Our cook looked like a regular buccaneer.Our cook looked like a regular buccaneer.
I went back to the old barracks last night, to find the place almost filled with new men, all worried looking and pale, and much disturbed over that first night horror, the “needle.” I didn’t relieve their mentalanguish a particle, which was most unchristian-like.
Several of the men remaining from the former company told me that most of the original company had been split up between the “Suicide Club” which is the machine gun companies, the transportation division and the infantry. As for “Local Board No. 163” no one had seen him about. Possibly he has become disgusted with high-toned individuals who object to fleas, and has gone off and joined the infantry. Well I wish him luck.
I really believe I’m taking a very deep interest in this soldiering after all. I didn’t think I would at first, but now I find I’m watching the colour of my hat cord with interest. I want to see it lose its newness and get faded-out looking, like a regular soldier’s hat cord.
On the camp calendar, to-day is marked down as a half-holiday, which is another one of the pleasant little jokes they have down here. It is a half-holiday. We quit drilling at twelve o’clock. But there is a Sunday ceremony theyhave called inspection and sometimes when the Lieutenant wants to leave camp early on Sunday he decides to hold inspection on Saturday afternoon.
About twelve o’clock some one reminds some one else that the aforementioned ceremony is on the program of weekly events, and thereby spoils the whole pleasure for the day. At inspection the Lieutenant saunters through the barracks, inspects the beds and the stacks of underclothing, socks and similar equipment piled thereon, and if said underclothing, etc., do not show signs of recent acquaintance with soap and water, almost anything is likely to happen.
And, of course, since no one is systematic about doing washing, all the dirty clothing and extra socks pile up until Saturday, and then on the half-holiday the scrubbing tables in the rear of the barracks are the most popular playgrounds.
The washing process is interesting. Every one lines up and dips into the same basin of water. Government soap is supplied in quantities, so are the scrubbing brushes. One lays his jeans and undershirt out nice and smoothon a long table, pours a basin of water over them, applies the soap as if it were a holy-stone until the underclothing is covered with a soft yellow scum. And then he spends the rest of the afternoon trying to get the soap off. The more lather a chap makes the better washerman he is, from all appearances.
The rear of the barracks on a Saturday afternoon looks like a string of tenement house backyards, with flapping garments hanging from everything, including the electric light wires, and men in various degrees of attirement stand around waiting for the garments to get dry. Oh, you daren’t leave them and go off on some other mission while the wind does its duty. You simply have to stick and keep a careful eye on everything you own, otherwise:—well it works on the principle that the man who grabs the most is the best-dressed man for the following week, and if you are not there to prove ownership you are liable to find a pocket handkerchief where your undershirt was and the handkerchief isn’t always what it was originally intended to be.
I did manage to get my wash done and gathered up in time to see the last ten minutes ofa Gaelic football game over on the parade grounds. But next week I’m going to take the advice of the Sergeant who suggests that I follow the example of Regular Army men and wash each piece as it becomes soiled. I wonder if I am systematic enough for that?
No I didn’t draw a pass. I’ve been around camp the whole bloomin’ day, but there were about fifteen thousand lucky fellows who did draw passes. I saw them going down in groups for every train to the city since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. But Fat and I seem to be a bit unlucky. Poor Fat, he has wanted a pass to get home and see his mother ever since he has been here. But a pass wouldn’t do him much good. He hasn’t any uniform yet. Still waiting for the army tailors to get busy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they shipped him to France with no more Government property than a khaki shirt. We’ve been consoling each other most of the day. Fat’s a good chap and a mighty likeable fellow.
It has been a day of rest, however, for allexcept Giuseppi, the company’s barber. He has done a tremendous business; shaved every one, from the Captain down.
Giuseppi’s methods are unique and interestingGiuseppi’s methods are unique and interesting
Giuseppi’s methods are unique and interesting. Somewhere he found two planks, which he brought into the dormitory, and, by catching the lower ends under the iron work of one cot and propping them against the side of another, he contrived an affair that resembles remotely a steamer chair. Line forms to the right. Bring your own brush and shaving stick and doyour own lathering for a quick and effective shave.
