Chapter 13
"That was some hike we had this morning," calls Bannister to a friend across the street. Such is the general opinion, especially Reardon's, who slept till he had to be roused for conference. And I want especially to chronicle that it was David who, declaring that Reardon would get rheumatism from the bare ground, roused him enough to get him onto his blankets in the tent; it was David who sat by him and prevented anyone from waking him; and it was David who after cleaning his own gun, which work the lad does not enjoy, cleaned Reardon's.
The story goes now that the stolen clip of ball cartridges has been found and confiscated. Its location is ascribed to every company in the regiment, including ours. Our blanks we use very freely, being supplied every morning with any number from fifty up. And wherever we shoot them in any quantity, buzzards still flock together to rummage in the underbrush.
You ask the meaning of Retreat. It is the last ceremony of the military day, when the colors are furled. The companies are called together, each at the end of its street, so that they are in order one behind the other. Sometimes we are drilled in the manual, sometimes we have rifle inspection; but as soon as the bugle sounds the warning call we come to parade rest. Then the band plays the Star Spangled Banner, after which we stand at attention while the bugler plays the beautiful "To the Colors." The flag is furled, and everyone not in line, cooks, orderlies, all except the buzzards, likewise stand at attention during the call, and at the end salute. Then promptly we are dismissed and allowed to hope for supper.
Our diet is the same monotony of wholesome, plentiful food. I am flourishing on it; Corder is proud of requiring nothing else. On the other hand some complain, and Pickle, having a sweet tooth, at the end of a meal will often go out and feed himself with boughten pies and doughnuts. For you must understand that not only do the buzzards follow us from camp to camp, but every farmer's wife along the line of march or near our camp bakes a batch of her favorites and puts out a sign. Those along the road must be disappointed; none of us ever fall out. But they make a good sale outside the camp. David, who has become very strict with himself, is trying to save Pickle from his indulgences, but so far without success except that Pickle has become very sly about slipping away.
A long letter, and I am cramped and stiff from sitting on the ground. When shall I sit in a chair again?
DICK.
PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Thursday morning at West Sciota, waiting to start.
DEAR MOTHER:--
The camp has been policed down to the last cigarette stub and gun patch, or anything else that the captain's keen eye might light on. The call has gone out, "Platoon leaders to the head of the street," and the day's work is to be laid out for them. We privates have been studying our maps. For we expect to march to Altona, where last night the first battalion camped, and we suspect that they will march out and oppose us. It is only seven miles by road, but no one knows how long if skirmishing is added.
After mailing my letter last night I sat among others at the captain's fire, listening to his ready answers to the questions which we fired at him. We went over points of strategy, and discussed the day's work. It has become plain to me that there is a great advantage in so small a camp as ours, a regiment of but six companies. We can be in or pretty close to every scrap that happens, and all the real military problems are fairly plain to us. Besides, this hike is to be the longest yet. When further you consider that a month of Plattsburg has as many hours of service as a militiaman gets in two years and a half at home, that our continuous service is naturally much more valuable than the militiaman's weekly drill in his armory, and finally that we are under West Pointers who each day explain and discuss the problem, you can see that a man in the Tenth Regiment has a chance to learn a good deal.
Little absurdities are taking place around me. Says Corder, struggling with his pack, "Bann, will you help me into my corset." Pickle says to Reardon (out of David's hearing) "Ten cents for a bum piece of pie that you have to eat with your hands! That gets my goat." And just now has come a hoot from every part of the camp when from I company, in line to start and loading guns for a skirmish, sounded the pop of an accidental discharge. But the men of I company look sour and glum.
Nevertheless I will admit that I discovered yesterday from personal experience, but luckily in the rattle and banging of a fight, how the gun is accidentally discharged. You draw back the bolt and push it forward again, thus putting a cartridge in the barrel. Then you turn the bolt down. Now if in so doing your third or fourth finger strays inside the trigger guard and presses the trigger (and it is very easily done) then--! But no one could hear my mistake in all the firing.
(_Resting after battle, near Altona._)
We marched for some miles unmolested along our westward road, and the amateur strategists among us scanned each rise of ground ahead, predicting fights. But when the row finally began we were too far in the rear to see just what kind of position the enemy had decided to hold. As often happens, we were ordered into the ditch to wait, while the officers consulted briefly, and all the time the rattle of the guns kept up. Half the cavalry, by the way, were with us, and we saw them sent off by a woodroad to the left, supposedly to flank the enemy. Then for our platoon occurred one of our occasional bawlings out. As we waited, having loaded, we saw the 4th, 3d, and 1st platoons ordered over the fence into the field on our right. Being used to seeing the company split into its detachments for different purposes, and hearing no orders, we remained placidly in the ditch--for we are now old soldiers, and are learning not to hunt trouble. But the lieutenant came running, and with a few sharp words deftly removed the scalp of our leader, and retired with it at his belt. So over we scrabbled, and took our place in the column. Then we wandered miles through pastures, woods, and bogs, at first in _column of squads_, which means four men abreast, and then, as the going became difficult, in _squad columns_, which means eight men following each other in single file. Note this difference--I wish we had! At one time, for nearly a mile, the whole company was in Indian file, winding through the underbrush.
