and watched, or sat and waited, or lay and tried their squeeze.
Orderlies, sergeants, and platoon commanders hurried to and fro. Loretta
came to our group and said "Don't stand there, men, like a flock of
sheep"; but when we paid no attention, faded away. The Captain's powerful
voice was every few moments heard: "Another man here on target 36.
Fleming in hospital? Then send up the next man. We must waste no time."
"Ammunition here at No. 27." "Every man ready with his score card and his
score book." In but a few minutes the firing, which at the first was so
noticeable, became a commonplace, yet it was worth listening to. From
along the line came scattered reports, like the blows of a heavy rod on
very heavy carpet, now slowly separate, now close together, now sharply
double. In answer the whip-like echoes slashed out from the woods. The
drab men stood, or sauntered, or hurried; the figures of the shooters lay
prone, each with an eager coach crouching over him, correcting his
position, urging steadiness, repeating "Squeeze! Squeeze!" Behind the
line sat scorers at their wooden stands, behind them the first sergeant
received the records. The company flags, marking the line beyond which
the waiting men might not advance, flapped steadily in the breeze.
And in front of all, three hundred yards away, stood up the gray
sandbank, the stopper of the bullets. Some shots went over, to land in
the distant woods beyond, whose encircling signs warn all wanderers to
keep out. "There are hornets in those woods today, gentlemen," said the
captain yesterday as we passed beyond the range. "We will keep away."
There are thirty-six blackboards numbered in order, and between them are
the great targets of manila paper, with their circles and the heavy spot
at the centre. As a man shoots his target sinks, its mate immediately
rises in the same spot, and then upon its face appears, moved by the
markers concealed in the pit below, the record of the shot. A red flag
slowly waved--a miss!--a black cross on a white circle, a red disk, or
best of all, a white disk that obliterates "the bull." The scorers
interpret. "A four at three o'clock," "a three at nine o'clock," "a clean
five, high up," "a nipper four at twelve o'clock," and with a little
chuckle, "a ricochet five!"
Over it all, behind the butts, against the low clouds, rose a silent blue
hill, one of the distant Adirondacks.
In spite of our new greatcoats it grew chilly waiting. I took my time,
wrote notes of this for you, listened, watched. At last I was called to
the bench among those whose turn was next. There at the smoking lamp I
blackened my sights, and then carefully laying the gun on the rack I sat
down, still in my greatcoat, and while others fidgeted with impatience,
or shivered in their sweaters, I remembered that after all I was only a
civilian, and remained calm.
My name being called at last, I went forward to the little rise where,
beside a white stake, I was to shoot. I adjusted my sling and lay down to
the left of the stake; to the right was Lucy, tense and pale. My coach
was a stranger; his was good Clay. My coach tried in vain to get me to
take the position he preferred; it hurt and strained me, and he gave up.
As I slowly got the position I was used to, working my elbows into the
sand, bracing my toes, keeping my body close to the ground, my left hand
twisted in the sling and supporting the barrel, my right at the trigger
and stock, and my cheek at the butt, to my left a rifle heavily spoke,
and in spite of cotton my ear rang. Then Lucy shot. I heard the scorer
say, "Mr. Farnham, a miss!" and I chuckled as I prepared to shoot.
My coach knelt over me and repeated "Squeeze!" I got the sights in line,
the bull in place above the front sight, which was--or should have
been--on a line with the top of the U of the open sight, for I was afraid
of the peep sight. "Are you shooting on twenty-eight?" asked the coach. I
verified the number of my target, then tried to hold the wavering muzzle
steady, and for the first time tightened my hand-grip on the trigger of a
rifle capable of killing at two miles. It jumped sharply in my hands, I
saw the red flame at the muzzle as I heard the report, and felt myself
kicked smartly in the shoulder. Then, spent with all this tension, I
relaxed my grip and collapsed on my face.
There was a discouraging pause as I lay, waiting to hear the hit
announced. Then the scorer cried "Mark Twenty-eight!" The man at the
field telephone repeated the order. I knew the fact--at the butts the
marker had not heard over his head the ripping crack of the bullet, and
had to be told that I had fired. I imagined the slow waving of the red
flag. Then I heard the scorer briefly announce, "Mr. Godwin, miss!"
