In all measures of this kind we felt compelled to take relating to these deserters, the exigencies we had to face at any moment and the plan we hastily made to fit into them, proved to be the deciding factor. Such a thing as pursuing those deserters under any cut and dried programme would have been not only ridiculous, but a blithering farce. That is why, with a man of Mackenzie's horse sense, we were left to perfect freedom of action, and our own independence or individual initiative. Therefore, while it may seem almost treason for a graduate of West Point to declare it, nothing that the writer had ever learned there was of the slightest value to him in trailing these men. It was a problem absolutely separate from the ordinary military processes, and governed entirely by other factors than those to which an education at the Military Academy had any relation.
Intensive Training as a Fine Art (?)
The writer's son, a Major of Infantry (a temporary Lieut-Colonel), took over to France a training battalion of the Sixteenth U. S. Infantry from Syracuse, N. Y., in November, 1917. He was trained in the Toul Sector by a Major Rasmussen of the Canadian Infantry (later killed by an H. E. shell). He says that a few weeks of practical trench training and hand grenade work, etc., was of more value to him than months of such training as he had had in the Syracuse Camp.
The writer had a son-in-law who had had fifteen years' experience in the field as a Civil Engineer with the largest company in St. Louis—surveying, platting, laying out suburban tracts, including road building, sewer and culvert construction, etc. He lacked the elements of military engineering, pontoon bridge building, military trenches, with barbed wire placing, hand grenade work, etc. He entered the Fort Riley Training Camp in May, 1917, was transferred to Leavenworth, thence to Camp Meade, Washington Barracks, Laurel, Md., and then to Camp Lee, Va., where he was employed digging trenches for the third or fourth time, and building pontoon land bridges, when he had made a record throwing bridges again and again with his company across the Eastern Branch of the Potomac river. His skin was almost trained off his body. He lost his spirit and enthusiasm, became absolutely disgusted, but finally, through a "pull" at Headquarters, A. E. F., he got "over" in March, 1918. Was immediately assigned as a Captain of the 101st Pioneer Regiment, 26th N. E. ("Yankee") Division, and after some more sector training was in the Chateau Thierry and St. Mihiel drives and "made good" under Colonel George Bunnel (a graduate of West Point, who was a practical soldier,) as a pioneer engineer on the battle line, opening the roads for the Infantry and Artillery, cutting barbed wire, etc. No more army for him! But for my earnest protest and advice he would have resigned in disgust several times.
When the word goes forth from our intensive trainers and sham battle heroes that it takes nearly a year to make of such a man an efficient engineer in the field, when for practical road building, rough pioneer work under fire, and all round resourcefulness he could give many of our West Point graduates "cards and spades", most of such enforced training, which the writer has knowledge of, is a disgrace, and the would-be trainers should be "canned" before they reach a battle line.
The writer was credibly informed that some of the so called intensive training took this form. A lot of condemned rifle cartridges from one of the arsenals was sent to Camp Meade, Maryland, and, on the score of economy, it is presumed, they were issued for target practice on the range. Some of the officers knew of the danger in their use and protested—as it was "slow fire" ammunition— But they were directed to instruct their men to "hold on" to the target so many seconds (20 more or less) to compensate for the time lost. Several men were badly injured (burned) by the "back fire" upon throwing the bolt. The ammunition was still used under protest— Fine training for sharpshooters. Any battle soldier knows that these officers would have been fully justified in refusing to obey such orders—when it had become known what risks were involved—even life itself. These cartridges were not only absolutely useless for such training—but it was little less than a crime for any officer to compel his subordinates to expend such dangerous ammunition. It was reported that the men seized the balance and either buried or otherwise destroyed it. What a travesty on preparing men for battle! If such intensive training was employed in these Cantonments to fit men for fighting, with a war already on, what could be expected of the Instructors, employed in that kind of work, who had got to taste the joy of battle? This matter was not made public, but was either concealed, camouflaged or treated so lightly as to suggest a case of "whitewash." Men were sent on "hikes" over hard, frozen roads, covered with snow and ice—in old, worn out shoes—their feet nearly bare; all under protest from their new, untried officers—who naturally wondered at such training and the necessity for it,—also the risk in the face of an epidemic of "flu"—
The True Test-Out—Acquiring the Fighting Sense
The writer, the youngest of four brothers, was mustered into the volunteer service, Aug. 5, 1862, at the age of 16 years, having been rejected the year before on account of age and an over supply of men. His regiment, the Twenty-second Mass. Vol. Infantry (Henry Wilson Regiment), was a fighting regiment from Boston and vicinity. Only 45 Union Infantry regiments lost 200 and upwards in killed and died of wounds on the field during the Civil War. The Twenty-second lost 216 and stands 27 in that list. In a list of all Union Infantry regiments that lost over 10 per cent in killed on the field, it stands number 13—with a percentage of 15.5 per cent—and, based upon a maximum percentage of enrollment (1393 men), it stands number 16—("Fox's Regimental Losses")— Its service was in the First Brigade—First Division—Fifth Corps, Army of the Potomac. We recruits arrived on Arlington Heights to join this fighting regiment, en route (whereabouts not located) from the "seven days' battles" on the Peninsula. The officer in charge of us had given us no drills—no training of any kind. He was returning from leave, and spent most of his time rusticating around the "Old Willard". We joined the regiment at Halls Hill, Va. (near Falls Church), bivouacked in a battle line as it was marching into the defences of W—— from the second battle of Bull Run. The noise of battle was on; a spluttering picket firing was in evidence a few hundred yards from us. During our stay here of two days—a first class drill sergeant gave us an hour each day in the "facings" and the use of our guns, which had been issued to us at midnight of Aug. 29—in a terrific thunder storm, during which we were soaked—and in a bivouac without shelter. This consisted of instructions in taking them apart, cleaning, assembling, rapid loading and sighting. We remained in reserve in the fortifications of Washington, marching hither and thither until Sept. 12—when we started, in a temperature of 98°, after a drenching night's storm, on the Antietam Campaign— There was no time for further training. We were put on the battle line—sandwiched between our Peninsula veterans of seven battles. The lines were so close that our range was practically point blank. There was no adjustment of sights—no wind guages—none of the usual methods for work on a target range. It made little difference whether the trajectory was flat or otherwise. Any boy who had ever used a shot gun could load and blaze away into the close lines. The line officers and file closers were veterans. The battle discipline was flawless— We touched elbows with men who had acquired the battle sense and instinct in the hell of rifle fire—shell—shrapnel and close up canister guns of the 12 pdr Napoleon type. A few days after a bloody reconnoissance across the river, in which one of our regiments lost 289 men killed, wounded and missing in 20 minutes, we had a few days' drill—and that was all we ever got. We were as good soldiers as ever marched the roads or ever went in under our battle flags—at Fredericksburg—Chancellorsville, Gettysburg—and on to the Seige of Petersburg. We needed no long, drawn-out intensive training—because there was no time to give it to us— Our superb officers all recognized that—and, as soon as we had got our balance, and recovered from the battle shock—we fitted into the bloody game of war without any waste of time, effort or lost motion. Our manual of arms would not have undergone the critical scrutiny of a "yearling Corporal" at West Point—or a "color man" "throwing up" for colors at guard mount—nor would our crude attempts have excited much pride in the tactical officers at a perfect West Point dress parade. Our shooting in the open at from 150 to 500 yards might also have aroused the merry laugh of a target range sharpshooter with all of his implements for making a record score. But we were not striving for a record score—just shooting into massed formations and closed up battle lines to kill—and we got there just the same with the official record as cited. That record tells the story— At midnight on May 8, 1864, near Spottsylvania C. H., in a hand to hand fight with the Sixth Alabama, the regiment captured their colors and more prisoners than were in the ranks of the Twenty-second Massachusetts. Two of these brothers, on account of their youth, refused commissions, although their father, who had spent two years at the Mil. Academy in the class of 1836, was then Chairman of the Mil. Com. of the Mass. Senate; was in daily conference with John A. Andrew, the great war Governor—and could, by a "pull" have easily secured them. One was "specially commended" for good conduct at the Battle of Fredericksburg, Va., while the other untrained brother, (Walter Carter) as Sergeant Major of the regiment, was specially mentioned in the report of the Commanding officer of the regiment for "coolness under fire, and personal bravery in all battles of the campaign"; (Reb. Rec—Ser—I—40: 459) this Campaign, May 4 to June 18—1864—from the Wilderness—Laurel Hill—Spottsylvania C. H. (May 8-22—under fire day and night), Jericho Mills—North Anna, Totopotomoy Creek, Bethesda Church—Cold Harbor—Jerusalem Plank Road (Norfolk and Petersburg R R—later, the spot where the Battle of the "Crater" was fought). If there was ever any better soldier than this untrained but not world-advertised Sergeant-Major of one of the best fighting regiments in the Army of the Potomac—the writer, in nearly 60 years since those old days, has not met him. On May 10, 1864, while acting as liaison officer for the Major—commanding the left wing of the regiment, which was cut off from the right wing and in a cul de sac swept by a frightful cross fire—he was directed to cross the Brock Road (about a mile or more from Spottsylvania C. H.) and communicate to the Colonel the perilous position of the left wing. He crossed this sunken road—swept by rifle and canister fire, at close range. His blanket roll was cut in several places; his eye was burned and closed by a hot bullet—for several days— The next morning he took in on his back, from a rifle pit to save his life, a wounded comrade and friend under fire. Being a non-commissioned officer, he received no brevets—no medal of honor—no Legion of Honor, or Croix de Guerre—etc. So much for this battle-trained, but not intensively trained—volunteer Sergeant-Major of an Infantry fighting regiment in the old battle swept Army of our youth. And he wears nothing to indicate his record of valor—not even the "Little Bronze Button" of the G. A. R.; nothing more than the satisfaction or consciousness of having done well his part in helping to preserve the Union and making it possible for the present generation of soldiers to have a country in which to exist, and looking on with a certain degree of smug complacency at the smiling assurance with which these present day trainers of men declare that it takes from six months to a year, or even more, to fit the average American boy to be an effective battle-service soldier— So much for this so called "Intensive Training" as a fine art.
