work, the use of the rifle. Some few days ago the captain called for
those of us who had used high-powered rifles; he has since been weeding
them out, till he has a couple of dozen of them to use as coaches. Today
we went "on the galleries," which is a convenient phrase for the use of
small-bore rifles against small targets at short range. At the bottom of
the drill field we hung on wires small wooden frames on which were tacked
paper targets; behind was the low railroad embankment, behind that the
lake. Our rifles were in every detail like the service pieces, except the
smaller bore. We used dummy cartridges as long as the gun usually
requires, but so made as to receive much smaller cartridges, carrying
weak charges of powder--if you understand the lingo, they were "22
shorts." One gang of us was kept at work perpetually loading these
gallery cartridges, and assembling them in clips of five; another gang
was steadily tacking new targets on the frames; and bunch by bunch we
were moved from these duties to the more interesting one of shooting the
cartridges and spoiling the targets.
Since our recent talk in the gymnasium we have been practising, at all
odd minutes, how to hold and sight the guns, and how to pull the trigger.
Never before coming here had I heard of the _squeeze_, in which (of
another kind) all army men are popularly supposed to be proficient by
nature, but which here is technically a special study. The greenhorn
naturally supposes that all he has to do with the gun is, like Stephen in
the classic rhyme, to "p'int de gun, pull on de trigger." But since the
ordinary pull is a jerk that affects the aim, some genius has invented
the new method. So we are taught first to grip the small of the stock
with the full hand, the thumb along the side, and with the forefinger to
take up the slack of the trigger till it engages the mechanism, and then
to take a little more, till presently the gun will go off. At this point,
while using the sling to secure a good aim, the shooter should squeeze,
that is, he should slowly and steadily contract his whole hand, all the
fingers together, till in a moment--Bang!
It sounds so easy!
On the galleries, then, we were tested for our understanding of this new
art. The size of the target and the distance, considered in relation to
the power of the two rifles, were about equal to service conditions at
five hundred yards. The weight and size of the gun made the test a fair
one. We tried out the two chief postures, sitting and prone, and had both
slow and rapid fire, or as the captain prefers to say, slow and
deliberate.
These are summaries and general facts. Personal details are: long service
in the two gangs, long waits for my turn, and five minutes with the gun.
"Be sure to shoot on Number Twelve target," warned the coach as he helped
me adjust the sling. "Now get your position right. Now put in the clip.
And now remember your squeeze." I was trying slow fire, handling a gun
for the first time since I was a boy. "The top of the U of the open sight
an inch below the bull," chanted the coach. "But the bullseye," I
complained, "dances all about." "Of course," said the coach. "Make it
dance less, hold as steady as you can, squeeze when the front sight is
under it.--There, you jerked!" So I did, but I squeezed a little better
as time went on, till I was pretty sure I was doing all right. The gun
didn't kick, and by my tenth shot I was fairly steady. I gave up the gun
after making sure it was empty, waited till all the rest had finished,
and at the order we walked forward with new targets, hung them in place
of the old, tore ours off the frames, and gave the frames over to the
tacking squad, while at the same time trying to compute our scores before
we filed up to the captain.
I was amazed and disgusted to find that three of my shots had missed the
target quite. To the captain, as he studied my target, I expressed my
mortification. "What target were you shooting on?" he asked, in the lingo
proper to our trade. I answered "Number Twelve." "Three shots shy," said
the captain, "and here's Number Fourteen lacking two hits. Where's Number
Thirteen?" "Here, sir," said Bannister, "and there's fifteen shots in my
target." "Then three are mine," said I. "And two are mine," said Number
Fourteen. My shooting hadn't been very good, threes and fours, with only
one bull. Bannister had nine bullseyes, some of which I may have made;
but he was privileged to count all the best shots on his score.--I know
now a little more about target shooting than merely holding the gun.
Tomorrow we are to have more of this, although it is Sunday. The captain
has given us our evening to ourselves, and has asked us (_asked_, you
notice, for our Sunday afternoon is our own) to give him the time
tomorrow. He has the reputation, I am told, of always making his company
the best at rifle shooting. And if he works us, he is also working
himself.