I can’t guess how many he shaved. The line stretched the length of the dormitory from breakfast to dinner time. The men dabbed their brush into a single basin of cold water and moistened their faces while standing in line. Then as they moved on they soaped and lathered their own faces and rubbed it in thoroughly. And by the time they reached the plank their bristles needed only a final application of lather and Giuseppi got busy with the razor.
He is a wonder. All he did this morning was strop and shave, strop and shave, and at ten cents a head—no I mean face—(twenty cents a head, only no hair cut on Sunday) I guess he made a fair week’s wages. As each victim left the planks, said victim wiped the remaining lather from his face, ears and nose and applied his own talcum powder.
Perhaps Giuseppi’s business was increased by his announcement: “No shava for tree days now. To-morrow I getta da needle for twice times. No can use my arm vara moch.”
Which reminds me that I am scheduled for my second inoculation to-morrow.
I have been discovering some of the unknown who are in our midst. Unearthed a popular song writer (whose income before he adopted the dollar-a-day job for Uncle Sam was reputed to be $10,000 a year). I didn’t unearth him really. He bobbed up this morning, when several of the fellows were playing mouth organs, and now, behold, he’s organizing a glee club. Then there is a linguist, who is fresh from the biggest financial institution in the world where he handled all their French and Spanish translation work. He has started a class in French which is in session for an hour every evening. We are allParlez vous-ing with more or less (mostly more) inaccuracies. But what we lack in accent and correct pronunciation we make up for in genuine Parisian gestures. Oh, we’re there all right.
Another of our enterprising members is a well-known landscape gardener, who, in co-operation with one of our several architects, has organized a campaign for a “barracks beautiful,” all of which doesn’t mean very much to most of us, but gives them a good opportunityto dispose of their spare time. Our afternoons have been spent in pulling stumps in the vicinity of the barracks and grading the street and dooryard until now no one would ever recognize it for the same place. But the landscape gardener has carried the work a bit further and with the assistance of several of us, including myself, gone off into the woods and dug up a score or more of pine and cedar saplings about five feet high. These have been transplanted in the form of a hedge around our barracks, on top of a tiny terrace, and they certainly soften the outlines of the unpainted building and add a touch of that which is lacking in the vicinity of most of the structures.
He, the landscaper, has placed whitewashed stones at conspicuous corners, too, and on either side of our tiny porch he has worked out the number of the company and the number of the division in concrete letters, which the camp orderly scrubs industriously every morning to keep them white and presentable. The job of camp orderly, by the way, is the worst job a man can be detailed to here, being one degree lower than kitchen police; and since I know mighty well the rigours of that, I’m going tosteer clear of this other form of punishment, if it is humanly possible to do so.
The Sunday crop of visitors flocked to camp as usual to-day and I entertained several who did not come to see me especially, but who brought along such delightful lunch that I felt constrained to show them about and be pleasant to them at least while the lunch lasted.
We were excused from drill this morning for the purposes of being shod and getting our second inoculation. Getting our shoes was the most interesting and least painful of the two.
After being shot (in the left arm this time) we proceeded to the Q. M., where in one portion of his domain shoes were being issued, two pairs to a man, one pair for work and the other for rest and fatigue.
Of course, immediately the fitting began the men started to protest that they were insulted by being given shoes too large for them. But that didn’t disturb the shoe man, who merely told them to mind their own business and he’dtake care of their feet, which belonged to the Government anyhow.
Each man was loaded with a fifty pound bag of sand.Each man was loaded with a fifty pound bag of sand.
Standing on a flat surface in stocking feet, each man was loaded with a fifty pound bag of sand. Then when his feet had spread as much as they possibly could, measurements were taken from every angle, just exactly as if the shoes were to be built especially for the foot they were to adorn. The collection of figures was then gone over, and compared with a chart, after which two pairs of shoes were found corresponding with the dimensions covered by number so-and-so. I’ve forgotten what my number is, but I will confess that while the shoes are several sizes larger than I would ever think of buying in a shoe store, I have never had anything on my feet that gripped my heels and instep and ankles so firmly and yet allowed me room enough to wiggle my toes around. The dress shoes and the trench brogans ofunfinished leather with half-inch soles filled with hobs, and steel plated heels, feel more comfortable than any shoes I have ever owned, and I gratefully accepted the two pairs issued to me and left for my quarters.
