Conscript 2989 Part 4

And the spectators; they went wild.

For ten minutes steadily the fighters milled and I never saw a better slugging match. The Sergeant had had more experience in boxing, that was certain, but what Red lacked in skill he made up for in hitting power.

Every time his glove met the Sergeant's face it smacked as loud as a hand clap.

[Ill.u.s.tration: They didn't stop for rounds, or time out, or anything.]

Then just when it seemed as if they must be tired out, there was a sudden clash and a whirl of fists and Redney ducked away and started one from the floor. It was an uppercut and it found a clean hole between the Sergeant's two arms, and met him flush on the point of the jaw. He staggered, tried to fall into a clinch, missed the elusive Redney and went down with a thump.

"1-2-3-4-5-6-" counted the referee.

The Sergeant rolled over and tried to get up. "Don't hold me down; lemme at him," he said huskily. But no one was holding him down. It was his refractory nerves. They wouldn't obey his will power.

"7-8-9-10," tolled off the fateful numbers. Then what a yell went up for Redney, and Red, almost all in, himself, evidently had satisfied his grudge, for he went over and helped stand the groggy Sergeant on his feet.

And all agreed it was some battle.

But the Y.M. shacks aren't dedicated to prize fights and swearing and concerts entirely. They are the nearest approach to home or club life that most of us come in contact with for weeks at a stretch. The big, open hearths with their crackling logs are mighty fine places to spend a pleasant hour or two. Then there are the writing tables, and the reading rooms with their books and magazines, and the phonographs.

The other night I saw a great big fellow, with burly fists and a stubbly beard on his chin (it must have been the night before his bi-weekly shave, which is as often as most of us can find time-or the inclination to use a razor) snuggled up close to the phonograph and listening attentively to the "Swanee River," which he was playing as softly as the instrument would permit, and now and then he would blow his nose in a big handkerchief and wipe suspicious signs of moisture from the corners of his eyes. He was having a regular sad drunk and enjoying every moment of it. I'll bet he thought he was the most homesick mortal in camp.

Then there are the telephone booths. Every night there is a line of at least fifty men waiting patiently for a chance in the booth. At a dollar a call they ring up the folks in the city and have five minutes' chat with them, just by way of warding off an attack of homesickness. I've used the booth five dollars' worth to date.

These army breeches I'm wearing, I noticed to-night, are very comfortable. I like the deep, straight pockets in them. I think I'll have my civilian suit made with those kind of pockets hereafter. But I haven't gotten over the habit of pulling them up each time I sit down so that they won't get baggy at the knees.

Wednesday:

Found my dog!

I was over in another section of the cantonment this morning, for a few moments between drill and mess call, and there was "Local Board No. 163"

as big as life, trotting along beside a chap I knew. It was Billy Allen.

The dog recognized me and so did Billy and we stopped a while and compared notes.

Billy had the worst hard luck story in respect to the Draft of any man I know. He's an old National Guardsman, having enlisted soon after we left school together. Spent eight years in the infantry, and went to the Border. He left the service after he got back and a little later when a call came for men for the Officers' Reserve Corps he applied and was accepted, for the second camp. Meanwhile he had registered as a man of draft age. Then came his call for Officers' Training Camp, where he was making out famously; so well in fact that he was recommended for the aero-plane service.

But the recommendation was as far as he got. The drawing had meanwhile been made in Washington, he was well up in the list and one fine day he received a notice to appear for examination. Of course he pa.s.sed and was accepted. That yanked him out of the Officers' Reserve and now he's down here, a private in the "Suicide Club," with Buck Winters, an old cla.s.smate of both of us, his commanding officer.

I told him about "Local Board No. 163" whom he had dubbed "Mut" because he looked it. First we were going to match for the dog, but we decided, after a moment's reflection, to let him choose his master. Billy said good-bye and walked one way and I walked the other and the dog, after a moment's hesitation, went with Billy. And so I lost my dog a second time. I guess he didn't like my cold water treatment for fleas.

