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.
Italians gather in little groups
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 Top Sergeant made the round of the cots
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 Sergeant.” “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.
Pretty soft for the fellows who had uniforms
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.
His belt is pulled tight about his chest
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.
Back to civilian clothes until a special uniform is built
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.
I picked him up in one hand and a
cake of yellow soap in the other.
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.