Part 1

Produced by Roger Frank, Katherine Ward, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

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CONSCRIPT 2989

EXPERIENCES OF A DRAFTED MAN

ILLUSTRATED BY H. B. MARTIN

NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1918

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COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

Service Flag Design on Cover Patented November 6, 1917

Reproduced by Permission of Annin & Co., Flag Makers, New York

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TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER

and every other Mother and Father, who spend hours wondering about the welfare of their son, this book is dedicated. And with it comes the assurance that life in the big cantonment contains a full measure of real happiness, and that all hardships are mitigated by a sense of humor which develops even in the worst of pessimists. We are contented, for to compensate for the absence of you and all that you mean, comes the knowledge that we are doing everything that brave men and women, the world over, would have us do at times like these. We are doing a man's work and by the token of the service flag in your window you should know that the days of patched trousers, darned stocking, of toy fire engines, play soldiers, and noisy drums, were not spent in vain.

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CONSCRIPT 2989

Thursday:

Once when I was an enthusiastic freshman (it seems ages ago) I joined a Latin society that had for its inspiration the phrase, _forsan haec olim meminisse juvabit_.

All I can remember about the society is the motto, and there is nothing particularly pleasant about the recollection, either. But somehow to-night that fool phrase comes back to me and makes a pessimist of me right off. I wonder how pleasant these things are going to be and whether I will want to remember them hereafter. Perhaps I won't have much choice. I'll probably remember them whether I want to or not. Already my first eight hours of active service as Conscript 2989 have some sharp edges sticking out which I am likely to remember, though many of them are far from pleasant.

I am now truly a member of the army of the great unwashed and unwashable--no, I take that back. They are washable. I saw a grizzly old Sergeant herding four of them out to the washroom this evening. Each of them carried a formidable square of yellow soap and a most unhappy expression. But the Sergeant looked pleased with his detail.

Never in my wildest flights of fancy can I picture some of these men as soldiers. Slavs, Poles, Italians, Greeks, a sprinkling of Chinese and Japs--Jews with expressionless faces, and what not, are all about me. I'm in a barracks with 270 of them, and so far I've found a half dozen men who could speak English without an accent. Is it possible to make soldiers of these fellows? Well, if muscle and bone (principally bone) is what is wanted for material, they have got it here with a vengeance. But, then, from the looks of things they have been doing wonders and they may make creditable soldiers of them at that. Goodness knows, they may even make a soldier out of me, which would be a miracle. Here's hoping.

Friday:

I only need to glance back over the page I wrote last night to see how I felt. This conscripting must have gotten under my skin a little deeper than I thought. I'll admit I was homesick, and I guess it made me a little testy. I think I really should tear that page out and begin over. It isn't exactly fair, and, besides, it doesn't fulfil the function of a diary, anyway, which, I take it, is a record of events and things--not a criticism of everybody in general and an opportunity to give vent to disagreeable feelings.

From a "close-up" view yesterday may have seemed like a trying day, but to-night it looks a lot different and a lot more interesting. I must confess that all the "good-byes," and the bands, and the weeping mothers and sweethearts, and the handshakes, and the pompous old turtles (who dodged the draft in the Civil War or bought substitutes) who slapped you on the back and told you how they wished they were young again, along with the arrival of the "Kaiser Kanners," who unquestionably were "kanners" of another variety, and the parade and the Home Guard and the dozen and one "Comfort Kits" that every one handed you, and the mystery of what was to come, and the scared look on every one's face, including my own, and the vacant feeling in the pit of one's stomach, superinduced by sandwiches and coffee, fudge, oranges and chocolates in lieu of a real meal, did get on my nerves.

But, hang it, when I look back we got a great farewell, at that. And the local Board did things up mighty well. I find myself possessed of a razor, razor strop, wrist watch, two pocket knives, unbreakable mirror, drinking cup and a lot of other things that I never expected to own or need. I haven't the remotest idea where many of them came from.

Then there was that long, almost never ending train ride, which seemed to be taking me on an unbearable distance from the place I really felt I belonged.

And the arrival; all I saw when I tumbled off the train were thousands of unpainted buildings and millions of fellows in khaki, and every one of them had a fiendish grin on his face as he shouted: "Oh, you rookey. Wait, just wait; you'll get yours! When they bring on the needle. Oh, the needle."

