A number of detachments had been left in different towns around the bay in charge of second lieutenants or first sergeants. Here, while the discipline was more relaxed, the pandemonium of pay-day was avoided. But the two best poker-players in the company corraling all the money, either would proceed to narrow the financial distribution further, or would shake hands and agree to make deposits on the next disbursing-day. Some of the men on their discharge would have a thousand dollars, or enough to set them up in business in the States.
These “outfits” differ greatly in their character. Some are composed of sociable, kind-hearted fellows, while others may contain a large percentage of professional “bad men” and rowdies. Each company will have its own traditions and a reputation which is guarded jealously. There was the “fighting Twenty-eighth,” the regiment invincible. The soldiers grow attached to their outfit. On their discharge, which they have eagerly looked forward to, after a day or two of Frisco, when the money has been spent to the last dollar of the “finals,” more than one chop-fallen soldier, looking up the first recruiting sergeant, will “take on” again.
The “company fund” is a great institution, and an “outfit” with a good fund is considered prosperous. This money goes for extras at the table, for baseball equipments, or for company mascots. The sergeant-major usually has charge of this disbursement, and the soldiers, though they grumble at his orders, can not help respecting him. The sergeant-major has been seasoned in the service. He is a ripe old fellow, and a warrior to the core. The company cook is also an important personage. It was the old cook at Balingasag—I think that he had served for twenty years—who fed me in the convent courtyard on camotes, egg-plant, and a chicken which he had stolen from a native. According to his theory, a soldier was a licensed robber, and the chicken should be classed as forage—not as plunder. He was a favorite among the officers, who used to get him started on his favorite grievance,—the condemnation by a board of survey of a certain army mule. “I liked that mule,” he used to say. “He was the best mule that the service ever had.”
The nightly “argument,” or “chewing the rag,” is a favorite pastime in an isolated camp. Sitting around upon the army cots or chests, the soldiers will discuss some unimportant topic until “taps” sounds.
I will admit that “Company M” was a disreputable lot. They never dressed up; frequently they went without their footgear; and they drank much tuba with the natives. They took delight in teaching the small boys profanity, and they would shock the Filipinos by omitting bathing-suits when in the surf. They used to frighten the poor “niggers” half to death by trying to break through their houses on a dark night. Yet I believe that every Filipino was the soldier’s friend, and I am sure I noticed not a few heart-broken señoritas gathered at the shore when they departed. For my own part, I have always found the soldier generous, respectful, and polite.
There was a great wag in the company, who, in some former walk of life, had figured as a circus clown. He also claimed to have been upon the stage in vaudeville. He had enlisted in the regimental band, but, through some change, had come to be bugler of M Company. He owned a mandolin, called the “potato bug”—a name suggested by the inlaid bowl. He had brought back to life a cracked guitar, which he had strung with copper wire obtained by “jawbone” at the Chino store. It was an inspiration when he sang to the guitar accompaniment, “Ma Filipino Babe,” or in a rich and melancholy voice, with the professional innuendo, “just to jolly the game along,” a song entitled “Little Rosewood Casket.”
It is a sorry company that doesn’t number in its roll a poet. Company M had a good poet. Local customs and the local atmosphere appealed to him, and he has thus recorded his impression of the Philippines:
“There once was a Philippine hombre;
Ate guinimos, rice, and legombre;
His pants they were wide,