An interesting thing happened here to-day that just shows how vast this huge cantonment is. The cot next to Fat and two below me has been vacant ever since we have been here. To-night a chap came in from the barracks next door, bag and baggage, and took possession of it. Fat made his acquaintance right off, and the newcomer told him that he had been transferred to this company about the time we were-a week or so ago-and since no one told him where to go or where to bunk he went to the barracks next door and took a cot.

But he really belonged in here and was a member of our squad, which for some mysterious reason had always remained a seven-man squad, with the eighth man a.s.signed to it but never heard from. Every roll call he had been marked absent, and he had been put down as a deserter and an alarm sent out for him through the country. At the present moment the New York police are searching diligently for him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: I guess he didn't like my cold water treatment for fleas]

And all the time he has been within a biscuit toss of his proper place.

Over in the other company he was an outcast, and they didn't know what to do with him. They were on the point of sending him back to the city as an interloper when somehow the mistake was discovered and he was summoned to report over here. The interesting part of it is, that he is an expert accountant, and his specialty is searching out mistakes that other people make in the way of misplaced figures and things.

So far as the police were concerned, he said, he didn't care much, for the last place they would ever look for him was down here. Speaking of deserters, I noticed three sets of finger-prints on our bulletin board which means that three men have taken French leave and they have prices on their heads, already.

Thursday:

This has been a moist and soggy day. I don't know that I have ever seen so much rain before in one storm as I have to-day. Before daylight it began; a perfect downpour, so violent that for reveille we lined up in the mess hall. None of us ventured out to wash up, but those of us who missed a cold sprinkle the most had merely to poke our heads out of the windows for a moment and then reach for a towel. Some wetness.

The camp is a veritable sea of mud, and those who go outdoors at all do so to the imminent peril of becoming mired and never returning. From the mess-hall windows at breakfast we could watch the big heavy motor truck of the transportation train, skidding and sloshing about in the road, down which flooded a perfect torrent of muddy rain water. Several of them became hopelessly stuck in the sticky mud, and their drivers abandoned them and raced for cover in the Y. M. C. A. shack. Officers and men everywhere have given up all idea of outdoor work and the camp streets look forlorn and deserted. They stretch away down the hill to fade into the misty blur of the rain itself, and on either hand stand the long, unpainted barracks buildings, with dripping eaves and rain blowing in sheets from their tinned and tar-papered roofs. Outside, it is a dismal, deserted-looking cantonment, with scarcely a sign of life, save now and then a venturesome canine mascot scuttling from one sheltered spot to another.

Drilling, of course, is utterly impossible and the nearest approach we have had to anything resembling military training to-day is a lecture on sanitation in the mess hall by the First Lieutenant.

But the rain has not dampened our desires for amus.e.m.e.nt and as a result the interior of the sleeping quarters presents, at the present time, a picture that only a Remington could do justice to. Atmosphere sticks out all over the place. Army overcoats, tunics, variegated comforters, blankets, mess kits, sweaters and flannel shirts are hanging from every peg, and men are sprawled on their cots, in various att.i.tude, some trying hard to sleep, some writing, one man thoughtfully locating the notes of a new tune on a mouth organ, while another over in the corner-an Italian-is the centre of an enthusiastic group, while he plays doleful things on an old accordion he has smuggled into camp. The air is blue with tobacco smoke.

A number of us are writing, including myself, but the chief centres of interest are the two big poker games and the big c.r.a.p game down at the end of the room.

They are all playing with that oppressive quietness that portends big stakes. I was startled a while ago upon walking over to the nearest group to discover eighty dollars, in ones, fives, and tens on the top of the army cot that served as a table in a single jack pot, and they were still betting. Our two Regular Army Sergeants are members of one group and Fat is sitting in at another. From the length of time he has stayed and the smile on his face, I can only guess that luck is with him for once.

But it has failed a lot of others. Now and then a man leaves one game or the other, looking sort of hopeless. There is always some one to take his place, however.

