Chapter II: Part 2

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 the piano, 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 anywhere else 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 Mess Sergeant. 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.

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 dollar a 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.

Wednesday:

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 eight years 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 and the 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.

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.

Thursday:

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 that for 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 a sign 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 on slips 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 crackers went 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.

Friday:

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 and worked 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.

"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-a what 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 go over and stand in line there. The Mess Sergeant never knows the difference.

Saturday:

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!

Sunday:

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 that we 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 we would 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 whom should 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.

Monday:

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 any blunders 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 and give a demonstration in the proper method of "about facing."

My self-consciousness fled immediately. I was mad. I wanted to talk back, and make a few remarks about the Sergeant and the stump and things. But I suddenly thought of a tour of kitchen police and restrained myself. Instead I about faced with such energy that the Sergeant knew I was boiling inside, and being a decent sort of a chap, he sent me back to the ranks after a couple of demonstrations, instead of keeping me out there for fifteen minutes as I have seen them do to some fellows.

After that I felt more at ease in the front rank. All morning long we ambled across the landscape, doing squad and company movements. It was just drill, drill, drill, for fifty out of every sixty minutes, the ten minutes being allowed as rest periods. We reviewed all our previous instructions and worked up to the point of forming company fronts, with the movements of right and left front into line and on right into line, and as pivot man, I think I did mighty well. Our squad never stepped off a pace ahead of time on any of the formations. And when we were marching back to the barracks at mess time, the Sergeant came up beside me, and remarked, by way of apology for hauling me out of the ranks earlier in the morning, that I was doing good pivot work.

Perhaps we didn't enjoy mess! Three helpings of navy beans for me with pineapple marmalade, and a piece of salt pork on the side, not to mention three cups of coffee and three slices of bread. I sure had luck on the mess line to-day.

This afternoon the First Lieutenant took charge of the company, and he had us traipsing all over the landscape again, doing the same sort of close order manoeuvres, and when we lined up just before retreat he announced that we would have rifles to-morrow morning.

It is interesting to see how rumours travel and gather force in the barracks. Some one, somehow, heard that an artist and a stenographer from our company are to sail for France in a day or two. Of course, all my friends have come to the conclusion that I am the artist. A chap told me about it at mess this evening, and since then several dozen have looked me up to shake hands with me and tell me good-bye, with such remarks as: "Hear you have orders to sail for France to-morrow; great." "They tell me you got a commission from Washington and that you are going across in a day or two," or, "Say, you're a lucky chap; where'd you get the drag down in Washington?"

But these queries fail absolutely to thrill me. I am quite calm and undisturbed. I deny any "drag" whatever, and I know that I am not the artist mentioned in the order for transfer, if there is any such order, which I doubt. This is only about the _n_th time that same rumour has been afloat as a result of which I have bade good-bye to my friends about every other day only to discover myself still with them a week later with the same old rumour bobbing up again.

Tuesday:

I'm really a soldier. I know the manual of arms.

This morning, true to the First Lieutenant's prediction, we drilled with rifles and now I am quite convinced of the truth of the old saying that a gun is dangerous without lock, stock, or barrel. Fat turned around suddenly when he had his rifle over his shoulder and poked the muzzle of it into my mouth; a regular Happy Hooligan performance, and now I have a split (and considerably puffed) lip and a loose tooth to my credit in this horrible war.

We were marched over to one of the infantry barracks on the edge of the big parade grounds and there we found our rifles; I mean ours for the day only, because there are hardly enough in camp to equip us all yet and we have to take turns using them. In the same way there is only one field piece to each artillery company, but that doesn't seem to worry the artillery men much.

They are doing some real drilling over on the other side of the camp. I was surprised to discover a company at work digging trenches, another company practising throwing hand grenades, with stones representing the deadly Mill's bombs, still another group constructing parapets of sand bags, and working out machine gun emplacements, and in the distance artillery companies hovering about a sleek looking gun, learning the complicated parts and where and how the animals are served.

Krags, instead of Springfields, are the rifles available for drilling purposes here, and for the first hour this morning we devoted our time to learning the floor plan of the thing. I was getting along famously until Fat interrupted my investigations with the muzzle of his weapon.

Soon after that we started drilling. And I think it is to our credit that before noon we had mastered all the movements and that our pieces snapped up to position with real vigour.

