For the first time since Friday I was able today to get a swim—or rather a dip in an ice-cold stream, below a broken dam. Picturesque, so many men’s naked bodies, undressing, bathing, dressing, with the rushing stream, the rocky bank, the overhanging trees. Then I cut my toe and had to have it dressed at the doctor’s tent, where I had a glimpse at another side of camp life.
I met one of our fellows coming away grumbling. “My blisters were dressed by an artilleryman who disgusted me with his profanity, and who put the plaster on the wrong spot.” But I was tended, having a more important wound, by one of the doctors. And after my experience I can declare that all doctors are divided into three kinds.
One was a volunteer, one of our own company, by the way, whose feet having given out was transferred to the medical corps, and keeps an especially kindly eye on all H company men. But he being busy, I fell into the hands of the regulars, and had a chance to judge of the opinion common among the rookies—“they treat you like a horse.” Now regular officers must be short and sharp with their men, and the doctors among them are taught to be suspicious by the sojering they necessarily detect. It must be a struggle to keep sweet the milk of human kindness.
The man who dressed my foot had succeeded in remembering that the majority of men were neither cowards nor dishonest. He was considerate of me and of the orderlies under him. But alongside was a scowl. A poor fat bandsman with a lame foot was not excused from marching the next day. The orderly who had mislaid the iodine was scalped. The orderly who had charge of the medicine chest was also scalped. The man whose foot this doctor was dressing was so certainly a man of character and a person of civilian consequence that he was not scalped for presuming to turn his ankle; but I felt the certainty that under actual campaign conditions he would have fared no better than the others. It was borne in upon me that a gentleman who is gentlemanly only to gentlemen is not a gentleman at all.
Though I have not spoken much of them, we have our daily conferences whenever the weather will permit. Today we first had battalion conference, when Major Goring spoke of recent manœuvres—and we men were interested to see that even he spoke of Friday as an extremely successful day, and Saturday as an unusually hard one. Then supper, then bed-making (which is desirable before the light goes—by the way, I am writing no longer in the afternoon but the evening) then regimental conference, when Major Downes spoke against time for an hour (and mighty well, upon the Philippines and army experiences there) in the hope that General Wood would come, which he didn’t. Now I am writing while sitting upon a firkin of apples that I had sent from our neighbor Williams, waiting for the squad to come and help me eat them. Very bad writing this, I know, by the light of the fire, holding the paper first folded, then bent, then skewed, anything to stiffen it and catch the light, while every moment I must shift it as I move my hand along the line.
The boys are gathering for a feed—the apples, Some honey, bread, shredded wheat, cream from the local creamery (Knudsen’s inspiration), the first such feast since the hike began. We have invited our neighbors, Squad Nine. So, since there is no more to tell, I will close this.
“Pass up your cups,” says Clay.
Love to you from
Dick.