said handsome Clay, blushing. Bannister had no mercy. "Only eight
pages? Man, it was a young novel! To your mother? Your grandmother, more
likely." Clay was silenced.
Our fourth blankets are served out, and we sleep very snug. Food is the
same, wholesome but not delicate. David and Pickle, having each a sweet
tooth, buy rather freely outside, and David occasionally slips away for a
hotel meal. As a consequence, they sometimes need doctoring. The rest of
the squad, whether from economy or on principle, stick to the daily mess
and are well. Love from
DICK.
TELEGRAM FROM PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO
HIS MOTHER AT HOME
Plattsburg, Wednesday, Sep. 13.
is you know who at plattsburg and why i thought i saw her here today am
well love
DICK.
LETTERS FROM THE SAME
Postscript, written at the top of the first sheet of the letter
I have just sent you off this telegram: Is You-know-who at Plattsburg,
and why? I thought I saw her here today. Am well. Love.
Second postscript, written in the margin
I find I have written you a letter that will show you my difficulties in
getting time to write. It is merely typical of my usual day.
DEAR MOTHER:--
I begin this letter in the tent at about 5.30 in the morning, expecting
the first assembly, yet trying to snatch a little time while the rest of
the camp is still dressing. My hand no longer aches, but the wrist is
plain stiff from yesterday's exercise at trail. I have just conned over
fifty paragraphs of the drill book, getting up early for the purpose.
Free time is scarce. When the captain yesterday told us to put fifteen
minutes a day on our study of the rifle, and especially in learning to
squeeze (a mystery which I will expound to you when I myself have
mastered it) the whole company groaned. Our time is so cut up that it is
(_The bugle and the whistle! Five minutes for assembly._)
hard to find many minutes at a stretch which you can devote to any one
thing. And yet I think it quite right that yesterday, after returning
from the open order drill, squad after squad of us should of our own
accord go down to the drill field and practise the new tricks, especially
in preserving the squad formation while following the corporal over
whatever ground and through whatever angles. Those fifteen minutes will
help us today. Bannister tends quietly to his job, an amusing fellow with
his little imitations of a farmer (which some day he means to be), his
chuckling Yankee wit, and his interest in telling all about his wife and
children at home.
Speaking of corporals, Corder has brought out new facts regarding
Knudsen. Yesterday, when the tent was empty but for us three, Corder
stopped Knudsen from going out while at the same time he beckoned to me.
Lucy, coming in just then, stopped and listened also. "Knudsen," said
Corder, "you've drilled before." "Not infantry drill," answered Knudsen.
"Recently?" demanded Corder. Knudsen admitted, "All last winter with a
troop of cavalry." "Then why," demanded Corder, "didn't you say you had
had experience, and try to be a corporal yourself?" "Because----"