Conscript 2989 Part 2

Still kitchen policing. Yesterday I thought I had pulled some job when I peeled an ash can full of potatoes, but that was nothing. To-day I got a better one. I had to peel the same amount of potatoes, only they were in a washboiler this time. Yes, right off the fire. I can't see why the Government has to serve potatoes with the jackets off anyway. Why don't they let the men peel them? They are just as well able to do it as we are. If some one ever wants to invent a choice way of punishing refractory prisoners in jail I suggest they send said refractors into the kitchen and give them the gentle job of peeling hot potatoes, by the washboilerful.

I have a side partner on the kitchen police. His name is O'Flynn and he runs into even better luck than I do. To-day he shared the job of peeling "hot ones" with me. Yesterday while I had the little task of peeling 'em raw, he was handed the nice detail of attending to twelve pounds of onions; a tearful occasion, until some one with a conscience suggested that he get a bucket of water and peel them under water.

O'Flynn got the water, with the remark that if he waited just a little longer the onion pan would have been full of tears, which he a.s.sumed would have served just as well.

O'Flynn is kitchen policing because he tried to come into the barracks after taps. Lights out at ten and O'Flynn arrived about 2 G.M. He avoided the fire-guard successfully and went around to the back of the barracks. There he jimmied a window with his pocket knife and got it opened, only to have it fall on his neck when he was about half-way in.

By way of exercise he put his elbow through it. Then to add to the situation he found himself in the darkened mess hall instead of the dormitory, and the noise he made when he knocked over several benches naturally grated on the Sergeant's nerves. Said Sergeant arrived in the hall in his union suit about the time O'Flynn had untangled himself, and, after cussing him out to perfection, he handed the Irishman a week at kitchen policing.

"And now," said O'Flynn, "t' next time I come in through t' windey, I'll stay out."

A week of this and I'll be able to qualify as a first rate housekeeper for a lumber camp. Already I can lay down a few very necessary rules which the average housewife will appreciate, as for instance:-

1. Never take it for granted that a man has only one appet.i.te. We have two hundred and seventy men here, but they carry around an aggregate of six hundred appet.i.tes.

2. Never plunge your hands into an ash can full of greasy water without first removing your wrist watch.

3. Never attempt to mop up after your men folk. Just turn the hose on, lash the nozzle to a convenient table leg and walk away and forget about it.

4. In carrying out a pan full of hot ashes never grab the handle. Thrust a stick through it, it saves the temper and the floor.

5. Never let any one kid you into trying to take the black off the kitchen pans with sapolio, rather throw the pans away.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Never let anyone kid you into trying to take the black off the kitchen pans]

Delightfully brief and entertaining job, that of removing the black from ash cans that are used to cook soup in. Our Mess Sergeant, the pirate, noticed that for about three seconds during this afternoon I wasn't doing anything in particular, so he gave me a cake of sapolio and a mop and told me to get busy and shine up the outside of the pots and pans and get all the black off. I went to it and stuck-until our j.a.p cook, the slant-eyed angel, came in about two hours later and told me the honourable ash cans always got blacked up again so what's the use; and anyhow he wanted to use the mop. I almost kissed him.

Thank goodness the coal shovelling is all over with. Finished it yesterday. To-day during my moments of leisure I split a few cords of kindling wood and carried it into the kitchen, but I like splitting wood better than heaving coal when it comes to making a choice.

I've been very popular with "Local Board No. 163," since I've been in the kitchen. Honestly, if that dog had intelligence enough, I could almost believe that he induced that flea to start this dirty work, for he's the only one in the whole company who has benefited by it. He hangs around the galley all the time and is waxing fat, prosperous and greasy; greasy because he got in the way of some dishwater that was being emptied out the back door. And now I'll have to give him another scrubbing before we turn in, or he'll be crawling in under my blankets again.

Strange I haven't received any letters yet. Some chaps are lucky.

Letters seem to make a big difference in things, even if it's only listening in on some other fellow's. Every one reads letters out loud so that we can all enjoy them, for letters, no matter whom they are from, are real events here and one always gets a sinking feeling when he discovers there aren't any for him.

Thursday:

Real luck at last. No more kitchen policing, thank goodness. It all happened thus:

About the time we had cleaned up the remains of breakfast and I was getting ready to turn out for "settin' ups," along comes the Captain with two Lieutenants in tow, all with official looking papers. We lined up and he looked us all over very critically. Then he read:

"Any members of this company qualified to fill the following positions, step one pace," and a list of occupations followed that included everything from barber to horse trainer and stage carpenter. Quite a few of us stepped out. About ten of the Italian contingent responded at the word barber. Fat came forward as stage carpenter, and when he said artist I stepped three paces forward instead of one and, saluting, handed him my recommendation for the Camouflage Corps. I knew I wasn't doing quite the proper thing. But you see we were all young and innocent of such things as military courtesy, and the Captain overlooked the fact that one pace didn't mean three, and after he had mentally debated the question of calling me down in front of the company and had given me the benefit of inexperience, he read the recommendation.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fat was looking for the same barracks]

The result was that I was ordered to report immediately to the 2-6 Company, 5-2 Depot Battalion. And with visions of avoiding physical exercises for about two hours and the preparing of a midday meal, I needed no urging. I gathered up my bed, hay mattress, blankets and all and proceeded to find the barracks of the 2-6 Company, 5-2 Depot Battalion.

