ORDERS FOR "OVER THERE"
During the next drill period Sergeant Kelly, hearing an angry
voice, glanced out through the window.
In the last draft to the company some green recruits had come in,
men who had been drafted to the National Army and sent to the
Regulars to fill up. Among them were Privates Ellis and Rindle.
"About face!" rapped out the crisp tones of Corporal Barrow, as
he glared at eight men in double rank.
Badly enough most of them turned. "You poor mutt-heads!" rasped
the corporal. "Do you think you'll ever make soldiers?"
In a jiffy Kelly reached for his campaign hat, put it on, and
stepped out into the corridor, passing out and heading for the
drill ground.
"Right dress!" called out Corporal Barrow. "Front! Rotten!
I wonder if you fellows think you'll ever be soldiers?"
Plainly the recruits were chafing under the lash of the corporal's
tongue. But Barrow, a young man of twenty-two, who had received
his chevrons after only four months of service, was in no mind
to be easily pleased to-day.
"You're the most stupid squad in the regiment!" the young non-com
went on. "Your place is in the bullpen, not in the ranks."
"Let the squad rest a minute or two, Corporal, and come with me,"
Sergeant Kelly called placidly. "I've a message far you."
Giving the required order, and lull of curiosity, Corporal Barrow
stepped quickly over to Kelly, who, placing a hand on the young
man's shoulder, walked him some distance away. Suddenly the top
sergeant, his back turned to the squad, grilled Barrow with a
blazing gaze.
"You poor boob in uniform!" rapped the sergeant. "Whatever made
you think of taking up soldiering. And what made you think yourself
fit to be in a regiment of Regulars? Do you know your left foot
from your right? You know as much about the manual of arms as I do
about Hebrew verbs. When you salute an officer you're a standing
disgrace to the service! Do you know what you ought to be doing
in life?"
His face growing violently red, Barrow soon forgot to be indignant
in the excess of his wonder.
"Meaning---what?" he demanded, thickly, his lower jaw sagging
in bewilderment.
"How do you like the way I'm talking to you?" asked Sergeant Kelly,
his own strong jaw thrust out as though he were seeking to provoke
a quarrel.
"Why do you ask?" demanded the corporal, with some show of spirit.
"Does any man enjoy being spoken to like a thieving dog?"
Instantly Kelly dropped back into a placid tone.
"How do you think the men of that squad like hearing you talk
to them as I've just talked to you?"
"But they're such numbskulls!" declared Barrow.
"You won't improve their intelligence by turning the hot water
on them all the time," Sergeant Kelly continued. "Could I make
a better corporal of you by scorching you every time I saw you?"
"You know you couldn't."
"No more can you turn those rookies into soldiers by raging at
them every time you speak. Take it from me, Corporal Barrow,
the wise drill-master doesn't use any rough talk once a week,
and not even then unless nothing else will answer. Talk to the
men right along as I heard you doing, and they won't have a particle
of respect for you. That being the case, you cannot teach them
anything that it will be worth their while to know. If the captain
had heard what I heard you saying to those men he'd put you back
in the awkward squad yourself. Patience is the first thing a
drill-master needs. Whom do you call the smartest corporal in
the company?"
"Corporal Smedley," Barrow answered, without hesitation.
"Right, and he's going to be the next new sergeant. But Smedley
is the most patient drill-master in the company. Shall I send him
over to show you how to handle a green squad?"
"Don't, Sergeant!"
"All right, then; I won't---unless you give me new reason to think
it necessary," smiled Kelly. Then his hand, still resting on the
younger man's shoulder, he walked back to where the squad waited.
"I'll tell you more about it any time you want to know," was Kelly's
last statement before he turned away.
"Attention!" called Corporal Barrow briskly. "Saluting is one
of the things a new soldier is likely to do badly at first. I'm
going to put you through a few minutes of it."
This time Barrow patiently singled out the soldier giving the
poorest salute.
"You don't bring your hand up smartly enough," Barrow explained
patiently. "Try it again. No; don't bring it up with a jerk.
Do it like this---smartly, without jerk. No; that's not right,
either. Hold your hand horizontally when it touches your hat-brim.
