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.