And as we went thus there came a curious little test of character and discipline. For to us as we halted at one charming bit of stony hillside, cedar grown, came one of the amazing persistent buzzards carrying his whole stock in trade, a box of chocolate bars. We were hungry, and some men bought; even David began fumbling in his pocket as the man came near. But he looked at Knudsen, and the Swede frowned, so when the fellow offered his wares David waved him away. Having shown weakness, he did not attempt to influence Pickle; but that worthy, with a sigh, put up his money. "War is hell," said he, and cursed the buzzard. None in our squad bought; in fact, though the captain was not in sight, I think the buzzard was disappointed in F company.
Firing was all the time very noisy to our left, and as we moved on it was plain that we were skirting the centre of the scrimmage in an attempt to take the enemy in flank. Now our squad columns were sent forward parallel, eight yards apart, ready at command to spring out in one long line, the men side by side. Through a cedar swamp we now made our way among huge old trees, the firing very hot and close in front, until we were halted at the edge of the thicket, with an open space in front across which was a snake fence some thirty yards away. As we waited the order to advance, we being on the extreme right, a railroad embankment just beyond us, we saw a platoon rush forward from the left, cross the open diagonally, and line the fence in front of us. With objurgations the captain and lieutenant coaxed them again to the left. Other platoons, and perhaps single squads, rushed from cover and occupied the fence, the whole line beginning to fire.
We felt sure that it was our turn next, and were saying so, when apparently the order came. The platoon leader sprang out in front, I made up my mind where I was to go, we all surged forward, crossed the open space, and I presently found myself in the line, firing across the fence at a distant wall, the range of which I calculated to be but a hundred yards, and therefore used "battle sight," firing low. But here came the lieutenant again, scalped our leader a second time, and ordered us back. So I trailed back across the open ground and meekly took my place with the others again in squad column. We asked each other, "Weren't we ordered forward?" Some declared that the platoon leader had ordered the advance, others that the lieutenant had sent us out. I knew I had heard his voice, but really I had merely followed on like a sheep. That was proper. But at any rate here was a time when the platoon-leader had made a mistake in keeping us with the rest of the company.
While the platoon, thirty-four men of us, was huddled in its special bunch of trees, all talking and explaining, along in haste came the major, dismounted, demanding if we were in column of squads. With one voice we maintained that we were, but he or his aide knew better, and by the help of our two sergeants bringing the corporals to their senses and silencing the men, we were finally got out of our squad columns, in which formation we had been so long that we had forgotten that there was any other. In column of squads we were swung to the right, put in skirmish line, and halted below the railway embankment, where the major, with great patience and the most painstaking English, explained to our limited intelligences the exact manoeuvre that he contemplated. Then at the word we rushed the embankment, plunged into a ditch, swung to the left, some of us across a wire fence, and prepared to advance and annihilate a bunch of the enemy that we saw before us. But they sending out a messenger, explained that they were dead, which saved us the trouble, not really to our pleasure, for having made fools of ourselves we were anxious to take it out on somebody. And then the bugle blew Recall.
Green troops in battle would cause just such confusion and delay. It was very evident that we had spoiled some plan. The need of a soldier's training would be plain to anyone that heard the babble of our voices in that corner, conjecturing, advising, urging this and that. We are still very far from the state in which we could be trusted to go into battle and obey every order just as it came. The reasons for this I figure out to be two.
In the first place I have learned that the so-called intelligent volunteer, while able with surprising quickness to master the manual and the drill, with the rudiments of skirmish work, and all because of his trained mind, nevertheless does not readily give up his independence of thought except in the presence of men whom he recognizes as his unquestionable professional superiors. Hence, when deprived of such guidance, each man has his own theory and his own advice, which he voices without modesty.
Secondly, while in the regular army such situations are readily controlled by the--(To be continued. We are going to move on.)