"Let me hear them hands slap them pieces," said the Sergeant; then "Ri--sholler--harms! One-two-three-four! Pep, that's it, pep an' snap. Slap 'em hard. Ordah--harms! One-two-three! _Done_ drop 'em--_done_ slam 'em down. Nex' man slams 'em gits kitchen p'lice."

So we drilled until our arms ached, and rifles that weighed about eight pounds at the beginning of the drill seemed to have increased to fifty pounds, and felt as long as telephone poles. Perhaps we weren't glad when our First Lieutenant put a stop to the punishment and started us in the general direction of the mess hall.

And we had beef stew for dinner; beef stew with rich brown gravy, such as our old biscuit shooter alone can make.

But after mess we were back at it again. Only this time it was bayonet practice, but not of the variety pictured in most magazines. We haven't reached the stage of charging trenches and swinging bundles of sticks. Such advanced work comes later.

Bayonets are awkward, ugly things, and I could not help being grateful that Fat took it into his head to poke me in the mouth with his rifle this morning instead of this afternoon. If he had waited until after mess he wouldn't have split my lip; he would have cut my head off. When I saw him with bayonet fixed I gave him a wide radius of action. Indeed I avoided him as if he were a plague.

In open, or extended, order we lined up on the parade grounds in front of one of these movable elevated platforms. Our Second Lieutenant mounted this, and with a bayonetted rifle in hand went through the various lunges, thrusts and parries of the bayonet manual, meanwhile giving us a lecture, to the effect that no matter what the War Department intended to do with us, a knowledge of bayonet fighting would be essential. He assured us that the logical weapon for an American soldier was the rifle. One of our birthrights is markmanship and another is bayonet fighting. He briefly cantered over a century and a half of history of the Republic and pointed out how we had won fame and honour with bullet and bayonet, and he wound up by telling us that every American soldier should prepare himself so that he would be as dangerous to fool with as a stick of dynamite. Picture good-natured Fat impersonating a stick of dynamite.

Then we went at it. We lunged and thrust and parried until perspiration began to stand out on our foreheads. From the corner of my eye I had a vision of Fat trying to disguise himself as a high explosive. Every time he lunged, he would scowl viciously and emit a loud grunt. I discovered a few moments ago, however, that it was a case of over-eating at mess time that caused him to grunt and frown every time he tried to move very fast; not a desire to look ferocious, although I guess it passed for that in the eyes of the instructor.

And now I'm told we are to get this sort of training daily for a long period; close order formation in the morning, with rifle and bayonet drill in the afternoon and later on we will do skirmish work, trench work and open order work with rifles. Some of the infantry companies are already doing that. I was treated to the spectacle of two companies scurrying across the upper end of the parade grounds like so many rabbits. Now and then they would fling themselves down on their stomachs and begin snapping away merrily with empty rifles at an imaginary enemy.

We are a tired-looking company to-night. Already half the cots are filled with men, some of them snoring lustily and it is only a quarter to ten.

Wednesday:

There are a lot of things calculated to stir a chap's sentimental streak about this camp, particularly the nights; moonlight nights like to-night for instance. Every hard outline of the huge place is softened under the blue-black mantle of night, and the disagreeable things are lost in the heavy shadows and the moonlight floods the open places, and glistens on the rows upon rows of tin roofs and tall, gaunt-looking tin smoke-stacks. Watch-fires (a sanitary precaution) blaze in their deep holes in the rear of each barracks building, and the lonesome fire-guard, bundled in his overcoat and with rifle over his shoulder, stands silhouetted against the night sky beside each flaring pit.

Out on the main streets of the camp are thousands of fellows in khaki, walking aimlessly up and down, while in the by-streets between the barracks buildings one sees shadowy figures and glowing cigarette ends moving about in the darkness. Through the tiny panes of each barracks window, partly obscured by overcoats and sweaters which dangle from pegs inside, filters a warm yellow light, and as one moves down the row, one hears from one building the music of an accordion and the rhythmic shuffle of feet which tells of a "stag" dance being held in the mess hall; while from another comes the soft plunk-plunking of a banjo and the occasional drone of a mouth organ that seeks after harmony, but only succeeds with an effort.

Off to the right toward the parade grounds some fellows are singing and their songs sound mighty good in the moonlight. And from far beyond where the thick pine woods stand out black against the sky comes faintly the hooting of a distant owl.

On the main streets that skirt the outer edge of the cantonment on three sides, the arc lights glisten, like rows of far off diamonds against the velvet of a jewel box, and here and there, where two twinkle, like low-hung stars, stand out the Y.M. shacks where the men are gathering for an evening's recreation.

