After reveille, he makes his bed, puts everything in order, then washes for breakfast, or as it is called “Mess,” after which he puts his equipments in order for drill. His rifle belts and uniform must be neat and clean as possible, or he gets a reprimand. Then comes “sick call”; then “drill call”; at which call he is expected to put everything in exact order in his quarters, then take his place in ranks for two hours’ drill.
Then comes another “Mess” call, which means fall in for dinner. After dinner there is a short rest, then comes drill call again, after which there is another short rest, during which he is expected to bathe, shave, and make himself neat, and ready for retreat—which is the dress occasion of the day. The next call is “Taps” when lights must be out.
This is, however, but simply an outline of the routine that one must follow during each day.
I, however, liked the military drill and, as Sam declared, learned it as though it was something that I was made for. But there were many petty exactions, which looked to me, as it doubtless has to every other raw soldier since the beginning, needlessly fussy; and the drill sergeant was exasperating. But there is a difference in men. Some, when invested with brief authority, have always been bullies.
But it was when I went on my first “hike” with full pack, that I thought I was killed. If there has ever been an invention, since the beginning of soldiering, that has made a soldier boy regret his wealth of possessions, it is this first regular “hike.”
It was a beautiful day in July when I fell into line with others, some seasoned vessels of war—but mostly not. I had admired the pack while I was learning the minutiæ of making one, for it certainly is a wonderful invention, and the first half mile I kept up a martial air, with my sweat-provoking and back-aching pack galling me. Then I began to want a rest—and didn’t get it! The sweat ran down my face and saturated me with a sticky moisture. I fully agreed with Sam when he said, in undertone, “Isn’t it a grunter?” I certainly never knew the sweetest word in English until, at last, came the order, “Halt!” When I got through that “practice march,” I recognized that carrying a nine-pound rifle on my shoulder, and a heavy pack—however admirable the invention—was not amusing.
It was, however, not many weeks before my sturdy farmer-boy shoulders became more accustomed to the pack. Poor Sam, however, who was short and fat, for a long time persisted in his first opinion, that it was a “grunter”! He said he had heard Civil War soldiers tell of throwing away their blankets and overcoats on a march and now understood the reason of it!
Some weeks later, when I had learned the drill, and had even been complimented by a non-commissioned superior who declared that I took to soldiering “like a duck to water,” I thought there might be something in inherited qualities.
One thing, common to all new soldiers, was that I suddenly found myself unexpectedly fond of home, and couldn’t hear from the folks often enough. Home never seemed to my mind quite so lovely, as now that I was away from it. I was, as may be inferred, not a little homesick.
I have forgotten to say, in its proper place, that Muddy had accompanied me from home to camp, and was hailed by my comrades as a companion worthy of the khaki with which nature had clothed him. He was soon adopted as the Company Mascot; and to a homesick boy his companionship cannot be over-estimated.