whenever the weather will permit. Today we first had battalion
conference, when Major Goring spoke of recent manoeuvres--and we men were
interested to see that even he spoke of Friday as an extremely successful
day, and Saturday as an unusually hard one. Then supper, then bed-making
(which is desirable before the light goes--by the way, I am writing no
longer in the afternoon but the evening) then regimental conference, when
Major Downes spoke against time for an hour (and mighty well, upon the
Philippines and army experiences there) in the hope that General Wood
would come, which he didn't. Now I am writing while sitting upon a firkin
of apples that I had sent from our neighbor Williams, waiting for the
squad to come and help me eat them. Very bad writing this, I know, by the
light of the fire, holding the paper first folded, then bent, then
skewed, anything to stiffen it and catch the light, while every moment I
must shift it as I move my hand along the line.
The boys are gathering for a feed--the apples, Some honey, bread,
shredded wheat, cream from the local creamery (Knudsen's inspiration),
the first such feast since the hike began. We have invited our neighbors,
Squad Nine. So, since there is no more to tell, I will close this.
"Pass up your cups," says Clay.
Love to you from
DICK.
PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
On the road to Ledger Corners.
Tuesday the 3d October.
DEAR MOTHER:--
I write on my back in the usual roadside ditch, our column having halted
after firing has broken out in our rear. My pack was on wrong this
morning, hanging too low, so that the straps cut me; I was glad to stop,
so as to adjust it. Usually it is no trouble: in fact in some of the
skirmishes I have not thought of it at all except to remark how little it
cumbered me.
But the pack can be, I have found, a detriment in case of a fall.
Yesterday, going through a boggy wood, with rocks and slimy fallen trees,
I slipped and plunged forward. Without the pack I could have saved
myself; but the heavy roll, shooting ahead, was just enough to
overbalance me and bring me down among the stumps and boulders. To
protect my face I twisted as I fell. This brought the pack under me, my
head was lower than my hips, the pack wedged in a hole, and I should have
had difficulty in rising had not the boys yanked me up.
Our feed at bed time was a success. We were warned of a hard day to
follow, the march being extra long, and the road being so unsafe for
trucks (on account of weak culverts) that we must carry our own dinners,
which we must eat cold. In consequence we were given this morning an
emergency ration, consisting of a slice of Bologna sausage, two pieces of
dry bread, and two hard boiled eggs. These we put in our meat cans, with
such chocolate as we could get from the buzzards; we are carrying them
now, and are wondering if the cooks will get to camp in time to give us
coffee.
Behind me, after quiet, the fire has broken out again. The boys listen
critically. "We shan't have to go back for that." There is a whole
battalion behind us that can stand off any attack.
(_Later._) The hike today has been steady plodding, halting at the
regular intervals, also at times of attack from the rear. At first the
boys sang a good deal, new songs and old. But the last two stretches,
though we have had continual jokes and laughter, have been a persistent
grind. For the first time we have had climbing, pretty steady from our
start to the height of land, a rise of 502 feet, after which we stumbled
down a very stony track till we reached a better road at Halfway House,
an uninviting structure between two unknown terminals. We had one fine
look-off at the highest point, over a gently descending slope of miles to
a strip of Champlain, and beyond, floating above the haze, the Green
Mountains of Vermont. Now we are resting again, the boys talking,
smoking, studying the map, and singing quietly.
In camp at Ledger Corners.
At the mouth of my kennel.
The day's hike, ten or twelve miles, is finished, a very dreary
performance indeed. The way was very dull; and though the boys were at
first inclined to say they were glad not to be on skirmish duty, we
having worked so hard of late, before the trudge was over we were all
tired of the monotony, and would have been glad of a brush. And we got
just as tired and hungry as if we had had an extra four or five miles of
cross-country work. At last after passing through a district whose only
beauties were its few high views and the gorgeous colors of its maples,
and whose general sparseness of people, unattractive fields, and ill-kept
houses (chiefly of plastered logs) became after a while depressing, we
came to almost the only smooth field that we had seen. The first of the
trucks, after its journey of thirty-six miles, was just arriving;
nevertheless it was not long after we had pitched camp that coffee was
ready, with which we wetted our dry snack. You should watch us veterans
pitch camp. Every tent is erected in fifteen minutes at most, less if
rain is threatening. I always hurry off early for the hay, leaving Bann
to finish pegging down, and to ditch if necessary. My haste saves delay;
today I got into the hay-barn just before a quartermaster came and formed
a line. I always lug away a full poncho; though the hay almost fills the
tent at first it soon packs down, and I want this amount to make sleep
easy, and to make sure that even if rain gets under the tent, we shall
sleep on an island in comfort. Tonight the weather promises to be fine,
so that Bann did no digging except for sods to lay on the edges of the
tent to keep out the wind.