(In camp at Altona, after swim and retreat and supper, writing while crouched in the pup tent for shelter from a shower that has just spoiled the afternoon's conference. Bann is luckily absent; I don't know what two could do in this confined space, except when asleep.)
by the non-commissioned officers, it was very evident today that ours had not sufficient control over us because they had not sufficient control over themselves. They were new to their responsibility, and did not understand how to handle the particular problem. And if we had needed another example of what was lacking, it was at hand in a few minutes when on our way to camp, and seeing the tents in plain view across a stream, the captain decided to save us a half-hour by fording. So he led the way down into the water, the lieutenant at his side discussing, tramped across the shallow river, and marched on, whether forgetting us or testing us I do not know. The first squad or two followed gamely, the next faltered, and all the rest spread out in confusion and tried to cross dry-shod. I am glad to say that Squad 8 hung together, hopped over quickly, formed and went on. After a hundred yards we came up with the captain, who was just sending back a sergeant with the message, "Help all the girls across." When once we were assembled he gave us his solemn promise never to try to save us work again.
What would prevent such blunders in future? I will admit that in each such case non-coms from the regular army would have steadied us and kept us right. Yet I am convinced that what will best control the Plattsburg rookie is the Plattsburg non-com. All we need is to develop a body of them. The regular may serve at a pinch, but in the cases where moral control is more needed than a little knowledge or habitual steadiness, the appeal comes strongest from a man of our own kind.
I suppose that only the shower saved us from an awful roasting at the conference.
The camp is rather picturesquely situated in a broad field that stretches down to swamps and woods, the cavalry at a slight distance across a little swale. Our squad was on police duty for a while, and I was orderly for an hour. The lady buzzards of the town have spread a chicken dinner, at a dollar a head, in the town hall, and many of our fellows have slipped away to it. Yet at dinner-time I saw poor Pickle sitting by the water-barrel, a plate of beans in his lap. I asked innocently, "Why aren't you at the chicken dinner?" "Don't ask foolish questions," he snapped. "Can't you see I'm tied here to serve out water?"
I went for my bath down to our little river, which bears the imposing name of the Great Chazy; it wanders idle from pool to pool along its half dry bed. In one of the natural bath-tubs I had a fine wash, finding a pool up to my knees, clear cold water where minnows swam trustingly about, and where crawfish, the first I have ever seen, came like little pink lobsters to investigate my toes. After the stagnant brooks at our last two camps, it was delightful to find this clear water and actually get _under_ it.
I was so trustful of the weather that I washed a pair of socks, but I had not got into my clothes before a shower started. I took refuge, with another man, in a cavalry officer's tent. We had a pleasant little chat with him; he did not resent the intrusion of a couple of rookies, and we talked of camp matters. Intermittently it has been raining ever since.
Written by the light of a great bonfire at the Y. M. C. A. tent.
Men are trying to dry themselves on one side while they get wet on the other. Word has come which puts the company in mourning--Loretta is detained by business, and will not rejoin us. David says in my ear, "Damn him, I meant to get even with him!" This for Reardon's sake, who laughs at David's energy, yet I think is rather touched by it. We have had our usual talk with the captain at the company fire, and rather gently he has pointed out to us our shortcomings, especially our platoon's in giving the major such trouble.
But some men of our platoon came to him with a grievance. In getting us into our column of squads someone swore at the men, and they attributed the profanity to the major's aide, a volunteer like ourselves. This roused the captain. "No one shall swear at my men!" he declared, his gentleness all gone. "I will talk with that aide." That obliged me to speak. "Captain," said I, "I'm sorry to disagree with the others, but as I happened to have admired the coolness of the aide, it doesn't seem to me that he was in a state of mind to swear." One of our sergeants spoke up. "I might have done it, sir. I was a little excited." The man has sworn at us before, and Knudsen has resented it. The captain was mollified by the admission, but he read the man a little lecture. "Never swear at your men, sir. Apart from the fact that it does no good, it's most unsoldierlike. I never swore at an enlisted man but once, when I was a very young officer, and I never will again."
I must stop because of the damp and the discomfort, writing in this flickering light, my legs, as usual, cramped. I despair of ever conveying a proper idea of this rainy evening, the indifference of the hardy ones, the dejection of the sensitive, crowding together wherever there is cover, trying to keep dry at fires, or in final surrender crawling into their beds, to wait the hours through. It is not raining at this moment, but I am curious to know what the night will bring. The tent is pretty well ditched, but the pin at my shoulder is very loose in this sandy soil, and if it showers--! Good night.
DICK.
_P. S._ Overheard in I company street, loud language. One disputant: "I keep my feet as clean as yours!" The other. "You do? I have washed mine twice since the beginning of the hike." The first: "So have I, Monday and yesterday. You take care of your person and I'll look after mine."
PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Altona Camp, Friday, Sep. 29. Waiting for the start.