This spell of cold weather which has followed our rains and is going to
make life quite different for us, has this evening driven everyone from
the company tent except myself, who sit here wrapped in a blanket to my
waist, finishing this letter. There has been a very pleasant little group
of us here, using each other's ink, interrupting our work to stop and
chat, showing each other our photographs. And perhaps I had better
explain why it is that I have appeared in two or three of the camp scenes
which I have already sent you. There is here an official photographer,
who sends out camera men to take us in all sorts of occupations--on the
skirmish line, on parade, cleaning our teeth or our rifles, marching,
skylarking. The pictures are all of the post card size, and in due course
are exhibited at the studio, where we go and inspect and buy. He is
always out of pictures of lieutenants, captains, the general, and other
popular subjects. But by perseverance and patient waiting one can
accumulate a record of his life here. Luck will put a fellow, on an
average, into a few groups a week, as you see in the ones I have sent
you.
I am shivering. The captain has promised us another blanket for tomorrow,
and there are rumors of an issue of overcoats. At this rate we shall need
them.
Love from
DICK.
PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Sunday evening the 17th.
DEAR MOTHER:--
Not a minute for writing all day, and yet I have been idle, idle, idle.
My own personal work began very early, for I got up about quarter of
five, took my shower-bath in the shivering dawn, and then, while the camp
was just beginning to stir, and when I had the bucket and spigot to
myself, I washed out shirt, underclothes, stockings, handkerchiefs, and
pajamas. The water was painfully cold, and often I had to stop and warm
my hands in my sweater. But I got the work done, and hung the clothes on
the lines, knotted together, that are used to regulate the caps on tents
8 and 10. The clothes-pins were most useful, for the wind blew strongly
all day, and many a piece of laundry went sailing off to leeward.
Inspection compelled me to take the things in once, but I got them out
again, and in the evening I had the pleasure of putting on again, dry,
the pajamas that I washed in the morning. I never should have been able
to fold them properly for stowing away.
Our inspection was very formidable this morning, for the major was
expected, and the captain came down the street, and in his mildest voice
gave strictest orders. Washing was taken in, extra clothes were taken
down from tent-poles, and tents were made perfectly neat inside and out.
I was tent-policeman for the day, but my job was light, for everyone was
concerned to have the place look well, and picked up round his cot,
borrowed the broom and wielded it, and laid out his kit in the best of
order. From the next tent we heard Randall in his usual controversy with
his squad, refusing to help his neighbor roll up the walls of the tent,
and loudly complaining when his washing and his rubber coat were thrown
on his cot with orders to put them out of sight. But in spite of himself
he was compelled to share in the housecleaning. Outside, the street was
policed of every cigarette-butt and scrap of paper, and then the two
police squads, with rakes and brooms, went down the whole length of it
and made it as orderly as a garden walk.
Then at command we lined up outside the tents, dressed in two lines down
the street, facing each other. Down this aisle came the Major, glancing
keenly about, and peering sharply into each tent. Of our corporal he
asked if we had blankets enough. Captain Kirby came next with the first
sergeant, and carefully inspected each tent. Then he called us all
together in a circle, said that the major had been unusually pleased with
us; a man of few words, he has seldom praised a company so heartily. This
set us all up. Then the captain, for his own part, gave us his thanks,
told us we'd done well, and apologized for working us so hard. "I know
you hate me like the devil for it," he said, "but you're coming on
finely." And he sent us to the galleries for more practice. We went in
some surprise at his opinion of himself. "Hate him like the devil?"
exclaimed Corder. "The devil we do!"
The waiting on the drill-field became very tedious. So poor is our
equipment that we have but eighteen gallery rifles for our hundred and
fifty men, and it was nearly an hour before I got my first try. My score
this time was the reverse of yesterday, for I got fifty-four out of a
possible fifty, one hundred and eight percent! That was because there
were thirteen holes in the paper, someone having presented me with the
extra three. Counting all the best shots as my own, my official score was
42; yet none of the shots were outside the second ring, and at worst my
score was 39.
