One reason for this was that we had no sooner begun to take life easy in our new quarters than Chilblaines appeared on the scene without any warning and told the top-kicker he had come over to see that the men got a work-out. “They might catch cold if they remain idle now, sergeant. Get them out and we’ll warm them up for a half hour or so. Can’t afford to leave any of them in the hospital here.”
Well, everybody was sore. You could see that the top-kicker didn’t like the idea at all, and the rest of us couldn’t begin to express our thoughts. Whoever expected a headquarters company to go out and drill like a crew of infantrymen? Some of these fellows couldn’t do much better than I did, and I had some tall and quick thinking to do to keep in line as we marched up and down and back and forth the length and breadth of that parade ground. Chilblaines kept us at it for an hour and some of us almost sat down in our tracks when he finally dismissed us. It was then that someone offered the information that “Chilblaines rode out with the General—that’s why he felt so fresh and strong.”
The chorus of curses and other kindred expressions that greeted this announcement almost made me deaf. Ben’s opinion sounded literary and mild compared to the others, and he said, “Chilblaines musta been born in dog days, cause he’s a son-of-a-b—— as sure as hell!”
I said that I thought he had an overdeveloped sense of his own importance in this army and that he probably figured this was a way to prove his leadership.
“Leadership hell!” growls Ben. “That guy couldn’t lead me nowhere. I wouldn’t even let him lead me to a drink of good rye whisky right this minute. If we was in the front lines and he told me to go forward I’d turn around and knock his teeth down his throat so he couldn’t give orders.” The thought of such a golden pleasure, however remote as a possibility, was a never failing source of enjoyment for Ben. His idea of heaven would be to have Chilblaines and himself locked in a room together.... Well, my opinion of Chilblaines is unprintable, too.
That drilling in the rain was a tea party, compared to what happened the following morning. At four A.M. we were called up by the top-kick, who was very apparently pretty mad about something. He ordered us all out in our slickers—which could mean just one thing: a bath.
As soon as Ben heard what was coming, he divined at once the fine Italian hand of Chilblaines. “That b——! There ain’t a drop of white man’s blood in that whorehound’s veins!” He cursed him, between shivers, for all he had around his huge frame was the far too small slicker which the Q.M.C. clerk said was the largest size they had. “Jesus Maria! Gettin’ a guy up at this hour, before daybreak, to take a bath!”
“Pipe down there!” ordered the top-kicker from the front of the shed. “There’s only one bath and this is the only hour we could get. Come along!”
But Ben was not to be so quickly calmed. “God Almighty!” he exclaimed. “You’d think we was criminals in a prison, instead of volunteers in an army!”
Meantime I was thinking in double time, for this call to the showers presented an unexpected problem that had to be solved at once. The top-kick was exhorting them to snap into it and I had to suppose that he would wait at the door to see that everyone went. I waited until Ben started for the door, then when he was directly between me and the sergeant, I ducked under my bunk and pulled Esky down beside me so that, with the blankets hanging down and Esky covering the front, I hoped to escape the top-kick’s inquisitive eye.