A few weeks later I had enlisted in the Infantry and, with other
recruits, among whom was Sam Jenkins, arrived at one of the training
camps.
Its size astonished me. It was a city of barracks. Broad streets
designated by letters, with each barrack numbered, stretched out in
endless succession, covering hundreds of acres and miles in length and
breadth.
On being assigned to barracks, we drew our “property,” including
uniform, blankets, sweaters, and other equipments, usually issued to a
“rookie,” besides a rifle and its belongings.
I had supposed that the life of a soldier in camp was one of
comparative leisure, but there is where I made a mistake--a delusion
common to the uninitiated. Our duties, or work, seemed unending. There
was a rule to fit every hour of the day.
Reveille calls the rookie out of bed. Then after putting on his uniform
he takes a position near the line and, at the first sergeant’s command
of “Fall in” takes his place and assumes the first position of a
soldier--which means, heels on the same line, toes turning outward,
chest out, body thrown forward, thumbs at the seams of his trousers,
legs straight, but not stiff, and the weight of the body resting
lightly upon the soles of his feet.
After reveille, he makes his bed, puts everything in order, then washes
for breakfast, or as it is called “Mess,” after which he puts his
equipments in order for drill. His rifle belts and uniform must be neat
and clean as possible, or he gets a reprimand. Then comes “sick call”;
then “drill call”; at which call he is expected to put everything in
exact order in his quarters, then take his place in ranks for two
hours’ drill.
Then comes another “Mess” call, which means fall in for dinner. After
dinner there is a short rest, then comes drill call again, after which
there is another short rest, during which he is expected to bathe,
shave, and make himself neat, and ready for retreat--which is the dress
occasion of the day. The next call is “Taps” when lights must be out.
This is, however, but simply an outline of the routine that one must
follow during each day.
I, however, liked the military drill and, as Sam declared, learned it
as though it was something that I was made for. But there were many
petty exactions, which looked to me, as it doubtless has to every
other raw soldier since the beginning, needlessly fussy; and the drill
sergeant was exasperating. But there is a difference in men. Some, when
invested with brief authority, have always been bullies.
But it was when I went on my first “hike” with full pack, that I
thought I was killed. If there has ever been an invention, since the
beginning of soldiering, that has made a soldier boy regret his wealth
of possessions, it is this first regular “hike.”
It was a beautiful day in July when I fell into line with others, some
seasoned vessels of war--but mostly not. I had admired the pack while I
was learning the minutiæ of making one, for it certainly is a wonderful
invention, and the first half mile I kept up a martial air, with my
sweat-provoking and back-aching pack galling me. Then I began to want
a rest--and didn’t get it! The sweat ran down my face and saturated
me with a sticky moisture. I fully agreed with Sam when he said, in
undertone, “Isn’t it a grunter?” I certainly never knew the sweetest
word in English until, at last, came the order, “Halt!” When I got
through that “practice march,” I recognized that carrying a nine-pound
rifle on my shoulder, and a heavy pack--however admirable the
invention--was not amusing.
It was, however, not many weeks before my sturdy farmer-boy shoulders
became more accustomed to the pack. Poor Sam, however, who was short
and fat, for a long time persisted in his first opinion, that it was a
“grunter”! He said he had heard Civil War soldiers tell of throwing
away their blankets and overcoats on a march and now understood the
reason of it!
Some weeks later, when I had learned the drill, and had even been
complimented by a non-commissioned superior who declared that I took to
soldiering “like a duck to water,” I thought there might be something
in inherited qualities.
One thing, common to all new soldiers, was that I suddenly found
myself unexpectedly fond of home, and couldn’t hear from the folks
often enough. Home never seemed to my mind quite so lovely, as now that
I was away from it. I was, as may be inferred, not a little homesick.
I have forgotten to say, in its proper place, that Muddy had
accompanied me from home to camp, and was hailed by my comrades as
a companion worthy of the khaki with which nature had clothed him.
He was soon adopted as the Company Mascot; and to a homesick boy his
companionship cannot be over-estimated.
On coming to the Cantonment I had endeavored, from the first, to find
Jot; but not a thing could I learn about him. To find any one in this
big city was, as Sam said, “like looking for a collar button in a
pasture.” It was more difficult to find a person in this great city of
barracks perhaps, than in an ordinary city, because of the uniformity
of its buildings and the sameness of its uniforms.
One day I had left Muddy in charge of the mess sergeant and had gone
to the Y. M. C. A. to write to Uncle Jim and Aunt Joe, when the door
opened, and Muddy, like a whirlwind of hair and tail, came yelping and
jumping upon me.
I looked up to scold him, for dogs were not allowed there, when “Jot”
stood smiling down upon me. He threw his arms around me with a big hug,
and slap on the back, which I returned with interest, notwithstanding
my cool New England habit of reserve.
During all this time, Muddy had been yelping and wagging both body and
tail with doggish delight and approval, at having brought his friends
together, until the superintendent reminded us of the rules.
Then I inquired of Jot, “How did you find me?”
