At Plattsburg Part 7

Then it was all over. I heard them crying "Halt!" and walked out into the open trench, to see a line of men laughing and panting just above me.

Only a few saw me at first; the rest were saying "That was some charge!"

and similar self-praise. I said, "Will you please help me out?" The men nearest me were very respectful. One leaped down beside me, laid down his gun, and held his hands for me to step in, a blond man, a real soldier, with flashing blue eyes. Half a dozen hands were held for me above, and the captain came pushing in to help, with such an anxious face! But I heard someone say, "Give me your hand, Vera!" and there was d.i.c.k! He and the blond man had me out in a moment, and d.i.c.k took me through the line and got me quickly away toward the road I had left. I sent him back, but he would not leave me till he was sure I was all right. He was very handsome, and grave, and respectful. And oh! wasn't it all stupid? I am disgusted with the whole Tenth Training Regiment, but more disgusted with myself.

EXTRACT FROM PRIVATE G.o.dWIN'S DAILY LETTER, OF THE SAME DATE

... The fellows' eyes popped as I took Vera through the line. She _is_ a stunner! I saluted the captain when I went back, and he did not ask me to explain why I took so much on myself, though the lieutenant, who came too late, I think was furious with me. We yanked Knudsen out of the trench, and the captain, forming us instantly, marched us away in the direction that Vera didn't take. When he gave us rest she was clean out of sight, and we lay down in the bushes and loafed for a while.

n.o.body in the squad asked me a question. Young David's face was a study in ignorance, but of course it was he who let the others know that I was to be let alone. From his squad Randall began to throw remarks at me, but Pickle turned on him very savagely. "Oh, yap, yap, yap!" Captain Kirby when he went by looked at me very intently, and I looked straight back at him. But I couldn't look at any of the other fellows. Curious that a man feels so self-conscious. You women know how to pretend, but few of us seem to manage it.

Yet I wasn't sorry it came about so. The squad stands together on anything that happens to any one of us. I felt proud to belong to it.

When we marched back and had got to the main road again, the captain disappeared; it was the lieutenant who got us to camp and dismissed us there. I knew where the captain went when after this evening's mess I was ordered to go to his tent. He was writing there, and turned round when I _scratched_, which is a little way we have in the army, as there is no way of knocking. I saluted.

"Oh, Mr. G.o.dwin," said he, returning my salute. "Miss Wadsworth sends a message. You're to come to see her this evening, after general conference."

"I was planning to go to company conference, sir," said I.

I suppose she knew I would say that, for he was ready for me. "She made it an order, Mr. G.o.dwin," said he, very gravely.

"Very well, sir," said I, saluted again, and left him writing--or pretending to. I suppose she's got him, like the rest of them.

When I called on Vera we were very proper, and very old-friendly, and radically different in our ideas, as it seems destined for us to be. I told her how much I liked the training, and she said how much she disapproved of it, and so we pa.s.sed the time. Once she insisted on telling me all about what her sister Frances is doing now. Then officers began to come in, and to chat with the old colonel in the next room, and glance through the door at us, as if saying, "When is that dam rookie going to go?" So I left. It was nearly time, anyway, for me to be tucked up in bed like a good little boy, and leave the field to my betters.

d.i.c.k.

PRIVATE G.o.dWIN'S DAILY LETTER

Sat.u.r.day evening, Sept. 16.

At the company tent.

DEAR MOTHER:--

We have just come back from general conference, a nightly occurrence except in bad weather. Tonight, because it was cold, the men went grumbling and tardy, having put on sweaters under their blouses, and the wise ones, on account of the recent rains, bringing something to sit on.

In default of anything better a legging will do, slipped off when we are on the ground. Our speaker tonight told us of army law, too technical for me to make it interesting to you. Some speakers have hard work in making their subjects interesting to us, not that these are dull, but that the speakers are. Said Corder to me after one such, "When I was a Sunday School superintendent I let no one speak to the school that hadn't something to say." Yet on the whole I am surprised how well the officers can give us the gist of their subjects.