It is wonderful to wander out such nights as these. Bundled in a sweater to keep out the chill of evening, and with only my pipe for company, I often go tramping off through the by-streets of the camp. The smoke of the hundreds of watch-fires is wafted to me on every breeze and in wood smoke there is a charm; the charm of camping out. Never in my life will I smell the smoke of burning pine wood, but that these nights will come trooping through my memory, and I'm certain that I will be homesick then and want to come back and live them all over again.

And the things I often see:--the fire-guard for instance, who alone out there behind the barracks was trying hard to read a letter by the light of his flickering watch-fire. Was it a letter he had just received and could not wait to open, or was it a letter that he had read many, many times before and was rereading once again? Then the lonesome dog who sat out in the company street and stared up solemnly at the moon, like a lone wolf on the prairie. What instincts were being waked within him by the moonlight? And the silhouette through the window of the chap sitting on his cot patiently plying needle and thread and the two fellows who leaned against the jacketed field piece in front of an artillery barracks and talked in whispers, while through the opened door of the buildings on either hand came the noise of a rousing good time within.

Then the tramp up Tower Hill, where the headquarters building with its darkened windows like sightless eyes stands out from the sparse remains of the pine woods, flecked here and there with patches of moonlight.

Far off across the great camp, and across the tops of the pines one can dimly see from the top of the hill the ocean with the moonlight flashing on its surface, and occasionally comes a breath of chilled salt air that stirs a longing, vague and fleeting, as the ocean has always stirred a longing in the soul of the adventurer. From here one can look down upon the great camp. Thousands and thousands of roofs stand out in the moonlight, and the watch-fires twinkle in orderly rows up and down each camp street. Far off to the left are the big machine shops and forges of the construction company, the forge fires glowing red against the night, while faintly comes the far-off ring of anvils. Those forge fires, like the bakery fires, never die.

To the eastward is the railroad terminal with its panting engines and its medley of noises, while nearer at hand but in the same direction is the transport headquarters with its ceaselessly moving caravan of rumbling, grumbling army trucks. All combines to make a picture that holds one spell-bound.

The days here are pleasant indeed, but the nights are almost intoxicating. They cast a spell upon me and leave a memory that can never fade.

Monday:

This place looks like a growing mining town somewhere out West, but for real atmosphere, the civilian camp, outside the reservation, has the cantonment looking really civilized. I went out there this evening after mess; for I heard that there was a cigar store included in the outfit, and the impression I got was a lasting one. Everything of the frontier was there save the saloons and the gambling halls. Shacks, tents (rows upon rows of them), lean-tos and all forms of domiciles. And the men who walked the streets were of every variety, including real lumber jabs in mackinaws and spiked boots, who had come down to cut away the timber; Italians, Poles, Swedes, Slavs and what not, and a real cowgirl, in short skirts and high leather boots, with a silk handkerchief scarf, sombrero and a big thirty-eight strapped to her hip. She, I learned, runs a motor bus between the civilian camp and the nearest towns.

Cook fires twinkled outside of the tents, lights showed through the canvas walls reflecting the huge, grotesque, shadowy figures of the occupants. From one emanated the strains of an accordion and from another the babble of voices that suggested a quarrel over a card game.

I found the cigar store. I found other stores, too, just shacks thrown together, but carrying a stock of everything in the line of wearing apparel and eatables. One displayed the sign of "Jack's Unsurpassable Lunch," another "The Elite," and another "The Emporium." There were hundreds of squalid booth-like structures besides, where a host of curious things were for sale to the hordes of big-fisted, deep-chested men who were brought there to build the cantonment. But they tell me that the civilian camp is fast breaking up now, for the cantonment is almost completed. The remount stables for the artillery, the refrigerating plant and the huge bakery are all that remain to be built and the labourers are leaving in big groups.

The temporary bakery (I passed it to-night on my way back to camp) is represented by a double line of tents, before each of which is a big field baking oven, its coal fire glowing from lower doors like huge, red eyes and its gaunt smoke-stack reaching upward to terminate in a cloud of black smoke which ascends higher and higher in long, graceful spirals until it is lost in the darkness of the night.

Before these ovens work the bakers, in khaki, of course, but each swathed in a flowing white apron. With sleeves rolled up and shirts opened at the throat, they wield their long bakers' paddles, and as they pass to and fro in the dull red firelight, they look elfish and grotesque; exactly like a lot of gnome bakers off in the "nowheres" baking bread for some ferocious ogre who bids them work incessantly.

