When Jot and I had visited, for the last time, the familiar scenes of the farm, and he had petted and talked to the horses and cows, we left our home for the camp again. A boy never realizes what a home means to him until he is leaving it, possibly forever; for I had a dim perception of what was possibly before me.
Several friends, besides my aunt and uncle, were at the station to bid us good-bye. Among them were Emily Grant and Rose Rich.
With the usual leave takings and waving of handkerchiefs from friends, the engine puffed, the train clanked out from the station, and we were off.
Back at camp we entered upon another course of training in company, regimental and battalion drill, with bayonet exercises, machine-gun fire, and the digging of trenches, as a preliminary to participation in modern warfare.
An old Civil War veteran, who had viewed our preparations, said to me, “If Grant had had these machine guns and other arms, he could have made the Rebs howl and ended the war in short order. Why, there is as great a difference between the equipments of this new army and our old Union Army as there is between a stage coach and an express train.”
Jot had been transferred to our regiment, at his request, and became first sergeant of a company. At one of our meetings at the Y. M. C. A. he said to me, “Don’t say anything about it, but I think that we are likely to break camp soon and go to France.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “they have been making shipping lists for the regiment; and then the furloughs they have been giving, and other little things make me think so.”
I soon found that a rumor of the same purport was all around camp. Like most youngsters, I was hungry for a change; so when the top sergeant ordered us to be ready to move within a few hours, I was glad at the prospect of the change to some other place. Yet I thought of submarines and other scarey unpleasant possibilities, that night, before I slept.
The order came at last—it was on Sunday—for an army has no days more sacred than duty. Though we were not supposed to know where we were going, we all guessed—the Yankee birthright—and guessed France. Our outfit consisted of two suits of Olive Drab, canvas leggins, two woolen shirts, woolen underwear and stockings, two pairs of garrison shoes, a Mackinaw short overcoat, a belt, three blankets, and a comforter, all of which were carried in our packs. On top of the pack roll was the haversack, containing our kits, which consisted of a long handled aluminum fold pan with removable cover, in which were a knife and fork and spoon; two oblong cases for meat, hard bread, sugar and coffee. The ammunition belt was hung to this pack, and a canteen nesting in the cup hung from it. There was also a barrack bag belonging to our outfits, but this was carried by motor truck to the station.