Afternoons are always pretty full. We are said to have our time to
ourselves--yes, and if conference on the manoeuvres is omitted (as today,
when our battalion had no manoeuvres to confer about), it really amounts
to something. And I have gained time by toughening myself, the rest I
used to crave at Plattsburg and on the range no longer being necessary.
But I love to linger over the luxury of the swim--or rather the bath--if
there is an accessible stream. There was none at Cherubusco, and to tell
the truth I didn't miss it, so weary was I, and the weather so cold. But
yesterday and today I enjoyed the chance to soap myself and souse. Next
if there is mail (and I can always depend on my letter from you) I like
to enjoy it and skim the newspaper. After that the rifle should be
cleaned, even on such a day as this when I did not fire a shot, for the
barrel has a habit of "sweating" which requires it to be cleaned out and
oiled. And then hundreds of us fall to on our letters home, always in a
public place, with talk going on all about, and with men going by who
pause and interrupt.
For in our company, and I doubt not in all the others, there is the
friendliest feeling for each other, and for each other's fortunes. We
know that So-and-so has had a sprain, that such a man is in trouble with
his digestion, that Hill has a fallen arch, and that Homans has terribly
blistered his feet and is these days riding on the trucks, poor devil.
Those who have met at the hospital tent have a common interest. Thus
getting acquainted, we hail each other when we meet in the street, stop
at each other's fires, compare notes, congratulate on recovery,
sympathize. There are, too, the recognized jokers, men who are always
looking out for a chance to make a hit. And finally camp news is handed
along from man to man.
With all this going on, afternoon and evening, a fellow is continually
interested and, you may say, busy. There is good feeling almost
everywhere, though it is interesting to see how the degree of it varies.
You see this particularly in the solidarity of squads. There is somewhere
in the regiment, I am told, a squad that does nothing but squabble; the
men have nearly all in turn been corporal, and no one will obey. But
mostly there is bound to spring up a feeling of unity, as the eight men
sleep and march and manoeuvre together. This will differ according to the
men's natural sociability or feeling of loyalty, with perhaps jealousy in
one man, or officiousness in another. Occasionally you will find a squad
whose masterful corporal interferes too much with his men's personal
freedom--and that has to be adjusted by a little plain language.
Sometimes a fellow is discontented with his squad; Randall, for example,
doesn't feel himself appreciated by his mates, and seeks chums elsewhere.
But none of his new intimates stay by him very long.
Our squad holds together very well; we eat together when our tents are
not too long a journey from the mess tent, a matter of consequence with a
brimming dish, and in general we have a constant eye out for each other's
movements. But more than this, we are taking Squad Nine into a little
confederation; they are men of the most diverse sorts but very much of a
unit, and all bright, witty, and ready to cooperate. Indeed, having a
system of fetching each other's hay and filling each other's canteens,
they have a better squad organization than we. It has pleased me very
much that our banter between the tents at Plattsburg has turned into the
friendliest of feeling, so that we naturally seek each other out. We gave
them a spread last night, and today are invited to another in return.
The column on the march is an amusing thing. Taken in little, I have got
very familiar with the backs and legs of the four in front, Bann's
springy tread, Clay's sturdy tramp, the little stiffness that shows in
ancient Corder's gait, and the untiring litheness of Knudsen's swing.
Beside me Reardon trudges silently, his hat always flopped a little over
his eyes, his head up. Sometimes I make him talk, and have pried out of
him much of his family history. Beyond him Pickle goes on springs,
cracking jokes like a little internal combustion engine. And David, now
very tanned and wide awake, finishes our four. Without looking, we know
the voice of each of our neighbors behind or in front, even so far as the
witless stutterer some squads ahead, or the flat-voiced constant querist
somewhere behind. But now when he raises his song his neighbors shut him
up.