In the afternoon my pride had a fall, for after the same tedious wait I
fired my ten rounds at the target. This time I fired prone, both clips
within two minutes. This position, flat on my belly with my legs apart
(in our close quarters it was difficult not to kick my neighbor, and
destructive of aim to have him kick me) with my elbows under me and the
gun, and my head bent back, is in itself hard enough to maintain during a
single shot. But for rapid fire the process is thus. After the first shot
the gun is kept at the shoulder, the muzzle slightly lowered and turned
aside to give the right hand a chance to work; I grasp the bolt handle,
turn it up, pull it back full length, shove it sharply home, turn it
down, and thus have reloaded. Then again I must sight the gun, be sure
not to cant it, be sure not to have my eye too close to the cocking
piece, must get the sights right, hold steady, and squeeze. All this on a
ten seconds' average. After the fifth shot there is a change, for the gun
must be taken from the shoulder and the fresh clip inserted. Then five
more shots at the same rate. No wonder that, though all these days I have
been hardening my elbows and toughening my neck, at the end of my ten
shots I fell over gasping.
And my luck was bad. First my clip would not go easily into the gun, and
made me feel hurried. Next a cartridge jammed, and lost me ten seconds.
Then out of the ten cartridges four missed fire, which put me off my aim.
My coach was ready with more, but they had to be loaded singly, and I had
time to fire only a total of eight, making a miserable score of sixteen.
The captain, after briefly scanning my target, told me that I was aiming
too low. After another long wait I had another chance; but this time I
was thoroughly chilled by the wind that had been blowing through us all
the afternoon. Then the worn cartridges and the old breech mechanism
behaved badly again, and though by following the captain's hint I did
better, making 27, it was very unsatisfactory. The officers hope for
more, and new, gallery rifles. Without them it is difficult to give us
good preliminary practice. For all this, you know, is to get us ready to
shoot with the service rifle.
Many of us came shivering off the field, and huddled in our tents with
our new extra blankets around us till we warmed up again. But very few of
the men failed to turn up at this volunteer practice, and to stay it
through on the chance of one more round. In the whole company there were
but six who slipped away to pleasures in the town. One of them was
Randall.
I am warm now, and fed. Love from
DICK.
PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER
Monday the 18th September, 5.40 A. M.
On my cot, while the others
sit about and chat.
DEAR MOTHER:--
The reason why the others sit and chat, and why I have time to write, is
this. Young David, fresh from his shave (which he has learned to do at
speed, and without injury, and is very proud of) came into the tent and
said: "We have ten minutes for making up our packs before mess." "Lucy,"
said Knudsen, "there's a chance of showers. Why do up packs that we may
have to undo again?" So David is polishing his shoes (likewise a new art
with him) and Pickle is sewing on a button, and they all are talking,
while elsewhere, chiefly in the street, the men are making up their packs
for the morning's work that is sure to require them. And now comes in
Bannister, chanting "Soupy, soupy, soupy!" It is time for mess.
--And now, forty-five minutes later, the whole company is at work over
the packs, most of the squads grumbling, but we very happy, for it is
showering in a dispirited way, and the order is, "Ponchos out of the
packs!" Wise Knudsen, and fortunate Squad 8! Now the next question is,
where to carry the ponchos--in the two lower straps of the pack?
Everybody gives everybody else his opinion. The word comes down the
street, "Carry them as you please." So mine is looped in the strap that
supports my belt, and the pack is slung. And while everyone else is
adjusting his pack, or dropping the sides of the tent near his cot, or
loosening the tent guy-ropes, I scratch this.--Now the bugle, and the
whistle, and the last hasty running and calls, and in a moment we shall
be assembled, each with ten blank cartridges in his belt (the first time
we have had them) and shall be off in the drizzle.
Evening. In my OVERCOAT!