DEAR MOTHER:--
The night, in spite of its possibilities, was not bad. I went to bed in the rain, Bann already snoozing by my side, and was put to sleep by the sounds of men's voices murmuring. Roused by a smart shower, I heard Taps blown, and the top sergeant going up and down the street. "Cut out that talking, men!" Waking in the night I found the sky clear, the wind blowing, and two pins out at my side, with the tent flapping. I put the pins in, but when next I was waked by the rain in my face the side of the tent was flapping heavily, and nothing but the fact that instead of a rifle for the tent pole we used a stake, driven about six inches into the ground, had saved us from a collapse. I held down the corner through the shower, then opening my meat-can, used its long handle for a tent-peg. If our little pins were a couple of inches longer this nuisance could be prevented. The new peg held till morning, the clouds then gradually breaking for a glorious sunrise.
On a hillside, near Ellenburg Depot.
We rolled our moist blankets, made up our damp packs, ate our hasty breakfasts, and with I company were hustled into motor trucks, two squads to a truck. For forty-five minutes we jolted and squashed over bad roads, and finally bowled along over macadam. After eight or ten miles we were turned out, and marched in the cloudy, windy morning three miles to Ellenburg Depot. Here we left a man on each bridge, to notify pursuers that it was destroyed, and turned into the fields, at last climbing a ridge from which, to the left, we saw at a distance a high hill, its wooded sides beginning to show the mottled reds of autumn, while just below our steep slope lay a wide flat bottom, perfect green, with a brook wandering through it. Here we rested, delighting in the view but shivering in the wind, while the company officers and the major looked over the ground. Then the orders were, "Off with the equipment, get out your tools, and dig a trench." The front rank is working like beavers now, and as our turn is nearly here, I must stop this scribbling.
In camp near Ellenburg Depot, Friday afternoon.
Again I sit in the tent while outside it rains. We have as yet been able to get no straw, for though I have twice hurried at the first glimpse of a wagon, the fellows nearer got it all. The ground is wet from this morning's rain, my pen has splashed everything with ink, and I am afraid that this rain is no mere shower. But thank Heaven! the soil is better for the pins to hold in, the tents have all been faced away from the wind, we have had a most interesting morning, and I have a full stomach. To resume my story:
Considerably below the crest of the hill, and perhaps seventy feet uphill from a railway cutting, a line was marked, and the men fell to at the digging with enthusiasm. The ground was sandy, and we quickly threw out the soil, and heaved out the occasional big rocks. "We" scarcely includes poor Corder, who complained bitterly that his appearance of age made the fellows keep the tools from him; but when we were ordered to bring stones and turf, he joyfully carried burdens. The trench was dug about four feet deep, with an eighteen inch parapet outside. Inside this was a shelf for an elbow rest; the parapet was lined (revetted, the captain said) with flat stones, and finally the whole outside was turfed, so that the raw earth did not show. The turf was from ground opened in a long line higher up the hill, and left open to look like a trench and draw the enemy's fire. Our trench being finished, another--a mere rifle pit, higher up the slope--was made for the captain's observation post, and still another for a northerly outpost. Having turfed the outside of these, we picked the milkweed stalks that stood in great numbers, and set them at proper intervals with artistic irregularity, while for the captain was provided a little bush. I company's trenches were further to the south.
We were finishing, and Corder had just said "We need a shower to clean this dirty turf," when the shower came. The captain ordered us into our packs and ponchos, and then into the trench. Though the shower was short the wind was increasingly cold, and I was glad of the protection of my poncho. For in that trench we remained for an hour and three quarters, before anything really happened.
I had time to study a good many things. The depth to which grass roots will go in sandy soil: at least two feet. The amount of sand that gets into the lock of one's rifle. The continual discomfort of sand blowing into one's eyes. The cold that strikes up through the stone, or the sand, on which one sits. The personality of my neighbor of Squad Nine, who seemed much less interested in his life as a banker than I was. The incalculable value of the pack as a life-saver, for having to lean against the wall of the narrow trench, nothing but the roll on my back kept me from the deadly chill of pneumonia. But most interesting of all was the behavior of the men.
As we worked at digging the trench we naturally, being intelligent volunteers, had many sub-directors, and much grumbling at so much unofficial ordering. Randall, during one of his rests, delivered himself with much disgust. "There never was an American," said he, "who could take orders. Each man thinks he knows best. We need to learn to obey." Well, once we were down in the trench, it was Randall's head that was continually popping up, and continually being ordered down; and it was Randall who would light cigarettes, though ordered not to. An hour and three quarters is a long time to wait, and the cramped space was very tiring. Further, we were excited by the sound of firing, I suppose from the driving in of the detachment which the lieutenant had taken off to the east, so of course everyone wanted to see. In addition, our two sergeants, who have none too much authority, were together at one end of the platoon, away from the most impatient of the men, and so were quite unable to control Randall and other restless spirits. Randall, arguing that no one could see _him_, would pop up his head, others imitated, and so on the whole a fine example of discipline our platoon made. But David, lost in wonder at such wilfulness, never raised his head above the parapet.