Part 2

A few days ago I made some rather boorish and very sarcastic remarks about the possibilities of ever making soldiers out of the men I found myself among. I humbly take it all back and eat mud by way of apology. Khaki, a campaign hat and a shave, together with a certain amount of training in how to stand up straight and step off correctly, have made a vast difference. Why, hang it, I'm mighty proud to belong to this company. Jews, Italians, Poles, etc., all look like fighters; act like fighters; and a lot of them are fighters, too. Why they are soldiers already, and glad of it. Which leads me to state quite modestly the surprising fact that I think I am nearly a soldier, too, and gol-dinged set up about it. Honestly we looked fine this evening. What if there were a few misfits? A process of barter and exchange has already eliminated a great deal of that (save in the cases of Fat and Shrimp, who have gone back to civilian clothes until special uniforms are built for them) and when we lined up and snapped to attention while the band over on Tower Hill played "The Star Spangled Banner" and the old flag came slowly down, we looked like real soldiers every inch. We knew it, too, and I'll bet there wasn't a prouder company in the entire camp.

Of course, I had to gum up the ceremony. But I guess I'll pay for it to-morrow. Here's how it happened:

We've been drilling, drilling, drilling, all day to-day, drilling with a vengeance, and now we can do squads right and right front into line with as much pep and vigour as a company of Regulars. Our Sergeant said so, which is some admission for the old moss-back to make. Of course, we were tired. I was about ready to drop in my tracks when five o'clock came, which is time for evening parade or retreat; a very impressive ceremony by the way. My hives had been bothering me all day, and every time we were at ease, I got in some likely scratches in itchy places.

One beautiful lump developed right under my arm just at five o'clock. Holy smokes, how it did itch! It was just as if something had staked an oil claim right there and wasn't losing any time about drilling a well. Of course, standing at attention a chap can't scratch, at least he's not supposed to--but I did. I tried to show extreme fortitude. I stood and stood and stood, and the darned thing kept boring and boring and boring. Then when the Lieutenants had their backs turned and stood at salute while the flag came down, I took a chance and scratched.

That First Lieutenant of ours either has eyes in the back of his head or else the Sergeant is a tattletale. Anyhow, after the ceremonies and before we were dismissed, I was commanded to step out, whereupon I was given a most beautiful call down, after which I said, "thank you, sir" to a detail as kitchen police, for the next week to come starting to-morrow.

When I got back here to my barracks the first thing I did was to peel off my shirt and look for that hive. I caught him. And then the whole terrible plot to get me detailed as kitchen policeman was revealed. "Local Board No. 163" has fleas; or, rather, he had 'em. I've got 'em now--no, wrong again. I got rid of them, or I hope I did.

Upon making the hideous discovery, I summoned "Local Board No. 163" in court martial proceedings. He was guilty; I could see it by the way his spirit sagged in the middle when I began to cross-question him. I picked him up in one hand and a cake of yellow soap and a towel in the other, and we proceeded toward the shower baths. Bur-r-r-r but that water was cold. "Local Board No. 163" didn't enjoy it either, but I could with justice assure him that this form of punishment hurt me as much as it did him, and what is more I am likely to suffer a heap worse to-morrow.

"Local Board No. 163," you sleep _under_ the bed to-night.

Tuesday:

Too blasted tired to write to-night. I did a whole winter's work this morning. Shovelled nine tons (almost) of coal into the coal bin, as a starter. Then peeled a sack of potatoes, scrubbed an acre of floor and a half-acre of table tops and benches, washed twenty ash cans, and other kitchen utensils and--oh, I'm too tired now, think I'll wait until to-morrow.

"Local Board No. 163" sleeps _out on the porch_ to-night.

Wednesday:

Still kitchen policing. Yesterday I thought I had pulled some job when I peeled an ash can full of potatoes, but that was nothing. To-day I got a better one. I had to peel the same amount of potatoes, only they were in a washboiler this time. Yes, right off the fire. I can't see why the Government has to serve potatoes with the jackets off anyway. Why don't they let the men peel them? They are just as well able to do it as we are. If some one ever wants to invent a choice way of punishing refractory prisoners in jail I suggest they send said refractors into the kitchen and give them the gentle job of peeling hot potatoes, by the washboilerful.

I have a side partner on the kitchen police. His name is O'Flynn and he runs into even better luck than I do. To-day he shared the job of peeling "hot ones" with me. Yesterday while I had the little task of peeling 'em raw, he was handed the nice detail of attending to twelve pounds of onions; a tearful occasion, until some one with a conscience suggested that he get a bucket of water and peel them under water. O'Flynn got the water, with the remark that if he waited just a little longer the onion pan would have been full of tears, which he assumed would have served just as well.