Of course, it had to be located at the other end of the twenty-four square miles of reservation. But I had company. Fat, loaded down like a dromedary under bed, blankets, a suitcase and all, was looking for the same barracks. So we started on our wanderings together, hopeful of finding our new home before dinner was served.

We found it. And we found a lot of other fellows looking for the same home. It seems this Depot Battalion, of which I am now a part, is composed entirely of specialists, lawyers, linguists, engineers, artists, architects, carpenters and what not, and just about the time we were being transferred, other specialists were being selected from other companies and sent on their way to the Headquarters Divisions of the various regiments. So our corner of the camp has been quite popular all day, with men staggering in under loads of personal belongings like a lot of gipsies looking for new places to hang their O.D's.

We, I mean Fat and myself, are among a different cla.s.s of fellows now and this moving business has changed my opinion of the camp. From a hit or miss proposition as it first appeared, it has become a very systematic and well-organized cantonment. It is being worked out like a gigantic piece of machinery and there isn't any question in my mind now but that we will all, sooner or later, fit into the places where we will be able to serve the Government best. Here I have been trying for months to discover how I can get into the Camouflage Corps, which so far as I could learn was a mythical organization which no one knew very much about. Meanwhile, I have been hoping to keep out of the draft army for fear of being side-tracked and given a bayonet, instead of a paint brush, to beat the Huns with.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Material for the camouflage unit]

And here I am conscripted, and inside of a week singled out as material for the Camouflage unit, with a nice place waiting for me to stay until said unit needs me. They are doing it up in really businesslike fashion and no doubting it.

But in the shuffle I've lost my dog. He's only been with me a few days and he's done nothing but get me into trouble all the time, yet I miss the little beggar. He wasn't about when I gathered up my belongings this morning, and I haven't had time to look him up all day. Perhaps, before taps I'll wander down to the other barracks and see if I can find him.

Friday:

Real work began in earnest here this morning, for the officers in command of the various companies of the Headquarters Divisions, or Depot Battalions, or whatever it is these particular departments are called, are determined to rush our drill instructions as fast as possible, because there is no telling when any one or any number of us will be needed somewhere else in the U. S. A. or in France, all of which sounds promising for a quick change. I'm willing, and I sure hope it's France.

Our day is just filled full of hay-footing and straw-footing and squads righting and all that sort of thing. I am learning things gradually by dint of much cussing on the part of our Sergeant, who is also late of the Regular, and who certainly has as choice a vocabulary as our former drillmaster.

We must have a very capable Mess Sergeant in this barracks, for the meals here are mighty good; better than those we received in the other barracks. We actually had ice cream and tea this noon, a thing unheard of in most of the barracks.

And our cook is a wonder. He's an old c.o.c.kney sea-dog, who looks like a regular buccaneer, and he has a parrot, too, whom he calls Jock. Jock spends most of his time sitting on the edge of the coal bin shrieking "Lazy Pig." But neither Jock nor his master has a sense of humour; the cook gets mad when he finds a man trying to ring in a third helping and when he gets mad, Jock screams: "Lazy pig, lazy pig," and dances up and down in a frenzy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Our cook looked like a regular buccaneer.]

I went back to the old barracks last night, to find the place almost filled with new men, all worried looking and pale, and much disturbed over that first night horror, the "needle." I didn't relieve their mental anguish a particle, which was most unchristian-like.

Several of the men remaining from the former company told me that most of the original company had been split up between the "Suicide Club"

which is the machine gun companies, the transportation division and the infantry. As for "Local Board No. 163" no one had seen him about.

Possibly he has become disgusted with high-toned individuals who object to fleas, and has gone off and joined the infantry. Well I wish him luck.

I really believe I'm taking a very deep interest in this soldiering after all. I didn't think I would at first, but now I find I'm watching the colour of my hat cord with interest. I want to see it lose its newness and get faded-out looking, like a regular soldier's hat cord.

Sat.u.r.day:

On the camp calendar, to-day is marked down as a half-holiday, which is another one of the pleasant little jokes they have down here. It is a half-holiday. We quit drilling at twelve o'clock. But there is a Sunday ceremony they have called inspection and sometimes when the Lieutenant wants to leave camp early on Sunday he decides to hold inspection on Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

About twelve o'clock some one reminds some one else that the aforementioned ceremony is on the program of weekly events, and thereby spoils the whole pleasure for the day. At inspection the Lieutenant saunters through the barracks, inspects the beds and the stacks of underclothing, socks and similar equipment piled thereon, and if said underclothing, etc., do not show signs of recent acquaintance with soap and water, almost anything is likely to happen.

And, of course, since no one is systematic about doing washing, all the dirty clothing and extra socks pile up until Sat.u.r.day, and then on the half-holiday the scrubbing tables in the rear of the barracks are the most popular playgrounds.

The washing process is interesting. Every one lines up and dips into the same basin of water. Government soap is supplied in quant.i.ties, so are the scrubbing brushes. One lays his jeans and undershirt out nice and smooth on a long table, pours a basin of water over them, applies the soap as if it were a holy-stone until the underclothing is covered with a soft yellow sc.u.m. And then he spends the rest of the afternoon trying to get the soap off. The more lather a chap makes the better washerman he is, from all appearances.