At Plattsburg Part 8

Then out of the ten cartridges four missed fire, which put me off my aim.

My coach was ready with more, but they had to be loaded singly, and I had time to fire only a total of eight, making a miserable score of sixteen.

The captain, after briefly scanning my target, told me that I was aiming too low. After another long wait I had another chance; but this time I was thoroughly chilled by the wind that had been blowing through us all the afternoon. Then the worn cartridges and the old breech mechanism behaved badly again, and though by following the captain's hint I did better, making 27, it was very unsatisfactory. The officers hope for more, and new, gallery rifles. Without them it is difficult to give us good preliminary practice. For all this, you know, is to get us ready to shoot with the service rifle.

Many of us came shivering off the field, and huddled in our tents with our new extra blankets around us till we warmed up again. But very few of the men failed to turn up at this volunteer practice, and to stay it through on the chance of one more round. In the whole company there were but six who slipped away to pleasures in the town. One of them was Randall.

I am warm now, and fed. Love from

d.i.c.k.

PRIVATE G.o.dWIN'S DAILY LETTER

Monday the 18th September, 5.40 A. M.

On my cot, while the others sit about and chat.

DEAR MOTHER:--

The reason why the others sit and chat, and why I have time to write, is this. Young David, fresh from his shave (which he has learned to do at speed, and without injury, and is very proud of) came into the tent and said: "We have ten minutes for making up our packs before mess." "Lucy,"

said Knudsen, "there's a chance of showers. Why do up packs that we may have to undo again?" So David is polishing his shoes (likewise a new art with him) and Pickle is sewing on a b.u.t.ton, and they all are talking, while elsewhere, chiefly in the street, the men are making up their packs for the morning's work that is sure to require them. And now comes in Bannister, chanting "Soupy, soupy, soupy!" It is time for mess.

--And now, forty-five minutes later, the whole company is at work over the packs, most of the squads grumbling, but we very happy, for it is showering in a dispirited way, and the order is, "Ponchos out of the packs!" Wise Knudsen, and fortunate Squad 8! Now the next question is, where to carry the ponchos--in the two lower straps of the pack?

Everybody gives everybody else his opinion. The word comes down the street, "Carry them as you please." So mine is looped in the strap that supports my belt, and the pack is slung. And while everyone else is adjusting his pack, or dropping the sides of the tent near his cot, or loosening the tent guy-ropes, I scratch this.--Now the bugle, and the whistle, and the last hasty running and calls, and in a moment we shall be a.s.sembled, each with ten blank cartridges in his belt (the first time we have had them) and shall be off in the drizzle.

Evening. In my OVERCOAT!

But it was not many minutes before our ponchos were on, for the day was "open and shut," and sometimes it opened pretty wide. In our full equipment, ponchos over everything, we turned off the main road, went by new and strange ways, and found ourselves for the first time on the range, where we lined up at the 600 yards mark. As we looked toward the b.u.t.ts the scene was very picturesque.

The field was level, rising at the further end to a low ridge, below which stood the targets. These, seen through the drizzle, were but great squares of pale tan color, only slightly relieved against the wet sand bank. In the middle of each of them I could just see a black dot. Between us and them, three hundred yards away, was extended a dark line of men, with here and there a smoking fire around which groups warmed themselves.

From the thin line came irregularly spurts of smoke, and the spattering of rifle shots. It reminded me of an old picture of the field of Antietam, spiritless in itself, but here made alive by the movement, the noise, the drifting smoke, and the gray monotone. I watched it while the captain explained tomorrow's work; then, glad that today had not fallen to our lot, we marched on, taking up our route step in the soft sand of an old railroad bed.

We were glad of our ponchos when the rain increased. As it poured down heavily we were a disreputable lot, all streaked with the wet, our hats slouched, our ponchos bunched in every direction with elbows, packs, and rifles. The rubber turned the cold wind and shed most of the rain; but as before, where our knees touched the ponchos the water came through, and wet us finely. Then the rain stopped and the clouds became thinner, but the wind remained cold; and when the captain slowly led us along the specimen trenches, explaining as he went, we all got pretty well chilled for lack of motion. I looked at David and saw that he was turning blue.

The only mental relief came when we arrived at the shelter where a few days ago we found Vera.

Corder looked at the sign in front of it, and read it out. "Machine gun emplacement! Very appropriate!"

I couldn't help smiling, nor could the rest, except David, who for politeness tried to be blank, and thoroughly warmed himself by the inward struggle, turning quite red. When the captain got us back to the road and "fell us out" (note the idiom!) we had calisthenics, with pushing matches that put warmth into us. And then we marched in skirmish line through low bushes for half a mile, till the captain lined us up for blank cartridge practice.

We had struck another part of the same abandoned railroad, from which was plainly visible, at perhaps two hundred yards, the gable of a deserted shack. The captain sent to it a couple of men, who tacked up a target on it. Then first the coaches, our experienced riflemen, and after them the platoons one by one, came forward, every man being ready with his two clips of blank cartridges. The slings were adjusted, each line as it came up loaded with the first clip, and at the command "Targets--up!" threw itself flat, took position, and began to fire. The lieutenant called out the ten second intervals. Proper firing would bring the exhaustion of the first clip at about one minute. Then the second clip would be inserted, and should be finished with the second minute.