Hold it the way I am doing. Don't be in a hurry to let hand
fall, either. When saluting an officer, keep the hand at the
hat-brim until he has returned the salute, or you've passed him.
There, you have it right now, Rindle. Do it three times more,
dropping your hand when I see you and return the salute. That's
it. Good work. Try it again, all together. Squad, salute!"
"Well done, Corporal," chimed in the voice of Captain Prescott,
who had come up behind the instructor, "Be sure that the squad
has drill enough in the salute, for a man is never a really good
soldier until he can render a salute smartly. Let the men break
ranks, Corporal, and have each man pass me in turn, saluting the
best he knows how."
As Captain Dick stood there, receiving and returning the salute
of each rookie as he passed, the young company commander noted
each man's performance with keen eyes.
"First rate for recruits, Corporal," Prescott said, as he turned
away. "Give them daily drill at it, however."
Corporal Barrow gave his own most precise salute as he received
his captain's orders. Then he called:
"In double rank, fall in! Mark time, march! Step more smartly,
Pelham. Hip, hip, hip! Squad halt! One, two!"
From the corner of the building Dick had paused an instant to
glance back. Then he went into the company office.
"I've just been watching Corporal Barrow and his new recruit squad,
Sergeant," Dick announced. "The men are doing first-rate for
new men. Corporal Barrow is a patient and competent drill-master."
"Yes, sir," Kelly replied, without trace of a smile.
"The patient instructor is the only one who can teach a recruit,
Sergeant. If you ever see a non-com in this company losing his
temper set him straight at the first chance."
"Yes, sir."
"But don't make the correction in hearing of the squad unless the
case is a flagrant one."
"No, sir," Sergeant Kelly promised, his eyes smileless.
"How near is the company to full strength this morning?"
"Only twelve men short, sir. A new draft, coining in on the 4.10
train this afternoon is expected to fill all companies to strength,
sir."
Dick Prescott felt a sudden thrill. Filling up the companies
of the Ninety-ninth appeared to promise that the regiment would
soon be on its way overseas!
"If we get our full strength this afternoon, Sergeant, be sure
to have the clothing requisitions for them all in shape by this
evening. Then we'll try to draw to-morrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
"And---sergeant!"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm mighty glad that you applied for transfer to this regiment
when I was ordered to it. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Thank you, sir!"
Kelly had sprung to his feet. He now stood at salute as Prescott
left the office.
The train due at 4.10 arrived after 8.30 that evening. Twelve
new men, assigned to A company, were marched to barracks after
ten. No man in the detachment had eaten since early morning. The
mess sergeant had coffee and sandwiches ready.
It was midnight when Kelly, with the aid of other non-coms, had
the measurements of the new men on paper and his clothing requisition
ready. Dick Prescott was on hand to sign as company commander.
At six in the morning first call to reveille sounded from the bugles.
Like the other companies in the regiment A company tumbled out
of its cots. Men dressed, seized soap, towels, brushes and combs,
and hurried to the wash-room at the rear of barracks. Then back
again, the final touches being administered. Outside a bugle
blew, calling the men to first formation. Then mess-call caused
two hundred and fifty hungry soldiers to file into the mess-room,
kits in hand, and line up at the further end for food and hot drink.
At 7.46 Dick Prescott stepped briskly into the company office.
"Sergeant Kelly, have each man carry out his mattress to the incinerator
and empty out the straw. Detail men to burn the straw. Have
the cots piled at the end of each squad room. At 8.25 turn the
company out with barracks bags and dismiss after the bags have
been placed. At 8.40 turn out the company in full marching order,
with arms and pack, for inspection. As soon as practicable thereafter
the men will be turned out again for issue of razors."
"Yes, sir," Kelly replied with a quiver. "Of course you know what
it means, Sergeant?"
"The regiment is moving, sir."
"Moving by rail to the point of embarkation, Sergeant. We're---at
last we're going over!"
There must have been an eavesdropper outside the office door,
for instantly, so it seemed, the news flashed through the building.
"Orders have come!"
"We're going over!"
"_Now_!"
"Stop that cheering, men!" boomed Dick Prescott's voice, as he
stepped into the corridor. "This is Georgia, and you'll wake
all the sleeping babies in North Carolina."