When enough of us had dribbled back to camp we were again assembled, and were taken down to the drill-field by the sergeant. And there for the first time in my life I saw a West Pointer at his work. He appeared from somewhere, and the sergeant handed us over to him. A tall and lithe fellow he is, so graceful that not even his military carriage can disguise it. He has an olive-dark skin, hair that curls at the temples, black eyes, nose straight and thin, and lips curving like a woman’s. Give him the drooping mustache of older days, and what a romantic figure he would make! I knew him at once for a Southerner, from his coloring, his physical beauty, and a slight trace of languor, real or affected.
But he knew his business. There is an uncertainty about the sergeants, as thinking “Am I doing this right?” But though he looked at us out of eyes that were a little sleepy his tenor was clear as a silver bugle, and (if you can excuse the mixture of similes) it snapped like a whip. No hesitation, nor even any thought as to what he should do next. We straightened at the first command he flung at us, and in three minutes we were working to please him. The position of a soldier! Was there the slightest spark of amusement in his eyes as he described it to us, as if to say “You mob of clerks and manufacturers and professional men can’t really take this position”? I never “lifted and arched” my chest so thoroughly. Did he intimate as he gave his other commands, “You men may play at doing this, but really it takes a soldier to succeed”? If this was his meaning, certainly it put us on our mettle. What he gave us were the facings and the steps and marchings, the simple movements by fours, guiding and dressing. When we blundered, there was his little concealed smile to make us swear to do the thing right next time. As we marched he kept pace with us, and then all his languor was gone. His step was springy, his arms swung, his eye roved up and down the line, and he snapped out his “One, two, three, four!” each like a little pistol shot. Remarked Corder, beside me, “His time is absolutely perfect—do you notice?” I had noticed. The sergeants tried to imitate his counting, but compared to him they were hoarse and spiritless.
And he was only our lieutenant! The first sergeant called him such, in answering a question; and then I noticed the single bar on his collar. What would the captain be like?
The bugle blew Recall, and it was very welcome. We were marched back to the company street and dismissed. My rear rank man was one Pickle, a hardware clerk from a town in central Pennsylvania, who never in his life saw a big league baseball game, and yet can tell you the names and records of all the chief players, especially of the Brooklyns, for which club he is a rooter. He said of the lieutenant: “One of those wiry wonders, Tireless Thomas of the Training-field. Doesn’t he never remember that we are flesh and blood? Me for my little cot!” Following his example, more than half of the squad lay down till roused by the news that our rifles were being served out. So we flocked out in haste to get what would give us lamed shoulders and tired arms. Being thus roused, I next went for a swim in the lake, which was stony and cold and altogether invigorating.
The lieutenant had us out again in the afternoon, us and the guns. Consequently we were put through the manual of arms until the anticipated lameness is now a reality, not only of the arms but of the whole body. I find it is not enough to shift your rifle according to prescribed motions; it must be snappy, and in cadence. “Like a clock-work,” muttered Pickle in despair. And it is a crime to drop a rifle. Its first commission roused our lieutenant from his languor. “Who dropped that piece?” he thundered. Then he outpoured contempt. “There’ll be glue on little Willie’s fingers next time, sure,” whispered Pickle.
Tired at the end of the day, I yet feel virtuous, having devoted to my country a pound of my flesh. I write by lantern light in the tent, there having been no conference tonight on account of rain. Most of the squad are away, exploring the city; but Corder is already abed and sleeping— “as insurance,” he said to me, explaining his middle-aged caution. I shall follow him soon. Good-night from
Dick.
Postscript, written Saturday morning at 5.30, waiting for
breakfast.
We have in our squad one Randall, a person of recent Yale extraction—though (having good Yale friends) I don’t lay it up against the college. Yesterday he established his bed in the corporal’s place, which so far the rest of us had modestly avoided; and he fell foul of young David ten minutes after he had come among us. The two are evidently the youngest of us, with “college” sticking out all over them, and so might naturally draw together. But there is a still more natural antagonism between them, of the thoroughbred for the mongrel. For young Farnham, in spite of his effeminacy, has the instincts of his ancestors; and Randall, in spite of a magnificent physique, carries round with him something that says to David, “Don’t trust him!” What makes personality? I declare I cannot put my finger on the thing that makes me sure that Randall is yellow; but David has seen it, and has drawn back from it. Ninety-nine Yale men may slang Harvard, and the Harvard man will take it in good part—and vice-versa; but Randall is the hundredth, and he said a few things that made David tremble, not with anger but with disgust. “Have a cigarette?” asked Randall at the end. “No, thanks,” answered David.—“Oh, he doesn’t smoke!” cried the other. “I do,” said David, and lit his own cigarette. I’m sorry for it. Probably Randall can make David pay for this declaration of war. Yet I’m glad too. And you should have seen Knudsen’s eye flash, and then soften as he looked at the young fellow.