(In camp near Crossroads 75, south of Sciota, N. Y., Tuesday evening.)
I am sitting on a piece of canvas, being one among a dozen or more men outside the Y. M. C. A. tent, all writing. Men constantly come between me and the light or step on my outlying portions; there is much cheerful talking and laughing, and all about is the usual bustle of the camp.
We arrived at camp late, as battle-scarred warriors, and found the peaceful first battalion already encamped. At once we pitched tents and then hastily fed; at home, after hours of such exertion, I should have had a half hour’s rest before eating. But the food was ready and hot; if I did not take it at once I could not get it at all; so my stomach took the risk, and I had my meal first and my rest afterward. Then a wash in oh! such a soft-bottomed sluggish brook, where many shaved, and others to my amazement cleaned their teeth. For that ceremony I keep my canteen water, which is served out to us at the head of the company street in proper dippers by orderlies; it is all I shall have, I foresee, both for drink and for absolutely necessary washing. We have better holding-ground for our tent-pins tonight, but the sky is cloudless and again we have not trenched. There are northern lights—a change in weather? The hay today cost but ten cents, and the adjutant assures us of that tariff in future.
Imagine the camp as yesterday, and me well. Love from
Dick.
Extract from the Letter of Erasmus Corder,
Assistant-Professor of English, High
Private in Company H, 10th Training
Regiment, to His Wife. Same Date
... Instead of yesterday’s steady marching, with the first battalion driving the enemy away for our convenience, duties were today reversed, and our battalion took the advance-guard work, ending in a very bloody skirmish, in which, I regret to report, one dear to you was slain. We marched—and it was marching!—at a good pace after the first few miles, having no one ahead to hold us back except when we had to duck into the roadside ditches to avoid machine-gun fire. Our advance guard had died gallantly and cheered (jeered?) us as we went forward to dislodge the enemy. The problem was explained to us: the enemy was 800 yards ahead, having command of a shallow valley, which we must cross. This we did by rushes, squads or platoons at a time, three companies abreast no sooner achieving a new line than they sent forward more feelers. In this action it was very interesting for a time to simulate real firing, shooting with blank cartridges at an enemy behind a stone wall.
And yet shooting from behind hard heaps of stone, or lying on rough ground, through grass and leaves that obscured the sights, all the time troubled by a heavy pack that burdened the shoulders, poked the hat over the eyes, and hampered the free action of the arms, began to wear on me. Try as I may, I cannot master the little sidewise shift of the pack which the captain showed us, and which Godwin says makes shooting prone “just as easy!” Looking at the other men, I often saw them flop on their faces to rest; they were working as hard as on the range. The pretense of firing, when our cartridges were gone, took away some of the excitement. Then at about the fifth dash, which the others took with some briskness but which I had to finish at a slow jog, I began to get pumped. When the first sergeant asked me how I was I told him that I was shot through both lungs. Nevertheless, I finished (though at a walk) the next to last charge, but our dash had been so exposed that, by the time I had thrown myself panting on some particularly jagged stones, an umpire came along and announced that all rear-rank men were to fall out, of course as being dead. Godwin was disgusted, and evidently seeing my envy in my face, swapped places with me. Never was anyone so willing to be killed. Quite at my leisure I watched the spirited advance of the thin line of o. d. men to storm the enemy’s position. And I was perfectly willing not to be killed twice.