The first important duty demanded of the plebe is guard. With what quivering sensations this youthful soldier approaches his first real test! Before he goes on guard he is instructed in his orders, both general and special, but few feel as if they knew them well enough to stand the ordeal of an inspection by a yearling corporal. No opportunity is lost, therefore, before the hour to march on post to perfect his knowledge, so that after supper little groups of excited and nervous plebes study diligently these orders under the pale and insect-infested lamp-posts near the guard tent. In the obscure light these slim gray forms, some seated and some standing, seem shadowy and motionless except for their gloves, little dabs of white that move restlessly to and fro, attacking the ubiquitous mosquitoes.
The nearby guard tents under the elms are dark except the main one where sit the officers of the guard, who keep the record of a stream of gay upper-classmen, signing out for the hops and concerts. How far off they are to the plebe! It seems to each one, as he watches them from the shadows, that there is an impassable gulf between them, and he wonders as he listens to their hurried voices calling, “Ducrot, hop with,” or “Dumbguard, hop with, extended” if ever his year of plebedom will roll by. What are those unintelligible remarks? It is some time before he understands that the above expressions mean that Cadet Ducrot is taking a young lady to the hop, and that Cadet Dumbguard also, except that the latter’s girl lives at some distance so that he is allowed ten minutes more after the conclusion of the dance to escort the young lady to her home. Today, as I stroll by the camp in the evening and see the same scenes reënacted, I re-live the first impressions of my own plebe days.
Often while I was waiting my turn to go on post, I sat fascinated as I watched the scene at the guard tents in the twilight of the summer evenings. From the obscurity of the camp, stalwart figures were constantly coming. Their gray coats and the evening mists merged into one so completely, it seemed as if only animated pairs of white trousers were flitting across the parade, all converging toward Post No. 1. Little by little, as they approached the light of the guard tent, the rays that were stabbing the darkness illumined the bell buttons of the gray coats, and for a brief moment gleaming forms with happy laughing faces filled the picture and then into the darkness of the Plain quickly disappeared.
Such reveries, however, are usually interrupted by a sharp voice calling:
“Turn out the second relief!” “Hurry up, you plebes,” and away the novitiates scamper to perform their first guard tour. As the relief marches around the graveled paths under the command of a very military corporal, the plebe has, in spite of his feeling of uncertainty, a sensation of pride in being entrusted with the guard of a part of the camp. Each time that the corporal commands “Relief Halt No. 2!” and the rifles hit the ground in unison, a pleasurable thrill pervades his being, a consciousness of a certain importance. Before very much pride can swell his breast, he is brought back to reality by the stern corporal exclaiming, “Wake up, Mr. Dumbguard, and come to port arms!” or “Drag in your chin!” In goes the chin, and the shoulders instinctively draw to the rear. Glory was brief; humiliation reigns anew.
Then commences in earnest the lonely two hours of marching up and down, back and forth, at the end of which time the nine pounds of the rifle has tripled at least. The arms ache, and legs feel as if they would bore holes in the body.
The early part of the tour is filled with interest. The animation in some company streets in contrast to the silence in others, the occasional tinkling of mandolins, the cries from one tent to another, the laughter over a surreptitious bucket of lemonade, the Y. M. C. A. phonograph, the confusion over the wash lists, scampering cadets noisily returning from hops and concerts—all keep a sentinel from thinking of himself. It is not until the three taps of the drum, when the camp is magically plunged into obscurity and silence, that the plebe begins to feel the monotony of his duty and, while walking mechanically back and forth on his post, to become introspective.
The stillness of the camp only accentuates his slow nonchalant step on the path. In his imagination the air seems to be filled with invisible spirits—the spirits of the night that have come forth. First he is conscious of only a few timid ones here and there, but as the hours wear on they seem to grow bolder and bolder, filling the surrounding atmosphere and whispering in his ear their ghostly messages. Each nerve becomes more alert as he listens for the crunch, crunch, crunch of some official step on the gravel. How vivid and eerie seem his surroundings! The lonesome hours of the night strike a sympathetic chord in his sensitive nature and the balmy stillness calls forth his starry fancies. At this hour when his comrades lie in their tents bewitched by sleep, the most beguiling of enchantments, he is conscious that another mysterious world is awakening all around him in the solitude and silence. The air is filled with fairies holding their imperceptible revels. He hears the rustling of the leaves, the intermittent chattering of the crickets, the soughing of the breeze in the branches, as if the trees in great distress were calling mournfully to each other. Should this be the first time that he is alone at night on post, he is a little afraid, and starts at the faintest sound. It seems that when man reposes, the Things come forth to their daily tasks, performed in a world unknown to us.
Never will he forget, however, the ineffable beauty of the scene, so beautiful that he is filled with a little sadness. The buildings across the Plain, stern and melancholy even in the darkness, seemed to be companion sentinels ever watchful over their traditions, and guarding the sleeping hills dimly discernible through their misty blankets. Occasionally a graceful river steamer, like some huge Jack-o’-Lantern ruffling the smooth waters of the Hudson, glides softly by under the cliff, her throbbing engines seeming to send forth a certain warmth that dispels the chill of the early morning.
It is at this hour especially that his thoughts wander to his “ain Folk” and reveal to his senses the full aroma of his days at home.