“I like t’ geev da Kais a keek in da face wid-a dose shoes”“I like t’ geev da Kais a keek in da face wid-a dose shoes”
On my way up the road I passed an Italian who seemed so pleased with his new footwear that he just couldn’t help exhibiting them to me. “Look,” he said, waving his huge foot, shod with the trench shoes, about promiscuously, “look ad da shoos. I like t’ geev da Kais akeek in da face wid-a dose shoos. Bet he no smile some more dan.” Then he added, by way of showing his qualifications to muss up the Kaiser, “I belonga to ah wreckin’ crew sometimes when I don’t come down here.”
SWEAR; If you can’t think of anything else to say, but do it softly—very, very softly, so no one else but yourself will hear you.
Thus reads the sign that hangs over the door of the Y. M. C. A. shack, at the end of our camp street. That’s what I call social work humanized. The Y. M. C. A. here is the most human institution in this big, rawly human community. It is the thing that puts the soul in soldier as one chap expresses it. And because it is that way, and because the men feel at home and have a real time, and can smoke and put their feet on the table, they think the red triangle is the best little symbol about the big camp. The “’Sociation” is making thousands of friends every day among these strappingbig, two-fisted fellows who really never knew what the organization was. It’s bully. We all wander over there sometime during every evening, if it’s only to listen to a new record on the phonograph.
Our $10,000 a year song writerOur $10,000 a year song writer
The shacks (I don’t know how many there are, but there must be at least a dozen of them) are the centres of amusement and entertainment for us all. And we have some corking concerts and other forms of entertainments there. I don’t think I’ll ever forget our $10,000 a year song writer as he appeared last night, for instance, standing on top of thepiano, his hair all mussed up and his army shirt opened at the throat, singing a solo through a megaphone. And it was some solo! About fifteen hundred huskies in khaki stood around and listened to him and joined in on the choruses.
Then they have lectures: “Ten Years as a Lumber Jack,” “Farthest North,” by a certain well-known explorer; “My First Year of the Big War,” and similar subjects appear on the bulletin boards every other night. Nothing of the Sunday School variety about that sort of thing.
And our prize fights!
I’m all excited yet over the one I saw to-night. It was a whale of a battle; I mean the last one was, there being several on the program. The fellows fight for passes to go home on Sunday and the decision is left up to the onlookers. And if we don’t make the scrappers work for those passes, then no “pugs” ever did work.
Most of the boxers are former pugilists who have been gathered up in the draft net, and so long as they can get a chance to put on the gloves they are just as pleased to be here as anywhereelse from all appearances. But sometimes the scrappers aren’t “pugs” at that; just plain citizens who possibly have been shadow boxing in the secrecy of their bedrooms for the past ten years and longing for courage enough to step into the ring with a real fighter and discover how good (or how bad) they are. They are getting the opportunity here all right, and some of them are uncovering a likely line of jabs and counters. One fair-haired youngster downed a mighty pugnacious-looking Italian a few nights ago.
But to-night’s final was a winner. Three scraps had been pulled off with real enthusiasm and after the final round, there was a call for more material, but no one in the crowd came forward to put on the gloves. There were calls and jeers and all that sort of thing, then suddenly out from the crowd stepped a soggy-looking, little red-haired fellow.
Yells of “Yah Redney!” “Hi Redney!” “Good boy Brick Top!”
Redney blushed considerably and held up his hand for silence. And when he got it he explained.
“I ain’t a-going to fight no one but our MessSergeant. That’s what I’m out here for, and I’ll stick here till he comes.”
Calls for Mess Sergeant. He wasn’t present. A speeding messenger from Red’s company hurried out through the night to find him. Ten minutes later, said Sergeant, a soggy-looking chap himself, was brought in and amid yells from the crowd he stepped inside the ring. He looked once at Brick Top, then spat on his hands and said:
“Where’s them gloves?”