O'Flynn is kitchen policing because he tried to come into the barracks after taps. Lights out at ten and O'Flynn arrived about 2 G.M. He avoided the fire-guard successfully and went around to the back of the barracks. There he jimmied a window with his pocket knife and got it opened, only to have it fall on his neck when he was about half-way in. By way of exercise he put his elbow through it. Then to add to the situation he found himself in the darkened mess hall instead of the dormitory, and the noise he made when he knocked over several benches naturally grated on the Sergeant's nerves. Said Sergeant arrived in the hall in his union suit about the time O'Flynn had untangled himself, and, after cussing him out to perfection, he handed the Irishman a week at kitchen policing.

"And now," said O'Flynn, "t' next time I come in through t' windey, I'll stay out."

A week of this and I'll be able to qualify as a first rate housekeeper for a lumber camp. Already I can lay down a few very necessary rules which the average housewife will appreciate, as for instance:--

1. Never take it for granted that a man has only one appetite. We have two hundred and seventy men here, but they carry around an aggregate of six hundred appetites.

2. Never plunge your hands into an ash can full of greasy water without first removing your wrist watch.

3. Never attempt to mop up after your men folk. Just turn the hose on, lash the nozzle to a convenient table leg and walk away and forget about it.

4. In carrying out a pan full of hot ashes never grab the handle. Thrust a stick through it, it saves the temper and the floor.

5. Never let any one kid you into trying to take the black off the kitchen pans with sapolio, rather throw the pans away.

Delightfully brief and entertaining job, that of removing the black from ash cans that are used to cook soup in. Our Mess Sergeant, the pirate, noticed that for about three seconds during this afternoon I wasn't doing anything in particular, so he gave me a cake of sapolio and a mop and told me to get busy and shine up the outside of the pots and pans and get all the black off. I went to it and stuck--until our Jap cook, the slant-eyed angel, came in about two hours later and told me the honourable ash cans always got blacked up again so what's the use; and anyhow he wanted to use the mop. I almost kissed him.

Thank goodness the coal shovelling is all over with. Finished it yesterday. To-day during my moments of leisure I split a few cords of kindling wood and carried it into the kitchen, but I like splitting wood better than heaving coal when it comes to making a choice.

I've been very popular with "Local Board No. 163," since I've been in the kitchen. Honestly, if that dog had intelligence enough, I could almost believe that he induced that flea to start this dirty work, for he's the only one in the whole company who has benefited by it. He hangs around the galley all the time and is waxing fat, prosperous and greasy; greasy because he got in the way of some dishwater that was being emptied out the back door. And now I'll have to give him another scrubbing before we turn in, or he'll be crawling in under my blankets again.

Strange I haven't received any letters yet. Some chaps are lucky. Letters seem to make a big difference in things, even if it's only listening in on some other fellow's. Every one reads letters out loud so that we can all enjoy them, for letters, no matter whom they are from, are real events here and one always gets a sinking feeling when he discovers there aren't any for him.

Thursday:

Real luck at last. No more kitchen policing, thank goodness. It all happened thus:

About the time we had cleaned up the remains of breakfast and I was getting ready to turn out for "settin' ups," along comes the Captain with two Lieutenants in tow, all with official looking papers. We lined up and he looked us all over very critically. Then he read:

"Any members of this company qualified to fill the following positions, step one pace," and a list of occupations followed that included everything from barber to horse trainer and stage carpenter. Quite a few of us stepped out. About ten of the Italian contingent responded at the word barber. Fat came forward as stage carpenter, and when he said artist I stepped three paces forward instead of one and, saluting, handed him my recommendation for the Camouflage Corps. I knew I wasn't doing quite the proper thing. But you see we were all young and innocent of such things as military courtesy, and the Captain overlooked the fact that one pace didn't mean three, and after he had mentally debated the question of calling me down in front of the company and had given me the benefit of inexperience, he read the recommendation.

The result was that I was ordered to report immediately to the 2-6 Company, 5-2 Depot Battalion. And with visions of avoiding physical exercises for about two hours and the preparing of a midday meal, I needed no urging. I gathered up my bed, hay mattress, blankets and all and proceeded to find the barracks of the 2-6 Company, 5-2 Depot Battalion.

Of course, it had to be located at the other end of the twenty-four square miles of reservation. But I had company. Fat, loaded down like a dromedary under bed, blankets, a suitcase and all, was looking for the same barracks. So we started on our wanderings together, hopeful of finding our new home before dinner was served.

We found it. And we found a lot of other fellows looking for the same home. It seems this Depot Battalion, of which I am now a part, is composed entirely of specialists, lawyers, linguists, engineers, artists, architects, carpenters and what not, and just about the time we were being transferred, other specialists were being selected from other companies and sent on their way to the Headquarters Divisions of the various regiments. So our corner of the camp has been quite popular all day, with men staggering in under loads of personal belongings like a lot of gipsies looking for new places to hang their O.D's.