But it was not many minutes before our ponchos were on, for the day was
"open and shut," and sometimes it opened pretty wide. In our full
equipment, ponchos over everything, we turned off the main road, went by
new and strange ways, and found ourselves for the first time on the
range, where we lined up at the 600 yards mark. As we looked toward the
butts the scene was very picturesque.
The field was level, rising at the further end to a low ridge, below
which stood the targets. These, seen through the drizzle, were but great
squares of pale tan color, only slightly relieved against the wet sand
bank. In the middle of each of them I could just see a black dot. Between
us and them, three hundred yards away, was extended a dark line of men,
with here and there a smoking fire around which groups warmed themselves.
From the thin line came irregularly spurts of smoke, and the spattering
of rifle shots. It reminded me of an old picture of the field of
Antietam, spiritless in itself, but here made alive by the movement, the
noise, the drifting smoke, and the gray monotone. I watched it while the
captain explained tomorrow's work; then, glad that today had not fallen
to our lot, we marched on, taking up our route step in the soft sand of
an old railroad bed.
We were glad of our ponchos when the rain increased. As it poured down
heavily we were a disreputable lot, all streaked with the wet, our hats
slouched, our ponchos bunched in every direction with elbows, packs, and
rifles. The rubber turned the cold wind and shed most of the rain; but as
before, where our knees touched the ponchos the water came through, and
wet us finely. Then the rain stopped and the clouds became thinner, but
the wind remained cold; and when the captain slowly led us along the
specimen trenches, explaining as he went, we all got pretty well chilled
for lack of motion. I looked at David and saw that he was turning blue.
The only mental relief came when we arrived at the shelter where a few
days ago we found Vera.
Corder looked at the sign in front of it, and read it out. "Machine gun
emplacement! Very appropriate!"
I couldn't help smiling, nor could the rest, except David, who for
politeness tried to be blank, and thoroughly warmed himself by the inward
struggle, turning quite red. When the captain got us back to the road and
"fell us out" (note the idiom!) we had calisthenics, with pushing matches
that put warmth into us. And then we marched in skirmish line through low
bushes for half a mile, till the captain lined us up for blank cartridge
practice.
We had struck another part of the same abandoned railroad, from which was
plainly visible, at perhaps two hundred yards, the gable of a deserted
shack. The captain sent to it a couple of men, who tacked up a target on
it. Then first the coaches, our experienced riflemen, and after them the
platoons one by one, came forward, every man being ready with his two
clips of blank cartridges. The slings were adjusted, each line as it came
up loaded with the first clip, and at the command "Targets--up!" threw
itself flat, took position, and began to fire. The lieutenant called out
the ten second intervals. Proper firing would bring the exhaustion of the
first clip at about one minute. Then the second clip would be inserted,
and should be finished with the second minute.
I cautioned my coach to remind me to keep my eye away from the cocking
piece, and after testing sling and ground, threw myself down and got into
position at the word. Well, it wasn't difficult to fire; though the noise
of the gun was much greater than that of the gallery rifle there was no
recoil; and I tried to be as steady as possible in aiming and squeezing.
The bullseye was the silhouette, life size, of a man lying prone and
firing at me. Instructions were to aim at the bottom of the target, about
a foot below him. The crack of my neighbor's piece, very loud and sharp,
was the most uncomfortable part of the performance, and I shall shoot
tomorrow with cotton in my ears; many decided likewise. I plugged away
steadily, the ammunition worked well, and I finished my second clip with
about fifteen seconds to spare. Then I stood up and brushed myself, with
no one to prove that I had not made a perfect score.
One hundred and fifty men shooting ten rounds each--that meant 1500
shells left on the ground, with 300 clips, all of brass. I noticed some
rather untidy figures, emerging from the miserable little shacks that
dotted the scrub, slinking through the brush in our direction and
gathering on the flanks of our firing line, eight or ten men and boys and
girls, one of the latter carrying a baby. Near me Captain Kirby cursed
them under his breath as "human buzzards," and I understood that these
camp followers had not gathered merely to admire. As soon as the last
platoon filed off the ground, these persons slipped forward, and began
eagerly to pick up the treasure that lay scattered there. With brass at
twenty-five cents a pound, war prices, they made enough, scratching in
the dirt, to keep them going for the next week or so.