I cautioned my coach to remind me to keep my eye away from the c.o.c.king piece, and after testing sling and ground, threw myself down and got into position at the word. Well, it wasn't difficult to fire; though the noise of the gun was much greater than that of the gallery rifle there was no recoil; and I tried to be as steady as possible in aiming and squeezing.

The bullseye was the silhouette, life size, of a man lying p.r.o.ne and firing at me. Instructions were to aim at the bottom of the target, about a foot below him. The crack of my neighbor's piece, very loud and sharp, was the most uncomfortable part of the performance, and I shall shoot tomorrow with cotton in my ears; many decided likewise. I plugged away steadily, the ammunition worked well, and I finished my second clip with about fifteen seconds to spare. Then I stood up and brushed myself, with no one to prove that I had not made a perfect score.

One hundred and fifty men shooting ten rounds each--that meant 1500 sh.e.l.ls left on the ground, with 300 clips, all of bra.s.s. I noticed some rather untidy figures, emerging from the miserable little shacks that dotted the scrub, slinking through the brush in our direction and gathering on the flanks of our firing line, eight or ten men and boys and girls, one of the latter carrying a baby. Near me Captain Kirby cursed them under his breath as "human buzzards," and I understood that these camp followers had not gathered merely to admire. As soon as the last platoon filed off the ground, these persons slipped forward, and began eagerly to pick up the treasure that lay scattered there. With bra.s.s at twenty-five cents a pound, war prices, they made enough, scratching in the dirt, to keep them going for the next week or so.

Back to camp then, still glad of our ponchos, for though there was no more rain the wind was steadily colder. Then the job of cleaning, with one rod per squad, and patches always few, our fouled rifles.

This afternoon we were taken to a neighboring field, where in limited area are samples of most of the military engineering devices approved by moderns. Three officers of the engineers in turn took charge of us, and showed us bridges, roads, entanglements, dugouts, rifle pits, hand grenades, trench mortars (with real bombs!) and finally the mysteries of map-making, which for me are practical mysteries still. Some glimmer of an idea I now have of how a man with a watch and compa.s.s, a sketching board and paper, can make a working map of country entirely new to him; but I never could do it myself. Calisthenics next, as almost daily; and then instead of being dismissed for our swim, which none of us wanted in such cold, we were marched back to the company street, where a line soon formed at the store tent, and a magic word was pa.s.sed from squad to squad.

Overcoats! Overcoats? Could we believe it? But a figure separated itself from the crowd at the head of the street, and came strutting toward us.

An army overcoat, o. d., and above it the grinning features of a fellow whom we knew well. It was true! And quickly we ourselves got into line, coming at last to the tent, where without considering sizes the overcoats were handed out just as they came. After which men went up and down the street swapping, the little fellows with 44s calling out for 36s, and the big fellows demanding 44s. I soon exchanged my 38 for a 42, and now, at the camp tent, am comfortably writing in it. It holds me sweater and all, blouse too if necessary; it can cover the ears and comes well below the knees. Mysteriously--for I don't understand these things--it has the military cut. I never felt so swell as when I first b.u.t.toned it on.

There has been no general conference on account of the cold, our captain being the only one brisk enough to get overcoats for his men. But company conference is now due, and I see the captain coming. These nights on the rifle, always the rifle.

Love from

d.i.c.k.

PRIVATE G.o.dWIN'S DAILY LETTER

Plattsburg, Tues. the 19th September.

DEAR MOTHER:--

We have had a long day on the rifle range, slow fire at three hundred, five hundred, and six hundred yards, working for a total of 50 on each target, and a possible grand total of 250 when, some other day, we have our two tries at rapid fire. The work was hard for some of us, the coaches and scorers, exciting for the rest. The captain worked hard from first to last, trying to make it possible for us, with our slight preparation, to qualify as marksmen, with a total of 160, or perhaps even to do better, as sharpshooters scoring 190, or as expert riflemen with 210 points. Our new overcoats, for which we have him to thank, saved the lives of many of us, for there was the keenest little north wind blowing.

I lay down in mine once, and slept very comfortably; and all the fellows were grateful for the protection. There isn't a man in the company that hasn't done his best today for the captain's sake, if not for his own.

Our company were waked a little early, and were extra prompt to breakfast, which was extra good (eggs and bacon!)--again the captain's foresight. He started us promptly for the range, surely the oddest sight that we have presented so far. In front went a huddle of men with benches, chairs, and tables, lamps for blacking the sights (lest they glitter and confuse the eye), the captain's megaphone, and the ammunition. We followed at route step in our greatcoats, some of us carrying ponchos, and except for our rifles and belts, no other equipment. Discipline was relaxed today, for the captain, hopeful of good scores, was as gentle as a lamb.