I had a vague idea of what the "needle" might be, but it wasn't pleasant to hear about it from every one I met. But I guess there were a lot of fellows who were not quite certain what this threatening "needle" was. Foolishly two of them asked one of the Sergeants who met us at the train and what they heard in reply to their queries made them paler than they were before, if that were possible. Thereafter, for the rest of the afternoon and evening, the "needle" was the subject of earnest conversation among us all, and the doubts and misgivings about that instrument of torture, coupled with a thoroughly good case of homesickness on the part of every one of us helped to make a pleasant (?) evening. And that most of us worried until far into the night is certain. I know I did, and the Italian on my left cried himself to sleep, and didn't try to hide his unhappiness either. Oh, it was a delightful evening, all things considered.

Forty-seven of us, all from my own district, came down together, and while we remained in one group there was a measure of consolation to be had for us all. But our hopes that we would stay together at camp were dashed immediately we got off the train. In fact we were so thoroughly split up that I managed to get into a squad composed entirely of foreigners, and I'm still with them. But the prospects of a change are excellent.

Quite as docile as sheep, and just as ignorant, we were marched down one camp street after another. My friends of foreign extraction, with due regard for anything that looked like a uniform, saluted every one that passed, and they were tolerably busy until we were halted outside of our present abode, a big two-story, unpainted barracks building.

Here mess kits were served to each of us, and though we did not know the combination that unlocked the mysterious looking things, we were glad to get them, because they added so much to the dozen and one things we were already carrying. Then, completely smothering us, came two tremendous horse blankets and a comforter. Those comforters were everything their name implies. Not only did they afford warmth, but amusement as well. They ranged in shades from baby blue and pink to cerise and lavender, and some one with a sense of humour must have distributed them. The stout, pudgy, black-haired Italian to my left reposes under the voluminous folds of a beautiful pink creation, and across the room sits a huge Irishman, with hands as big as hams and shoulders of a giant, with a baby blue comforter wrapped about him. Mine is a bewitching old rose. But, believe me, it's there with the quality if it isn't much on looks. I found that out last night.

Then, after the Sergeant showed us where we bunked and where we could expect to find something to eat about supper time, every one left us severely alone, which was mostly what we wanted, because we all had a lot on our mind between homesickness and that blessed "needle." But there was some work to do, such as stuffing mattresses with hay, sweeping out the barracks and similar occupations until bed time.

Some one, who had evidently heard some weird tales about the punishment meted out to those who overslept at camp, brought an alarm clock along with him, and the blooming thing went off at 4 A.M. Of course we got up, switched the lights on over head, and proceeded to get dressed with that resigned now-what-are-you-going-to-do-with-us air.

But dressing was interrupted by a string of the most beautiful cusses I ever heard, coming downstairs just in advance of a mighty mad looking Sergeant:

"Who in ---- tarnation bow-wows has got that ---- alarm clock? Pitch it out the ---- window, and git back to bed."

It went and we went. But that's as far as we could go. Thoughts of the "needle" and other forms of torture which we were to face in a few short hours kept most of us awake until a quarter after five, when every officer in camp began to blow letter-carrier whistles. Then we all got up and were introduced to some physical exercises guaranteed to stretch every muscle in our makeup. I took a cold shower bath after mine, and was the object of interest of the entire barracks. Great stuff (I mean the shower).

Most of us might have been tolerably happy after that, if it hadn't been for the fact that every man in uniform made some evil suggestion about the "needle." And when they saw us all, white and corpsey looking and more or less unsteady on our legs, line up in front of the barracks and march off under our Second Lieutenant, the groans and sorry faces they feigned were enough to make one's blood run cold. And then we got the "needle."

I, for one, was disappointed, and so were most of the rest of us. But there were a few who didn't give themselves a chance to be disappointed. They promptly fainted: not because of the injection but because of the state of their nerves which they all admitted afterward. There were a few things about the examination calculated to scare a man to death such as the question: "In case you are shot and killed to whom do you wish six months' pay to be sent?" Many of us stammered a bit before answering.

After that we stripped, lined up and started on our way. Then measured, marked and finger-printed, we arrived before a physician who stamped a quarter section under the left shoulder blade with a sponge covered with iodine, while another one scratched the skin on our upper arm to mark the acreage to be covered by a vaccination. We moved on to two more physicians, and while one dug a hunk out of our arm and inserted vaccine in place of the skin removed, the other man, with a villainously long hypodermic, jabbed at the iodine mark and pulled the trigger. And now, by George, if any one else around here tries to kid me into worrying about anything at all, I'm going to talk back proper. They sure had me scared stiff and I'll admit it. Why, hang it, I would rather have had typhoid than face that "needle" before I really knew what it amounted to. But here I am, with germs variously estimated at from 15,000 to 250,000 circulating around inside of me, due to said "needle," and aside from a little wooziness in the head, and a sore shoulder, I'm quite contented and ready to turn in. Good-night.