Well, I shot two more shots, both on the target, but both poor. My coach
did not seem able to help me. Then Clay, who in spite of his work with
Lucy had kept an eye on me, spoke in a low voice to my coach, who rose
and departed. In a moment the captain came, a great relief to me,
depressed with such failure. He looked at my score, asked a couple of
questions as to my sight and aim, took the gun and adjusted the sights,
and stayed to coach me himself.
But this was not Captain Kirby of the drill field, abrupt and peremptory.
He knelt beside me, coaxed, encouraged, purred. "Now, Mr. Godwin, this
time you will do better." And actually I did, a four at seven o'clock.
Once more he adjusted the sights and gave advice as to aim. "And
squeeze!" he said. "Squeeze!" I made a five at six o'clock--only a
nipper, but still a bull! Someone else coming for him, he left me with a
"See, you're shooting better!" And I believed him.
That is what he was doing all day, correcting, advising, giving
confidence. Every man after shooting brought his score-book to him, and
was told how to improve his work. But it was too late for me to make a
good score on this target: I made but twenty-two. Yet other men did
worse, nine, eleven, and even four! Corder, disgusted, reported a twenty.
Knudsen was quietly pleased with his thirty-nine. Then I hunted up David,
and found him just as Randall approached with a "Lucy, what did you
make?" David acknowledged a twenty-one, and Randall gloated over his own
forty-two. When he had gone, I said "He ought to shoot, being pure
animal. He has no nerves."
"Hasn't he?" demanded David, meaning, "I know he has." But he would say
no more.
I found that the men with low scores were more troubled about the effect
on the company total, and the captain's record, than they were for their
own credit.
But as for this game of shooting, it is certainly a test of nerve.
Nothing else can quite equal it--the strain to get position, to line the
sights just right, to hold steady, and then to squeeze. By me on the
firing-line the irregular shots were loud and startling, and people were
talking and calling all around. Golf, with its reverence for the man
about to play, is mild compared to this. The nervous strain of firing is
greater, the bodily shock is abrupt and jarring, you have no real chance
to make up for a miss by later brilliance or by any luck. No, golf
teaches patience and it requires poise, but--as played by the ordinary
man--it is no such game as this.
And as between the experts, target shooting is still the bigger sport.
The knowledge and judgment required to meet the varying conditions, the
steadiness demanded, the fact that the rifleman is preparing himself to
meet his country's greatest emergencies--these put golf (and you know I
have loved the game) into the lower place.
I put on my greatcoat again, took the nap that longed to be taken, and
then, refreshed and more confident, went to my next turn.
This was at five hundred yards. If you will consider that I was shooting
from our house across the meadow, across the railroad bridge, at a circle
twenty inches in diameter (about the size of our largest pewter platter)
you will understand my task. But I was fussed to begin with, for someone
had taken my rifle from the rack, and I had therefore not blacked the
sights, nor adjusted the sling, of the one that I hastily borrowed. As I
came to the stand I was met by an artillery corporal, evidently a kind of
super-coach, who curtly ordered me to do the one thing and the other, and
hurried me to my place. I told him how the captain had wanted the sights
set for this distance; I had put them so. "That doesn't go here," he
said, readjusted them himself, and ordered me to lie down. He was so
overbearing, and I was so uncertain of my rights, that I took my position
and fired my shot. A miss! He blamed me severely, and in general treated
me like the dirt under my feet. At my next shot, a poor two, he said,
"There you go, thinking you know all about it, and jerking your trigger
again." I said, "On the contrary, I'm not used to the pull of this
trigger, and the gun went off before I expected." From that time on I
paid no more attention to him, and perhaps from my manner he saw that it
was just as well to let me alone; but he attacked the other man on this
target, who feebly protested, and who made a wretched score. My score was
coaxed along by our company coach, a nice chap named Haynes, who was most
interested and sympathetic. As for me, the artilleryman vexed me so that
I shot to kill _him_, and by imagining him at the target made a
thirty-six.
It was an entirely new sensation, to be so bedevilled by such a man, and
to know that in wartime I could not reply. When at noon we were marched
back to camp and dismissed I sought out Haynes and asked, "What is your
opinion of that artillery coach?" Said he, "I'm going to speak to the
captain about him." "Thanks," I said. "You'll save me the trouble." And
when again I came back to the post in the afternoon, though the corporal
was there, he was very quiet and good.