And these loaves they bake are indeed loaves for ogres; huge affairs two feet long and as big 'round their rich brown girth as pumpkins. In "sheets" of a dozen each they are brought from the fire and placed steaming hot on a nearby table where an expert breaks them apart and tests the tenderness of their fibre and searches for signs of doughiness. These bakers are all of the Regular Army now, but not long since czars of dingy cellar bakeries located anywhere from Boston to San Francisco. But the ogre has called them together and here like gnomes they work, eight hours each in three shifts and the oven fires are kept burning always.

Still we drill, drill, drill. This morning was spent in manoeuvring and tramping over the wet and soggy countryside in company formation, and this afternoon, by way of variety, we were given a few hours fatigue duty in the line of uprooting more stumps and gnarled tentacles, that seem to have rooted themselves in China. But our hands are hard and leathery now and our muscles no longer creak and pain under the stress. I've added four pounds to my former weight and I have never felt more fit in my life.

Tuesday:

The cost of high living here is enormous. The stoop-shouldered, shrewd-eyed, flinty-hearted Yankee clerks behind the broad counters of the "Post Exchange" disdain anything less than a quarter. Dimes and nickels are chicken-feed, and pennies--impossible. If a chap buys one apple at five cents or one pear or one banana (always green and a long way from being ripe) he has to hide himself in the crowd to escape the baleful eye of these grasping sharks. Five cent crackers sell two boxes for a quarter, penny candies are five cents each, cigars and cigarettes are considerably above normal in price and considerably below in quality, and ice cream sells for ten cents a gram.

But none of us has grown up. We are all like big boys and we spend with no thought of to-morrow. Mess over, we all hie out to the two main roads that lead to the "Post Exchange," jingling coins in our trouser pockets. The "Exchange" itself is a long, low unpainted building like all other buildings here with tiny back country windows, half-obscured by garments hanging within which leave only a few dirty squares for the dull yellow light to show through.

The doors are broad and through them streams a never ending line of troopers, some coming, some going. Inside, the place resembles nothing more than a huge up-country general store with shelves upon shelves stacked high with cracker boxes, shoe boxes, hardware and goodness only knows what not, while from the rafters hang heavy coats, sweaters, lanterns, huge stalks of green bananas, hams, bacon, boots and a lot of useless things that only gullible soldiers who feel a yearning to spend their money really purchase. But this spending of money somehow seems to bring us closer to civilization for the moment and we join the churning mass of men within, whose hobnailed shoes produce a great pounding and scraping sound and whose voices are raised in a constant babble of conversation which only the sharp ting, ting of the cash register bells can punctuate.

We mill around with the crowd, and soon are pushed against a counter. Something attracts our eye. We feel a desire to possess it. We buy it, and start milling about the room again until presently we are near the door. Then we step out into the night again and join one of the groups of loiterers or sit about on boxes and piles of lumber, where we devour our purchase, if it happens to be in the line of crackers (which is usually the case), or admire it, if it happens to be a pocket flash lamp, a fountain pen or something else that we really never have had any use for.

The small-town idea prevails even in the city of thirty thousand lonesome men. The "Post Exchange" and the "Post Office" are the two centres of interest. First we wander to one, and then we wander to the other, then with time on our hands we join the stream of men going up one side of the road "just walkin'" and when we reach the point where most of the crowd turns back, we turn back, too, and continue our "walkin'," with no particular place to go, until the streets begin to get deserted and it is time for the town to close up. Then we disappear, too, and for an hour occupy ourselves in the barracks until taps are sounded and lights are out, when we go to bed; the place I'm headed for now, so soon as I put the top on my fountain pen.

Wednesday:

That's the call that brings out all the shirkers. They line up in the morning and present all sorts of ailments from sore throat to heart disease.

The line is especially long on mornings when they know we are in for two hours of "settin'-ups" or when some especially hard detail such as camp orderly or kitchen police has been handed out. A day in the hospital will relieve one of all these duties. This morning I was on the long line. But I hasten to explain that _I_ was sick (that's what they all say, of course,) with chills and a scrapy feeling in my throat; and since we are forbidden to take any medicine of our own, I shame-facedly line up with the rest of them. There were about twenty all told and the doctor made short work of us.

"What's the matter with you?" very cross.

"I-I-I-here--it hurts," said one, pointing to his back and looking quite scared. The M. D. poked his finger into the spot designated.