Saturday:

The serum injections of yesterday produced some queer, and in one case unfortunate, results. Last night after taps were sounded and lights were out, I lay awake a long time in spite of the fact I was very tired.

Couldn't understand it, and my arm and back were as sore as could be. Hour after hour wore on, and I couldn't get to sleep. Some did, however, and I had a regular frog's chorus of snores to keep me company. I became a veritable specialist in snores and wheezes and grunts. Every time I heard a new variety I formed mental pictures of the men who probably made them.

Then the chorus was interrupted by some one not far from me who called out mournfully: "Oh, my back, my back! The needle!" Then in sharper tones: "Count off. 1-2-3-4." I wondered what horrors his overwrought nerves were causing him to dream of.

But when I did get to sleep I slept soundly, certainly, for they told me this morning that one chap had become seriously ill, and had been carried from the barracks to an ambulance and whisked away to the hospital sometime during the small hours of the morning. It seems that he had an excess of germs circulating around inside of him, due to the fact that he did not know enough to move on after the doctor had given him the first injection, and the physician, looking only for the nearest iodine spot, shot him twice in the same place.

However, I am reasonably certain I'll sleep to-night all right, for I've been pulling stumps all day, or rather during the time I wasn't learning to recognize my right foot from my left, and a few other things that every man thinks he knows until some one takes the pains to expose his ignorance. Oh, I have the qualities of a really capable soldier in me--if some one can find them. As an infantryman I'm a much better stump puller. I proved that this afternoon. I have a beautiful double handful of blisters, not to mention a ruined suit of clothes and hopeless shoes, to my credit in this war of exterminating the Hun. I hope we get uniforms soon, because if we don't, I'll be going about clad in my old rose comforter and some summer underclothes.

Stump pulling is rough on clothes, but it certainly is an appetite builder. I've discovered already that it is good policy to be among the first on line with a mess kit, then if you can bolt your beef a-la-mode fast enough, and get outside and wash up your kit, you stand a good chance of joining the last of the line, thereby getting a second helping. Indeed, several fellows have it down to such a science already, that they get three helpings before the cook begins to say things.

The barracks is beginning to look picturesque. The atmosphere of a western mining camp, arranged for stage purposes, prevails. The Italians, swarthy-faced, heavy-featured fellows, for the most part, gather in little groups, smoke villainous pipes and play cards incessantly, whenever they are allowed much time in the barracks. Our Semitic friends linger in the vicinity of the door that leads to the mess hall and kitchen, especially about meal time. And their mess kits are always handy. Nicknames have already become common, and we have among us such worthies as Fat, Doc, Peck's Bad Boy, Toney, Binkie, Shortie, Shrimp, Simp and Pop. The last name has been applied to me, inspired, no doubt, by the suggestion of baldness aloft.

Sunday:

Didn't sleep much last night, for some reason. Think I was too tired. This is the third night I've lost time. Beginning to feel it now. But no one else seemed to sleep well either, or at least they didn't go to sleep right off. Lights out at ten and all supposed to be "tucked in." Then came various remarks from the darkness; choice, unprintable remarks about the Kaiser, the Government, the Sergeant, certain Corporals, who doubtless heard all their well-wishers had to say, but could not identify the speakers. Indeed, it struck me that the fellows had hit upon a choice way of telling certain non-coms what they thought of them, without the possibility of getting in bad. Then arguments started in the darkness, and the vocal combatants were urged on by catcalls and encouraging yells from various sections of the unlighted room, and presently shoes started flying.

About that time the Top Sergeant upstairs woke up, and decided to investigate. Silence fell in the big room when the stairs, creaking under his weight, gave warning that the crusty old veteran of fifteen years' service with the Regulars was on his way down.

The door opened and a pocket flashlight began to travel from cot to cot. But strangely enough every one was slumbering contentedly, and some even snoring. The Top Sergeant made the round of the cots, reached the door and "doused his glim."

Then with a most impressive introduction of profanity he remarked that "The next ----, ----, son-of-a-bandmaster, who started anything would spend the rest of the night out on the porch in his underclothes," whereupon some wag from the darkness replied: "Put t' Kaiser out there, he started it." While others sweetly remarked: "Good-night Ser_geant_." "Pleasant dreams, dear." "Come kiss me good-night." and "Don't forget to tuck us all in."