This incident makes me doubt the value, for such volunteers as we, of the
regular non-coms whom they hope to have here next year, if by that time
the troops are off the border. What help could such an overbearing
conceited drill-master, with no inkling of our difficulties or our point
of view, give to such a squad as ours? Would he last a week out of
hospital, or we a week out of arrest? No, give us a Plattsburg veteran of
one camp as corporal, and appoint as sergeants those who have served two,
and we shall come on faster. Further, more men would thus be trained for
responsible positions.
In the afternoon we shot at 600 yards. We now had sandbag rests for our
left hands (not for our guns) and once more the captain showed his
foresight. He had us bring intrenching shovels and a dozen new burlap
bags, and soon we were provided with the best sandbags on the range. I
had the same nice little Haynes who had coached me on my second target.
Unsatisfied as I still am with my showing, I think he drilled into me
some idea of my errors, and my score again improved, standing at forty. I
feel better than if it had wavered up and down, even if the total had
been the same, and can reasonably argue that if the captain kept on
increasing the distance, say to 2000 yards, I should make a perfect
score. But many men, I find, did their worst at this distance, Randall
ending up at 24. Lucy has pegged steadily along, and got into the
thirties.
The supper-tables buzzed tonight as never before, every man having his
tale to tell, generally a tale of woe. Poor Knudsen is very sore, as his
last shot went into his neighbor's bullseye, and though the neighbor had
finished shooting, the shot could not be credited to Knudsen. There are
many other stories of misses that spoiled the score, and on the other
hand when a man has made a ricochet hit he is not inclined to brag of it.
Even those who from my point of view did very well are a little inclined
to grumble; and the only really satisfied man is Percy of Squad Nine, who
holds today's record.
Concerning Knudsen's miss, I now have the whole story. He had as scorer
an artillery sergeant who read the flags through field-glasses, and was
an unusually long time in scoring the last shot. At last he said "A
bull," and scored a five, which gave Knudsen a perfect record; but he,
suspecting something, made the man admit that the bulleye was in the
wrong target. Knudsen changed the score himself, a bit of personal
heroism that roused the wonder of Pickle, who told me the tale, and ended
"Chee, I couldn't a done it!"
Here is a story of Lieutenant Pendleton, told me by a man who watched the
incident. Our top-sergeant was scoring badly at six hundred yards, and
the lieutenant said, "Let me try your gun." So he lay down, and without
putting his arm in the sling, rested the gun on the bag, drew it tightly
into the shoulder by a hand-grip of the strap, and fired. It was a "two
at one o'clock," which means that the shot struck the outer side of the
target about the line, on a clock face, between one o'clock and the
centre. "Your sight is too high," said he, and corrected it. Then he
tried again, and got a "three at three o'clock," which means that he
struck on the level of the bull, but still out at the right. "You must
correct for windage," said he then. "I'll give her one and a quarter." So
once more, with the same rest and grip, he fired. Before the targets
could be changed and the shot marked the lieutenant got up, gave the gun
to the sergeant, and walked away, saying, "That's a bull's eye. You can
depend on that sighting, sergeant." Then the scorer called the shot. A
bull's eye it was, and the sergeant went on to shoot a string of them.
There is some pleasure in being drilled by such men as our officers. I
wish you could see the lieutenant on parade, in his best clothes, which
somehow are more becoming to him than the undress uniform, in which Kirby
shows best. Watch Pendleton walking with his springy, tireless step,
always with his eye on us. A dandy he is then, but one of the fighting
dandies, an athlete in good training, and a man that knows his business.
Our day was so completely taken up by the shooting that at the end it was
too late even for Retreat, and we in the middle of our washing up watched
the other battalion at parade, stood at attention while the band played
the Star-Spangled Banner, and saluted at the end. I have spent much of
the evening writing; and now, the first call having blown, the camp is
getting ready for bed. In the inner company tent I am left alone, the
other letter-writers and diarists having drifted away. In the outer, open
tent, where the conferences are held, three men are sitting at a corner
of the big table, still discussing their scores, their rifles, the
squeeze, the kick, the serious mistake it is to cant the gun. And here is
a fact for you. Captain Kirby declares that the rifles do not kick, and
in his own case he is probably right. But I got today a very sharp recoil
each time I fired, so that by noon my arm was lame to the elbow, and my
shoulder sore. I expected much difficulty in the afternoon, and the first
shot hurt consumedly; but whether or not I learned to hold the rifle
better, or whether the gradual toning up of my muscles is accustoming me
to what comes, the rest of the kicks seemed to act as a sort of massage,
so that I forgot about them, and tonight I am entirely free of lameness.