Gloves were produced and laced on, then without the preliminary handshake they squared off and went to it. And what a battle! They didn’t stop for rounds, or time out, or anything. They just ducked and punched and whaled away at each other until the blood began to spatter all over and still they kept at it. I don’t know what the misunderstanding between them was and didn’t find out, but they sure meant to settle the thing once and for all.
And the spectators; they went wild.
For ten minutes steadily the fighters milled and I never saw a better slugging match. The Sergeant had had more experience in boxing, that was certain, but what Red lacked in skill he made up for in hitting power. Every time his glove met the Sergeant’s face it smacked as loud as a hand clap.
They didn’t stop for rounds, or time out, or anything.They didn’t stop for rounds, or time out, or anything.
Then just when it seemed as if they must be tired out, there was a sudden clash and a whirl of fists and Redney ducked away and started one from the floor. It was an uppercut and it found a clean hole between the Sergeant’s two arms, and met him flush on the point of the jaw. He staggered, tried to fall into a clinch, missed the elusive Redney and went down with a thump.
“1-2-3-4-5-6-” counted the referee.
The Sergeant rolled over and tried to get up. “Don’t hold me down; lemme at him,” he said huskily. But no one was holding him down. It was his refractory nerves. They wouldn’t obey his will power.
“7-8-9-10,” tolled off the fateful numbers. Then what a yell went up for Redney, and Red, almost all in, himself, evidently had satisfied his grudge, for he went over and helped stand the groggy Sergeant on his feet.
And all agreed it was some battle.
But the Y.M. shacks aren’t dedicated to prize fights and swearing and concerts entirely.They are the nearest approach to home or club life that most of us come in contact with for weeks at a stretch. The big, open hearths with their crackling logs are mighty fine places to spend a pleasant hour or two. Then there are the writing tables, and the reading rooms with their books and magazines, and the phonographs.
The other night I saw a great big fellow, with burly fists and a stubbly beard on his chin (it must have been the night before his bi-weekly shave, which is as often as most of us can find time—or the inclination to use a razor) snuggled up close to the phonograph and listening attentively to the “Swanee River,” which he was playing as softly as the instrument would permit, and now and then he would blow his nose in a big handkerchief and wipe suspicious signs of moisture from the corners of his eyes. He was having a regular sad drunk and enjoying every moment of it. I’ll bet he thought he was the most homesick mortal in camp.
Then there are the telephone booths. Every night there is a line of at least fifty men waiting patiently for a chance in the booth. At a dollara call they ring up the folks in the city and have five minutes’ chat with them, just by way of warding off an attack of homesickness. I’ve used the booth five dollars’ worth to date.
These army breeches I’m wearing, I noticed to-night, are very comfortable. I like the deep, straight pockets in them. I think I’ll have my civilian suit made with those kind of pockets hereafter. But I haven’t gotten over the habit of pulling them up each time I sit down so that they won’t get baggy at the knees.
Found my dog!
I was over in another section of the cantonment this morning, for a few moments between drill and mess call, and there was “Local Board No. 163” as big as life, trotting along beside a chap I knew. It was Billy Allen. The dog recognized me and so did Billy and we stopped a while and compared notes.
Billy had the worst hard luck story in respect to the Draft of any man I know. He’s an old National Guardsman, having enlisted soon after we left school together. Spent eightyears in the infantry, and went to the Border. He left the service after he got back and a little later when a call came for men for the Officers’ Reserve Corps he applied and was accepted, for the second camp. Meanwhile he had registered as a man of draft age. Then came his call for Officers’ Training Camp, where he was making out famously; so well in fact that he was recommended for the aero-plane service.
But the recommendation was as far as he got. The drawing had meanwhile been made in Washington, he was well up in the list and one fine day he received a notice to appear for examination. Of course he passed and was accepted. That yanked him out of the Officers’ Reserve and now he’s down here, a private in the “Suicide Club,” with Buck Winters, an old classmate of both of us, his commanding officer.