Our best speaker so far (excepting always the General, who has a way of getting at us that explains his success) was a youngish doctor, who gave us a plain talk concerning personal hygiene. When he spoke of cleanliness, briefly referring to it as a matter of course, I thought of a man whom I had seen on the beach that afternoon, Wednesday, looking at his feet and exclaiming in disgust: "Look at them! And I washed them Monday morning!" Some of our lads, who come here with expenses paid by their employers, have a little to learn in this particular.

But to return to our doctor. He was very jocose, expressed himself in perfectly decent men's slang, and kept us laughing _with_ him all the time, while at the same time he drove home his advice. And yet it was very striking how once, not disrespectfully, the men laughed _at_ him.

While speaking of our diet he said, "I advise you to eat freely of the excellent fruit provided at the camp table." Now with us fruit, cooked or raw, is almost lacking, and nothing exasperates me quite so much, when I remember the wonderful apples that were just ripening at home, as to see the small bruised insipid fruit that they serve us here. So the men began to laugh, quietly at first; but the laughter rippled from one end of the crowd to the other, and then rose in waves, and then boomed louder and louder, in one great hearty roar. Whether or not the doctor saw the point, it was worth taking.

Today we went on outpost duty, posting our squads at proper vantage points along the further edge of our old familiar field, beyond the trenches where Vera was trapped. The lieutenant took us out, explaining as he went, dropping a squad on every-other rise of the ground, and leaving its corporal to post his men. Soon we were strung out along half a mile of rough country, a railroad in our front, and beyond it the enemy's territory. Looking from our vantage-point it was hard to suppose that the barren pasture was hiding all our men. Of them we saw but two, an advance post lying on the hither side of the railroad embankment, peering over the top, and our squad's own foremost man at his place where he could command a railroad cut. The rest were hidden in little hollows, in scattered clumps of pine, or in patches of scrub oak. After a while along came the visiting patrol, directed by each squad onward to the next, and so covering the whole front. And last came the captain, inspecting each post, and when he was satisfied, sending us back with orders to pick up the rest of our platoon and re-form by the trenches. An incident of this short march. Randall, when we routed out Squad Six, produced his last cigarette. His front rank man asked him for half. "No one divides a cigarette," said Randall, borrowed a match from the man, and lighted the cigarette himself. Our Lucy, after watching this in silent amazement, took out his cigarette-box, found he had but one smoke, and handed it over. Really, if he becomes a man Randall should have half of the credit.

This afternoon we have at last made a beginning on another part of our work, the use of the rifle. Some few days ago the captain called for those of us who had used high-powered rifles; he has since been weeding them out, till he has a couple of dozen of them to use as coaches. Today we went "on the galleries," which is a convenient phrase for the use of small-bore rifles against small targets at short range. At the bottom of the drill field we hung on wires small wooden frames on which were tacked paper targets; behind was the low railroad embankment, behind that the lake. Our rifles were in every detail like the service pieces, except the smaller bore. We used dummy cartridges as long as the gun usually requires, but so made as to receive much smaller cartridges, carrying weak charges of powder--if you understand the lingo, they were "22 shorts." One gang of us was kept at work perpetually loading these gallery cartridges, and a.s.sembling them in clips of five; another gang was steadily tacking new targets on the frames; and bunch by bunch we were moved from these duties to the more interesting one of shooting the cartridges and spoiling the targets.

Since our recent talk in the gymnasium we have been practising, at all odd minutes, how to hold and sight the guns, and how to pull the trigger.