But things eventually subsided and I dozed off, only to be awakened later by some one kissing me on the cheek. It was startling to say the least, and I sat up. I thought perhaps the Sergeant had come back to say good-night. Then it happened again, only this time on my hand, and I heard an eager little whine, and a sniff-sniff-sniffing that told me plainly a dog was beside my cot.

I chirped encouragingly and up he came. Then he dived between the blankets and burrowing deep worked his way down to the foot of my cot. Evidently he had slept in army cots before. All my efforts to dislodge him were futile and I knew that unless I got up and unmade my bed he would not come out. So I left him, and he in gratitude kept my feet warm.

This morning he appeared at reveille, waking me up with his frantic efforts to dig himself to light again and kissing me good-morning, by way of showing his appreciation. He was just a plain yellow dog, with a lop ear and a habit of wagging all over when he could not get enough expression in his stump of a tail. Attached to a strap that he wore in place of a collar was a tag on which was scrawled: "Presented to Local Board No. 163--Hold the fort for we are coming." I concluded that if they held onto the fort, when they arrived, as well as they held onto their dog it wasn't worth while having them come at all.

"Local Board No. 163" stood guard on the foot of my bed, or rather, sat guard, until I got dressed, and although he created no end of interest among the rest of the fellows in the room, who whistled and called to him, he refused to leave his new-found "bunkie." He just sat tight. He even stayed when I got up to go, but he looked at me with a most reproachful air, as if to say, "I think a lot of you even though you do want to leave me."

He remained after every one had left the room and when I returned an hour later to get my mess kit for breakfast, he was still there.

But the rattle of mess tins must have suggested something to him for when I got up to go this time he was right beside me, and he even braved the crush at the mess-hall door to stick near me.

That dog never had so much to eat in all his young life as he got for breakfast that morning. First he visited our Japanese cook, who liked him and proved it by giving him a piece of meat. Then he visited the kitchen police, who found something for him, after which he made the rounds of the mess tables, coming back to me actually bloated with food. He looked up at me and I'll swear he grinned and tried to say: "This is the life--eh, Ol' Top?"

"Local Board No. 163" has already become a favourite, but with all his petting from his many well-wishers, he seems to want to call me Boss. He's on the cot beside me now as I write, snoring with disgusting impoliteness, but I guess, being just a plain yellow dog, he don't know any better.

This has been a day of visitors, and little work. Early this morning they began to arrive. I never saw so many motor cars anywhere, except at football games, or the races. And girls; thousands of them, and pretty, too. But shucks, I'm outclassed. In fact I began to feel like my dog to-day. I'll admit it was pretty soft for the fellows who had uniforms, but for the poor tramps like myself, who still wear their civilian clothes (or what is left of them, which isn't very much all told) it was sort of a lonesome day.

Then there were the lucky fellows who had passes to leave camp. They looked fine, tramping down the road toward the station. Of course they were all uniformed; they are not allowed to leave camp unless they are.

But "Local Board No. 163" and I take consolation in the fact that perhaps next Sunday we will be all spick and span in a nice new uniform, and then we'll strike for a pass, too, and go home and swagger about a bit ourselves.

Feeling delightfully tired and sleepy; and I know I'll "press some of the creases out o' my blankets" to-night. This place seems almost comfortable and homelike now, and the men--well I've changed my original opinion of them considerably. They all (or most of them) have their hearts in the right place, and there aren't so many muckers as I thought there might be. In fact I'm beginning to like things mighty well; really enjoying myself. Only, hang it, I think I'm getting a good case of hives. Haven't been afflicted thus for about five years. If they keep up I'll report to the hospital shortly. "Come on 'Local Board No. 163' we'll turn in."

Monday:

Several things of importance happened to-day. For one thing we got some clothes. I say _some_ clothes advisedly, for I'm not all clothed yet, being minus such important articles as an undershirt, socks and shoes. But those I brought from home, though sanctified and made holey by arduous labours in other fields, will do for the present. I possess a pair of winter breeches and a summer coat, but what matters that. It is sufficient to know that they fit, which is not the case in several instances, notably in that of friends Fat and Shrimp, who, I have learned, were not optimistic from the first about being fitted properly. It seems that from years of experience they have both learned never to expect to be fitted anywhere, anyhow. Fat's shirt covers him with an effort, but that is all. He can't find a shoehorn with which to get into his breeches. As for Shrimp: his belt is pulled tight about his chest and the sleeves of his tunic are rolled up to where his elbows should be, only to disclose the tips of his fingers.

But I must confess to a grave error right here. It startled me this evening at retreat. Indeed, several things startled me this evening at retreat, including my fast developing case of hives.