The writer trained for three boat races at West Point in the '60s, rowing as "stroke" in one. He was urged to take up "intensive training" in the gymnasium. He did nothing of the kind, but simply used the dumb bells and Indian Clubs in his room to limber up and harden the muscles, and after a morning plunge, took a brisk walk and run of about two miles every morning for wind. There was no "training table", and he simply took care not to take on any extra flesh when eating the "hash" and "Slumgullion" of our plainest of plain Mess Hall fare. We consulted the famous Ward brothers of Cornwall-on-Hudson—"Hank", "Josh" and "Ellis" (who has been a famous Coach for years) as to our style and effectiveness of stroke. They were simple Hudson river shad fishermen—long, lean, lank and spare as greyhounds, sinewy as whip cord—and as hard as steel nails— Every muscle was taut and tense as a racing oarsman's should be. I doubt if they ever saw the inside of a gymnasium—and laughed to scorn the idea that they had got to train in one. Rowing all day, for months, had, without developing their muscles into Sandow monstrosities—hardened them like steel—and they were, after pulling a long, swinging stroke, with quick recover, ready at all times to row for their lives. I do not recall of their ever being defeated—either abroad or in our own waters. They were our trainers. They were the finest oarsmen America ever produced. The writer saw them row the Harvard "Varsity" crew on the Charles River, and after passing them as though they were almost standing still, play with them and "loaf home". William Blaikie, Harvard's famous stroke, and later their professional "Coach," wrote after graduation, a book, "How to Get Strong". He advocated the gymnasium—the fatal trainer's paradise that has killed so many men. He died, when he had just passed his 50th year, of dilation of the heart superinduced by intensive training. He believed in enormous muscles and brute strength, rather than skill, endurance, and good form. He had overtrained and had an overworked heart. The writer was pitted against a man who was almost a duplicate of Sandow. He could have pitched me over his head. He could, with a twist of his immense arms, break a spruce oar in a racing shell. When the last few boat lengths of the long three miles loomed up—and victory for him was almost in sight—his sand gave out—his heart was almost broken and he lay down and threw up the sponge in defeat. He was "pumped out"; he had overtrained and "gone stale". He pulled "too much beef", and lacked the courage—sand—nerve and guts that wins at the most critical moment. He weighed 180 pounds. He could have been better utilized as a battering ram on a foot ball team to fall down upon some smaller player and break his back or neck. Our stroke weighed 140 pounds. Some men may train for a prize fight until they can run 15 miles without breathing hard, and then, inside of three or four minutes after entering the ring begin wheezing like an old wind-broken horse. This is due to a nervous contraction of the pulmonary region, caused generally by nervous fright. They are too tense and rigid to fight effectively. The writer has seen the same thing in battle with over trained men—perfectly tense, dazed—almost speechless—from fright and nerve shock alone before they could get it under control. This does not imply that they were cowards— A man's supreme or best mental and physical efforts does not depend upon his size, his huge muscles abnormally developed by a long period of intensive training, or through his intellectuality acquired by years of school, college and university education, but, largely through the spirit, force, courage, discipline and morale which are behind his purpose—that purpose which must furnish the mainspring of his action.
This refers particularly to the soldier in his intelligent (and by this the writer does not mean the intellectual) application of that power and those resources to the actual conditions of the problem with which he is hourly, even momentarily, confronted when on a battle line under the hell of fire. This he has got to face, not as a highly organized or perfectly educated human being, trained, or over trained to the last limit for a specific purpose, but, on his individual initiative, and his combative instincts or fighting senses—without which no highly educated or purely intellectual human machine could long withstand the strain, for, until a man goes in under fire he cannot know, or even guess at his power and resources—his balance and morale which iron discipline combined with moderate, common sense training alone has inspired.