Our company in column always remembers who commands it. The first song we
begin to sing, and the last we give up, is the Buzzard song, to show our
loyalty. Incidentally the song has improved discipline, for yesterday
when a buzzard approached us with the inevitable chocolate, tobacco, and
matches, we passed him along down the line with the chorus, "Poor old
buzzard, get away out of here," though, to be frank, the wording is
somewhat stronger. No buzzard will ever get anything out of our company
again when on the road, even though we may be at rest. Other little
touches show our memory of the captain's injunctions. We have a sergeant
who in former camps was demoralized by drilling under other officers, and
who at times crosses his gun upon his shoulders as he marches. Then the
whole column shouts at him till he takes it down. And when some other
company passes us, with men carrying the guns by the straps, we shout:
"Porter! Suit-case men! Red-caps!"
It is fine to march in a column of men and know the current of energy
that flows along it. However many miles you have marched, however tired
your feet and back and arms may be, in the knowledge that you are one of
a disciplined regiment there is something that strengthens you and keeps
you going. For in one sense Route Step, when you may go as you please, is
a fiction; we must still keep so close together that to preserve the step
and the cadence is almost a necessity, and though we carry our pieces at
ease, we still swing along together. And as you look along rising ground,
and see the hundreds of men ahead, and know there are as many more
behind, all going, going, the knowledge that you are a part of that
machine, and that to fall out would be to mar it and to cut yourself off
from it, keeps you still moving on your weary pins.
You see I am speaking of general things, because of particular events
today there is nothing to describe. The bathing today was most shockingly
public, on both sides of the bridge in this apology for a town. Whenever
wheels were heard, men shouted "Cover!" and those in the water (which was
very shallow) would try to get under. But I think the women folk had been
warned to keep away, since none of them crossed, at least while I was
there.
(_Evening._) Tonight we have had a talk from General Wood. I have not
reported our conferences to you, they are so incidental, and indeed so
theoretical at times. But we have had a captain from the border tell us
of the coming of the green militia there at the mobilizing of the
national guard, of their first helplessness under service conditions,
full as every company was of new men. The work of getting this half- or
quarter-trained mass ready for fighting was enormously more difficult
than our Plattsburg work; and the fact that these regiments, if sent into
the field at first, would have been helpless against the Mexicans, needs
no explanation (disagreeable as the idea is) to every recruit here. We
have at another conference been shown the detail work of supplying our
camps both at the training ground and on the hike, and the immense
importance of the work of the obscure quartermaster's department. Talk
after talk has impressed us with the amount of work needed to drill, to
equip, to work into fighting shape, even a few thousand men; and there is
no Plattsburg rookie who does not fully understand, and will not in
detail explain to his neighbors when he goes home, the absurdity of Mr.
Bryan's army of a million men which is to spring into being at the call
of the President. It would very much relieve us to be assured that the
government is ready to equip them even in the least particular.
General Wood has talked to us from time to time. Back at the training
camp he told us somewhat of our military history. You know our text-books
feed us up on our military glories; but looked at through the cold eyes
of the statistician we know now that these were achieved at the cost of
enormous and unnecessary losses, all from lack of system and readiness.
Moreover there are certain military disgraces which need to be called to
our attention, to make us resolve that these things shall not happen
again. Considering further that we have never yet had a war with a first
class military power (with two at least of whom we are in controversy
now) and remembering that not only has our national guard proved a
failure at this crisis, but that the new enlistments in the regular army
have not come to pass, so that it is many thousands below its paper
strength, we are now at the point of asking ourselves what we are to do
to meet the military necessity which will some day suddenly come upon us.
We believe it is coming; no soldier will deny it or can more than hope
against it. Therefore we must prepare--but how?
--It is time for our spread; Squad Nine has come not merely with camp
delicacies, but with cakes and candies from home! So I will break off
this gloomy epistle with, as usual, love from
DICK.
_P. S._ Still come the variations of the story of the clip of ball
cartridges. Someone knows somebody else who found it among his cartridges
one morning and slipped it into another man's belt. Thus the clip, and
the story, travels.
PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER
Cadyville, N. Y., Oct. 4, 1916.
DEAR MOTHER:--
We were up today as usual at half past five, those who were lucky rising
a little earlier for more comfortable dressing. And yet, after all, ten
minutes is enough for those few observances which may be dignified with
the name of our toilet. The pint and a half in the canteens allows us a
scrub of the teeth, and a rinsing of the face and hands--no more,
especially if we are to have anything to drink on the day's march, for
the morning, with an empty water-butt, is no time to replenish the
supply. Pickle, having a budding mustache, carries a pocket mirror and
comb, and so can arrange his hair; but the rest are usually satisfied
with a hasty smoothing with the hands--and since the hat goes on at once
and stays on, why not? Because of the cold, all sleep in their stockings,
which saves morning time, besides preventing bother in the lacing of the
trousers. (It is at night and at the swim that stockings are changed.)
Thus in the morning only the shoes and the leggings must go on; we are
already in our sweaters, and so are soon prepared for the first
formation. The cartridge-belt and rifle are dragged out from the straw
and laid ready in case they are called for; then one can proceed with
packing the squad-bag, and with striking the tent and separating the
shelter-halves. Old Bann is a wise one; he always begins by securing his
five tent-pins, and so leaves to me the responsibility of rummaging out
the remaining five, of which one always dodges me for a while.
The second call sounds, to be followed by the first sergeant's whistle.
"Corporals, get your men out! Belts and rifles!" There is snatching up
and buckling, then there is scientific delay over packing, with eye and
ear to the exhortations of sergeants and squad leaders; but at last even
the slowest are on their way to the head of the street to take their
places. The corporals are calling the numbers of their squads, "Six!"
"Nine!" "Twelve!" and with anxious eyes are watching for their belated
men. The line forms: there is a gap here for a smoking fire, and other
gaps that mean absentees. Rear-rank men step forward to fill the places
of their file-leaders, and as the assembly sounds the front-rank men are
glad to slip, unobserved, into the vacant spaces in the rear.
"Report!"--"First squad, present." "Second squad, private Smith absent."
Smith, hurrying up, curses under his breath. "Police duty today," he
knows, and makes a grimace at private Brown, who has found his place in
the fourth squad just in time.
Once the reports are in, the first sergeant orders "Inspection--Harms!"
With a rattle the guns are tossed up and opened; with another rattle, at
the next command, they are closed and snapped. The sergeant salutes the
waiting lieutenant, whose commonest proceeding, now on the hike, is to
warn us of an early start. Then perhaps he orders "Stack arms!" and we
grumble. A nuisance to have, in the company street, a line of stacks
through which we may not pass. Then, dismissed, we return to our packing,
always with an eye to the forming of a line at the cook tent. For no one
wants to be late in that line, yet all wish to get forward with the
packing. There is, on these cold mornings, another consideration: it is
pleasantest to eat breakfast in sweaters, which we know must be discarded
for the march. If the officers or sergeants come with "Hurry up those
blanket-rolls!" off the sweaters must come, and the rolls are made.
Otherwise, at the mess-call utensils are snatched up, and the men hurry
to the head of the company street, to form the double line, and to be
glad of the extra comfort that the sweaters give.
The meal disposed of and the meat-cans washed (or rather rinsed) the
remaining packing is quickly finished. The rolls are made, the squad-bags
are stuffed full, and both are carried to the trucks. The packs are made,
and the belts, heavy with the fresh ammunition that has just been handed
out, are hooked to them. A swing, a boost, a hitch or two, and our
pappooses, our constant companions, are with us till we make camp, seven
hours or more later. Then the whole company street is policed, and the
hay piled in big cocks on which, in the early sun, the men loll during
the last few minutes before the bugle calls.
Our second battalion was first in ranks this morning, drawn close
together to hear the words of the major. There was to be, he presumed, a
rencounter, or meeting engagement; he merely had sealed orders, to be
opened at a certain spot on the route. Our battalion was to start first;
he advised all officers to study the terrain as we passed along. And then
we were off, while the first battalion was decorating its hats with
white, and jeering at us as future enemies.