I told him about “Local Board No. 163” whom he had dubbed “Mut” because he looked it. First we were going to match for the dog, but we decided, after a moment’s reflection, to let him choose his master. Billy said good-bye and walked one way and I walked the other andthe dog, after a moment’s hesitation, went with Billy. And so I lost my dog a second time. I guess he didn’t like my cold water treatment for fleas.
An interesting thing happened here to-day that just shows how vast this huge cantonment is. The cot next to Fat and two below me has been vacant ever since we have been here. To-night a chap came in from the barracks next door, bag and baggage, and took possession of it. Fat made his acquaintance right off, and the newcomer told him that he had been transferred to this company about the time we were—a week or so ago—and since no one told him where to go or where to bunk he went to the barracks next door and took a cot.
But he really belonged in here and was a member of our squad, which for some mysterious reason had always remained a seven-man squad, with the eighth man assigned to it but never heard from. Every roll call he had been marked absent, and he had been put down as a deserter and an alarm sent out for him through the country. At the present moment the New York police are searching diligently for him.
I guess he didn’t like my cold water treatment for fleasI guess he didn’t like my cold water treatment for fleas
And all the time he has been within a biscuit toss of his proper place.
Over in the other company he was an outcast, and they didn’t know what to do with him. They were on the point of sending him back to the city as an interloper when somehow the mistake was discovered and he was summoned to report over here. The interesting part of it is, that he is an expert accountant, and his specialty is searching out mistakes that other people make in the way of misplaced figures and things.
So far as the police were concerned, he said, he didn’t care much, for the last place they would ever look for him was down here. Speaking of deserters, I noticed three sets of finger-prints on our bulletin board which means that three men have taken French leave and they have prices on their heads, already.
This has been a moist and soggy day. I don’t know that I have ever seen so much rain before in one storm as I have to-day. Before daylight it began; a perfect downpour, so violent thatfor reveille we lined up in the mess hall. None of us ventured out to wash up, but those of us who missed a cold sprinkle the most had merely to poke our heads out of the windows for a moment and then reach for a towel. Some wetness.
The camp is a veritable sea of mud, and those who go outdoors at all do so to the imminent peril of becoming mired and never returning. From the mess-hall windows at breakfast we could watch the big heavy motor truck of the transportation train, skidding and sloshing about in the road, down which flooded a perfect torrent of muddy rain water. Several of them became hopelessly stuck in the sticky mud, and their drivers abandoned them and raced for cover in the Y. M. C. A. shack. Officers and men everywhere have given up all idea of outdoor work and the camp streets look forlorn and deserted. They stretch away down the hill to fade into the misty blur of the rain itself, and on either hand stand the long, unpainted barracks buildings, with dripping eaves and rain blowing in sheets from their tinned and tar-papered roofs. Outside, it is a dismal, deserted-looking cantonment, with scarcely asign of life, save now and then a venturesome canine mascot scuttling from one sheltered spot to another.
Drilling, of course, is utterly impossible and the nearest approach we have had to anything resembling military training to-day is a lecture on sanitation in the mess hall by the First Lieutenant.
But the rain has not dampened our desires for amusement and as a result the interior of the sleeping quarters presents, at the present time, a picture that only a Remington could do justice to. Atmosphere sticks out all over the place. Army overcoats, tunics, variegated comforters, blankets, mess kits, sweaters and flannel shirts are hanging from every peg, and men are sprawled on their cots, in various attitude, some trying hard to sleep, some writing, one man thoughtfully locating the notes of a new tune on a mouth organ, while another over in the corner—an Italian—is the centre of an enthusiastic group, while he plays doleful things on an old accordion he has smuggled into camp. The air is blue with tobacco smoke.
A number of us are writing, including myself,but the chief centres of interest are the two big poker games and the big crap game down at the end of the room.
They are all playing with that oppressive quietness that portends big stakes. I was startled a while ago upon walking over to the nearest group to discover eighty dollars, in ones, fives, and tens on the top of the army cot that served as a table in a single jack pot, and they were still betting. Our two Regular Army Sergeants are members of one group and Fat is sitting in at another. From the length of time he has stayed and the smile on his face, I can only guess that luck is with him for once.