Of the three dozen targets we had twelve for our share, and companies I and J used the remainder. In front of our section of the line the company flag was set up, the benches were placed, the scorers took their seats, the platoons were ranged for their turns. Companies I and J came marching on, and before very long we were rapidly getting used to the orderly disorder of the range. The coaches were called up for their opening try, and suddenly I heard the order for the first round to begin. The shots began to rap out, sharp and heavy.

Behind each set of three targets a platoon was stationed. The men stood and watched, or sat and waited, or lay and tried their squeeze.

Orderlies, sergeants, and platoon commanders hurried to and fro. Loretta came to our group and said "Don't stand there, men, like a flock of sheep"; but when we paid no attention, faded away. The Captain's powerful voice was every few moments heard: "Another man here on target 36.

Fleming in hospital? Then send up the next man. We must waste no time."

"Ammunition here at No. 27." "Every man ready with his score card and his score book." In but a few minutes the firing, which at the first was so noticeable, became a commonplace, yet it was worth listening to. From along the line came scattered reports, like the blows of a heavy rod on very heavy carpet, now slowly separate, now close together, now sharply double. In answer the whip-like echoes slashed out from the woods. The drab men stood, or sauntered, or hurried; the figures of the shooters lay p.r.o.ne, each with an eager coach crouching over him, correcting his position, urging steadiness, repeating "Squeeze! Squeeze!" Behind the line sat scorers at their wooden stands, behind them the first sergeant received the records. The company flags, marking the line beyond which the waiting men might not advance, flapped steadily in the breeze.

And in front of all, three hundred yards away, stood up the gray sandbank, the stopper of the bullets. Some shots went over, to land in the distant woods beyond, whose encircling signs warn all wanderers to keep out. "There are hornets in those woods today, gentlemen," said the captain yesterday as we pa.s.sed beyond the range. "We will keep away."

There are thirty-six blackboards numbered in order, and between them are the great targets of manila paper, with their circles and the heavy spot at the centre. As a man shoots his target sinks, its mate immediately rises in the same spot, and then upon its face appears, moved by the markers concealed in the pit below, the record of the shot. A red flag slowly waved--a miss!--a black cross on a white circle, a red disk, or best of all, a white disk that obliterates "the bull." The scorers interpret. "A four at three o'clock," "a three at nine o'clock," "a clean five, high up," "a nipper four at twelve o'clock," and with a little chuckle, "a ricochet five!"

Over it all, behind the b.u.t.ts, against the low clouds, rose a silent blue hill, one of the distant Adirondacks.

In spite of our new greatcoats it grew chilly waiting. I took my time, wrote notes of this for you, listened, watched. At last I was called to the bench among those whose turn was next. There at the smoking lamp I blackened my sights, and then carefully laying the gun on the rack I sat down, still in my greatcoat, and while others fidgeted with impatience, or shivered in their sweaters, I remembered that after all I was only a civilian, and remained calm.

My name being called at last, I went forward to the little rise where, beside a white stake, I was to shoot. I adjusted my sling and lay down to the left of the stake; to the right was Lucy, tense and pale. My coach was a stranger; his was good Clay. My coach tried in vain to get me to take the position he preferred; it hurt and strained me, and he gave up.

As I slowly got the position I was used to, working my elbows into the sand, bracing my toes, keeping my body close to the ground, my left hand twisted in the sling and supporting the barrel, my right at the trigger and stock, and my cheek at the b.u.t.t, to my left a rifle heavily spoke, and in spite of cotton my ear rang. Then Lucy shot. I heard the scorer say, "Mr. Farnham, a miss!" and I chuckled as I prepared to shoot.

My coach knelt over me and repeated "Squeeze!" I got the sights in line, the bull in place above the front sight, which was--or should have been--on a line with the top of the U of the open sight, for I was afraid of the peep sight. "Are you shooting on twenty-eight?" asked the coach. I verified the number of my target, then tried to hold the wavering muzzle steady, and for the first time tightened my hand-grip on the trigger of a rifle capable of killing at two miles. It jumped sharply in my hands, I saw the red flame at the muzzle as I heard the report, and felt myself kicked smartly in the shoulder. Then, spent with all this tension, I relaxed my grip and collapsed on my face.

There was a discouraging pause as I lay, waiting to hear the hit announced. Then the scorer cried "Mark Twenty-eight!" The man at the field telephone repeated the order. I knew the fact--at the b.u.t.ts the marker had not heard over his head the ripping crack of the bullet, and had to be told that I had fired. I imagined the slow waving of the red flag. Then I heard the scorer briefly announce, "Mr. G.o.dwin, miss!"

Well, I shot two more shots, both on the target, but both poor. My coach did not seem able to help me. Then Clay, who in spite of his work with Lucy had kept an eye on me, spoke in a low voice to my coach, who rose and departed. In a moment the captain came, a great relief to me, depressed with such failure. He looked at my score, asked a couple of questions as to my sight and aim, took the gun and adjusted the sights, and stayed to coach me himself.

But this was not Captain Kirby of the drill field, abrupt and peremptory.