The trucks were a mile ahead of us; we saw the dotted line of their khaki
tops marking the road that led out of the high basin in which lay the
camp. As we too climbed the steady slope to the southeast we were willing
to leave the dreariness of its unkept farms and get among the woods. Lyon
Mountain, on the west, slowly drew its colored bulk behind the shoulder
of a nearer hill while we came closer and closer among the maples. The
shallow notch over which we passed was high and open; nothing overhung
us, but the tawny tapestry of the woods ran up gentle slopes to the right
and left, and the few evidences of farming, save for the all-present wire
fences, faded quite away. The slope grew stiffer, but there was no
slackening of pace. Heads bent low, chests began to labor, and the sweat
rolled down. A welcome rest relieved us; then up we started and went on
again, at each change of grade looking for the downward turn, and each
time disappointed till--ah, there was a corner, and on the slope beyond
we saw the column descending amid dust. Then we too turned the corner,
and faced the view.
It was not wide, for the woods by the roadside (brilliant in the sun on
the right, subdued in the, shade on the left) limited it to a V. Below
was the valley, and beyond and above it, piling ridge on ridge, rose the
hills, climbing to the shaded blue peak that loomed in the very middle.
It was a picture, striking and complete.
In vain I looked for the lake, which in all our earlier landscapes showed
between us and the hills. Then a reference to the sun showed that I was
still looking in a southerly direction. Further, this great hill, so high
and clear, was both taller and nearer than the Green Mountains could be.
Someone behind me said "Whiteface," and I knew that I was looking
straight toward the heart of the Adirondacks.
Again we made a turn, and the view broadened out. To the east the whole
landscape sloped toward the sun, against whose rays the brilliance of the
woods faded, though still amid the green one could see, to north or to
south, the yellow, the orange, or the dotted scarlet of the flaming
maples. The easterly view was less distinct; in the distant blue the
hills flattened to a fairly low horizon.
But while, still marching, I idly gazed, my eye was caught by an odd
trick of the sun which, now at nine o'clock well on its upward way, yet
seemed to illuminate the bottom of a cloud that hung near the sky line.
It was a sunset effect impossible by day, but there was the distinctly
gleaming band. And then I knew--Champlain! It was the lake, turning
faintly silver further north or further south. What I had thought to be a
cloud was distant haze. And above it hung, at first unnoticed, the faint
blue silhouettes of Mansfield and its neighbor peaks.
As we marched down the slope my neighbors, mindful of what was to come,
said "Gee! Suppose we are to climb up this again?" But apprehension was
soon lost in the interest of the town we now entered, whose great
buildings (in which each squad threatened to leave its most obstreperous
member) had been visible for some distance. Dannemora seems to be a town
whose prosperity, in this out of the way place, depends solely upon the
great prison that stands in its midst. We marched along beneath the huge
wall that forms one side of the main street; it rose in places fifteen
feet above our heads. Dust! dust! A school was let out; its scholars came
streaming uphill to watch us, and to tag along beside us even after we
had turned away from the great hospital of the prison, and were once more
amid farms. Other school children were waiting for us along the road. We
saw very little of the buzzard in this population; they handed or threw
us apples, and the boys even undertook to fill canteens--the same old
trick which the officers failed to detect.
Still we tramped on amid the dust which rose around us; if Saturday's was
the wet hike, this was the dusty one. As we neared a crossroad we were
given the command "Attention!" So we came to the right shoulder and
straightened our ranks, that we might look better as we passed the
General. Another quarter mile (we were an hour beyond Dannemora now) and
the familiar motorcyclist, our messenger in so many skirmishes, darted by
us to reach the captain. We grunted. And then "Squads left--march,
company--halt!" We found ourselves facing the wall of bushes. "Prepare to
load!" Who, we wondered, would accidentally fire now? Ah, the distant pop
was from the next company, and we heard its men angrily jeering their
clumsy mate.
Squads-left again, and now we were starting back on the way that we had
come. Uphill of course, but we feared that worse was to follow, as we
remembered the ridge that we passed some little distance back, and
recalled the advantages it offered for defence. To be sure, J Company was
now nearest it and should secure it, if the enemy were not too close. But
a burst of shooting, not very far away, apprised us that they were
already at hand. And then came the expected order, "Double time!"