Outside, at the head of the company street, the fire is gradually dying
down. Wood is always provided for it, a hole is dug, the men feed it as
long as they please, and in the morning the police squad, I suppose,
smooth the ground. On benches or on the ground the men sit about the
fire, sing, discuss, or chat in groups. There is in the store tent an
easy chair made of rough lumber and sacking; when the captain can be
induced to stay after conference the men bring it out, seat him in it,
and make him talk. On his own doings he is silent, but on the work of the
camp, the formations, drill, skirmish work, patrolling, outpost duty, and
especially just now the ways of his beloved tool, the rifle, he has much
to say. Around him are men often much older than he, others who in civil
life command several times his pay, fellows who have every luxury at
command, as well as chaps bred and indeed wedded to the most peaceable
pursuits. But they all are here for a purpose; they never talk patriotism
but they all act it; and everything he can tell them that bears on their
efficiency as soldiers they will pump from him if they possibly can. It
is fine to see how they recognize in him complete mastery of the subject
that occupies us all, and how they sit at his feet for instruction.
But he has left us nearly half an hour ago, and the groups that remain
are slowly separating, as one by one the men go to their tents. I can
tell you just what is happening in ours. The lantern is lighted and
hanging on the pole. Clay is probably finishing a letter to his "mother."
Bannister is doubtless already abed, but ready from his cot to add a
sleepy jest to the quiet talk that is slowly going on. Reardon is putting
the last stamps on the sheaf of post-cards that he daily sends, for he,
you must understand, has more correspondents at home than any of the rest
of us. Rather big and burly, the quietest of men, with a very active eye
but very intensely committed to the minding of his own business, I know
him to be the most popular man in his own little town, where as the
managing clerk of the grocery he knows every man, woman, and child in the
place. He knows the taste of each, what he habitually needs or demands,
whether to trust or require cash. He gets through his day without a clash
with anyone. And knowing both his customers and the market he looks after
the needs of the town, warns of a rise in prices, calls attention to
special bargains, advises to lay in a stock of this or that. They miss
him now that he's gone; I know it by the pleasure he takes in the letters
and post-cards that come daily, bits from which he cannot help reading
out to us--from the Civil War veteran who half believes in Plattsburg,
and half doesn't; the drug-store clerk that has to go off on his vacation
alone; the "boss" that has nothing personal to say, but quotes the market
changes; the neighbor who doesn't quite venture to trust to the post the
doughnuts she wishes she might send. And nightly Reardon sits on his cot
and writes in the dim light careful answers to every message.
Lucy and Corder are putting themselves to bed most systematically, Corder
because of his middle-aged habit, Lucy on account of that aristocratic
cleanliness in which he has been scrupulously bred. They have their
system and their order, the toilet, the costume, the making of the bed,
all very careful and precise. Knudsen, still dressed, is lolling on his
cot and jollying; this is the time of day when he most comes out of
himself, and I know that presently when I approach the tent it will be
his ringing tenor that I shall hear. He is poking fun at the others,
cursing that last shot on the range, interrupting Reardon and Clay in
their writing, philosophizing on his favorite subject, baseball. Yet if
you get a little closer to him you find that he has interests that it
takes a little coaxing to disclose: religious convictions that he has
changed with his growth, curious hard business experiences that make him
declare that he is a self-seeker, while you have only to watch him with
Lucy to know that he is not. Yet he sedulously knocks and batters at
every feminine quality that the boy discloses, and will exaggerate any
statement if he thinks you suspect him of tenderness.
I shall presently make a dash, for the tent, snatch my tooth-brush and
make for the spigot, and bring back a basin of water for my feet. Then
Knudsen will bestir himself and race me for bed, at the same time that
Reardon lays by his pen and accepts our warning. We crawl between the
blankets, nine over us tonight. I shall put my poncho over me next, and
my overcoat on that, and with the tent-wall looped up shall be
practically outdoors.