Never before coming here had I heard of the _squeeze_, in which (of another kind) all army men are popularly supposed to be proficient by nature, but which here is technically a special study. The greenhorn naturally supposes that all he has to do with the gun is, like Stephen in the cla.s.sic rhyme, to "p'int de gun, pull on de trigger." But since the ordinary pull is a jerk that affects the aim, some genius has invented the new method. So we are taught first to grip the small of the stock with the full hand, the thumb along the side, and with the forefinger to take up the slack of the trigger till it engages the mechanism, and then to take a little more, till presently the gun will go off. At this point, while using the sling to secure a good aim, the shooter should squeeze, that is, he should slowly and steadily contract his whole hand, all the fingers together, till in a moment--Bang!

It sounds so easy!

On the galleries, then, we were tested for our understanding of this new art. The size of the target and the distance, considered in relation to the power of the two rifles, were about equal to service conditions at five hundred yards. The weight and size of the gun made the test a fair one. We tried out the two chief postures, sitting and p.r.o.ne, and had both slow and rapid fire, or as the captain prefers to say, slow and deliberate.

These are summaries and general facts. Personal details are: long service in the two gangs, long waits for my turn, and five minutes with the gun.

"Be sure to shoot on Number Twelve target," warned the coach as he helped me adjust the sling. "Now get your position right. Now put in the clip.

And now remember your squeeze." I was trying slow fire, handling a gun for the first time since I was a boy. "The top of the U of the open sight an inch below the bull," chanted the coach. "But the bullseye," I complained, "dances all about." "Of course," said the coach. "Make it dance less, hold as steady as you can, squeeze when the front sight is under it.--There, you jerked!" So I did, but I squeezed a little better as time went on, till I was pretty sure I was doing all right. The gun didn't kick, and by my tenth shot I was fairly steady. I gave up the gun after making sure it was empty, waited till all the rest had finished, and at the order we walked forward with new targets, hung them in place of the old, tore ours off the frames, and gave the frames over to the tacking squad, while at the same time trying to compute our scores before we filed up to the captain.

I was amazed and disgusted to find that three of my shots had missed the target quite. To the captain, as he studied my target, I expressed my mortification. "What target were you shooting on?" he asked, in the lingo proper to our trade. I answered "Number Twelve." "Three shots shy," said the captain, "and here's Number Fourteen lacking two hits. Where's Number Thirteen?" "Here, sir," said Bannister, "and there's fifteen shots in my target." "Then three are mine," said I. "And two are mine," said Number Fourteen. My shooting hadn't been very good, threes and fours, with only one bull. Bannister had nine bullseyes, some of which I may have made; but he was privileged to count all the best shots on his score.--I know now a little more about target shooting than merely holding the gun.

Tomorrow we are to have more of this, although it is Sunday. The captain has given us our evening to ourselves, and has asked us (_asked_, you notice, for our Sunday afternoon is our own) to give him the time tomorrow. He has the reputation, I am told, of always making his company the best at rifle shooting. And if he works us, he is also working himself.

This spell of cold weather which has followed our rains and is going to make life quite different for us, has this evening driven everyone from the company tent except myself, who sit here wrapped in a blanket to my waist, finishing this letter. There has been a very pleasant little group of us here, using each other's ink, interrupting our work to stop and chat, showing each other our photographs. And perhaps I had better explain why it is that I have appeared in two or three of the camp scenes which I have already sent you. There is here an official photographer, who sends out camera men to take us in all sorts of occupations--on the skirmish line, on parade, cleaning our teeth or our rifles, marching, skylarking. The pictures are all of the post card size, and in due course are exhibited at the studio, where we go and inspect and buy. He is always out of pictures of lieutenants, captains, the general, and other popular subjects. But by perseverance and patient waiting one can acc.u.mulate a record of his life here. Luck will put a fellow, on an average, into a few groups a week, as you see in the ones I have sent you.

I am shivering. The captain has promised us another blanket for tomorrow, and there are rumors of an issue of overcoats. At this rate we shall need them.

Love from

d.i.c.k.

PRIVATE G.o.dWIN TO HIS MOTHER

Sunday evening the 17th.

DEAR MOTHER:--

Not a minute for writing all day, and yet I have been idle, idle, idle.

