“Sergeant, have that man's coat changed at once. Fall out, private Waterman.”
Then came my turn. The captain looked me over. My make-up was too much for his risibility.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, after the first explosion.
“Berlin.”
“Where's that?”
“York State.”
“Well, you go with the sergeant to the quartermaster and see if you can't find a rig that will come nearer fitting you than this outfit.”
I was glad to obey orders, and after the captain's compliments had been presented to the quartermaster, directions were given to supply me with a uniform that would fit. Although the order could not be literally complied with, I profited by the exchange, and the second outfit was made to do after it had been altered somewhat by a tailor, and the sleeves of the jacket and the legs of the trousers had been shortened.
The captain did not “jump on us” as we had expected. 'The self-styled old soldiers had warned us that we would be sent to the guard house. The captain had seen service at the front, and had been through the mill as a recruit when the First Battalion was organized. He knew that it was not the fault of the privates that their clothes did not fit them. This fact seemed to escape the attention of many commissioned officers, and not a few recruits were censured in the presence of their comrades by thoughtless captains, because the boys had not been built to fill out jackets and trousers that had been made by basting together pieces of cloth cut on the bias and every other style, but without any regard to shapes, sizes or patterns.