We, I mean Fat and myself, are among a different class of fellows now and this moving business has changed my opinion of the camp. From a hit or miss proposition as it first appeared, it has become a very systematic and well-organized cantonment. It is being worked out like a gigantic piece of machinery and there isn't any question in my mind now but that we will all, sooner or later, fit into the places where we will be able to serve the Government best. Here I have been trying for months to discover how I can get into the Camouflage Corps, which so far as I could learn was a mythical organization which no one knew very much about. Meanwhile, I have been hoping to keep out of the draft army for fear of being side-tracked and given a bayonet, instead of a paint brush, to beat the Huns with.

And here I am conscripted, and inside of a week singled out as material for the Camouflage unit, with a nice place waiting for me to stay until said unit needs me. They are doing it up in really businesslike fashion and no doubting it.

But in the shuffle I've lost my dog. He's only been with me a few days and he's done nothing but get me into trouble all the time, yet I miss the little beggar. He wasn't about when I gathered up my belongings this morning, and I haven't had time to look him up all day. Perhaps, before taps I'll wander down to the other barracks and see if I can find him.

Friday:

Real work began in earnest here this morning, for the officers in command of the various companies of the Headquarters Divisions, or Depot Battalions, or whatever it is these particular departments are called, are determined to rush our drill instructions as fast as possible, because there is no telling when any one or any number of us will be needed somewhere else in the U. S. A. or in France, all of which sounds promising for a quick change. I'm willing, and I sure hope it's France.

Our day is just filled full of hay-footing and straw-footing and squads righting and all that sort of thing. I am learning things gradually by dint of much cussing on the part of our Sergeant, who is also late of the Regular, and who certainly has as choice a vocabulary as our former drillmaster.

We must have a very capable Mess Sergeant in this barracks, for the meals here are mighty good; better than those we received in the other barracks. We actually had ice cream and tea this noon, a thing unheard of in most of the barracks.

And our cook is a wonder. He's an old cockney sea-dog, who looks like a regular buccaneer, and he has a parrot, too, whom he calls Jock. Jock spends most of his time sitting on the edge of the coal bin shrieking "Lazy Pig." But neither Jock nor his master has a sense of humour; the cook gets mad when he finds a man trying to ring in a third helping and when he gets mad, Jock screams: "Lazy pig, lazy pig," and dances up and down in a frenzy.

I went back to the old barracks last night, to find the place almost filled with new men, all worried looking and pale, and much disturbed over that first night horror, the "needle." I didn't relieve their mental anguish a particle, which was most unchristian-like.

Several of the men remaining from the former company told me that most of the original company had been split up between the "Suicide Club" which is the machine gun companies, the transportation division and the infantry. As for "Local Board No. 163" no one had seen him about. Possibly he has become disgusted with high-toned individuals who object to fleas, and has gone off and joined the infantry. Well I wish him luck.

I really believe I'm taking a very deep interest in this soldiering after all. I didn't think I would at first, but now I find I'm watching the colour of my hat cord with interest. I want to see it lose its newness and get faded-out looking, like a regular soldier's hat cord.

Saturday:

On the camp calendar, to-day is marked down as a half-holiday, which is another one of the pleasant little jokes they have down here. It is a half-holiday. We quit drilling at twelve o'clock. But there is a Sunday ceremony they have called inspection and sometimes when the Lieutenant wants to leave camp early on Sunday he decides to hold inspection on Saturday afternoon.

About twelve o'clock some one reminds some one else that the aforementioned ceremony is on the program of weekly events, and thereby spoils the whole pleasure for the day. At inspection the Lieutenant saunters through the barracks, inspects the beds and the stacks of underclothing, socks and similar equipment piled thereon, and if said underclothing, etc., do not show signs of recent acquaintance with soap and water, almost anything is likely to happen.

And, of course, since no one is systematic about doing washing, all the dirty clothing and extra socks pile up until Saturday, and then on the half-holiday the scrubbing tables in the rear of the barracks are the most popular playgrounds.

The washing process is interesting. Every one lines up and dips into the same basin of water. Government soap is supplied in quantities, so are the scrubbing brushes. One lays his jeans and undershirt out nice and smooth on a long table, pours a basin of water over them, applies the soap as if it were a holy-stone until the underclothing is covered with a soft yellow scum. And then he spends the rest of the afternoon trying to get the soap off. The more lather a chap makes the better washerman he is, from all appearances.

The rear of the barracks on a Saturday afternoon looks like a string of tenement house backyards, with flapping garments hanging from everything, including the electric light wires, and men in various degrees of attirement stand around waiting for the garments to get dry. Oh, you daren't leave them and go off on some other mission while the wind does its duty. You simply have to stick and keep a careful eye on everything you own, otherwise:--well it works on the principle that the man who grabs the most is the best-dressed man for the following week, and if you are not there to prove ownership you are liable to find a pocket handkerchief where your undershirt was and the handkerchief isn't always what it was originally intended to be.