But it has failed a lot of others. Now and then a man leaves one game or the other, looking sort of hopeless. There is always some one to take his place, however.
One of these fellows, gone broke, hit upon a happy idea which caused no end of interest for an hour or two this afternoon. After he had gone broke he left the game and sat thoughtfully on the edge of his cot for a while. Then he dug down into his duffel bag under his cot and brought forth a razor. Speedily he made up some raffle tickets onslips of note paper and presently, with the razor in one hand and his campaign hat in the other, he started through the room selling chances on the razor at a dime a chance. The raffle was held over in our corner, and one lucky chap got the razor, easily worth two fifty, for a single dime and the erstwhile owner, with five dollars worth of change in his pockets, returned to the game.
That started the raffle bug, and presently a wrist watch was put up, then another razor of the safety variety, a fountain pen, an extra hand knitted sweater which some one had luckily acquired, several boxes of crackers which every one took a chance on at a cent a chance and a variety of other things. But the crackers were the most popular and that helped one ingenious and venturesome chap to evolve a money-making scheme.
In the height of the rainstorm, he was seen to don his slicker, and hurry out into the storm. He splashed all the way over to the Post Exchange (about half a mile) to return a half-hour later with four pies for which he had paid forty cents each and three dozen boxes of crackers all in good condition. The crackerswent for double their value and the pies he successfully split up into twelve fair-sized portions which sold for ten cents each. That trip in the rain netted him nearly seven dollars he told me, and that seven dollars later on, invested in the crap game, trebled itself; so, all things considered, he has had a more or less successful day.
It is fast getting home to me now that in spite of the heterogeneous conglomeration, of races and creeds and languages, the National Army is going to be the real thing as a fighting force after all. Every one is keen for the thing now that the first violent attacks of homesickness have worn off and they are going at their work of becoming soldiers with a will, except, of course, for a few: the conscientious objectors; and their life is no merry one. They are mighty unpopular, as numerous black eyes attest. Every one takes the slightest opportunity to emphasize their displeasure at the stand these men have taken. And some of them are going around here under a cloud.For instance, the one in the Machine Gun outfit who drills in pumps and summer suit but who has the pleasure of knowing that after his soldiering is all over with, he has three years to spend in Atlanta or some other Federal jail for little things he has done and views he has expressed.
We have one of the breed in our company, a Jew; and he’s the most unpopular man in the outfit, even among those of his own race. All of this variety, (the “objectors” I mean), who have come to my notice, are sorry specimens of manhood for the most part and I can’t blame an able-bodied chap for despising them.
The foreign element is taking hold like real Americans. It is interesting to get their slant on the whole affair. Many of them didn’t want to come. They had their own ideas of army life, suggested, doubtless, by tales they have heard of service in the European armies of former days. But when they were called they came; and behold, when they arrived and lived through the first days, they were surprised to find that they still were treated like human beings, had certain indisputable rights, were fed well and cared for properly andworked under officers who took a genuine interest in their welfare. This was something most unexpected. Right off they decided that they were going to get all they could out of this new life and give in return faithful and honest service.
“Make-a me strong, make-a me beeg, an’ best-a make-a me good American”“Make-a me strong, make-a me beeg, an’best-a make-a me good American”
“It’s fine, I like it,” assured a little Italian friend of mine in the infantry. “I like it because it help make me spick good English, make-a me strong, make-a me beeg an’ best-awhat is, make-a me good American, jus like-a de boss Lieuten’.”
And in that last sentence, I believe, lies the charm of it all to most of the foreigners. They have learned that America and things American are fine and clean and good and their ambition now is to become a real American “jus like-a de boss Lieuten’.” And when they get to be real Americans, they are going to be proud of the fact and they are going to fight to prove it; that’s certain.
