They marched us this morning first to the post gymnasium, and there we sat in a great half-circle while Major Stewart explained to us the history of army packs, and some facts about the one that bears his name. Our men in other wars have abandoned their packs on entering battle, they were such encumbrances in skirmishing. In the battle of San Juan thousands of packs were dropped by the roadside, and the men finished their fighting without rations. But the new pack may be worn both in marching and in shooting; further, on expecting battle the rolls may be made short, and then are strapped to the lower part of the haversack. This part, on drawing out a leather strap, falls to the ground, and the men go forward lightened of the heaviest part of their burden, but yet carrying food enough for the day’s work. At its worst the Stewart pack is, compared to the old blanket roll, many pounds to the good.
And yet, mother, though wise Mr. Bryan has bragged of our ability to put an army of a million men into the field overnight, of the few thousands at the border a fair half are still equipped with the old pack. Is the rest of the million to be proportionately well fitted out?
In order to show that the pack will fit anyone, the Major called for the tallest man in the regiment. A strapping big fellow of perhaps thirty-five got up and stepped confidently onto the platform, amid the cheers of the crowd, and the Major prepared to strap the pack onto him. But I heard from behind me various urgent cries of “Go on up!” and a fine young fellow, straight as a lance, walked round the seated men, and also stepped upon the platform. Though much slenderer than the other, the newcomer was a good inch taller. A roar of applause came from the regiment, and the first man, understanding, laughed and stepped down. Then he turned back and spoke to the younger man, evidently asking his height. “How tall? How tall?” demanded the crowd, and the young fellow held up six fingers, indicating six feet six. A similar scene occurred for the shortest man, a thin little fellow getting the honor; then a third aspirant, being evidently taller, was laughed back. But what struck me was the reception given a head-headed, round-headed, roly-poly little mustached fellow, who hesitated near at hand. The crowd instantly nicknamed him. “Come on, Cupid, and measure yourself.” But Cupid had his doubts, and so retired.
The lecture being over, luckily so was the rain; but the captain took us out on that rolling country that flanks the Peru road, and gave us a fight with an imaginary enemy, through wet bushes, across a dump, over and among little sand and gravel pits, finally ambushing with great care an innocent Catholic cemetery. As we did this badly, on our advance exposing ourselves to the fire from the ornamental statuary, we had to do it over again. It was difficult practice, keeping in line; but it was fairly exciting to throw yourself, at command, flat on your face wherever you happened to be. I thus gained intimate acquaintance with a pile of tin cans, a scrub hard pine, and a big hill of black ants. As the proper method of moving sideways, when in skirmish line, is to roll, I rolled away from the latter position, not to the betterment of my poncho.
This afternoon, again in rain, we marched to the gymnasium once more, and the building not having been ventilated, found the air very oppressive after our hearty dinner. The captain talked to us of the rifle and its use in target shooting; but conditions were against him, for it was a very sleepy crowd that listened. I found myself drowsy, men were nodding all about me, and Corder declared that he had 247 distinct and separate naps. But it was necessary to rouse when we were required to adjust our slings and take position for snapping at a mark. The sling is the strap of the gun, which when fitted to the upper arm, and the arms and body braced against the pull of it, in some mysterious way gives steadiness. Our calisthenics were partly devised, I am sure, to help us take the contortionists’ attitudes necessary for this graceful exercise. But nothing, not even our skirmishing, prepared my elbows for our final stunt of throwing ourselves prone on the hard floor, and in approved target-shooting posture snapping ten shots at the third button of the captain’s shirt, while the lieutenant counted ninety seconds by his watch.
Returning, we found that rifle-inspection was scheduled, with a special warning that the captain was not satisfied with the way we kept the guns. So we got out our single cleaning-rod and passed it from cot to cot, with the nitro-solvent and the oil, and such few patches as yet remained to us. For no amount of them will satisfy one company, or even one squad, and we are always short. The rifles cleaned, we policed the tent, making it absolutely neat. Now such are the acoustic properties of these canvas dwellings that we can hear what goes on in our neighbors’, and so it happened that we heard, from tent 6, Randall’s controversy with the rest of his squad. It is seldom that one man will talk down seven, but we heard the whole of his obstinate defense, how that he hadn’t known that he was tent-policeman for the day, that no one had policed the tent yesterday, or eke the day before, that it was a sin and a shame to make him do other men’s work, that especially in the matter of the smoky lantern, which no one had cleaned since the opening of camp, it was wrong to make him bear the burden of accumulated neglect. Some of us chuckled at all this, but at such a clamor raised for the purpose of escaping duty David listened soberly. “He works very hard to avoid work,” said the boy, whose good manners will not let him evade any duty which he clearly perceives—though I will admit that his perceptions are still rather dull.
The row died down, we heard the rattle of the lantern, and then Randall’s voice. “I was only jollying you.” No answer, but still the lantern rattled. “I’m willing to do my share of the work.” Still no answer. “Oh, well,” said Randall finally, “if you feel that way about it, give me the lantern. I’ll clean it.” We heard the corporal’s voice. “I’ve got it nearly cleaned. And you can squeak out of your work, Randall; but just the same, we’ve got our opinion of you.”
I thought the corporal had the best of it. It is no small penalty to carry around the squad’s opinion of one’s shortcomings.
At inspection time the rain was heavy, and word was passed to wait for the captain in our tents. For this we blessed him, seeing no fun in standing in line in the street; and Lucy found that after all the weather is considered in the army. When it was the turn of tent 8 we lined up facing each other, and the captain, stooping to get his hat safely through the door, came in between our two lines. He said “Just give me your guns as I’m ready for them,” a deceptively mild beginning, we feared, knowing how sharp he could be. But at the fourth gun he said, “The rifles are not so bad.” I handed him mine, breech open, hoping that it was up to the average. He tried to look down the barrel; then when he snorted I declare I felt like a boy before his schoolmaster. But to my relief he laughed, took from the muzzle the plug that I had put there in expectation of a long wait in the rain, looked through the barrel, and passed it. When he left he told us to turn out for Retreat with ponchos only—for which again we blessed him.
As the absence of conference, on account of rain, gives me extra time, I shall write a dissertation, not on roast pig, but just on pig, in other words on table manners. Our company has a corner of one of the mess shacks, into which we are marched. When first we came our method was to stand, hats on, by our places, where our cups and plates were waiting upside down. At the command “H Company, take seats!” (and much merriment a sergeant once made when he commanded “Be seated!”) we took off our hats very decorously, hung them up (whether behind us on the walls or in front of us under the tables) sat down, turned over our plates, and reached for the dishes. Now some tables, or sections of tables, still maintain this lofty standard of good breeding, by the sheer fact that the most of the men are well bred and the rest are ashamed not to be. But where the proportion is reversed degeneration is rapid. The men furtively hang up their hats and turn over their plates before the order, and if a bunch of them take to doing this, there appears to be no remedy for it. “It’s up to you,” said a sergeant to us on the first day. “You can be gentlemen, or you can be the other thing.”