My own personal work began very early, for I got up about quarter of five, took my shower-bath in the shivering dawn, and then, while the camp was just beginning to stir, and when I had the bucket and spigot to myself, I washed out shirt, underclothes, stockings, handkerchiefs, and pajamas. The water was painfully cold, and often I had to stop and warm my hands in my sweater. But I got the work done, and hung the clothes on the lines, knotted together, that are used to regulate the caps on tents 8 and 10. The clothes-pins were most useful, for the wind blew strongly all day, and many a piece of laundry went sailing off to leeward.

Inspection compelled me to take the things in once, but I got them out again, and in the evening I had the pleasure of putting on again, dry, the pajamas that I washed in the morning. I never should have been able to fold them properly for stowing away.

Our inspection was very formidable this morning, for the major was expected, and the captain came down the street, and in his mildest voice gave strictest orders. Washing was taken in, extra clothes were taken down from tent-poles, and tents were made perfectly neat inside and out.

I was tent-policeman for the day, but my job was light, for everyone was concerned to have the place look well, and picked up round his cot, borrowed the broom and wielded it, and laid out his kit in the best of order. From the next tent we heard Randall in his usual controversy with his squad, refusing to help his neighbor roll up the walls of the tent, and loudly complaining when his washing and his rubber coat were thrown on his cot with orders to put them out of sight. But in spite of himself he was compelled to share in the housecleaning. Outside, the street was policed of every cigarette-b.u.t.t and sc.r.a.p of paper, and then the two police squads, with rakes and brooms, went down the whole length of it and made it as orderly as a garden walk.

Then at command we lined up outside the tents, dressed in two lines down the street, facing each other. Down this aisle came the Major, glancing keenly about, and peering sharply into each tent. Of our corporal he asked if we had blankets enough. Captain Kirby came next with the first sergeant, and carefully inspected each tent. Then he called us all together in a circle, said that the major had been unusually pleased with us; a man of few words, he has seldom praised a company so heartily. This set us all up. Then the captain, for his own part, gave us his thanks, told us we'd done well, and apologized for working us so hard. "I know you hate me like the devil for it," he said, "but you're coming on finely." And he sent us to the galleries for more practice. We went in some surprise at his opinion of himself. "Hate him like the devil?"

exclaimed Corder. "The devil we do!"

The waiting on the drill-field became very tedious. So poor is our equipment that we have but eighteen gallery rifles for our hundred and fifty men, and it was nearly an hour before I got my first try. My score this time was the reverse of yesterday, for I got fifty-four out of a possible fifty, one hundred and eight percent! That was because there were thirteen holes in the paper, someone having presented me with the extra three. Counting all the best shots as my own, my official score was 42; yet none of the shots were outside the second ring, and at worst my score was 39.

In the afternoon my pride had a fall, for after the same tedious wait I fired my ten rounds at the target. This time I fired p.r.o.ne, both clips within two minutes. This position, flat on my belly with my legs apart (in our close quarters it was difficult not to kick my neighbor, and destructive of aim to have him kick me) with my elbows under me and the gun, and my head bent back, is in itself hard enough to maintain during a single shot. But for rapid fire the process is thus. After the first shot the gun is kept at the shoulder, the muzzle slightly lowered and turned aside to give the right hand a chance to work; I grasp the bolt handle, turn it up, pull it back full length, shove it sharply home, turn it down, and thus have reloaded. Then again I must sight the gun, be sure not to cant it, be sure not to have my eye too close to the c.o.c.king piece, must get the sights right, hold steady, and squeeze. All this on a ten seconds' average. After the fifth shot there is a change, for the gun must be taken from the shoulder and the fresh clip inserted. Then five more shots at the same rate. No wonder that, though all these days I have been hardening my elbows and toughening my neck, at the end of my ten shots I fell over gasping.

And my luck was bad. First my clip would not go easily into the gun, and made me feel hurried. Next a cartridge jammed, and lost me ten seconds.