Back to camp then, still glad of our ponchos, for though there was no
more rain the wind was steadily colder. Then the job of cleaning, with
one rod per squad, and patches always few, our fouled rifles.
This afternoon we were taken to a neighboring field, where in limited
area are samples of most of the military engineering devices approved by
moderns. Three officers of the engineers in turn took charge of us, and
showed us bridges, roads, entanglements, dugouts, rifle pits, hand
grenades, trench mortars (with real bombs!) and finally the mysteries of
map-making, which for me are practical mysteries still. Some glimmer of
an idea I now have of how a man with a watch and compass, a sketching
board and paper, can make a working map of country entirely new to him;
but I never could do it myself. Calisthenics next, as almost daily; and
then instead of being dismissed for our swim, which none of us wanted in
such cold, we were marched back to the company street, where a line soon
formed at the store tent, and a magic word was passed from squad to
squad.
Overcoats! Overcoats? Could we believe it? But a figure separated itself
from the crowd at the head of the street, and came strutting toward us.
An army overcoat, o. d., and above it the grinning features of a fellow
whom we knew well. It was true! And quickly we ourselves got into line,
coming at last to the tent, where without considering sizes the overcoats
were handed out just as they came. After which men went up and down the
street swapping, the little fellows with 44s calling out for 36s, and the
big fellows demanding 44s. I soon exchanged my 38 for a 42, and now, at
the camp tent, am comfortably writing in it. It holds me sweater and all,
blouse too if necessary; it can cover the ears and comes well below the
knees. Mysteriously--for I don't understand these things--it has the
military cut. I never felt so swell as when I first buttoned it on.
There has been no general conference on account of the cold, our captain
being the only one brisk enough to get overcoats for his men. But company
conference is now due, and I see the captain coming. These nights on the
rifle, always the rifle.
Love from
DICK.
PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER
Plattsburg, Tues. the 19th September.
DEAR MOTHER:--
We have had a long day on the rifle range, slow fire at three hundred,
five hundred, and six hundred yards, working for a total of 50 on each
target, and a possible grand total of 250 when, some other day, we have
our two tries at rapid fire. The work was hard for some of us, the
coaches and scorers, exciting for the rest. The captain worked hard from
first to last, trying to make it possible for us, with our slight
preparation, to qualify as marksmen, with a total of 160, or perhaps even
to do better, as sharpshooters scoring 190, or as expert riflemen with
210 points. Our new overcoats, for which we have him to thank, saved the
lives of many of us, for there was the keenest little north wind blowing.
I lay down in mine once, and slept very comfortably; and all the fellows
were grateful for the protection. There isn't a man in the company that
hasn't done his best today for the captain's sake, if not for his own.
Our company were waked a little early, and were extra prompt to
breakfast, which was extra good (eggs and bacon!)--again the captain's
foresight. He started us promptly for the range, surely the oddest sight
that we have presented so far. In front went a huddle of men with
benches, chairs, and tables, lamps for blacking the sights (lest they
glitter and confuse the eye), the captain's megaphone, and the
ammunition. We followed at route step in our greatcoats, some of us
carrying ponchos, and except for our rifles and belts, no other
equipment. Discipline was relaxed today, for the captain, hopeful of good
scores, was as gentle as a lamb.
Of the three dozen targets we had twelve for our share, and companies I
and J used the remainder. In front of our section of the line the company
flag was set up, the benches were placed, the scorers took their seats,
the platoons were ranged for their turns. Companies I and J came marching
on, and before very long we were rapidly getting used to the orderly
disorder of the range. The coaches were called up for their opening try,
and suddenly I heard the order for the first round to begin. The shots
began to rap out, sharp and heavy.