“I didn’t find you,” he replied, “it was Muddy.”
“Yes; but how did you find my barracks and company?”
“It was Muddy, I tell you;” he said. “I was on my way to the
quartermaster’s office, when I heard a yelping and he flew like a mad
dog out of one of the barracks; and yelped and whined and dragging me
by my trouser leg as much as to say, ‘Come this way!’ And I understood
enough of his dog talk to know that you were somewhere around here. So
I followed him.”
It was not until we were on the way to the quartermaster’s that I
noticed, that he wore the chevrons of a “Top Sergeant” (first sergeant)
and learned that his quarters were only a short distance from mine.
How it was that Muddy knew that Jot was in the street is one of the
mysteries of the dog intellect--or instinct;--for the incident is true.
Afterwards, I told Jot of the sale of Jack to Colonel Walker, and that
I believed he was in the same encampment. But Jot said he had learned
that he was in one of the more Southern camps--perhaps Camp Green, in
North Carolina.
“Why was it,” I queried, “that you did not tell Uncle Jim or me where
you were going?”
To this he replied, “Though your uncle did not tell me not to let you
know that I was going to enlist, he intimated very plainly that he did
not want you to know. He said, ‘If David knows where you have gone,
there’ll be no living with him; and he will follow you as sure as you
stand there.’” I was quite angry with uncle at first, but when Jot
said, “I think he did what he thought was best,” I saw, in part, an
excuse for him.
Among other things that I learned, during my soldier experience,
was one, that trouble is often brewing when we feel the safest. Now
it was about to overtake me and my dog. I was showing off Muddy’s
accomplishments one day to some dog admirers, when an officer came up
and inquired: “Whose dog is that?”
“He is mine!” I proudly replied, “isn’t he a dandy, Mister?”
“You must address officers by their title, he said stiffly, and salute
them.”
I had been so engaged, that I had not observed before, that he was an
officer. I at once stood at attention and saluted.
He glanced at me seemingly through and through and then, as though
satisfied, said, returning the salute,
“About that dog--just keep him out of sight and there will be no
trouble;” and then as Muddy came fawning on him, patted him and passed
on.
“That,” said one of the men, “is a West Pointer. He is as full of rules
and orders as a book on tactics.”
“I guess he likes a dog, himself,” said Sergeant Bill, “or he would
have ordered you to put him out of camp; for he is one of them highbrow
officers that live by rule. Them West Pointers are a bundle of rules
and regulations and eat blue books and general orders and such things
instead of grub.”
It was shortly after the foregoing incident, that an order appeared in
substance, as follows:
“After the 10th inst. all dogs, not licensed, will not be allowed in
barracks, squad rooms, or mess halls.”
But as Muddy had a home license and wore a collar showing it, I was not
concerned until, shortly after, there appeared the following:
“After this date, all dogs, whether licensed or not, will be turned
over to the camp police.” To which some wag had added, “and thereafter
will be included among the missing.” This was thought to be “rough” on
those who had adopted dogs as mascots, and there were several companies
that had, but as the mess sergeant said: “What can we do about it?”
I had been on guard at post one, in front of the commandant’s office,
and in my distress, at the thought of losing my dog, determined on the
hazardous expedient of interviewing the commandant, to get permission
to keep Muddy.
So, brushing up my uniform and looking my neatest, I went to the office
of that dread personage.
I passed the guard, got into the office, and when the commandant had
turned from his desk where he was engaged in writing, I stood at
attention and saluted. Then I saw that it was the same officer I have
before mentioned as being a West Point man, but whom I did not know was
the commandant.
“State your errand briefly,” he said coldly.
I was nervously stating my errand when in rushed Muddy, as though to
argue his own case. I picked him up for fear of what further damage he
might do, and as a matter of habit with me, held in my arms.
“What is your name?” he inquired in a tone of severity that boded ill
for my request.
I told him, and, in answer to other questions following, said my father
was an officer during the Civil War in a Massachusetts regiment. I saw
his face change from severity to interest, as he said pleasantly,
“Was your father Captain Stark of the --th Massachusetts?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Did you know him there?”
“I am afraid not,” he replied, smiling for the first time; “but my
father did,” and added, “They were friends.” After a pause he added, “I
must grant this request to the son of my father’s friend.”
I do not know whether this incident had anything to do with a promotion
which I soon after received as corporal; but I am sure it did not
hinder it. And I was prouder of that promotion than any that I ever
received--unless a decoration received long after from the French can
be called one.
I found, however, that the duties of even this small office carried
with it not a little responsibility.
Possibly I magnify the office when I say that to be a good corporal, in
charge of new men, required some rare qualities. He should be icy calm,
have dignity like a judge and eyes like a gimlet, and good humor in
profusion; or he won’t get much work out of his men. I was on a detail
shortly after my promotion, hauling provisions for the Regimental Ware
House, and I couldn’t turn my head without losing a man.
When I told Jot about it he smiled and replied: “You did well not to
send men after those you lost, or you would have lost more men.” And I
knew by that remark, that he had once been a corporal.