The camp is still soggy to-day and we have drilled ankle deep in mud. My feet have been wet from the time I stepped out of the barracks until an hour ago, when I changed my socks and put on my dress shoes. But shucks, what appetites we brought back with us from the parade grounds. I never did care for fish, but I’ll be hanged if I didn’t eat three helpings of the creamed salmon and spaghetti to-night.
A new wrinkle has developed here. We find out what the fellows are going to have for supper in nearby barracks and if the feed promises to be better than what we are to have several of us take our mess tins and goover and stand in line there. The Mess Sergeant never knows the difference.
Sad news this evening. Only twenty-five per cent. of each company is to be allowed to go home to-morrow, because of the disorder and general trouble at the railroad terminal last Sunday. And the twenty-five per cent. is to be drawn out of a hat. No chance for Fat or me, that’s certain. We’re mighty unlucky when it comes to passes and we are laying odds now that neither of us will get permission to go to the city. Anyhow, Fat is still in the same predicament. If he does get a pass he won’t be able to leave the camp.
At the present writing we are all waiting for the mess call. And immediately after mess the Sergeant will do the drawing of the names for the passes. If I am not among the lucky ones I’m going to try and—there goes the mess call!
I am ready to die with a smile on my lips and a great happiness in my heart, for I’ve spent one night between clean sheets, on a really soft bed. I’ve eaten with a silver knife and fork from real dishes and—whispered softly—in the privacy of my own home I had a glass of beer!
No, I wasn’t lucky (neither was Fat) but I think I put something over on Uncle Sam.
The passes for the city were drawn for as per schedule and since I was down at the bottom of the list I was not included in the first twenty-five per cent. The passes issued read for New York City, and the men holding them were privileged to leave by certain trains, being marched down to the station under the watchful eye of the Second Lieutenant.
Then, after these men were all away, came the opportunity for the men who lived near the camp and the men who wanted to visit nearby towns to apply for leave. This was my opportunity. I applied for thirty-six hours’ leave to visit the town of R——, twenty miles distant, and secured it.
Back in the barracks an interesting scene was taking place, scores of tickets of leave had been handed out to the men, to take the night and following day off, but to get out of camp they must be able to pass inspection with perfect and well-fitting equipment, and since all of us had not our full outfit, we had to hustle around and borrow articles of clothing that would fit and look satisfactory. I, for instance, have a full winter uniform except for overcoat (which I have not received) and tunic, the one I am wearing being a summer coat of cotton and hardly matching the wool trousers I possess. So I had to join the crowd who were bartering, exchanging and renting uniforms. And since the first men to leave had done the same thing to a certain extent, there was not much desirable clothing left in the barracks. Overcoats were going at a dollar a day and breeches and jackets for fifty cents each. After a diligent search I did find a chap who had a winter tunic and summer trousers and, wonder of wonders, his jacket fit me perfectly. We made an exchange and I borrowed an overcoat at one dollar for the day, from a chap who was not leaving camp, and sallied forth.
Tramping down Twenty-third Avenue (the streets are all named here and our barracks is on Fourteenth Street and Third Avenue), whom should I behold but friend Billy, bound in the same direction. He had had the same inspiration as I and he, too, had a pass for R——. We wandered on together, but upon reaching the railroad station, our hopes of getting to our destination were dashed. There were no more trains for R—— until the morning!
We wept. But our tears didn’t blind us to the fact that there were occasional machines passing along the highway. So we walked out and stood there in the moonlight and looked as lonesome and forlorn as possible.
And the first machine to come along was a beautiful big Pierce Arrow limousine, with an old dowager, a pleasant and generous old soul, its single occupant, save of course the chauffeur. We went to R—— in style; and, moreover, we went there in a hurry, for with khaki in the machine the chauffeur assumed that he had the right of way and full permission to wreck the speed laws.
At R—— we looked up time tables and discovered thatwe could get a train into the city at ten-thirty, which was not so bad. Then, because our passes really limited us to R——, we concluded that it was only fair to the Government to at least eat a meal in that town and since we were both hungry in spite of our recent mess, we searched for a restaurant.