Last of all Pickle will come slipping in from some rendezvous with
friends. He sleeps in his clothes, minus shoes and leggings, and he is
likely to be curled up before I am.
And then float to us the notes of Taps. "Love, good night. Must thou
go...?" It is the signal. The last one of us puts out the lantern, and it
is soon "Good night, boys," and silence. Usually I go to sleep at once;
if not I soon hear the feet of two of the sergeants in the street and see
the gleam of their lantern. They come from tent to tent, enter ours and
throw the light on each cot, and pass on. Often I hear from the
neighboring tents a sleepy "Good night, sergeant," but never yet the
question "Who sleeps in that cot?" A high average, then, of obedience to
the rules. The men are here for business.
I have lingered almost too long. Good night!
DICK.
THE SAME TO THE SAME
Plattsburg, 20th Sept., 1916.
DEAR MOTHER:--
It promises today, Wednesday, to be showery once more, so we are making
up our packs with the ponchos out, ready for use. Post-mortems of
yesterday's scores are still going on. The boys are all well and lively,
except that I have just passed Randall standing gloomy at the door of his
tent, feeling very much insulted because someone at breakfast called him
a grabber. Apart from him the street is humming with talk, as the boys
make up their packs upon the hard-trodden sand.
It is a very amusing thing, this confusion and talk of the street, as men
on errands make their way among the kneeling figures, the police squad
tries to do its work, the sergeants pass, and jokes or criticism are
bandied about. We are becoming very well acquainted, except for those who
have not the habit of noticing their neighbors. There are a couple of men
who have for ten days sat opposite me at table, and yet do not know me
when we meet outside. But most of the men are very companionable.
Nevertheless, it must be admitted that the opportunity has not been very
great. Unless a man is Number One or Number Four in his squad, he is
likely to be swallowed up by it. I have felt very fortunate to be Number
One, for in all formations in line I stand beside a man of another squad,
and whenever we fall in or stand at rest I chat with them. Since
Bannister has neglected the advice, given by the captain, to shift the
men about, I am glad that I have had this advantage, and am more lucky in
getting a wider acquaintance than is possible to some of the others. For
as you have seen, we eat together, march together, dress and sleep
together, the squad being the unit on which everything is based. Captain
Kirby has said that when we rest on the hike squads must sit down
together, so as to waste no time in falling in.
But the shooting has done a great deal to break down this isolation. It
was impossible, on the range or the gallery, to keep the squads together,
whether in shooting or in waiting. The men compared their scores,
explained their mistakes, gave advice, and fished for sympathy, with
everyone they met. Men in squads widely separated in the line got quite
chummy over their misfortunes, and grew friendly in encouraging each
other. The scorers and especially the coaches met many new men. So at the
table and the camp-fire the talk is now much more personal, and I think
that from this time on the company will be more of a unit in feeling, if
not more in unison in drill.
On this last point Captain Kirby is certainly unanimous. The shooting,
with its necessary disorder, has got us out of our habits of snap, and
today we have been put through a course of sprouts that has taken away
any conceit that we might have had. This morning he gave us ten rounds of
blank cartridges and took us out into our usual ground, the Peru road and
the fields adjoining. First, in anticipation of tomorrow, by platoons we
were given rapid-fire practice, sitting and firing our ten shots at a
count of ninety seconds. To our delight, it being a little windy, the big
paper target had to be held by a couple of the sergeants, one of them
being Loretta, at whom most of us aimed. (Some day I shall find time to
tell you about him.) This practice was valuable to me, helping me with my
squeeze. It was amusing to watch the other men fire (cool and clever, or
nervous and clumsy) and to listen to a little echo close behind our backs
as we waited, like a bunch of firecrackers going off all by itself.
And an incident. Before leaving the ground I gathered up ten shells and
some clips, to practice with at camp. After Recall I went to the end of
the company street, made up my clips, and had nearly finished simulating
the shooting of the second one, when we were called for calisthenics, and
I came running, and put away the gun. When later we fell in for parade,
and were given "Inspection arms!" on my opening my rifle a shell flew
out, right at the feet of the first sergeant, much to my disgust. When
later still I came back and found it, I discovered it to be not an
"empty" but a "blank," which someone this morning must excitedly have
pumped out of his gun unfired, and left lying for me to pick up. Lucky I
didn't fire it in practising at the foot of the street!