“Attention!”
“Attention!” echoed the duty sergeants and corporals in the barracks.
“Recruits of Company I who have not received their uniforms fall in this way.”
A dozen “Johnny come Latelys,” including the Berlin trio, fell in as directed. The sergeant entered our names in a memorandum book. Then we were turned over to a corporal, who marched us to the quartermaster's office where we stood at attention for an hour or so while the requisition for our uniforms was going through the red-tape channels. Finally the door opened, and a dapper young sergeant with a pencil behind his ear informed the corporal that “all's ready.”
The names were called alphabetically, and I was the first of the squad to go inside to receive my outfit.
“Step here and sign these vouchers in duplicate,” said the sergeant.
I signed the papers. The sergeant threw the different articles of the uniform and equipments in a heap on the floor, asking questions and answering them himself after this fashion:
“What size jacket do you wear? No. 1. Here's a No. 4; it's too large, but you can get the tailor to alter it.
“Here's your overcoat; it's marked No. 3, but the contractors make mistakes; I've no doubt it's a No. 1.
“That forage cap's too large, but you can put paper in the lining.