I did manage to get my wash done and gathered up in time to see the last ten minutes of a Gaelic football game over on the parade grounds. But next week I'm going to take the advice of the Sergeant who suggests that I follow the example of Regular Army men and wash each piece as it becomes soiled. I wonder if I am systematic enough for that?

Sunday:

No I didn't draw a pass. I've been around camp the whole bloomin' day, but there were about fifteen thousand lucky fellows who did draw passes. I saw them going down in groups for every train to the city since four o'clock yesterday afternoon. But Fat and I seem to be a bit unlucky. Poor Fat, he has wanted a pass to get home and see his mother ever since he has been here. But a pass wouldn't do him much good. He hasn't any uniform yet. Still waiting for the army tailors to get busy. I wouldn't be surprised if they shipped him to France with no more Government property than a khaki shirt. We've been consoling each other most of the day. Fat's a good chap and a mighty likeable fellow.

It has been a day of rest, however, for all except Giuseppi, the company's barber. He has done a tremendous business; shaved every one, from the Captain down.

Giuseppi's methods are unique and interesting. Somewhere he found two planks, which he brought into the dormitory, and, by catching the lower ends under the iron work of one cot and propping them against the side of another, he contrived an affair that resembles remotely a steamer chair. Line forms to the right. Bring your own brush and shaving stick and do your own lathering for a quick and effective shave.

I can't guess how many he shaved. The line stretched the length of the dormitory from breakfast to dinner time. The men dabbed their brush into a single basin of cold water and moistened their faces while standing in line. Then as they moved on they soaped and lathered their own faces and rubbed it in thoroughly. And by the time they reached the plank their bristles needed only a final application of lather and Giuseppi got busy with the razor.

He is a wonder. All he did this morning was strop and shave, strop and shave, and at ten cents a head--no I mean face--(twenty cents a head, only no hair cut on Sunday) I guess he made a fair week's wages. As each victim left the planks, said victim wiped the remaining lather from his face, ears and nose and applied his own talcum powder.

Perhaps Giuseppi's business was increased by his announcement: "No shava for tree days now. To-morrow I getta da needle for twice times. No can use my arm vara moch."

Which reminds me that I am scheduled for my second inoculation to-morrow.

I have been discovering some of the unknown who are in our midst. Unearthed a popular song writer (whose income before he adopted the dollar-a-day job for Uncle Sam was reputed to be $10,000 a year). I didn't unearth him really. He bobbed up this morning, when several of the fellows were playing mouth organs, and now, behold, he's organizing a glee club. Then there is a linguist, who is fresh from the biggest financial institution in the world where he handled all their French and Spanish translation work. He has started a class in French which is in session for an hour every evening. We are all _Parlez vous_-ing with more or less (mostly more) inaccuracies. But what we lack in accent and correct pronunciation we make up for in genuine Parisian gestures. Oh, we're there all right.

Another of our enterprising members is a well-known landscape gardener, who, in co-operation with one of our several architects, has organized a campaign for a "barracks beautiful," all of which doesn't mean very much to most of us, but gives them a good opportunity to dispose of their spare time. Our afternoons have been spent in pulling stumps in the vicinity of the barracks and grading the street and dooryard until now no one would ever recognize it for the same place. But the landscape gardener has carried the work a bit further and with the assistance of several of us, including myself, gone off into the woods and dug up a score or more of pine and cedar saplings about five feet high. These have been transplanted in the form of a hedge around our barracks, on top of a tiny terrace, and they certainly soften the outlines of the unpainted building and add a touch of that which is lacking in the vicinity of most of the structures.

He, the landscaper, has placed whitewashed stones at conspicuous corners, too, and on either side of our tiny porch he has worked out the number of the company and the number of the division in concrete letters, which the camp orderly scrubs industriously every morning to keep them white and presentable. The job of camp orderly, by the way, is the worst job a man can be detailed to here, being one degree lower than kitchen police; and since I know mighty well the rigours of that, I'm going to steer clear of this other form of punishment, if it is humanly possible to do so.

The Sunday crop of visitors flocked to camp as usual to-day and I entertained several who did not come to see me especially, but who brought along such delightful lunch that I felt constrained to show them about and be pleasant to them at least while the lunch lasted.

Monday:

We were excused from drill this morning for the purposes of being shod and getting our second inoculation. Getting our shoes was the most interesting and least painful of the two.

After being shot (in the left arm this time) we proceeded to the Q. M., where in one portion of his domain shoes were being issued, two pairs to a man, one pair for work and the other for rest and fatigue.