“Words that bring back the feelings of our youth,
The words of men that walked in war’s red ways,
The simple words that, giving blame or praise,
Ring down the echoing avenues of life.”
I do not expect, Mr. Chairman, that any words of mine can “bring back the feelings of our youth.” Time takes something from us, as the years come and go, that it never gives back, and the lights and shadows of twenty-five eventful years have fallen upon us since we first “walked in war’s red ways.” But I may, perhaps, interest you for a brief time by a description of one of those walks—the march of a day, which had its counterpart in the marches of all armies, on many, many days.
A column is moving along a dusty road, with a long, free, swinging stride, that seems as easy as it is masterful. It started out, before it was light, in compact order, each man in his place, each company, regiment, brigade and division following in its appointed order. It is the middle of the forenoon now, and the solid formation is somewhat disordered. The men have fallen into irregular groups; some hunt the smoothest places in the road, and the paths thus formed, single or double, are not always straight. Some are following the cow-paths along the roadside; others keep the center of the highway. At intervals are little groups of horsemen—the commanding officer, the adjutant, and an orderly, at the head of the regiment; the next in command, with the surgeons, in the rear. Midway between these mounted officers, always in line, and always surrounded by a little group of non-commissioned officers, are two soldiers carrying, not guns, but what seem to be long poles encased in black oilcloth. They are the flags of the regiment—the battle-flag and the regimental banner.
Sometimes, for hours, only the steady tramp of feet is heard. The men are as silent as if they were dumb. Then something sets all their tongues awag, and the woods and fields echo with their shouts and laughter. They comment on everything—on the houses, the fields, the trees, the road; they jibe at and joke with one another; they are a moving mass of blue interrogation points, questioning everyone they see about distances, country, and people; and their laughter is as care-free and contagious as that of happy children.
Then a clear bugle-note comes floating down the line, and the column dissolves on the road-sides. In an instant, almost, the men assume all varieties of postures—some sitting, some lying down—for the bugle-call meant a rest of five or ten minutes. The stragglers come up, one by one, and drop in with their commands. Then the bugle sounds again, and all start to their feet. They fall into line with the precision of a machine, and move on, to again, in a few moments, fall into their old, irregular, go-as-you-please step and route.
The hours come and go, and the miles slip by, five, six, ten, perhaps, and then the bugle sounds another call—a welcome one, for it is greeted with a shout. But this time the moving column does not dissolve so quickly. It closes up in compact order, and the guns are stacked in groups of four; on these are hanged cartridge boxes, blankets, and other incumbrances. A few moments later, little volumes of smoke—hundreds or thousands of them, as far as the eye can reach along the road—roll up, and the atmosphere is filled with the perfume of burning pine, the aroma of coffee, and perhaps the savory smell of bacon.
With what crude and meager utensils—at most, a tin pot or cup, and a small skillet—it is all done; and yet how quickly and deftly. But no dinners these men have ever since eaten were more enjoyed than those their own hands prepared as they halted by the roadside a quarter of a century ago.