We found one; a French restaurant, which looked peculiarly deserted. The door was locked, for some strange reason, yet there were several men in aprons inside apparently hard at work. We rattled on the door and in a moment the frowning proprietor came forward. But the frown changed to a smile when he saw us. It was the khaki. He unbolted the door and, with a ceremonious bow, welcomed us in, then closed the door and bolted it.
And then he explained that this was a new restaurant not yet opened for patronage. He expected to open up in a day or maybe two. But, of course, he could not turn away two hungry soldiers, never.Merci non!He had nothing to serve us with, but what were our desires? Express them and he would send out for the provisions, cook them and serve them. Steak! Indeed, yes. In twenty minutes wewould have a wonderful steak, French fried potatoes, salad, coffee and ice cream. Jean would attend to it.
And Jean did. He rustled up the steak and the rest and we alone occupied the restaurant, and soon were eating the most delicious piece of beef we believed we had ever put our teeth through. The bill! Nothing; nothing at all—what?—well if we insist, one dollar each. Thank you! And now here is a pen and some ink. You will please autograph each bill and behold, when you return from glorious France, covered with glorious glory, you should come in and see these two bills—the first money taken in at the restaurant—framed and hanging there over the desk. And so, I suppose, the future generation of visitors to R—— will be able to view these immortal monuments to our—I don’t know what, unless it be our khaki uniforms—hanging there in the French restaurant possibly surrounded by wreaths as each anniversary of day before yesterday rolls ’round.
We got the ten-thirty train for the city, and we almost got into trouble too; or at least I did, for as we hurried into the smoker whomshould I see sitting buried in a magazine but the First Lieutenant of our Company. Had he made the trip the same way we did? I don’t know and, of course, I didn’t ask. We just walked through the car very swiftly and he never looked up.
It was fifteen minutes of midnight when I arrived home, let myself in with my latch key which I have been carrying as a silent reminder of my former terrifically wild (?) career; routed out the folks, and sat swathed in bath-robe and dressing-gown until 3 o’clock, just talking. It was bully. And then I tumbled into my own bed and slept and slept and slept. I woke up at reveille all right—(it was just daylight)—grinned, rolled over and slept and slept and slept some more.
Then I had a real bath in a real tub with real hot water, and a lot of real things to eat and real cigars to smoke and real friends to talk with until five o’clock in the afternoon, when I crawled into my regimentals once more, and went out to meet Billy by appointment.
Going back via R—— route (which was necessary) curtailed our leave which really continues until to-morrow morning at reveille,but then we were very happy; so happy that when we arrived in R—— we chartered a taxi-cab for the twenty mile drive out here and now I’m nearly frozen through from the cold wind that blew in at us. And I’m tired, too, but I’m happy and ready to turn in ten minutes before taps.
I’ll need no “Melody in Snore Minor” to lull me to sleep to-night, for I am thoroughly weary. It was intimated a day or so ago that our training would be hurried a little so that we would be ready for a quick shift at any time. But hurried doesn’t exactly describe it. It looks like an early fall drive to me.
We began at the beginning, this morning, and had our squad drills all over again, and somehow in the juggling about of men to make up our company formation I managed to get last place in line, and pivot man in the front rank of the last squad.
Before to-day I’ve been in the rear rank and had a screen of front-rank men to cover up anyblunders I might make, but being in the first file gave me stage fright. And, of course, with the stage fright I bungled;—forgot which was left and which was right. We began by facing, and first chance I managed to turn left when the command was right. That blunder made me more self-conscious. If I had had to talk I’m sure I would have stuttered. As it was I stammered with my feet.
Then “About Face.”
I faced about all right, only I pivoted on a stump root that some stupid had forgotten to dig out. The result was I lost my balance, and made several movements instead of one before I came to position.
At drills the Sergeants, who do most of the drilling, are equipped with sticks about a yard long so that they can poke a rear-rank man in the back without disturbing the front-rank men, and thus call attention to blunders. Being a rear-rank man on the about face, I presently felt the stick poking into my ribs and the command:
“You step out here.”
I stepped out, and was requested, along with much language, to go up in front of the company andgive a demonstration in the proper method of “about facing.”