One of these fellows, gone broke, hit upon a happy idea which caused no end of interest for an hour or two this afternoon. After he had gone broke he left the game and sat thoughtfully on the edge of his cot for a while. Then he dug down into his duffel bag under his cot and brought forth a razor. Speedily he made up some raffle tickets on slips of note paper and presently, with the razor in one hand and his campaign hat in the other, he started through the room selling chances on the razor at a dime a chance. The raffle was held over in our corner, and one lucky chap got the razor, easily worth two fifty, for a single dime and the erstwhile owner, with five dollars worth of change in his pockets, returned to the game.

That started the raffle bug, and presently a wrist watch was put up, then another razor of the safety variety, a fountain pen, an extra hand knitted sweater which some one had luckily acquired, several boxes of crackers which every one took a chance on at a cent a chance and a variety of other things. But the crackers were the most popular and that helped one ingenious and venturesome chap to evolve a money-making scheme.

In the height of the rainstorm, he was seen to don his slicker, and hurry out into the storm. He splashed all the way over to the Post Exchange (about half a mile) to return a half-hour later with four pies for which he had paid forty cents each and three dozen boxes of crackers all in good condition. The crackers went for double their value and the pies he successfully split up into twelve fair-sized portions which sold for ten cents each. That trip in the rain netted him nearly seven dollars he told me, and that seven dollars later on, invested in the c.r.a.p game, trebled itself; so, all things considered, he has had a more or less successful day.

Friday:

It is fast getting home to me now that in spite of the heterogeneous conglomeration, of races and creeds and languages, the National Army is going to be the real thing as a fighting force after all. Every one is keen for the thing now that the first violent attacks of homesickness have worn off and they are going at their work of becoming soldiers with a will, except, of course, for a few: the conscientious objectors; and their life is no merry one. They are mighty unpopular, as numerous black eyes attest. Every one takes the slightest opportunity to emphasize their displeasure at the stand these men have taken. And some of them are going around here under a cloud. For instance, the one in the Machine Gun outfit who drills in pumps and summer suit but who has the pleasure of knowing that after his soldiering is all over with, he has three years to spend in Atlanta or some other Federal jail for little things he has done and views he has expressed.

We have one of the breed in our company, a Jew; and he's the most unpopular man in the outfit, even among those of his own race. All of this variety, (the "objectors" I mean), who have come to my notice, are sorry specimens of manhood for the most part and I can't blame an able-bodied chap for despising them.

The foreign element is taking hold like real Americans. It is interesting to get their slant on the whole affair. Many of them didn't want to come. They had their own ideas of army life, suggested, doubtless, by tales they have heard of service in the European armies of former days. But when they were called they came; and behold, when they arrived and lived through the first days, they were surprised to find that they still were treated like human beings, had certain indisputable rights, were fed well and cared for properly and worked under officers who took a genuine interest in their welfare. This was something most unexpected. Right off they decided that they were going to get all they could out of this new life and give in return faithful and honest service.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Make-a me strong, make-a me beeg, an' best-a make-a me good American"]

"It's fine, I like it," a.s.sured a little Italian friend of mine in the infantry. "I like it because it help make me spick good English, make-a me strong, make-a me beeg an' best-a what is, make-a me good American, jus like-a de boss Lieuten'."

And in that last sentence, I believe, lies the charm of it all to most of the foreigners. They have learned that America and things American are fine and clean and good and their ambition now is to become a real American "jus like-a de boss Lieuten'." And when they get to be real Americans, they are going to be proud of the fact and they are going to fight to prove it; that's certain.

The camp is still soggy to-day and we have drilled ankle deep in mud. My feet have been wet from the time I stepped out of the barracks until an hour ago, when I changed my socks and put on my dress shoes. But shucks, what appet.i.tes we brought back with us from the parade grounds. I never did care for fish, but I'll be hanged if I didn't eat three helpings of the creamed salmon and spaghetti to-night.